Ollie

but now i walk a softer lane

[olliescorner]

welcome to ollie's corner ☾

latest work | masterlist

☆ ollie - 01 - she/her ☆

hello ♡ i write in my free time and i don't take requests, but feedbacks and suggestions are pretty much appreciated as long as you're civil. send me an ask anytime ☕︎ please note that my work is mine.

DO NOT COPY, TRANSLATE, EDIT, DERIVE, OR FEED IT TO ANY AI MODEL!

[03jyh23]

“I’m a vampire… That’s why I don’t breathe right when I’m near you.” “Oh, okay. Right. A vampire. Of course… Is your name actually Stefan? Is your brother Damon chilling around the corner in a leather jacket waiting to kill my roommates?” Good news? The gorgeous, mysterious guy you’ve been seeing for weeks finally admitted he’s incredibly into you. Bad news? He chose to deliver this confession right after telling you he can hear the blood rushing behind your ears, and you're 90% sure he’s just using supernatural lore to dodge a commitment.

➢ vampire!yunho x human!reader | ➢ supernatural au, vampire au, friends to lovers | ➢ yunho has a martyr complex, vampire talk, lots of the vampire diaries and twilight references, misunderstanding | ➢ 11.6k | ➢ okay listen in my defence i love the vampire diaries (team stefan, sorry to disappoint) and i actually cannot believe writing a vampire au never crossed my mind until it came up in my inbox. now that i’ve started, i’m afraid you’ll be seeing a lot more vampire yunho from me (i say this damn well knowing there’s vampire yunho smut dusting in my drafts since january 💀). also... doesn’t the banner photo totally SCREAM vampire yunho? i rest my case. p.s sorry if i totally failed at the comedy.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The wind didn’t just blow; it knifed through the gap between your scarf and your throat. Beside you, Yunho was doing his best impression of a turtle, hands shoved so deep into his pockets his shoulders were practically touching his ears. It was a ridiculous look for a man who usually moved with the unbothered grace of a runway model, but lately, he seemed determined to make himself as small—and as gloomy—as the weather. He had this habit of picking the most miserable days to meet. Days where the sky was the colour of a wet sidewalk and the sun was a distant memory. Every time you suggested a bright, crowded café or a sunny park, he’d blink at you as if you’d suggested a casual stroll through a nuclear blast site.

“The sun makes my eyes hurt,” he’d say, his voice as flat and unyielding as a textbook.

The first three times, you’d laughed. By the fifth, you’d stopped looking for a punchline and just started wearing an extra sweater.

“You’re doing it again,” you muttered, your fingers tightening around the warm paper cup he’d pressed into your hand the second you met, like he always did now. A little ritual that had formed without either of you naming it. A warm drink in your hands. His gaze on your face for half a second too long. Then the careful, practiced looking-away.

“Doing what?” he asked. His eyes flicked to yours, all dark lashes and hidden depths, before he performed his signature move—the “careful, practiced looking-away.”

“Being... you,” you said, letting the steam from your drink kiss your nose. Cinnamon. He always remembered the extra dash of cinnamon. “You didn’t have to get this, you know. For the hundredth time.”

“I wanted to,” the words were simple, but they landed in your stomach with a heavy, confusing thud. It was the classic Yunho special: a dash of extreme sweetness followed by a mile-high wall of emotional unavailability. You took a sip of your drink, watching Yunho out of the corner of your eye. His posture had shifted—shoulders square, jaw tight. He looked like a man who had just decided to jump off a bridge and was now reconsidering the height. “Do you ever...” He started, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a heavy swallow. He paused, his jaw working as he fought with whatever thought was trying to claw its way out. “Do you ever feel like you’re going to say something and it’ll change everything? Like there’s no going back to how it was five seconds ago?”

You slowed your pace, the ripples in your coffee mirroring the sudden tremor in your chest. You tried to laugh, but it came out sounding hollow. “That sounds like a classic ‘Yunho Thought.’ Deep, slightly ominous, and very dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” the silence that followed wasn’t the cozy, “friends-hanging-out” kind. It was heavy. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ribs until it was hard to breathe. You could feel the weight of him beside you—an oddly steady, cold presence that seemed to pull the air toward him. Then, his head snapped to the left—sharp, predatory, and way too fast. You followed his gaze into the mouth of a narrow, shadow-choked alley. You saw nothing but trash bags and darkness.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice so dropping low it made the hair on your neck stand up.

You held your breath, listening to the distant hum of the city. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything, Yun.” He didn’t answer. He just stood there, head tilted, nostrils flaring as if he was trying to catch a scent on the wind. His face was a blank mask, but his body was tense. “Yunho? You’re being weird. Even for you.” He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted at a slight, unnatural angle, eyes narrowing as if he were cataloging a sound on a frequency you couldn’t even perceive. His face remained blank, but his shoulders turned to stone. And then—so quick it was almost a blur—his nostrils flared. It wasn’t just breathing, more like catching a scent. A cold knot of unease tightened in your stomach. “Earth to Yunho?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, the focus vanishing so instantly it felt like a lie. He blinked once, slow and deliberate, and when he spoke, his voice had returned to that gentle, melodic lilt—the one that always felt a little too practiced. “Sorry. I thought I heard… something.”

You tried to laugh it off, leaning into the easy sarcasm that usually bridged the gaps between his silences. “You’re turning into a paranoid old man.”

A ghost of a laugh escaped him, but it died before it reached his eyes. “I’m not paranoid,” he murmured, his gaze dropping. “I just—” He cut himself off, the words seemingly stuck behind his teeth.

Your fingers fidgeted nervously with the lid of your coffee cup. “Just what?” Yunho’s gaze dropped—not to your eyes, but to your mouth. It wasn't a casual look; it was as if his eyes had slipped there against his will, drawn by a magnet he was failing to fight. Your throat went tight. For a second, the grey autumn air felt thick and suffocating.

He blinked again, sharper this time, looking startled by his own lapse in control. “Nothing.” And then—because he was apparently determined to kill you slowly with unspoken things—he reached out to adjust your scarf. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, and you physically jumped. His hand wasn’t just “chilly.” It was cold. It was the biting, absolute cold of metal left out in a frost. You froze. He stayed still for half a heartbeat, his dark eyes searching your face for a reaction, before he pulled back so abruptly it felt like a slap. “Sorry.”

You stared at him, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you. “Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally not—” You stopped. The way he said it—the tight, vibrating control in his voice—made it clear that this wasn’t a conversation he was going to let you win. His jaw worked, a muscle jumping as he looked away toward the street as if the passing traffic held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m just… not used to the cold weather,” he said finally.

You frowned, gesturing to the grey sky. “You only hang out on cold days.”

His lips parted, and for one dangerous second, you thought the wall might actually crumble. You could see the truth sitting right behind his eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard. “I should walk you home,” he said, the words coming out too fast, too urgent.

“We’ve been out for ten minutes!” you huffed, checking your phone. 5:43 PM. “It’s barely even dark yet.”

“Please.” The word came out softer than the rest of him. Quieter. Like he was asking for something he didn’t have the right to ask for.

You stopped. It had been months since he’d asked for your number after you bumped into each other in that coffee shop outside your workplace. You’d still remember the smell of espresso and wet wool, the little jolt of embarrassment when you’d spilled a few drops on your white sleeve, and the way he’d reached past you to grab napkins with hands that were too pale and too steady. At first you were excited. You’d been ridiculously excited. You’d checked your phone too often, thumb hovering over the screen like you could will a notification into existence. You’d wondered if he’d text, if he’d ask you out, if there’d be a moment where the story slid into place. But it was never quite did. You’d hang out. Talk. Walk. He’d pay for your coffee without making it a thing. He’d tilt his head when you laughed like he was loving the sound. And then he’d keep his distance like there was an invisible line drawn between you, like he was terrified of crossing it. No lingering touches. No flirting that lasted longer than a breath. No “I missed you” even when he looked like he had. It got to the point where you stopped calling these meetings dates in your head. You tried to steel yourself. Tried to strip yourself of hope like it was something childish you needed to outgrow.

You swallowed, throat tight from the cold and from the stupid ache of wanting something that wasn’t happening. “Why do you always do that?”

His gaze snapped to you, and it was so intense it felt like someone had cut the air. For the first time he didn’t look away. “Do what?”

You lifted your cup a little, then lowered it again when you realised your hand was shaking. “You ask me to hang out and then you—” You made a small, sharp gesture with your fingers, like snipping thread. “You disappear inside yourself. You’re right here, but you’re a thousand miles away.”

His jaw worked once. He looked like he was holding something back behind his teeth “I don’t,” he said, but the lie was thin.

You took one step closer. Close enough that you could feel the cold radiating off him again—that unnatural, metal-left-outside cold that seemed to defy the very laws of biology. The streetlight painted his lashes gold, casting long, dramatic shadows across his high cheekbones. “You do, and I can’t tell if it’s because you don’t want me like that… or because you want me and you’re fighting it so hard it’s killing you.”

Something flickered in his eyes—fast and dark, like a shadow passing over a moon. Yunho’s hand lifted, hovering near your wrist without touching, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. Like he was asking permission from the air itself. “Please don’t do that, don’t try to read me.”

“I just—” Your breath fogged between you, thin and shaky. You hated how honest your body was, how it betrayed your vulnerability before you could turn it into a joke. “When you asked for my number… did you mean it in a friendly way?” The words rushed out like you could outrun the sheer embarrassment of them. “Like… ‘I’m new to this town and I need to meet someone’ friendly?” The wind surged, a violent shove against your shoulders that nearly knocked you off balance. You didn’t budge. You were pinned by the weight of his gaze.

“A friendly way?” Yunho repeated. The words sounded foreign in his mouth. He let out a short breath—one that didn’t even make a cloud in the freezing air, a detail you were too frustrated to notice. “Is that what you thought? That I was just... looking for a tour guide? Someone to show me where the best coffee shops are?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore! You’re hot and cold, Yunho. Mostly cold!” Yunho didn’t flinch at the sound of your words; he didn’t even blink. He just stood there with that terrifying stillness while you shivered hard enough for your teeth to click.

“I’m not looking for a tour guide.” He took a half-step toward you. The movement was predatory in its smoothness—no sway, no heavy footfall, just a sudden, seamless shift in the space he occupied. The smell of him hit you then, cutting through the cinnamon of your drink: crisp winter air, expensive laundry soap, and something metallic, like tasting blood in your mouth when you bit your tongue too hard. “If I wanted a friend,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetic intensity that felt like it was pulling the very soul out of you, “I wouldn’t spend every night staring at my phone, wondering if I’m strong enough to see you without...” He stopped. His jaw clamped shut so hard you heard the bone grind.

“Without what?” You reached out, your fingers grazing the rough wool of his coat sleeve. Yunho recoiled as if you’d branded him with a hot iron. He backed into the brick wall of the alley, the rough stone scraping against his coat with a harsh sound. His chest wasn’t moving. You realised with a sudden, jolting clarity that he hadn’t taken a single breath since you’d mentioned the word ‘friendly’.

He looked down at your hand, then up at your throat where the scarf had loosened again, exposing the pale skin of your neck. The veins in his own neck were standing out, taut. “Please don’t do that. You have no idea what you’re asking for. You think I’m being shy? You think I’m... awkward?” A dark, humourless sound escaped his throat. He looked back toward the dark alley, his pupils blown wide until the brown of his irises was just a thin ring. “I can hear your heart,” he whispered, and for the first time, there was a visible tremor in his hands. He shoved them deeper into his pockets, bunching the fabric. “It’s been hammering against your ribs for the last three minutes. I can hear the blood rushing behind your ears. It’s... it's the loudest thing in the world, and it’s all I can focus on.”

You let out a shaky breath, the fog of it dissipating against his cold, marble-like cheek. “You’re scaring me a little. Stop talking like you’re in a movie.”

“Good,” he snapped, his eyes snapping back to yours. They looked darker now, almost black, reflecting the amber streetlamp. “You should be scared. I’m trying to give you a choice. I’m trying to stay on my side of the line, for your sake.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. The cold coming off him was like a wall, and it made your skin prickle into goosebumps. He looked at your mouth again, but this time, there was a hunger in it. His tongue swiped over his lower lip, a quick, nervous habit that seemed at odds with the sheer power radiating from his frame. “Let me walk you back home. Now.”

“And if I don’t want to go?” You challenged, your voice small but stubborn. You were tired of the mystery. You dropped your half-empty cup onto the pavement. It spilled with a dull splash, the scent of cinnamon-sugar swirling around your boots. You stepped into his space, forcing him to either retreat further into the wall or hold his ground. Yunho’s hands flew out, grabbing your upper arms to stop you. His grip was firm—not painful, but like iron bands that refused to let go.

“You’re so warm,” he hissed, his eyes fluttering shut for a second as he leaned his forehead against yours. He took a breath, inhaling the scent of your skin as if it were oxygen. “You’re so bright, and it hurts to even look at you.” One of his hands slid up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His skin was impossibly smooth. He paused at the pulse point just below your ear, his thumb hovering there, feeling the frantic thump-thump-thump of your life. His eyes opened, and for a split second, you saw a flash of something—a vein-like pattern darkening the skin beneath his eyes, a hunger so raw it made your stomach flip.

“Yun, your face is—”

Then, he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a look of profound, aching sorrow. “I want to kiss you so badly I can’t think about anything else,” he whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But if I start... I don’t know if I can stop. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “I won’t contact you again. I’m sorry.” He said it like a sentence he’d rehearsed in the mirror. But his hands were still on you. Not gripping now. Not iron bands. Just… holding, as if letting go might send you both skidding off the edge of the world. His thumbs pressed faint, trembling half-moons into your sleeves. Yunho’s gaze dropped to your spilled drink. Cinnamon and sugar turning to a cold puddle. He watched it like it was evidence of a crime. Then his eyes lifted again, slow. They weren’t pleading. They were hungry and tired, like he’d been starving for a century and was still trying to be polite about it. You noticed the tension in his neck, the way his jaw clenched until the muscle jumped. He didn’t blink.

You swallowed, and he watched the movement of your throat as if it were a confession. As if it were an invitation. You leaned in first. For one heartbeat, he didn’t move. Not a flinch. Not a breath. You could feel the pause like a held knife. Then Yunho surged forward—controlled, yet brutal in his restraint—and his mouth met yours.

Cold.

It was like kissing winter itself. Like your lips touched something that had no right to be this smooth, this still, this alive. His kiss wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t hungry either—not yet. It was precision. A question he had been dying to ask. Your breath hitched, warm air spilling into the space between you, and Yunho made a sound low in his throat—half pain, half need—as if your warmth physically scorched him. You kissed him back anyway, your hands tangling in his hair. His lips parted, just barely, and the edge of his control frayed. The kiss deepened with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your knees go unsteady. Yunho’s hand slid up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help checking you were real. Your mouth tasted like cinnamon and sugar. Yunho tasted like nothing at all. And that should’ve terrified you. Instead it made something reckless spark in your chest. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer until your heat bled into him and he shuddered like it was too much. The world narrowed down to the scrape of brick behind his shoulders and the way he kissed you.

Then his lips broke from yours so suddenly you gasped, chasing him without thinking. “Stop,” he rasped, his forehead pressing to yours again, his voice shaking so much that it felt more like a machine than a man. “If you keep looking at me like that—if you keep letting me—” His pupils were blown wide, the brown nearly erased by ink-black. His thumb hovered at the sensitive dip of your throat, right over the frantic, rhythmic hammering beneath your skin. He didn’t press—he didn’t even touch—but the air in that microscopic gap felt charged like the atmosphere seconds before a lightning strike. “I’ll go insane,” he whispered, the words ghosting over your dampened lips.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far, but it was enough to break the magnetic pull. Enough that you could actually see him. You saw the way his dark lashes trembled as he forced them down, the way his jaw was locked so tight you feared the bone might actually crack under the strain. Your lips stung from the cold and the bruising pressure of the kiss; your chest burned from the way you’d inhaled him, realising only now that you’d been starving for this just as much as he had.

“Stop,” he repeated, the word scraping its way out of his throat. His forehead remained pinned to yours, his thumb still a prayer he refused to speak against your pulse. And something inside you—something that had been patient and sweet and so fucking careful for weeks—finally went sharp.

You laughed once. It was a small, ugly burst of sound that fogged between you like a white flag you were done waving. “Okay,” you said. Your voice was quieter than you expected. Too steady. “You want me to stop? I’ll stop.”

His eyes flicked up instantly. Dark. Blown out. Caught on your mouth again.

You stepped back. The space you left felt immediate and violent, like ripping a bandage off skin that wasn’t ready to be exposed. “You know what’s actually insane?” you continued, because now that the seal was broken, you couldn’t swallow the truth back down. Your fingers curled tight inside your sleeves, nails biting into your palms to keep from reaching out. “We’ve been doing this for weeks. Weeks! Coffee. Walks. These miserable cold days. You staring at me like I’m—” You cut the sentence off, the heat of humiliation rising in your cheeks. “Like I’m something you’re not allowed to want. Like I’m a mistake you’re trying not to make.”

His throat worked. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“And I tried, Yunho. I tried to be so normal about it.” Your laugh turned into something that almost broke. “I tried to tell myself it’s fine if you don’t want me like that. I can take a hint. I can take ten hints. I can take a whole fucking billboard.” The streetlight buzzed overhead, a low, electric whine. “But you don’t get to do this,” you said, and this time your voice did shake, not from the autumn chill, but from a fury that had been marinating in sweetness until it turned bitter. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then tell me to stop like it hurts you—like I’m the one hurting you—when you’re the one who keeps pulling me close and then shoving me away the second things get real.” His fingers flexed against the air, a reflexive reach he aborted halfway through. His hand dropped slowly, as if gravity were the only law he was capable of obeying in that moment. The lack of contact was louder than the kiss had been. You swallowed, and his gaze jerked to the movement of your throat so fast it was almost violent. His shoulders went rigid, as if your voice was a sound he could no longer bear to hear. “I won’t do push and pull,” you said, softer now, because the anger had a deep bruise under it. “I won’t keep showing up just to feel like I’m begging for basic honesty.”

Yunho’s nostrils flared. He turned his face a fraction away, looking toward the alley as if trying to shield his eyes from a glare. Your heat “Don’t.” The word was different from before. It wasn’t stop kissing me. It was: don’t make me choose.

“Don’t what?” You hated that your voice cracked, hated that you still sounded like someone who wanted him to stay. “Don’t call you out? Don’t ask for more? Don’t—what, Yun? Don’t make you admit you actually like me?”

His head snapped up. For a second, his expression was empty in a way that was genuinely terrifying. The careful, awkward Yunho had stepped aside, and something much older, much colder, was leaning forward in his place. His lips peeled back just a fraction—not a smile, but a warning of how thin his leash had become. “I’m trying— I’m trying to be—” He stopped, his eyes flicking to the ground.

“To be what?” you pushed, pressing on the bruise because the pain was already there anyway. “It’s so simple! Either you like me or you don’t.”

Yunho’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the faint, grinding sound of bone. Then—so suddenly it made your stomach drop—his expression sharpened into a cold, glittering anger that cut across his face like a shadow. His shoulders squared, and it was like watching a heavy door slam shut. “You don’t get to reduce this,” he said, his voice matching the freezing temperature of his skin. “You don’t get to stand there and decide what this is.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think this is me being indecisive? Playing games? You think I’m doing this because I like the chase?” His eyes flashed, and for a heartbeat, you could swear you saw that vein-dark pattern spidering at the edges of his lower lids. “I’m not angry at you for wanting an answer. I’m angry because you’re acting like you have any idea what you’re actually asking for!”

Your mouth went dry. The air around him felt unnaturally still.

“You think you want me,” Yunho continued, his voice lower, more dangerous. “You think you want me like that because you like the way I look at you, because you like the way I’m—” His breath stuttered. He swallowed it down. “Because you feel like something pulls you to me. You think it's a romance.”

“That is not—”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t play push and pull, and I don’t—”

You cut him off before he could build another wall out of excuses. “Stop it! It’s fine if we’re friends. But not like this. Not while you look at me like that.” His eyes flickered—that half-second of raw hunger he always tried to swallow before it reached his face. “And you do,” you added, sharper now. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You kiss me and then talk to me like you’re doing me a favour by keeping your distance. You don’t get to punish me for noticing!”

“Listen—” he started, stepping toward you.

“No! You listen to me!” You stepped back, and the space between you felt like stepping off a ledge into the dark. Cold poured into the gap where his presence should be. Your mouth tasted faintly of cinnamon and the ghost of him, and it made you miserable. “We’re adults. I’m not doing this weird, half-lit, maybe-someday thing anymore.”

“I’m trying to—” he said, louder now, as if volume could bridge the gap.

“You’re trying to keep me on a hook,” you interrupted, done being gentle. “And I can’t keep navigating your mixed signals like it’s my job to translate you. I see it clearly now. This is going nowhere.” The sentence dropped between you like a stone in deep water. No splash. Just weight. He flinched as if you’d physically struck him. His hand lifted—instinct, reflex—reaching for your sleeve, for your wrist, for any part of you he could claim without having to speak.

You took another step back, out of reach.

“Wait,” he said, and the rough edge of his voice was new. Desperate. “Just—just let me explain.”

“I’ve been letting you explain. For weeks. Every time you stared at my lips. Every time you touched me like it was an accident. Every time you asked me to stop like I’m the one doing something wrong.” He tried to talk over you, panic rising in the set of his shoulders. You didn’t let him. You turned on your heel. The wet pavement flashed under the streetlight, slick as spilled ink. Your boots slapped against the ground, the sound indecently loud in the quiet alley. You didn’t look back. You wouldn’t give him the mercy of seeing your face break. “I’m done,” you called over your shoulder, your voice carrying like a thrown blade.

Behind you, Yunho said your name—once, like a warning. But you kept walking. You didn’t look at him. You just left him there in the cold, where he seemed to think he belonged. The wet slap of your boots against the pavement echoed through the narrow street, a rhythmic, angry punctuation to the silence you’d left behind. You didn’t look back, even though the back of your neck prickled with the heavy, unmistakable weight of his gaze. You expected him to stay there, frozen against the brick like a statue left out in the rain, but then you heard it—the soft, unnervingly smooth scuff of his shoes following you.

“Stop walking for a second,” Yunho called out, his voice sounding thinner than usual, stripped of that steady, melodic mask he usually wore.

“No, I’m good,” you snapped over your shoulder, your breath blossoming in front of you in a frantic, white cloud. “I’m going home to a place that has a heater and people who use their words. You should try it sometime. The words part, I mean.” You increased your pace, your fingers still stinging from the cold of his skin. He was right behind you now, not even winded, despite the speed you were trying to maintain. He didn’t have that heavy, huffing footfall of a normal man; he just moved like a shadow sliding over glass.

“I am trying to use them!” he protested, and you could hear the frustration bubbling up, that awkward, clumsy sincerity that made it so hard to actually stay mad at him. “It’s just... there isn’t a manual for this. I’ve never had to explain this to a human before!”

You spun around so fast you nearly tripped on a slick patch of sidewalk. “A human? What are you, an AI? A very handsome, very confusing chatbot?” You threw your hands up. “Just go home. Go back to your gloomy, sunless cave or wherever it is you spend all the sunny days in!”

Yunho stopped a few feet away, his shoulders hunched again, looking less like a predatory threat and more like a kicked puppy. He looked down at his feet, his jaw working as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not a chatbot,” he muttered, the words barely audible over the distant hiss of traffic. He looked up, his dark lashes wet from the mist, and for a second, his pupils were so wide the brown of his eyes was almost gone. “I’m a vampire. That’s why I’m cold. That’s why I don’t... I don’t breathe right when I’m near you. That’s why I can hear your heart.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, rib-pressing kind from before. It was the kind of silence that happens right after someone says something so profoundly stupid you have to reboot your entire brain. You stared at him. A beat passed. Two. Then, a laugh escaped your throat, sounding bright and ridiculous against the grey dampness of the evening.

“Oh, okay,” you said, your voice dripping with a thick sarcasm. “Right. A vampire. Of course. How silly of me not to realise. Is your name actually Stefan? Is your brother Damon chilling around the corner in a leather jacket waiting to kill my roommates?”

Yunho flinched at the names, looking genuinely confused. “Who? No, I don’t have a brother named Damon. My brother name is Geonho, he works in real estate in Busan, but that’s hardly—”

“And let me guess,” you interrupted, stepping closer, emboldened by the sheer absurdity of his lie. You reached out and poked his chest—it felt like poking a marble pillar covered in wool. “You sparkle in the sunlight? You have a collection of graduation caps on your wall? You’re a hundred years old and you’ve decided to spend your eternity hanging out in mediocre coffee shops with a girl who works 9-to-5?”

“I don’t sparkle,” he said, his voice taking on a wounded, defensive edge. “That’s... that’s a very weird thing to suggest. And I’m only twenty-seven. Well, technically. I’ve been twenty-seven for a while, but I wasn’t alive during the French Revolution or anything dramatic like that.”

You laughed again, but this time it had a bitter edge. You were hurt that he thought you were gullible enough to accept a literal fairy tale as an excuse for why he was a terrible communicator. “You are unbelievable,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I ask for honesty, for a reason why you’ve been treating me like a puzzle you don’t want to solve, and you give me The Vampire Diaries fanfiction? Did you think that would make you sound cool? Or mysterious?”

“I’m not trying to be mysterious!” He looked frantic now, his hands hovering near your arms but never quite touching, as if he was afraid he might actually break you. “I’m trying to tell you why I’m terrified to touch you! I can hear the blood rushing through your veins, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and I have no idea how to be a ‘boyfriend’ without wanting to... to...”

“To what? Eat me?” You rolled your eyes, stepping back and turning away. “Give it a rest. It’s actually embarrassing at this point. I’m going home. Don’t call me again. I’m not really into the whole ‘undead martyr’ thing. I prefer guys who have a pulse and don’t lie to my face because they’re too awkward to admit they just aren’t that into me.”

“I am into you!” he yelled at your retreating back. “I’m extremely into you! That is the entire problem!”

“Go find a Bella!” you shouted back, not stopping. “I’m sure there’s a moody teenager somewhere who’d love this. Me? I’m going to go have a glass of wine and forget I ever met a guy who thinks he’s a supernatural predator because he’s bad at dating!” As you rounded the corner, you could still feel his presence at the edge of the alley, a cold, still point in a moving world. You didn’t look back to see him standing there, looking perfectly, devastatingly human in the amber glow of the streetlamp.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You had barely kicked off your boots and put on a warm hoodie when the knock came—three sharp, precise raps that sounded far too steady for someone who had just been told to get lost. You stomped to the door, tearing it open with enough force to make the hinges groan. Yunho was standing there, his hands shoved back into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched.

“If you say one word about wanting to drink my blood, I am calling the police,” you snapped, blocking the doorway with your entire frame. “Or a therapist. Honestly, Yunho, pick one.”

“I’m not here to—I don’t want to drink your—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening as he looked at the floor of the hallway. He looked exhausted. “I just... I didn’t want things to end like that. You were so angry.”

“I’m still angry!” you countered, leaning against the doorframe. “You spent weeks acting like I was a burden for liking you, and then you try to exit the conversation by claiming you’re a character from a CW show. It’s insulting. What’s next? Are you going to tell me you have a daylight ring? That you’re secretly pining for a girl from the 1800s who looks exactly like me?”

“I told you, I’m only twenty-seven, and I actually can’t find my daylight ring, that’s why we only hang out on gloomy days.” He muttered, taking a half-step forward, then stopped abruptly, his toes hovering exactly at the line where your apartment’s hardwood met the carpet of the hallway.

“Oh, what’s the matter?” you teased, a mean little spark of humour cutting through your fury. “Did you forget to check the moon cycle? Or are you waiting for me to throw a steak at you? No, wait—it’s the invitation thing, isn't it?” You let out a short, mocking laugh, gesturing grandly toward your living room. “Come on then, Dracula. Step into my parlour. Come tell me more about how you’ve been ‘twenty-seven for a while’ while you help me fold my laundry.”

Yunho didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He just looked at you with a an aching intensity. He shifted his weight, his upper body leaning slightly into the apartment, but his feet stayed glued to the threshold.

“I’m serious,” you said, your voice losing some of its edge as the silence stretched. “Stop the act. Just walk in, sit on the couch, and tell me the truth. No more vampires, no more ‘I can hear your heart’ nonsense. Just... talk to me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. His throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes flicking to yours, wide and dark.

“Yes, you can. The door is wide open. I’m literally standing here.” You reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his coat to tug him forward. The moment you pulled, you felt it. Yunho’s body jerked forward, but it was like he’d hit a wall. His shoulder slammed into an invisible barrier in the empty air of the doorway, the impact making a dull, thudding sound that vibrated through your grip on his arm. He didn’t stumble; he just stopped dead, his face contorting in a brief flash of genuine frustration. You let go of his sleeve as if it had turned into fire. You looked at the empty space between the doorframes, then back at him. He was standing perfectly still again, his chest not moving, his face pale and marble-smooth. “Wait,” you breathed, the teasing air in your lungs turning into a cold stone. You reached out again, slower this time, and passed your hand through the air where he had just hit the ‘wall.’ There was nothing there for you. Just empty space. “Why did you... why didn’t you move?”

“You didn’t invite me in,” he said simply, his voice trembling just enough to break the ‘cool’ persona he never quite managed to pull off anyway. He looked down at his feet, then back at you, his expression a mess of embarrassment. “I told you. I’m trying to stay on my side of the line.”

The realisation hit you like a bucket of ice water. The metal-cold skin. The way he never seemed to breathe when things got intense. The way he looked at your throat as if it were a ticking clock. “You’re actually...” You trailed off, your voice sounding small and far away in your own ears. You looked at him and saw the way he was shaking with a tension that had nothing to do with being awkward and everything to do with restraint.

“I’m a vampire,” he repeated, and this time, you didn't laugh. “And I really, really like you. Which is a catastrophic problem for both of us.” The silence in the doorway was too thick. You stared at the empty space where his shoulder had just thudded against nothingness, then back at Yunho, who was looking at his own feet as if they had betrayed him. The anger was still there, simmering under your skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a bewildered, scientific curiosity that bordered on the absurd. “Okay,” you breathed, stepping back into the warmth of your living room but keeping your eyes locked on him. “So, the threshold thing. That’s… that is a very specific architectural hurdle for a supernatural predator. It’s deeply inconvenient.”

“It’s humiliating,” he corrected, his voice muffled. He looked up, and the amber hall light caught the frustration in his eyes—that familiar, awkward Yunho expression that usually meant he’d forgotten how to order a complicated latte. “I’ve spent the last three minutes trying to figure out how to look cool while being physically barred from a studio apartment by a lack of social etiquette.”

“Right, because that’s the part of this that’s weird. Not the fact that you’re technically a corpse,” you shot back, though your voice lacked its previous bite. You crossed your arms, leaning against the hallway wall. “Fine. You want an invitation? You can come in. But if you try to sparkle or turn into a bat or a crow, I’m hitting you with a broom. I’m serious. You are invited into my home. Just… step carefully.” He took a tentative step, and this time, there was no thud. He slipped across the line with a fluid grace that made the hair on your arms stand up—a sudden shift in the space he occupied that felt entirely unnatural. As he passed you, the air temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. “Okay, stop right there,” you said, pointing toward the middle of the rug. He stopped instantly, his hands still bunched in his pockets. “Stay. I need to check something.”

“I’m not a dog,” he murmured, but he didn’t move. He watched you with that intense, magnetic gaze that used to make your stomach dip, but now it just made you want to take notes.

You hurried into the kitchen, your mind racing through every movie trope you’d ever watched. You returned a moment later, clutching a jar of minced garlic and a small, silver-plated butter knife.

“Is that… is that garlic?” Yunho asked, his nose wrinkling. His nostrils flared, caught by the scent. “Are you actually going to season me?”

“It’s a diagnostic test!” you countered, unscrewing the lid and holding it out at arm’s length. “Well? Does it burn? Do you feel like you’re going to explode into ash?”

Yunho leaned forward, sniffing the jar with a look of profound boredom. “It smells like a pasta night I wasn’t invited to. I’m not allergic to seasoning. I just can’t digest it. It stays in my stomach like a rock for three days. It’s… it’s very uncomfortable, actually.”

“Disappointing,” you muttered, setting the jar on the coffee table. You held up the butter knife. “Mirror? Do you have a reflection, or am I currently talking to a very handsome hallucination?” You marched him over to the mirror in the hallway. You stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. In the glass, your own face was flushed and messy, but Yunho was there too—sharp jawline, dark lashes, and that pale, steady stillness.

“I’m in the mirror,” he said and it sounded almost bored. Like he had done this multiple times before. “The silver-backing thing is an old myth. Physics still applies to light bouncing off my skin, even if I don’t have a pulse.”

“You really don’t have one?” You stepped closer, the fury from the alleyway turning into a reckless sort of courage. You reached out, your fingers hovering over his wrist. “Can I?”

Yunho went rigid. “Okay,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed your warm fingers against his skin. There was nothing. No thrum, no rhythmic push of life. Just that impossibly smooth, marble-like surface. It was like touching a statue that breathed—except he wasn’t breathing. You realised then, with a jolt of clarity, that his chest wasn’t moving at all.

“You’re holding your breath,” you whispered, looking up at him.

“I don’t need to do it,” he rasped, finally letting out a jagged, shuddering puff of air that didn’t even fog in the room. “I only do it to make people feel comfortable. But when I’m this close to you… when I can hear your heart hammering against your ribs like that… I forget to pretend.”

“So you’re telling me,” you said, trying to regain your witty footing because the sheer intensity of him was starting to make your head spin, “that all those times we went for coffee, you were just… what? Renting a chair? Pretending to enjoy the ambiance while your internal organs were on strike?”

“I like coffee, I can have human food but it doesn’t help with hunger,” he said softly, a small, genuine smile finally twitching at the corner of his mouth—the first one you’d seen all night that actually reached his eyes. “And I like watching you. You’re so bright, it actually hurts my eyes sometimes. I wasn’t lying about that part.”

You huffed, crossing your arms again to hide the way your hands were shaking. “You’re still a dork. A supernatural, immortal dork who let me think I was being rejected for a months because you were too busy being a martyr.”

“I was trying to be a gentleman!” he protested, his awkwardness returning in full force as he gestured vaguely toward the door. “I didn’t want to be the guy who… who ruins your life because he can’t stop staring at your pulse point!”

“Well, you failed,” you said, stepping into his space and forcing him to look at you. “You’re already in the house. The garlic didn’t work. Now, are you going to sit down and tell me the rest of this ridiculous story, or do I need to go find some holy water?”

The frantic, buzzing energy of the hour—the shouting in the street, the mocking laughter, the ridiculous garlic test—evaporated all at once, leaving a hollow, ringing silence in its wake. You stood in the middle of your living room, the butter knife still clutched in your hand like a toy, while Yunho remained exactly where you’d told him to stay. He didn’t shift his weight. He didn’t itch his nose. He didn’t even seem to be blinking. He just stood there, a perfectly rendered human shape that felt like a glitch in the reality of your apartment.

“You’re not breathing,” you whispered, the words finally landing with the weight of lead. It wasn’t a joke anymore. “You’ve been standing here for two minutes, and your chest hasn’t moved once.”

“I already told you,” he said, his voice quiet, devoid of the defensive edge it had earlier. “I don’t... I don’t need to. It’s a habit I keep up so people don’t stare at me, but right now... I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

You dropped the butter knife onto the coffee table. The clack of metal on wood sounded deafening. You walked a slow circle around him, your eyes scanning him with a new, terrifying clarity. You saw the way the lamplight hit his skin—it didn’t look like skin, really. It looked like fine porcelain, translucent and bloodless. You remembered every time his hand had brushed yours over a coffee cup, and how you’d just thought he had poor circulation. “So when you said your eyes hurt in the sun...” you started, your voice trailing off as you pieced the weeks together.

“They really do,” he interrupted, his gaze following you with a slow, heavy tilt of his head. “It’s like someone is stabbing a needle into my brain.”

“And the mixed signals?” You stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the wall of cold air radiating from his body. “All those times you’d lean in and then practically jump back like I’d burned you? Was that—”

“I was hungry,” he blurted out, then immediately looked horrified, his face twisting into a grimace of pure, awkward shame. “No, wait—that came out wrong. I wasn’t... I didn’t want to eat you. I mean, I did, but not—God, this is why I didn’t say anything! I’m terrible at this.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the first truly human-looking gesture he’d made since entering. “I have a crush on you,” he continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, messy and unpolished. “A massive, terrifying crush. And I’ve never had one on a human before. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that I wanted to kiss you and also, simultaneously, my instincts were telling me that your carotid artery was exceptionally vibrant.”

“My carotid artery? That is the least romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I know!” he groaned, finally moving from his spot to pace the small rug. “I’m a disaster. I spent three nights practicing how to ask you to the movies without sounding like a predator, and then I realised the movie was a matinee and I’d just spend the whole time squinting and smelling the popcorn I don‘t like! So I just... I didn’t ask you. I thought it was better if you just thought I was a jerk.”

“You went with ‘vampire’ instead of ‘jerk’?” You sat down on the edge of the couch, your legs feeling a bit like jelly. The reality was sinking in—the person you’d been falling for was a literal myth, a creature of the night who was currently pouting because he found human dating mechanics too difficult. “You have a total martyr complex, you know that? You decided to suffer in silence and let me feel like I was crazy because you were afraid you’d... what? Bite me?”

“I don’t trust myself,” he said softly, stopping his pacing to look at you. The vulnerability in his expression was devastating. He looked like he was waiting for you to scream, to throw him out, to realise he was a monster. “I’ve spent a long time being very careful. Being alone is easy. Being with you is... it’s a constant test. And I’m so tired of failing it.”

You looked at him and saw the awkward, silent boy you’d been meeting for weeks, just with a much darker secret. He wasn’t a legend. He was just Yunho, and he was terrified of hurting you. “Well,” you said, your voice shaking just a little as you gestured to the empty spot on the couch next to you. “You’re already in the house. And I’m pretty sure you’re not going to eat me tonight. So... sit down. Stop being a martyr for five minutes and just be my friend. Or whatever this is.”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door and then back to you. “Are you sure? I can leave. I can go back to Busan and work in real estate with my brother. You don’t have to—”

“Yunho,” you interrupted, a small, weary smile tugging at your lips. “Sit. Down. Before I get the garlic again.”

He sat. It wasn’t a smooth, relaxed sink into the cushions; it was a rigid, mechanical descent, his body hovering an inch above the fabric for a second before he finally let his weight settle. He looked like he was sitting on a bench made of high explosives rather than a budget-friendly IKEA sofa. “You’re supposed to be screaming,” he gripped his knees, his knuckles white—or rather, whiter than usual. “You’re supposed to be halfway down the stairs calling a priest or... or a Van Helsing. Why are you just standing there looking at me like I’m a science project?”

“Because the ‘science project’ currently looks like he’s about to have a panic attack, and I’m pretty sure dead hearts don’t do that,” you said, crossing your arms. The initial terror had settled into a strange, buzzing adrenaline. “Besides, I’ve seen you try to use a self-checkout machine. You’re not exactly the King of the Damned.”

“That machine was rigged!” he snapped, his eyes flashing a brief, startling gold before fading back to dark brown. He caught the change and immediately looked away, shamed. “See? That. Right there. I’m a predator. I’ve lived through three different wars and I could—”

“You could what? Drain me of blood?” you interrupted, moving closer. You watched him flinch, his whole body tensing as you sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Let’s get to the important part, Yun. You just admitted, in the middle of a very dramatic, very weird confession, that you’ve had a crush on me for weeks.”

Yunho’s ears turned a faint, dusty sort of grey-pink—the closest he probably got to blushing. “That’s what you’re focusing on? I just told you I’m a literal monster, and you’re—you’re asking about my dating preferences?”

“Yes! Because the ‘monster’ part explains why your hands are cold, but the ‘crush’ part doesn’t explain why you’ve been acting like a total jerk!” You leaned in, invading his personal space, watching the way he leaned back until he was practically horizontal against the armrest. “So, let’s be clear. You like me. Like, ‘I want to take you out on actual dates and hold your hand without worrying about your pulse’ like me?”

“I think about holding your hand every five seconds,” he whispered, the honesty sounding like it was being pulled out of him. “And it terrifies me. Because if I stop thinking about it, if I let myself just... be with you, I might forget to be careful. I might—I don’t know, I might accidentally crush your bones because I don’t know my own strength when I’m happy.”

You felt a sharp tug at your heart, the kind that was definitely too warm for the creature sitting across from you. “You’re such a martyr. You’ve spent our entire ‘friendship’ trying to protect me from yourself, haven’t you? That’s why you always walked me to my door and then disappeared like a ghost.”

“I didn’t want to be another thing that hurt you,” he finally looked at you, and the raw vulnerability there was so human it made the vampire thing feel like a footnote. “I’m not a good person to love. I’m a dead end. Literally.”

“Well, luckily for you, I’m the one who gets to decide who’s a ‘dead end’ or not,” you said, moving even closer until your knee brushed his. He looked like he wanted to bolt through the ceiling. “So, what are we now? Are we still ‘just friends’ who ignore the fact that you want to bite my neck and I want to kiss you? Or are we actually doing this?”

“Doing what?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “You want to—with a guy who has to drink blood to stay somewhat sane? I don’t even have a pulse!”

You reached out, and this time, you didn’t hesitate. You took his hand. It was cold, yes, like a river stone in winter, but it was steady. “Stop looking for reasons to run away. You’re not that scary.”

“I am scary,” he insisted, though he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers tentatively curled around yours, his grip so light it was almost non-existent. “I’m a nightmare. I’m the thing under the bed.”

“You’re the thing that brings me my favourite coffee and listens to me complain about my boss for three hours,” you countered, squeezing his hand. “So, answer the question.”

Yunho looked down at your joined hands, his chest finally hitching in a simulated breath. He looked back at you, a slow, shy smile—the one that always made your heart do a stupid little flip—creeping across his face. “I’d like to... do this,” he said, the word sounding foreign and precious on his tongue. “If you’re sure you’re okay with... all of this.”

“I’m sure,” you said, leaning in until your forehead rested against his. The coldness was there, but so was he. “But I’m still making fun of the ‘Stefan’ thing. That’s never going away.”

“I really don't know who that is,” he groaned, his shoulders finally dropping as he let out a long, silent puff of air. “But I have a feeling I’m going to hear a lot about him.”

“You actually don't know who Stefan Salvatore is?” The shift in your tone was so sudden it made Yunho’s head snap up. He looked at you, bewildered, as the heavy, romantic tension evaporated, replaced by a look of genuine, wide-eyed horror on your face. You weren’t scared anymore; you were offended.

“I—should I?” he asked, his voice small and genuinely concerned. “Is he… is he a local celebrity? Did I miss something?”

“Something? Yunho, he’s an icon! He’s the sensitive vampire with the hero hair!” You scrambled off the couch, paced to your TV stand, and then turned back to him, pointing a finger dramatically. “And you’re literally doing his whole bit! The ‘I’m a monster’ speech? The ‘I can’t be near you’ dramatic pouting? You are a walking trope, and you don’t even know the source material!”

Yunho blinked, looking deeply insulted. “I am not pouting. I am experiencing an existential crisis regarding my predatory nature and its proximity to the person I care about.”

“That is literally the definition of pouting in the vampire world!” you shrieked, a giggle bubbling up that you couldn’t suppress. You felt a hysterical wave of excitement wash over you. “Oh my god, this is incredible. You’re a vampire who is culturally illiterate. We have so much work to do! Do you have a daylight ring? Please tell me you have a piece of vintage jewellery that lets you walk to the grocery store at noon.”

“I told you, I don’t sparkle and I lost my a ring,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “So during sunny days I just get a really bad migraine and my skin feels like it’s being poked with hot needles. It’s a biological sensitivity, not a magical curse.”

“Whatever, we’re calling it a daylight sensitivity,” you sat back down, much closer this time, leaning into his cold side without a second thought. “Wait. Can you do the thing? The eye thing? Do they go all veiny and scary when you’re hungry? Can you run really fast? Like, if I forget my phone at a cafe, can you zoom there and back in four seconds?”

Yunho peeked through his fingers, looking at you with a mix of affection and utter disbelief. “You’re… you’re fangirling. I just admitted I’m an undead creature who lives on blood, and you’re treating me like a—a marvel of modern convenience?”

“It’s cool, Yunho! It’s objectively cool!” You grabbed his arm, shaking it. “Think about the possibilities! No more waiting in traffic! You can carry all the groceries in one trip!”

“I’m glad my curse is so ‘convenient’ for your shopping trips,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth were twitching. He looked down at where you were clutching his arm, his expression softening. The fear that had been radiating off him for the last hour was finally starting to melt. “And no, I’m not zooming anywhere. It’s exhausting. It’s like sprinting a marathon in five seconds. I’d rather just… walk. With you.”

“Ugh, so Stefan,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Total hero hair energy. We are starting a marathon tomorrow! Eight seasons! You need to learn the rules of your own people.”

“I have my own rules,” he said softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He reached out, his cold thumb grazing your jawline with a tenderness that made your breath hitch—not out of fear, but because he was finally here. “Rule number one: no biting the girlfriend. Rule number two: try to survive her taste in television.” The word hung in the air, vibrating with more electricity than any of the supernatural talk that had preceded it. You froze, your head still resting against his shoulder, but your eyes went wide, staring at a very specific, very un-dusted corner of your bookshelf.

“The what?” you squeaked, your voice jumping an entire octave. You pulled back just enough to look at him, and for the first time tonight, Yunho looked truly, devastatingly caught. If he were human, he’d be a deep shade of crimson; as it was, he just looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He didn’t pull his hand away from your face, but his fingers twitched against your skin.

“I... did I say that out loud?” he stammered, his eyes darting toward the ceiling as if looking for an escape route that didn’t involve a door he couldn’t pass through.

“You very much did,” you said, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across your face. The anger from the alleyway was a distant memory, replaced by the chaos of the moment. “‘No biting the girlfriend.’ That’s a very specific title. A very official, non-ambiguous, ‘we-are-definitely-dating’ title.”

“I was getting ahead of myself,” he muttered, finally dropping his hand and looking at his knees. He looked so small for a guy who was technically an apex predator. “The logic was... if I’m staying, and you’re not screaming, and we’re doing the TV marathon... I just assumed the role was open. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, don’t you dare backtrack now!” you laughed, poking him in the ribs. He jumped, a surprised, huffing sound escaping him. “You can’t drop the ‘G-word’ and then try to hide behind your existential dread. Is that what we are? Am I the girlfriend? Because five minutes ago you were telling me to never call you again.”

“I never told you not to call me,” he protested, finally looking back at you, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet and painfully awkward. “You told me not to call you. I was just... I was going to mope in my apartment for a few decades and wait for the regret to subside.”

“A few decades? God, you’re dramatic,” you teased, reaching out to grab the lapels of his coat, pulling him a few inches closer. “But seriously. Say it again. Without the ‘no biting’ part.”

Yunho swallowed hard. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes, his gaze heavy and dark. The vampire part of him—the stillness, the intensity—merged with the boyfriend part in a way that made your heart do a frantic dance. “You’re my girlfriend. If you’ll have a guy who’s basically a high-maintenance houseplant that only drinks O-plus.”

“I’ve had worse boyfriends,” you shrugged, though your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. “One of them didn’t even have the decency to be immortal, he didn’t even have a job. At least you’re... interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated, a genuine smile breaking through his nerves. “I can work with interesting.”

“Good,” you said, leaning in until your noses brushed. The coldness of him wasn’t a barrier anymore. “Now, as your official girlfriend, I have my first executive order: we are going to the kitchen, I am making a grilled cheese, and you are going to sit there and tell me exactly how you’ve managed to live years without seeing a single episode of The Vampire Diaries. It’s a literal hate crime.”

“Can I at least hold your hand while you do it?”

“Always,” you whispered, tugging him toward the kitchen. “But if you start brooding while I’m flipping the bread, I’m calling you Stefan for the rest of the night.”

“I still don’t know who that is!” he called out, his laughter—short, rare, and musical—following you into the warmth of the kitchen.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The grilled cheese sat forgotten on its plate, the cheese cooling. The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, erratic thrumming of your own heart—a sound that, apparently, was currently a drum solo in Yunho’s ears. You were leaning against the counter, and Yunho was standing directly in front of you. He had finally shed his coat, revealing a simple black sweater that made his skin look like polished cream. Up close, without the barrier of the “friend” label, the air between you felt charged that it made the small hairs on your arms stand up.

“You’re staring again.”

“You’re hard not to stare at,” you countered, your breath hitching. “Especially now that I know you’re not just moody, you’re actually a legend.”

Yunho let out a soft, huffing sound—almost a laugh, but more of a surrender. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were freezing, but the gesture was so tender it made your toes curl against the linoleum. He lingered there, his thumb grazing your temple, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that was finally, terrifyingly honest. “Can I?” he whispered.

“If you ask one more time, I'm revoking your invitation.”

He didn’t wait. He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, it wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. There was no warmth, no soft puff of breath against your cheek, just a firm, cool pressure. It was shocking, then intoxicating. You reached up, your hands finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate to share your heat with him. Yunho’s grip on your waist tightened. His strength was startling. Emboldened by the contact, you let your hands slide down his back, tugging him flush against you. You wanted more—more of this strange, chilly friction, more of the way he seemed to melt into you despite himself. You tilted your head, your teeth grazing his bottom lip, and let out a small, needy whimper.

The effect was instantaneous.

Yunho tore himself away so fast he was on the other side of the kitchen island before you could even blink. He hit the opposite counter with a heavy thud, his eyes wide. “No,” he gasped, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard you heard a faint crack. “No, stop. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You stood there, breathless and flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Did I... did I do something wrong?”

“Your pulse,” he rasped, his head snapping to the side as if he couldn’t bear to look at you. The veins under his eyes were prominent now, dark and pulsing. “It’s too loud. When you move like that, when you... when you make that sound... it’s all I can hear. It’s like a siren. It’s not just a crush anymore, it’s—it’s an instinct.” He looked at you then, and the martyr complex was back in full force, mixed with desire. “I want you so much it’s actually making my teeth ache. I can feel the venom, and I won’t... I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said, taking a tentative step forward.

“You should be!” he snapped, though there was no heat in it, only desperation. He held up a hand to stop you. “Please. Just... give me a second. I need to remember how to be the guy who likes your grilled cheese and hates your TV shows. I can't be... that other thing.” The silence returned, but this time it was heavy with the reality of what he was. You saw the struggle in the way his shoulders shook, the way he was fighting his own nature just to stay in the same room as you.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning back against the counter, giving him the space he clearly needed to not lose his mind. “Okay. We can go slow. We can go ‘human-speed’ slow.”

Yunho closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool surface of the fridge. “Thank you,” he breathed. “And for the record? That was... the best kiss I’ve had in about seventy years. Even if it almost killed us both.”

“Seventy years?” you chirped, trying to break the tension with a bit of your usual bite. “Wow. I’m dating a senior citizen. Stefan would never be this dramatic about a kiss, just so you know.”

“I am going to delete that show from your Netflix account,” he muttered, though the black in his eyes was finally beginning to fade.

The tension in the kitchen didn’t break so much as it dissolved, melting into a domestic, slightly ridiculous warmth. Yunho stayed by the fridge for another minute, his eyes closed, performing what looked like a very intense meditation on the concept of not being a predator. When he finally pushed away from the counter, the veins under his eyes were gone, replaced by that familiar, slightly dazed look of a man who had just survived a very confusing day at the office. He walked back to you, stopping a respectable three feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep them from misbehaving. “Okay,” his voice was finally steady. “The grilled cheese is cold. I’ve ruined the mood. And I’m fairly certain I cracked your countertop. I should... I should probably fix that.”

“Forget the counter,” you said, reaching out and grabbing his hand, pulling him back toward the living room. “You’re an immortal being with superhuman strength and you’re worried about a hairline fracture in my kitchen counter? Sit. We have work to do.”

You pulled him back to the living room and shoved him onto the couch. He sank into the cushions, looking utterly defeated by your enthusiasm. You grabbed the remote, hopped onto the sofa next to him, and pulled a soft, oversized throw blanket over both of your laps.

“Is this necessary?” he asked, looking down at the fuzzy fleece. “I don’t actually get cold, remember?”

“No, but I do,” you countered, snuggling into his side. “And since you’re basically a high-end refrigerator, you need to be under the blanket so I can use you for structural support. Now, hush. Season one, episode one. Meet the Salvatores.” As the opening credits rolled, Yunho sat as stiff as a board, his eyes fixed on the screen with the intensity of a scholar studying a dead language. Every few minutes, he’d let out a small, huffy sound of disapproval.

“That's not how it works,” he whispered when a crow appeared on screen. “We don’t control birds.”

“Shh! Focus!” you nudged him.

Halfway through the episode, you felt him finally begin to relax. The rigid line of his shoulders softened, and slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t notice—his arm lifted, sliding behind your shoulders to pull you closer. His skin was still cold, but your own warmth was beginning to seep into him.

“He’s very dramatic,” Yunho muttered, nodding toward Stefan on the screen. “Is that what you think I look like? Like I’m constantly mourning my own existence?”

“Absolutely,” you laughed, looking up at him.

Yunho looked down at you, and for the first time that night, there was no fear in his eyes. No martyr complex, no “monster” talk. Just a boy who had finally found a place to land. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. It was brief, careful, and perfectly safe. “I’m glad I told you,” he whispered, his chin resting on your hair. “Even if you’re going to spend next years making fun of me.”

“Oh, I'm counting on it,” you said, closing your eyes and listening to the beautiful, eerie silence where his heartbeat should have been. “Now, be quiet. Damon’s about to show up, and you’re really going to hate his leather jacket.”

Yunho sighed, a long, contented sound that vibrated through your chest. He tightened his grip on you, tucked the blanket around your feet, and settled in. He was a vampire, and a terrible liar—but as it turned out, he was also a pretty spectacular boyfriend.

[mingi-buffering-24-7]

Special Treatment [mingi x reader]

Mingi is very good at pretending he’s normal about the way you flirt with clients for tips, about the way you touch other people for a living. The problem starts when he realizes you might not belong to him at all, and suddenly he’s pinned against the wall confessing feelings far too big to keep inside anymore.

Pairing: sub!Mingi x TattooArtistFem!Reader Tropes: Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pinning, Confession under pressure, Soft masculinity, “He’s so big but so soft for her”. Genre: Smut, Fluff, Romance. Warnings: explicit sexual content, sub!mingi, sexual tension, sexual activity in a semi-public workspace, praise kink, dry humping, male orgasm, possessive thoughts, touch-starved behaviour, jealousy, vulnerability, emotional intensity, consensual power imbalance dynamics, mild choking, explicit language, alcohol, obsessive affection themes, emotional dependency but make it hot Word Count: 7.7k a/n: this fic wouldn’t exist without a conversation with @darjeelinglemontea. it was just one thing she said, but it stuck with me and turned into this. thank you for that, i really hope you like where it ended up <3 also sorry for disappearing. i’m deep in a project and barely find time to write, but i needed to get this out anyway before vanishing again for a bit longer haha  

masterlist

Your studio hums softly around you. Low music. Warm light. The familiar buzz of the tattoo machine steady in your hand like a second heartbeat.

Outside, the street beyond the front windows is already dark, neon signs reflecting faintly against the glass. Your last appointment of the night stretched later than planned, the rest of the building long since quiet.

The smell of antiseptic and ink clings to the air, clean but intimate in a way most places never are. People let you touch them here. Let you get close enough to hear the change in their breathing, to feel tension beneath their skin before they even notice it themselves.

You’ve always liked that part.

“Breathe out,” you murmur.

Your client obeys immediately.

He’s stretched beneath the lamp, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, skin warm under your hand where you steady him by the waist. The tattoo curves along his ribs in clean black lines, and you lean closer to finish a careful stroke, thumb pressing lightly into his side to keep him still.

He sucks in a sharp breath.

“There,” you say softly. “Relax.”

“You say that every five minutes.”

“And somehow you still trust me.”

He laughs under his breath, eyes dragging down to your mouth for a second too long. “Hard not to.”

You ignore that easily. You’ve heard versions of it a thousand times before. You wipe excess ink from his ribs.

His gaze flicks down to your hands again. “You always this nice to clients?”

“You’re paying me.”

“Could charge extra. I’d still come back.”

The bell above the studio door jingles softly. You don’t look up immediately. You know who walked in anyway. The heavy steps. The careless confidence of someone who’s been here enough times to stop asking permission for anything. The fridge opening.

“Beer tax,” Mingi calls from the back.

Your mouth curves before you can stop it.

“Get your own studio.”

“You’d miss me.”

You don’t answer. Because you would. Terribly.

Instead you lean closer to inspect the tattoo, fingers spreading against your client’s stomach as you stretch the skin carefully beneath the needle.

From behind you, the couch creaks, and you finally glance back at him.

Big hoodie. Work boots still on. Slouched deep into the couch cushions like he lives there. Watching you over the rim of the bottle with that lazy heavy-lidded stare that always does something unfortunate to your nervous system.

He comes here almost every night after work.

At first it had been accidental. Quick stops before heading home. Then takeout between appointments. Then sitting with you while you cleaned your station at midnight. Then coffee appearing beside your machine before you could ask for it.

Somewhere along the way, your studio started feeling wrong without him in it. Somewhere along the way, you started falling in love with him. Quietly. Stupidly. 

Because Mingi is like this with everyone. Warm. Affectionate. Easy with touch. The kind of person who leans into you when he laughs and throws an arm around your shoulders without thinking. The kind of person who makes you feel chosen even when you probably aren’t.

So you buried it under routine and late-night beers and the hoodies he keeps leaving behind in your studio chair. Under the certainty that none of this would ever become more.

Your client shifts slightly beneath your hand. “You know,” he says, “if I met you somewhere else, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

You drag the needle into a clean line. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“I’m serious.” His smile turns crooked. “Soft voice. Hand on my waist. Eye contact. It’s confusing.”

“You came to a tattoo appointment.”

“Yeah, but you’re making it hard to stay professional.”

Mingi sets his beer down a little too hard against the table. You glance back automatically. He’s staring at the floor now, jaw tight for half a second before he notices you looking.

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

Your client looks between both of you once, then keeps talking. Unbothered. As if Mingi isn’t watching his every word. 

“No, but seriously,” he says, looking at you again. “You’ve got dangerous energy.”

“Dangerous.”

“Yeah. Like you flirt for fun and ruin lives accidentally.”

You laugh softly through your nose. 

But Mingi doesn’t. He should. He could. He usually does.

Instead his eyes keep lifting every time your hand settles against the client’s ribs. He goes quiet whenever the client calls you sweet. He keeps trying to insert himself into the conversation and failing to catch your attention the same way the client does.

And underneath all of it, something uncomfortable starts pulling tighter in his chest. Because the client gets your teasing. Your soft voice. Your hands all over him. And Mingi suddenly can’t stop wondering if that’s just who you are with everybody.

The rest of the session passes normally. Mostly. Your client keeps trying.

“You gonna miss me when I’m gone?”

You smooth the wrap carefully against his ribs. “I’ll think about you sometimes.”

“Damn. Sometimes?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

He laughs again, completely charmed by you in the way men always are. 

And every time you touch him, Mingi notices. Not angry. Not even resentful. Just painfully aware. Like hearing your favorite song playing from somebody else’s car.

By the time the tattoo’s paid for, the studio feels strangely dense. Your client grabs his jacket, already backing toward the door.

“Same time next week?”

“We’ll see if you survive this one first.”

“I survived because you were gentle.”

Something shifts in Mingi’s jaw. The client notices immediately. A grin spreads slowly across his face.

“Tell your boyfriend thanks for the emotional support.”

The door closes before either of you can answer. Silence spills into the studio after him. The buzzing needle’s gone now. The music suddenly sounds louder. Slower.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Mingi pushing himself off the couch. He flips the sign on the front door to CLOSED before sliding the lock into place with a quiet click. Then he walks toward you.

You start cleaning your station, peeling off gloves and reaching for disinfectant.

Usually Mingi waits for you to drift back toward him naturally. Tonight he comes to you instead. You feel him before he speaks. Close enough that your body notices immediately.

“So,” you say lightly, wiping down the tattoo bed, “my boyfriend, huh?”

Mingi nearly chokes on his beer. You glance over just in time to catch the way his eyes widen above the bottle.

“He was joking,” he says too fast.

“You seem stressed for someone who’s definitely not my boyfriend.”

“I’m not stressed.”

You hum like you totally believe him.

Mingi reaches past you for the paper towels at the exact same moment you turn. His chest brushes your shoulder. Tiny contact. Barely anything. Still, his hand lands automatically at your waist to steady you.

Your stomach flips immediately. 

Neither of you moves. Then his thumb shifts once against your side before he pulls away like he only just realized where his hand is.

“You were very attentive with him,” he says casually.

You glance sideways at him.

“It’s my job.”

“Hm.”

Not convinced.

He leans against the edge of the bed while you keep cleaning, entirely too close for someone pretending to be normal right now. His knee knocks yours once.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about getting another tattoo.”

You snort softly. “You complain through every appointment.”

“And yet I keep coming back.”

“For the art?”

His mouth twitches.

“For the experience.”

“The experience.”

“Special treatment. Soft voice. Emotional support.”

“You want me to hold your hand?”

Mingi’s mouth twitches.

“…Maybe.”

The answer slips out so easily you almost miss it. Almost. 

Your mouth curls before you can stop it. That seems to make him realize he said it out loud, because he looks away immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck while you reach for the petroleum jelly beside him. 

His hand catches your wrist first. Lightly. You freeze.

“There,” he murmurs, thumb brushing across the inside of your wrist. “Ink.”

Your breath catches a little stupidly. 

Mingi has always touched you easily. Like affection is something that lives in his hands naturally. This doesn’t feel careless. This feels slow. Aware.

His thumb drags once more before he lets go. Neither of you pulls away right away.

“That guy was flirting with you.”

You tilt your head. “You think?”

Mingi gives you a flat look.

“He literally asked for your number.”

“And?”

“And you flirt back.”

You blink. “I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

That lands heavier than it should. Like he’s been holding onto it longer than just tonight. You turn fully toward him, arms folding loosely.

“Oh my god,” you say slowly. “You’re jealous.”

“No.”

Immediate. Too immediate.

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“I don’t care.”

“You looked ready to bite through drywall because he called me dangerous.”

“That’s because he sounded ridiculous.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. Mingi’s eyes narrow slightly.

“There,” he says immediately. “That.”

“What?”

“That. You do that with everybody.”

“Do what?”

“That—” He gestures vaguely at you. “That thing.”

You stare at him for two full seconds. Then burst out laughing. Mingi groans instantly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Forget I said anything.”

“No, no,” you say, stepping closer. “I want details. What thing?” 

“I hate you.”

“That’s not very boyfriend of you.”

His head snaps up so fast it almost makes you grin.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Maybe you are. Because suddenly everything from tonight rearranges itself perfectly in your head. The hovering. The watching. The way he kept interrupting. The way his eyes tracked your hands every time you touched the client.

And now this.

Song Mingi, who walks through life like nothing rattles him, suddenly can’t even look at you properly. 

You should let him recover. You don’t. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices. Close enough that his attention snaps back to you immediately.

Now there’s barely space left between you. 

Your hand lifts automatically toward the silver chain half-hidden beneath the collar of his hoodie, the pendant twisted awkwardly into the fabric. You hook two fingers under it, easing it free, then straighten it against his chest. A small gesture. Almost domestic.

Your knuckles brush warm skin where the chain slips under his shirt.

Mingi freezes. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to feel it.

“You’re touchy today,” he says softly.

“You started it.”

“Did I?”

“Mhm.”

Your fingers trail once along the chain before falling away. He watches every second of it. Like your hands are speaking a language he’s trying desperately to translate before it disappears.

A reluctant smile threatens at the corner of his mouth again, weaker now. Distracted by the fact you’re still standing too close. 

“How many clients leave here thinking you’re into them?”

You blink once. “Excuse me?”

“I’m serious.” His jaw shifts faintly. “You look at people like that and then act surprised when they start falling in love with you.”

The sentence lands hard enough to knock the air slightly out of your lungs. Because he says it like an accusation. But underneath it, there’s something rawer. Softer. Something dangerously close to confession.

Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “It gets me better tips.”

“Right.” He glances away briefly. “Cool.” Then, quieter, “you flirt with me for free.”

Mingi’s eyes widen slightly like he physically felt the words leave his mouth and wants to grab them out of the air. 

You blink once. Then tilt your head.

“…Do I?”

His ears turn red instantly. Actually red. And that’s new enough to make warmth bloom low in your stomach.

“I just mean,” he says quickly, taking half a step back, “you’re naturally like that. With everyone.”

“With everyone?”

“Yeah.”

You follow him when he steps back. Not enough to scare him. Just enough to make him realize you noticed.

“And you hate it?”

“No.” Too fast again. “I mean. Not hate. I just don’t like watching people flirt with you.”

The words slide warm and heavy into the room. Your heartbeat stumbles.

“Oh,” you say softly.

Mingi laughs once, humorless around the edges. “Yeah. Oh.”

Another step back from him. Another forward from you. The rhythm becomes almost absurd. Mingi retreating inch by inch while you slowly invade every space he gives up. Like he’s trying to survive this conversation and you’re trying to see how long until he breaks.

“I just think,” he says carefully, “most people don’t pay attention properly.”

“And you do.”

He hesitates. Then nods once. Small. Honest.

God.

The air suddenly feels too thick in your lungs.

“I know when you’re tired before you admit it,” he says quietly. “I know you pretend to hate sweet drinks but steal mine every time. I know you stop talking when something’s actually wrong.” His voice softens. “I know you hum when you tattoo.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

Mingi keeps talking now like he can’t stop once he’s started.

“I know which clients piss you off before they even sit down. I know you clean your station twice when you’re stressed. I know you act meaner when you’re embarrassed.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

“And I know,” he says, finally looking at you again, “that you flirt with people when you want them comfortable. But it doesn’t feel the same when you do it to me.”

The room goes quiet. Not empty. Heavy. Your heart is beating so hard now it almost feels embarrassing.

“Mingi…”

He keeps backing up as he talks. You keep moving forward. Until eventually his back brushes the wall near the hallway leading to the back room. Trapped. His breath catches slightly.

He tries to shift forward again on instinct. He can’t. Because you’re still there. Not crowding. Just close enough that the space he needs is gone. He’s actually stuck. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Just physically there, pinned between the wall and you. 

His breath turns shallow.

And suddenly you realize he’s actually nervous. Not teasing nervous. Not playful nervous. Real nervous. Mingi, who flirts with strangers like breathing and walks through every room like he belongs there, is looking at you like one wrong sentence might crack him open completely.

The realization sends warmth blooming painfully through your chest.

“I think about you too much,” he blurts suddenly.

The words hang there between you. Honest. Unpolished. Mingi winces immediately after saying them like he regrets how revealing they sound. But he keeps going anyway.

“Like… an embarrassing amount, actually.” His eyes flick away again. “At work. On my way home. I see things and think you’d laugh at them. Or hate them. Or make fun of them for being ugly.”

Your lips twitch helplessly.

“And then you flirt with random guys in front of me and suddenly I’m sitting on your couch acting like a fucking psycho because some dude called your hands magic.”

The laugh that escapes you is soft. Warm. Fond enough to make his face flush deeper.

“I’m serious,” he mutters weakly.

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.”

That lands differently. The air shifts with it. Mingi swallows hard, debating whether to say the next thought out loud. 

“I…” His voice catches briefly. “I’ve liked you for a long time.”

You stare at him for a second longer than necessary. Like you’re enjoying this more than you should.

“You said that out loud,” you murmur.

Mingi groans again, covering his face briefly. “I know.”

The words leave him too easily. You see the exact moment he realizes that. Mingi drops his hands from his face slowly, looking at you now with this exhausted kind of honesty that almost hurts to look at.

“And the worst part,” he says more quietly, “is that I don’t even think it’s just a crush anymore.”

Something deep in your chest folds in on itself. Because his voice changes in that sentence. Softer. Heavier. Deeper. Like he didn’t mean to admit that part out loud.

“I think…” He exhales shakily, eyes finally lifting fully to yours. “I think somewhere along the way you became the first person I look for everywhere.”

The room goes completely still. No music. No neon outside. No buzzing lights overhead. Just him, and the way he’s looking at you like he’s just handed you something fragile with both hands and doesn’t know what you’re going to do with it.

You should say something. You should probably breathe. Instead, you step closer. Slow enough that he notices immediately.

His eyes widen slightly. A flicker of confusion first. Then something sharper, like he’s just realized the distance is disappearing.

 Your hand catches lightly in the strings of his hoodie, fingers curling there as you guide him back into the wall behind him. Not rough. Just certain.

The soft thud of it stops his breath for half a second. His shoulders hit first. Then stillness.

Mingi blinks up at you, wide-eyed now. Caught off guard in a way that makes him look younger, softer. Like his brain is a beat behind his body catching up to the fact that he’s not moving anymore.

Trapped, but gently so.

The realization flashes across his face in real time: 

Oh.

Your hand stays at his chest, twisting the soft fabric once around your fingers. And for the first time since he walked into your studio tonight, Mingi has absolutely nothing left to hide behind.

No jokes. No easy grin. Just wide dark eyes and a pulse hammering visibly in his throat beneath your touch.

He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the floor out from under him.

“…You have to stop looking at me like that.”

His voice barely survives the sentence. Low. Rough around the edges. Like every nerve in his body is pulled too tight beneath your hands.

You tilt your head slightly, still twisting the drawstring between your fingers.

“Like what?”

Mingi shuts his eyes for one dangerous second. Like he physically can’t withstand this much of you at once. When he opens them again, there’s only helpless honesty bleeding through every crack.

“You know,” he says quietly.

“Explain it to me.”

A shaky breath leaves him.

“It’s just…” His eyes flick helplessly between yours. “You keep looking at me like you already know every stupid thing I’m trying to say before I say it.”

Your pulse stumbles.

“And it’s making me insane because I had this whole speech in my head on the drive here and now you’re standing this close and I can’t remember any of it anymore.”

A laugh threatens at the corner of your mouth.

“Mingi—”

“No, wait.” He shakes his head quickly, words starting to tumble out faster now. “I’m serious. I was gonna do this properly. I had actual thoughts. Like coherent ones.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” His ears are pink now. “And now all I can think about is your mouth.”

That almost breaks you immediately. Mingi realizes what he just admitted and groans softly, the back of his head nearly knocking against the wall behind him.

“See? This is exactly what I mean.”

“You’re doing great.”

“I’m literally not.”

You smile despite the violent rhythm of your heartbeat. Because this is what you’ve wanted for so long. Not perfection. Not some polished confession. Just him. Big hands flexing uselessly at his sides. Voice falling apart mid-sentence. Looking at you like wanting you has become unbearable to carry alone.

His eyes snap back to yours instantly. And that does it. 

Because Mingi has always looked enormous next to you. Broad shoulders. Height that swallows space when he walks into a room. But right now? Right now he’s melting under your fingertips. And the realization floods through you like heat.

You step even closer. Until his breath catches against your mouth. Until the wall is the only thing keeping him upright.

“I just…” His voice catches again. “I really like you.”

The sentence lands between you soft and devastating. And suddenly kissing him feels less like a decision and more like instinct. So you do. Fast. Sudden. Like finally giving in to gravity after fighting it for months. 

Mingi freezes instantly. A sharp inhale catches hard in his chest the second your lips touch his. For half a heartbeat he doesn’t move at all. Like his brain genuinely stopped working. Then his hands hit your waist. Hard. Not rough. Desperate.

A wrecked sound tears out of him somewhere between a gasp and a whimper as he melts forward into you all at once, like the kiss physically knocked the strength out of his body.

You kiss him harder immediately. Months of swallowed wanting snapping loose at once.

Mingi tries to follow too fast, too overwhelmed already, and his head knocks lightly against the wall behind him with a soft curse breathed straight into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your lips.

You laugh softly into the kiss.

“You talk too much.”

“I was trying to…”

Another kiss cuts him off.

“I know.”

Mingi makes that sound again. That helpless little exhale that seems to punch straight through your ribs. 

His hands finally settle at your hips, huge and shaky and warm through your clothes. Not controlling. Just holding on. Like he’s afraid this might disappear if he loosens his grip.

You pull back barely enough to look at him. His lips are flushed already, swollen and wet from your mouth. Eyes blown wide and dazed beneath messy dark hair. 

He looks ruined. By a kiss. 

The realization sends another pulse of heat straight through you.

“Mingi,” you whisper.

He visibly swallows. You brush your thumb against his jaw and he leans into it immediately without thinking. That almost undoes you. 

“You don’t get it,” he says suddenly, breath uneven.

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t when you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me like you want to eat me alive.”

You smile slightly. “Maybe I do.”

His entire body reacts. A shiver runs through him so obvious you feel it beneath your palms.

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it.

Mingi’s forehead drops briefly against yours with a quiet groan, like even hearing you laugh right now is too much for him.

“You make everything worse,” he blurts suddenly.

You blink once. “Excuse me?”

“I mean good worse,” he says quickly. “Jesus Christ.”

His forehead bumps yours again, embarrassed.

“I’ll be fine all day. Totally normal. And then you smile at me once and suddenly I can’t think straight for hours.”

Your expression softens before you can stop it. Mingi notices immediately. You can see the exact second he realizes he said too much. But instead of retreating this time, he exhales shakily and lets his forehead stay pressed to yours.

“It’s not just this,” he says quietly. “It’s never just this with you.”

Your fingers loosen against his hoodie. The teasing drains out of you slowly, replaced by something warmer. Deeper. Aching.

“Then what is it?” you whisper.

Mingi’s eyes close. And for a moment he just breathes against you. Like he’s spent months holding this inside his chest and doesn’t know how to survive finally letting it out. 

Then, barely above a murmur:

“It’s you.” Your heart stumbles violently. “It’s always been you.”

That one nearly steals your breath. You kiss him again before he can recover from saying it. Slower this time. Intentional. And he melts properly. No hesitation left now. 

Mingi makes this quiet, wrecked sound into your mouth like the kiss physically knocks the air out of him. His hands tighten at your waist for a second before one of them slides higher, tentative at first. Like he’s not fully sure he’s allowed.

Your breath catches when his fingertips slip beneath the hem of your shirt at the small of your back. Warm skin against warm skin.

Mingi shudders immediately at the contact. You feel it happen under your hands.

The kiss breaks for half a second on his end, like his brain short-circuits from touching you there, but then he’s kissing you again instantly. Hungrier now. Still soft, still careful, but with this desperate edge underneath it that makes your pulse stumble hard.

His hand spreads slowly against your lower back beneath your shirt. Huge. Shaky. His fingertips drag upward inch by inch along your spine like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone.

The sensation sends heat straight through your chest.

“Mingi,” you breathe against his mouth.

That sound almost ruins him. A helpless exhale leaves him as his forehead bumps yours briefly before he kisses you again, deeper this time. Like hearing his name in your voice just dissolved whatever restraint he had left.

He keeps touching you carefully. That’s the dangerous part. Not greedy. Not rough. Just unbearably attentive. His fingertips trace lightly along your spine again and your entire body reacts before you can stop it. You feel him notice immediately in the way his breath stutters into the kiss.

“Oh my god,” he whispers against your lips, sounding dazed. “You felt that.”

You hate how much your stomach flips at the shaky little note of wonder in his voice.

“Keep kissing me,” you murmur.

He obeys instantly. Like reflex. Like he’d do anything you asked right now.

Every sound you make wrecks him further. You can feel it happening in real time.

The little breathless noises he keeps losing into your mouth. The way his hand trembles slightly against your back every time you kiss him deeper. Every time you pull back half an inch, Mingi follows immediately like instinct. Like distance physically hurts now that he’s had you this close.

Your hands slide fully into his hair now, tugging lightly at the roots.

A shaky sound breaks out of him immediately. You feel it against your tongue.

“Fuck,” he whispers again, ruined already.

One of his hands stays spread beneath your shirt, warm against the center of your back. The other slides up suddenly, almost clumsy with urgency, until his fingers bury into the hair at the back of your head.

Then he kisses you deeper. Not confident this time. Needy. Like he can’t get close enough anymore.

Your breath catches softly against his mouth. One of your hands stays tangled in his hair while the other drifts slowly down his arm, fingertips tracing the hard curve of his bicep beneath his hoodie sleeve before sliding higher again. Over his shoulder. Around the back of his neck. Up along his jaw.

Mingi visibly shivers when your thumb brushes beneath his ear. You feel his hand flex hard against your spine beneath your shirt. Like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants to touch you.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. His jaw. The warm skin beneath his ear.

Mingi’s head tips back against the wall automatically, exposing more of his throat with a helpless inhale that nearly destroys your composure entirely.

“There you are,” you murmur softly against his skin.

A wrecked sound leaves him immediately. Not even words anymore.

“You have any idea,” you breathe between kisses, “how hard this has been for me?”

Mingi goes still for half a second.

You pull back just enough to look at him. His lips are parted now. Eyes dark and blown wide beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.

“I mean it.” Your forehead presses against his again. “You take care of me without even thinking about it. You show up every single time. You make every room feel safer just by walking into it.”

His hands are shaking now. Actually shaking.

“And you have been driving me insane for months,” you confess softly. “So don’t stand here acting shocked because I finally kissed you.”

A wrecked laugh breaks out of him, immediately swallowed by another desperate kiss.

Your mouths keep finding each other between breaths, between half-finished sentences, between tiny overwhelmed sounds neither of you can hide anymore.

Everything feels overheated and too close and slightly off balance.

Then suddenly his kiss falters. Not because he pulls away. Because his body gives out first. A rough breath punches out of him against your mouth as his knees buckle unexpectedly beneath him.

“Mingi—”

Your hands grab for him immediately, trying to steady him, but he’s already sliding down the wall in one overwhelmed motion, dragging you with him instinctively. One hand catches hard at your waist while the other slips from your hair, fumbling clumsily for balance that clearly no longer exists.

“Wait, wait—”

A helpless laugh breaks out of him mid-collapse.

Your knees hit the hardwood on either side of his thighs as he lands heavily against the wall with a stunned exhale. Boots scraping awkwardly against the floorboards. Long limbs everywhere at once. Completely uncoordinated now.

For one messy second, neither of you knows where to put your bodies.

Then stillness.

Mingi’s chest heaves beneath you. Your brows knit immediately. Concern flashes through you first.

“Min?”

He shakes his head once quickly. Not hurt. Just catastrophically overwhelmed.

You can see it everywhere. The violent flush spread down his throat. The dazed look in his eyes. The way his hand is still under your shirt like he forgot it was there entirely.

And something about it feels almost surreal. Song Mingi. All sharp height and broad shoulders and effortless confidence. Reduced to this because you kissed him.

“…Did your legs just give out?”

“No,” he says immediately.

“They literally folded.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re on the floor.”

“So are you.”

The comeback would land better if he wasn’t staring up at you like he’s moments away from short-circuiting completely. 

And then you feel it. The thick, hard press of him beneath the dark denim where you landed directly on his lap. Heavy and unmistakable, pressing right up between your legs through your clothes. Fuck. He feels as big as he carries himself, maybe bigger.

Your breath catches slightly. Mingi notices instantly. A mortified sound leaves him.

“Don’t start,” he says quickly.

You look back up slowly. “…Start what?”

“That face.”

“What face?”

“The one where you realize things.”

Your mouth twitches immediately. His throat bobs hard.

You feel his fingers flex under your shirt instinctively before his nails drag lightly down your back in one slow scrape that makes your entire body jolt.

Fuck.

Mingi notices that too. His eyes darken immediately.

“I’m trying so hard to be normal right now,” he whispers.

The honesty of it nearly knocks the air out of you. Because he sounds wrecked. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just overwhelmed down to the bone. Still holding onto you like letting go would physically kill him.

Your eyes flick briefly to the way his hands are gripping you now. One spread hot against your spine beneath your shirt. The other tight on your waist. Strong enough to leave bruises. Shaking anyway.

Something hot curls low in your stomach at the sight. You can feel the strength coiled in him, the way he could easily lift you, pin you, take control if he wanted to. But he doesn't. He just looks up at you like he’s dying from how much he wants you. 

When your hips shift experimentally against his, his reaction is immediate. A broken sound tears out of his throat as his head falls back toward the wall.

Your hand catches it before it can hit too hard, fingers tightening at the base of his neck as you cushion the impact instinctively.

Mingi melts instantly beneath your touch. His eyes squeeze shut for one second as your fingers tighten slightly in his hair. His grip spasms hard against your waist.

You bite your lip, suppressing your own sounds at the way he reacts so fast, so visibly, like every nerve in his body is wired directly into your hands.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, almost fascinated now. “I broke you.”

"Shut up," he breathes instantly, voice cracking. 

Your laugh brushes warm against his mouth. Mingi’s eyes open again immediately, locking onto you like he’s afraid to miss a second of this. 

And suddenly your concern dissolves into something hotter. Because he looks huge beneath you. Broad chest rising hard beneath his hoodie. Big hands gripping your body like he can’t stop himself. Thick thighs spread under yours. But none of that changes the fact he’s completely unraveling for you right now.

You tug his hair again, sharper this time. A wrecked sound punches out of him immediately.

“There he is,” you murmur softly. “My good boy.”

“Please don’t say things like that.”

“Why?”

“Because I already can’t think.”

His fingers scratch lightly down your spine again, rougher now, and the sensation shoots heat straight through your stomach. You feel him twitch between your legs, the pressure catching your clit perfectly even through denim, and you have to swallow your own moan down before it escapes.

You grin instead. Then you kiss him again. 

And whatever control he had left finally snaps. His hand fists suddenly in your hair while he tilts your head enough to deepen the kiss properly. Sloppier. Hungrier. He kisses you like he can’t get enough oxygen from anywhere else.

You drag your mouth down his jaw, over his throat, and Mingi immediately tips his head back for you again with a helpless sound, exposing more skin like instinct.

His head knocks toward the wall once more and you catch him again automatically, palm sliding behind his head while your other hand stays around his shoulders.

“There,” you murmur against his throat. “Careful.”

That almost makes him whine.

Your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse. Mingi’s hips jerk up involuntarily beneath you.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, hands tightening hard enough to drag you fully against him. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He sounds terrified.

Your forehead brushes his gently, breath mingling between you while his entire body trembles underneath yours.

You kiss him again, slower now, while your hips move in tiny experimental rolls against his. Barely anything. Just enough friction to make his breathing fall apart completely.

He’s concentrating so hard you can see it in his face. Jaw clenched. Brows pinched slightly. Trying desperately not to cum on the spot from just this. He tries to slow you once, but he fails instantly when you press closer and another helpless, broken moan slips out of him into your mouth.

Then he’s moving too, dragging desperate open-mouthed kisses down your neck like he doesn’t know where to put all this wanting anymore.

His hands slide lower.

One stays beneath your shirt, fingers tracing your spine again and again like he’s addicted to the feeling of your skin.

The other grips your ass hard, dragging you tighter against him while his mouth presses sloppy kisses against your throat.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your skin, voice wrecked beyond repair. "So fucking pretty, baby, look at you—"

You’ve never seen him like this before. Never seen him stop trying to perform strength. And maybe that’s why this feels so intimate it almost scares you. Because he’s letting you see every vulnerable part without fighting to hide them anymore.

“Mingi,” you murmur softly.

He looks at you immediately.

“You okay?”

A quick nod. Then, quieter, “don’t stop.”

Your thumb smooths gently across his cheek.

“I won’t.”

And that’s what finally breaks him open. You see it happen in real time. The exact second the last bit of distance leaves his face. The exact second he realizes this isn’t temporary. That you’re not going to pull away from him tomorrow and pretend none of this happened.

His forehead drops against your shoulder with a shaky exhale.

Then he kisses you again. Different this time. Slower. Still hungry, but softer around the edges, like he can’t decide whether to devour you or memorize you.

His hands roam more boldly now, your back, your waist, your hips, your ass, gripping like he keeps remembering he’s allowed to touch you like this.

Your knees ache against the hardwood, but you barely notice once he plants his boots against the floor and pulls you flush against him with one helpless pull of his hips.

The breath leaves both of you at once.

Suddenly there’s nowhere your body ends without running into his. Broad chest. Heavy thighs. Strong arms boxing you in, without feeling threatening for even a second.

That’s the thing that gets you. How big he is and how careful he still is with you anyway.

Your hand slides to his throat experimentally, fingers loose against his pulse. Mingi's eyes go dark instantly, pupils blown wide. He swallows against your palm. Breath catching hard enough you feel it against your mouth. 

"Yeah?" you whisper.

He nods, fast and desperate. "Yes. Please."

The smallest increase in pressure tears a wrecked sound out of him, his head falling back against the wall. The sound goes straight between your legs.

After that, everything loses rhythm. Kisses turning sloppy. Breathing uneven. His hands gripping harder whenever you get too close. 

His hips are thrusting up, rolling, seeking more friction, and you feel yourself getting wet just from the desperation in his movements. He's so hard it must hurt, straining against the denim, and when you grind down against him, he cries out, hands gripping your ass to try to make you move faster.

He realizes what he's doing halfway through and stills himself with visible effort, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to regain control. 

“Wait,” he breathes roughly. “If you keep doing that, I’m not gonna last.”

The honesty of it sends heat curling low in your stomach.

And you're barely doing anything, but the fact that he's this close from almost nothing makes you want to feel him fall apart because he wants you that much.

You kiss him again, deep and filthy, and keep your movements light. Just small, teasing rolls of your hips.

"So pretty," he whines, "baby, you're so—fuck. Seriously. You're so beautiful, so hot, I can't—I can’t even look at you properly right now."

“You’re so cute,” you breathe against his mouth.

Your fingers slide softly through his hair again, gentler this time, scratching lightly at his scalp while his eyes flutter half-shut. 

“That’s my pretty boy,” you whisper softly. “Trying so hard to hold it together.”

His face flushes deeper immediately.

“You’re doing so good for me, Min.”

That one finally ruins him. 

His hips twitch up again, needy and involuntary, and you feel the damp heat spreading at the front of his jeans where he’s already leaking from almost nothing. The realization barely has time to settle before his whole body jolts beneath you.

A strangled grunt punches out of him.

His grip clamps hard around you so suddenly it knocks your balance backward. You catch yourself instinctively, palm slapping against the wall beside his head before either of you can crack into it.

Mingi goes tense all at once, hips stuttering up into yours before he buries his face instantly into your neck with a sharp gasp, biting down hard enough to muffle the wrecked sound that follows.

And then he’s coming. Fast. Sudden. Hard enough his whole body shudders under you.

For the first time all night, he stops holding himself back. His arms lock tight around you as he pushes himself off the wall just enough to drag you with him, forcing you to tilt back slightly in his grip while he shakes through it. Like he physically needs you closer to survive it.

Your arms loop around his neck automatically to steady both of you, one hand sliding into his hair, fingers spreading against the back of his head to keep him tucked against your throat while he rides it out.

You feel every pulse through the denim between you. The hot spread of wetness. The helpless way his body betrayed him from almost nothing except your mouth, your weight against him, your hand at his throat.

His hips jerk once more before he folds inward completely, trembling against your neck, breathing ragged through clenched teeth while he tries desperately to hide how easily he came.

Then nothing. No movement. No sound except his uneven breathing against your skin.

You blink once, heat rushing straight through you at what just happened. At how little it took. At how desperately his body gave in the second you told him what he wanted to hear.

“Mingi.”

A horrified groan muffles straight into your neck. 

You bite back a laugh instantly. Not mean. Never mean. Just unbearably fond. Because this man. This man who walked in here trying to act normal about being in love with you is now actively attempting to fuse himself into your shoulder to avoid eye contact.

You shift slightly, trying to look at him. He follows immediately, burying himself deeper against your neck.

“Mingi,” you repeat, softer now, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Hey.”

A helpless smile spreads across your face as you press a kiss against his temple. He shudders under it instantly.

“Don’t look at me.”

That actually makes you laugh. Quiet and warm against his skin.

You coax his face back enough to look at him properly and nearly lose your mind all over again. Pink cheeks. Wet swollen lips. Eyes glassy and unfocused beneath messy hair. Completely wrecked.

And beneath you, you can still feel him, hot and sticky and probably uncomfortable as hell in his jeans, but making no move to fix it because that would mean acknowledging it.

“Shit,” he says immediately, mortified. “I’m sorry.”

That catches you off guard enough your expression softens instantly. Because he sounds embarrassed, yeah, but underneath it there’s sincerity too. Like he’s genuinely worried he ruined something.

“I was trying really hard not to cum,” he blurts, words tumbling out faster now that they’ve started. “I was trying to hold it together and then you kept kissing me and calling me pretty and I just—”

He cuts himself off with another groan, dragging a hand over his burning face.

“Min.” You wait until his eyes finally flick back to yours. “Why are you apologizing?”

His brows pull together slightly.

“…Because I came in my jeans like a teenager?”

You laugh softly. “And?”

“And we were literally just making out.”

You grin despite yourself, pulse still throbbing low and hot between your legs. Because honestly? The more you think about it, the more turned on you get. 

Your hips shift unconsciously against him and Mingi sucks in a sharp breath immediately, eyes squeezing shut.

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur, fascinated. “Still sensitive?”

“Please have mercy on me.”

The shaky way he says it sends another pulse of heat straight through you. You lean in until your noses brush.

“You know this was hot, right?”

“That was hot to you? You’re not making fun of me?” he asks carefully.

Your heart actually aches a little.

“Mingi.” You brush your thumb over his cheekbone. “I’m trying very hard not to climb you again right now.”

“Oh my god.”

You kiss him again before he can get more embarrassed. Just a small one. Quick. Soft.

Mingi exhales into your mouth immediately, shoulders dropping another inch. There’s something dangerously addictive about it. Like the second you kissed him, his body decided hiding anything from you was impossible.

Your gaze drops again before you can stop it. Right between his legs. And right on cue, he shifts under you again and you feel it. Hard again. Twitching faintly beneath the damp denim. Still reacting to every little thing you do. 

You pull back barely enough to look at him. “You’re kidding. You’re hard again?”

Mingi groans immediately. “Don’t say it out loud.”

Your laugh spills warm against his skin. He shivers hard at the sound. His hips shift unconsciously like he’s trying to relieve pressure and instantly regrets it when the denim drags against him.

Mingi must see something change in your face, because his breathing catches again immediately.

“Can you stop looking at me like you’re about to climb inside my ribcage?” he whispers.

You grin. “No.”

Mingi groans. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“…No. I really don’t.”

You laugh again and finally climb off his lap. Your knees ache faintly when you stand, but the sight in front of you almost takes you back out again.

Mingi looks ruined. Hoodie twisted crooked from your hands. Lips bitten red. Dark stain obvious across his jeans now no matter how he tries to angle himself away from it.

You bite your lip softly and hold your hand out toward him.

“C’mon.”

He blinks up at you. “…Where?”

Your smirk sharpens just slightly.

“You’re a mess,” you say, pointedly glancing at his lap before meeting his eyes again. 

His face goes red all over again.

“Besides…” Your voice softens. “I don’t think I’m done with you yet.”

Mingi goes completely still. Then his fingers tighten around yours hard enough to feel it.

“Cool,” he says faintly. “Awesome. Great. Yeah,” he says quietly, standing now, towering close enough to steal the air from your lungs again. “You have no idea what you just started.” 

Your stomach flips embarrassingly hard at the look on his face now.

“That sounds threatening.”

“It is.”

You open your mouth to answer, but Mingi kisses you first. Slow enough to distract you completely. Which is exactly why you don’t notice him crouching until the floor disappears beneath you.

“Wait, wha—”

A squeak bursts out of you as Mingi hooks an arm behind your legs and lifts you clean over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

“Mingi!”

He laughs against your startled noise as he playfully smacks your thigh before he starts walking toward the bathroom like carrying you around like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, now you’re shy?” he teases.

Heat rushes straight to your face. “Put me down.”

“No.”

He punctuates it with another slap against your ass that makes you gasp so loudly he nearly folds over laughing himself.

“You were talking real brave five minutes ago.”

You bury your burning face against the back of his hoodie while his laugh rumbles warm through your legs.

“You let me recover. Rookie mistake,” he says, opening the bathroom door. “You’re gonna regret giving me confidence.”

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[enchive]

HOW TO PRETEND

⏱︎  sunghoon wakes up in a world where you're alive.

⏱︎  park sunghoon x f!reader, ft. 02z ⏱︎  fluff, angst, fantasy [alternative universe, time travel themes], college!au, slowburn(?) ⏱︎  wc: 19.2k ⏱︎  cw: major character death, grief, mourning, emotional breakdown... sunghoon just goes through it i'm sorry T_T

⏱︎  enchive's lttr: i worked on this a lot during my finals week and then proceeded to get cooked. enchive is taking summer courses so this came out very slowly i apologize. it took a lot of brain juices but i powered thru, so hopefully there aren't any inconsistencies bcus my brain was so scattered writing this. special shout to @02zc0re, @cherryw0n whose anticipation greatly motivated me. thank u kindly! +++ shoutout to my roomie for beta reading i love u <3 here is a small playlist I listened to while writing~

how to pretend by lucy bedroque i saw you in a dream by the japanese house time machine by willow

Park Sunghoon hasn’t been himself ever since you died in winter.

Not that there’s much left of him to be.

Most of him perished when you did, and the other part that remained became a lifeless body trying to pass the time day by day. The color disappeared from his life once you did, and now all that’s left of him are bleak, monochromatic snapshots of his grief weaving into his everyday routine. Time became indistinguishable without you. Two years of his life were structured around your dates, your classes, and spending time with you. But now, his life became a repetitive cycle of waking up, going to class, and going home, where he rotted with your visage behind his closed eyes as he lied in bed until the next day broke.

Winter left, and Spring came, yet Sunghoon still felt like he was stuck in the cold season. 

In your shared apartment, your things were still there as if you never left. Your puffer jacket was still hanging on the coat rack, unwashed and chilly to the touch. Your toothbrush was still right next to his in the bathroom, the bristles bone-dry from the lack of use. There was an empty space on the full-sized bed, a perfect fit for where your body was supposed to lay right next to him. If Sunghoon closed his eyes and breathed in hard enough, he could still smell the remnants of your lingering, sweet shampoo clinging to the fibers of your pillowcase. 

His friends tried hard to help him move out of his cycle of grief. Sunghoon loved them for it, but he couldn’t help but remain where it was safe, in the little domain where your presence was missing, but your life was still there. Where your pictures hung on the walls, your bright smile lighting up the darkness of each room. Where your lucky pendant mocked him as it hung off the backpack you left on the stool of the kitchen island. Where you still were alive, even if you weren’t physically there.

Jake came in first after you died, letting Sunghoon have his peace for two weeks. Jake was the type to worry so much that it was overwhelming. For the past two weeks, he had blown up Sunghoon’s phone everyday, not letting him have a moment to himself on the device. (Sunghoon was grateful, honestly. Because he had spent the past two weeks looping every video of you until he could memorize the timestamps of every action you took.)

Jake checked on Sunghoon by knocking on his door and bringing him food. “Sunghoon, I brought pyeonyuk from your favorite place…” He gently breached the silence with a careful lilt to his voice, afraid that Sunghoon would snap if Jake said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Sunghoon begrudgingly got out of bed, clutching his phone tightly in his hand, and met Jake in the living room, his hair flying on his head and body dragging across the floorboards.

“I’m not hungry…” Sunghoon muttered in response, the same answer as the day before and the day before that.

“You should eat something, Hoon…” Jake frowned, setting the food on the dining table anyway and opening the takeout bag. Sunghoon didn’t respond. He knew Jake was right, but didn’t have the energy to say anything back. “She wouldn’t want you like this–”

“Don’t talk about her like you know what she wants,” Sunghoon snapped, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. The words stayed in the air, with regret settling into Sunghoon’s guilt-adled mind. But Sunghoon didn’t take them back, he couldn’t.

Jake was your friend before Sunghoon even knew you, so he knew that Jake was still mourning. Sunghoon knew it was wrong for him to say that, but he couldn’t help himself. Jake didn’t know you like he did. He didn’t know the soft murmurs of your sleep and the look of affection in your eyes.

Sometimes, he was angry at Jake for being able to smile after you passed. Other times, he was envious that he could move on so easily and continue living as if you were never there. But in the privacy of your apartment, Jake’s sniffles would merge with Sunghoon’s as they recounted the sides of you only they knew.

Jay came in after to help organize your apartment, more persistent than Jake. “You can’t keep staying like this, Hoon. You’re gonna get bugs, or something…” He murmured, bending over to pick up stray debris on the wooden floors. When your death was still fresh, and your messes were still around, Sunghoon loathed Jay’s help. How dare Jay come in and taint the memories of your existence by cleaning up what you had left behind?

“Jay, stop…” Sunghoon murmured as he helplessly watched his friend reach for the zip-up jacket that you had left on the couch, the cotton material still holding onto your perfume.

“It’s just a jacket, Hoon. It’s gonna smell if you leave it here–”

“I said stop! Just– just fuckin’ leave it where it is, Jay!” Sunghoon’s voice cracked as the volume rose. He stood up without realizing, in Jay’s space, and gripping onto your jacket like it was a lifeline. Jay startled, the jacket slipping from his hands and into Sunghoon’s protective grasp.

“Why does it matter?” Jay had shot back, frustration finally slipping through. “She’s not coming back to wear it, Sunghoon.”

Sunghoon’s heart steeled, and he could only whisper back to Jay as tears slipped down his cheeks.

“Get out.”

Sunghoon was still embarrassed about the amount of screaming and sobbing he did to Jay, but he’s sure that they’re fine now. Apologies flew between them, but Sunghoon had already let go of the anger in his chest. After all, it was only swallowed up by the grief he was feeling for you.

When both of his friends noticed it wasn’t helping, they would take him out on the town, shoving milkshakes in his hand and laughing louder than they usually would. They talked about everything and nothing all at once, carefully avoiding your name as if he would break upon hearing it in public. After a while, Sunghoon didn’t want his friends to feel like their efforts were in vain. So he learned to force a smile, puffing up his cheeks and curling up his lips as Jake made a stupid joke to Jay like he always did. (When Jake and Jay looked triumphant about their victory, turning away to silently celebrate, Sunghoon would let his smile falter.)

The night was like the others. Jake and Jay took him to this diner far out of the way, with an American retro vibe. Red and white stripes lined the walls, and the tiles gleamed in the bright overhead lighting. There were only a few patrons in the restaurant, as it was late. The smell of meat cooking on the grill wafted through the air, permeating the atmosphere with smoke and seasoning. The three men were munching on burgers, updating each other about their courses for the next semester. But mostly, it was just Jake and Jay speaking to Sunghoon. The youngest of the three remained silent for most of the meal, only responding when he felt like he really had to.

But the sight of the cheeseburgers and fries on his platter only made him think of you even more. Even if he knew his friends were trying to distract him from you, he could only be reminded of the countless dates you had at the burger joint next to campus. Reminded of the way you used to get ketchup on the corner of your lips, and how he would wipe it off with his thumb. He used to complain about how you always ate so messily, but he couldn’t help the wide smile from growing on his lips. Can’t you come back? He’d never complain again…

“Guys, it’s getting late. I think we should go now…” Sunghoon spoke up after a while. Truth be told, he was spacing out for most of the time and just wanted to bury himself under the covers. Jake looked at him and smiled, not wanting to push anything.

“Sure, man, we can go back now.” He stood up, dusting off the crumbs from his thighs. He looked at Jay, who simply nodded and stood up to let Sunghoon out of the dining booth they were sitting in. Jay drove them back home, not forgetting to tell Sunghoon to text him in the morning. Sunghoon only nodded in response before going back up to your apartment.

When he opened the door, the silence greeted him as always. Not your cheery voice yelling his name or your padding footsteps eagerly running towards him. There was only a suffocating absence waiting for him. The wooden door clicked shut behind him, and with that sound, his composed act dropped.

Sunghoon’s shoulders slumped. He tried. He really tried. But when his breath hitched, his emotions began to unravel uncontrollably, unfurling like a roll of ribbon. His keys slipped from his fingers, clattering against the floor. His vision blurred as quickly as he blinked, tears filling up his eyes, and his throat closing up as a sob threatened to rise from his chest.

“Fuck–” His word broke apart as soon as he let it out. He collapsed to the ground, his body not strong enough to carry him and the weight of his emotions anymore. He felt ugly– so ugly. His figure practically folded into itself as his knees hit the ground, his chest pressed against his thighs and his arms awkwardly crossed. He uncurled his body, crawling like a baby as he thought to the only thing he wanted.

You.

But you weren’t here. So his hands desperately sought out the closest thing he could get. Your jacket, the one that he still hadn’t moved even though Jay tried to many, many times. He bunched up the fabric in his fingers, the cloth wrinkling under the force of his tight grip. He buried his nose into the fabric, inhaling the sweet smell of your perfume– from the bottle that was still at your vanity, macerating as it went unused. A choked sound tears from his throat as he inhaled sharply, like maybe if he breathed your scent in deep enough, he could fill the hollow space you left behind.

“Please…” His voice was barely there now, worn thin from crying. “Just—just come back.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and the memories came flooding in. Your bright laugh that lifted any weight off his shoulders, your warm eyes always seeking to stare into his, and your heavy hand that slipped effortlessly to slot into his. Then, the quiet moments that you both lived, the meaningless ones, the ones he never thought he’d have to remember like this. They all hit his brain at once, bringing on a throbbing headache for him. But even though it ached to think of you, he still clung to these memories desperately, replaying them over and over on loop.

If he stopped and let them fade even a little, then it would be like losing you all over again.

Your voice wasn’t there to comfort him like it always used to be, and if he took out his phone to play a clip of your sweet voice messages that used to encourage him, he wasn’t sure how he would react. His sobs eventually silenced, faltering into desperate gasps of air. Exhaustion pulled him down as his breathing became uneven. He curled into himself on the floor, still clutching what little of you he has left as his body tumbled to the side. The last thing he felt before he passed out was the faint scent of your perfume and the hollow ache in his chest that never seemed to go away.

Winter had long passed, allowing flowers to bloom over the frigid grass. Yet, Sunghoon remained frozen in the cold weather, trapped in the season you left him in.

Sunghoon didn’t remember setting his alarm, but the shrill sound of it woke him up from his deep sleep.

He kept his eyes closed as he pouted, squirming around as he patted around for his phone. But, instead of meeting the cold floor, his hands brushed up against warm bedding. He shot upright, eyes wide and head throbbing. Who the hell moved him from the floor to the bed?

For a moment, Sunghoon sat still, disoriented and trying to piece together the puzzles of last night through his dazed head. He remembered having a breakdown and the sweet aroma of your perfume. His vision was blurry, and he thought that it was from his tears from last night, but even after blinking for a few seconds, his eyesight didn’t gain any clarity. His hands shot up to rub his eyes, but his sight was still fuzzy. He remembered passing out on the floor, holding your jacket. But he surely didn’t remember this.

He looked down, realizing he was on a twin XL bed. He squinted his eyes as he stared at the bedding. It looked way too familiar. The way that the blanket hung off the edge, and the striped pillow was resting up against the wall, compressed into a flat piece of cotton. It looked all too familiar, too similar to the navy blue set that he used during his freshman year of college.

A chill ran down Sunghoon’s spine as he realized where he was. He was in a freshman dorm.

As he glanced around, his bleary eyes still didn’t clear, but the room around him became a little more concrete. The cheap white paint peeling on the ceiling, the shaky frame of his wooden bunk bed, and the pile of unfolded laundry sitting right in the middle of the floor in a blob of mixed fabrics. The mini-fridge was humming next to his closet. It was all there, exactly the way he remembered two years ago. He would’ve mused at the fact that it looked so identical if he wasn’t so freaked out about being in some random freshman dorm.

Fuck, what did I do last night? I probably look like a creep! In the dorm of some random freshman kid when I’m a junior… He nearly sprained his ankle trying to jump off the bed, scrambling to leave as soon as possible. But as soon as he jumped down from the top bunk, the door opened, revealing Jay.

“Dude, you good? You jumped off the bed mad hard.” Jay snickered, running a hand through his wet hair. Sunghoon blinked. This had to be a dream, a prank, or a grief-induced hallucination. Maybe he cried himself so hard that he lost his fucking mind. Because there was just no way he was staring at freshman year Jay in his freshman year dorm.

Jay was supposed to have short black hair with a strictness that only college and a two-year unpaid internship could instill into him. He was supposed to be wearing button-ups and polos with tight trousers and a fancy belt. But this Jay had longer, dyed silver hair with his teenage features still ghosting his face. This Jay was wearing a soccer team jersey with baggy shorts and his silver conch piercing still looped through his ear.

“Sunghoon, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost…” Jay nervously laughed, throwing the towel around his neck into his hamper. “Did you have a nightmare or something?”

Sunghoon’s throat was dry. He tried to swallow, but instead he broke out into a coughing fit. Jay scrambled to pat his back, grabbing a cold water bottle from the shared mini-fridge. “Th– Thanks…” Sunghoon wheezed as he greedily gulped down the entire bottle. “Uhm, I’m– I’m okay…” He whispered, trying to find his voice. Jay frowned, concerned.

“Are you sure? You sound weird as hell, man.” Jay smiled again, his expression dry and one of concern. Sunghoon cleared his throat and nodded again, turning around to look at himself in the mirror. He was faced with the younger version of himself from two years ago, too. Instead of his ripped figure, his muscles were just beginning to bulge with the beginnings of his consistent workouts. His hair was dark as usual, but he could see the overgrown appearance framing his eyes.

“I– I think ‘m gonna be sick!” Sunghoon gagged, before running to the communal bathrooms and flinging open the closest stall door. He yakked in the toilet, sick to his stomach. The sour smell of vomit filled the claustrophobic space of the stall, and Sunghoon nearly threw up again as chunks of undigested food sputtered out from between his lips. Jay came in a minute later, standing awkwardly next to the open door.

“Are you good, man? You’re worrying me… Did the dining hall fuck you over, too?” Jay snickered. Sunghoon flushed, leaning heavily against the wall as cold sweat clung to the back of his neck. His whole body felt wrong. Jay lingered outside for a moment before speaking again, voice softer this time. “Seriously, Hoon. Did something happen?”

Sunghoon stared at the tiled floor for a moment before flushing down his puke. Everything had fucking happened. You were dead, and he had buried you. But he couldn’t say that to Jay. So instead, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and forced out a weak response.

“Bad dream.”

Jake had been talking about you for weeks before Sunghoon met you.

The puppy-like boy had been yipping his ear off about you, but Sunghoon didn’t even know what you looked like. All he knew you as Jake’s hometown friend who’s known the man since high school. Yet Jake talked about you like Sunghoon was already integrated into your friendship, like you were apart of their routine too.

“Yuck, this dining hall food sucks.” Jake scrunched his nose as his fork penetrated the dry chicken, the metal tearing into the strips of meat. Sunghoon snorted as he dug his spoon into the “soup” that had animal fats coagulating on the surface of the bowl. “Should we take the bus downtown and get sushi?” Jake licked his lips, eager for the change of meal.

“We already used a meal swipe, Jake. I don’t want to waste it.” Sunghoon frowned, but he himself was about to lose his appetite as he stared into the abyss of the tomato soup that bubbled and popped, spurting tiny droplets of thick tomato onto the table. When Jake didn’t respond, Sunghoon assumed that Jake had conceded and began eating his dry chicken, but when he looked up, Jake’s eyes were somewhere else.

Sunghoon followed his eyes to see that Jake was staring at a girl grabbing a cookie. “Ohh, you think she’s cute?” Sunghoon teased. Jake’s lips then curled up in disgust, his entire face contorting to express his repulsion to Sunghoon’s words. The younger boy frowned, disappointed. “Jake, don’t look like that. She may not be your type, but she’s a cute girl.”

“What? Dude, that’s Y/N. My friend from home.” Jake snickered. “So you think she’s cute, huh?” The chestnut-haired boy leaned across the table immediately, grin widening like he had just been handed the greatest entertainment of his week.

“No, Jake, I didn’t say all that.” Sunghoon groaned, knowing that he had just walked himself into a trap.

“Nah, don’t lie. You think she’s cute, huh? She’s single, I can set you up…” Jake smirked, wriggling his eyebrows. Sunghoon groaned, the tip of his pale ears turning red from the embarrassment he was feeling. He covered his face to hide his expression.

“Stop, Jake…” He whined. Jake snickered and pushed Sunghoon’s elbow.

“Be cool, man, she’s coming.” Jake winked, biting his lip at Sunghoon. The pale boy’s face was so red, he was sure he looked like a stop sign at that point. Behind Sunghoon, he heard the steady sounds of footsteps against linoleum. It was when the footsteps were directly behind him that he decided to turn around, not wanting to look too snappy or weird.

Sunghoon was blown away. He thought you were cute from a couple of feet away, debating whether to grab either the cookie or the brownie as you tapped your foot in a rhythmic motion. But you were even more breathtaking up close. You had a soft, warm smile gracing your lips, making you look approachable. Your cheeks were dewy from the humid air that resulted from the smokiness of the chicken charring behind the dining hall bars. You were wearing sweats and a hoodie, dressing warmly for the cool temperatures that began to settle in the atmosphere during September. He absolutely couldn’t hide how smitten he was with you, so much that Jake began lightly kicking his foot under the table.

“Hi, Jake.”

God, even your voice was like honey. Smooth, silky, and thickly sweet. “Hey, Y/N. Did you finish eating, or did you just get here?” Jake asked you, not bothering to hide the wide, mischievous grin that began to spread across his lips.

“Mmm, I ate with my classmate, Chaewon. She left to go back to her dorm already,” You answered, circling the table to stand behind Jake. Your face came into full view of Sunghoon, and he had to remember to swallow so that he could prepare his mouth to speak.

“H– Hey.” Sunghoon’s voice cracked as he greeted you. Jake pursed his lips, biting them to stifle his laughter. He cleared his throat and looked down, embarrassed.

“Hi, I’m Y/N, Jake’s friend.” You giggled, melodic and charming. Sunghoon shyly smiled up at you, gathering the courage to look up at you directly. You took the seat next to Jake, maintaining your friendly grin as you stared at Sunghoon. “Aren’t you in my CS class?” You asked, tilting your head. Sunghoon gulped. He didn’t even realize, but you remembered him so easily. He felt a little guilty.

“Uhm– Uhm, yeah, ‘m– ‘m in CS 1010… Monday, Wednesday, Friday lectures from 12:15 to 1:30… You– you too?” Sunghoon stammered out his question. You giggled again, seemingly amused and endeared by his bashful demeanor.

“Yup, that’s me too! Hey, sit next to me in lecture next time! I sit in like, the middle back. And I’m going to be honest with you, the guy who usually sits next to me… he’s a bit obnoxious…” You leaned in to cheekily whisper to him, as if letting him in on a secret only you both knew about. (And Jake, he guessed…)

The conversation began flowing into a natural river of meaningless talks about dorm life, classes, and unshared stories of Jake that you both had. Honestly, Sunghoon barely remembered what you guys talked about. All that was stuck in his mind was the way you kept glancing at him with your bright, wide eyes that squinted with your cheeks as you smiled and giggled.

At the time, Sunghoon thought it was just a lucky afternoon, stumbling upon a pretty girl and even scoring a friend in a class. He didn’t know then that it would become coffee dates and late-night study sessions, shared bus rides, first kisses, and apartment keys. He didn’t know that one day, he would be whispering “I love you” to you every night before you both fell asleep after long days of cramming for Data Structures and Algorithms. He didn’t know then that you would become home.

And he definitely didn’t know that one day, years later, he would sit on the floor of that very home, begging the universe to let him have you back.

Back then, all he knew was that you smiled at him, and for the first time, he was excited to attend CS 1010.

Sunghoon had finished hyperventilating twenty minutes ago. Or maybe thirty. Time felt fake now, so he honestly couldn’t tell.

All he knew was that he had woken up in his freshman dorm, thrown up in the communal bathroom, cried for a little bit more until Jay awkwardly told him he had to leave, and then kneeled down on the (very disgusting) floor of the stall trying not to pass out or cry again. Either grief had sent him into some form of delusion or psychosis, or genuinely sent him two years in the past. Neither option was looking like an optimal answer to his question of why the hell he was in his freshman year self.

After managing to get up, he went back to his dorm to search for anything that could help his predicament. (As if his dingy gaming laptop could send him back into the present…) He entered his room to grab his morning essentials, splayed out in a cup on his white dorm cart. His vision was still blurry, and it finally clicked to him as to why when he noticed a foreign object on the same cart. He picked up a glasses case and opened them to reveal a pair of glasses. He put them on and stared at himself in the mirror secured on the front of his closet door. 

They were black, wide, and thick-rimmed, pressing up against the sides of his nose and nudging into the fluffy skin of his cheeks. But Sunghoon never wore glasses– he had perfect 20/20 vision. Sunghoon freaked out– who wouldn’t freak out after losing their after a night’s sleep?

He took his cup of essentials to the bathroom, cringing at the loadout. He had a dingy, plastic toothbrush and a cheap tube of toothpaste. He didn’t own his usual mixsoon skincare, so he couldn’t wash his face with cleanser. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with purple Listerine, and splashed his face with water.

“God, this is sick. This is actually so sick,” he muttered to himself, patting his face dry with his sleep t-shirt and putting on the glasses. Now that he could properly see his reflection in the dusty and streaky mirror, he was staring at the younger version of himself that had softer features, longer, dark-brown hair, and a pair of fucking glasses now.

He looked like a loser, and his present-day brain wanted to fight himself for not taking care of himself properly until he began talking to you. He checked the time on the old and unnecessary clock hanging over the door of the communal bathroom, whispering a curse as he realized that it was almost 8:30AM, his class was at 9AM, and the walk was 20 minutes away from the dorm. 

He ran back to his dorm room to change, throwing open his closet door with a resonating slam against the wooden sideboards. Instead of the expensive and sleek monochrome clothes he meticulously spent two years curating into his fashion style, he was greeted with vibrant colors overtaking any monotone hue that could have hidden in his hangers. He pulled each hanger back, revealing neon green, a bright yellow, and a shirt with Detective Conan on it. He groaned, internally cursing his freshman-year self for buying whatever he could get his cheap hands on. He picked out a green sweater and a clean pair of blue denim jeans. He wanted to accessorize, but when he dug through his other drawers, he couldn’t find anything. There wasn’t even a watch or necklace or bracelet. He shook his head and exhaled in frustration.

Sunghoon checked the calendar on his desk promptly, throwing on a jacket and grabbing a random apple on his desk. It was November, three months after university had started for him. But when his eyes landed on the color-coded events, he was confused. Because instead of CS 1010 and CALC III, the usual courses he took on Monday, he was looking at CHEM 1010 and BIOL 2100. He remembered taking the chemistry course his freshman year, but he definitely remembered not taking anything biology-related in his college career. Hell, he was a Computer Engineering major. What would a CS student need Biology for?

Ignoring the weird nostalgia blooming in his chest and the odd discrepancies that just continued to pile up, Sunghoon went out to go to his classes. Instead of the green trees and blossoming flowers welcoming him outside, he was met with the warm leaves and moderate temperatures of Autumn. Students passed by in a haze, chattering about their classes and walking way faster than Sunghoon remembered. The cold breeze drifted through the campus, inflating his sweater as it crept under the fabric. Jay had already left to attend a mixer for his pre-law frat, leaving Sunghoon to try to stimulate his own brain so he could ignore his weird time flashback or time-travel or whatever the hell this was…

He checked his phone, inhaling a big breath of air and holding it in, as if bracing himself for the impact that he was seeing his screen two years in the past. When the screen brightened, Sunghoon was greeted with Patrick Bateman laughing maniacally at him with blood splattered across his face. He instantly shut his phone off out of embarrassment. “Hell no.” He grunted.

He inhaled again and opened it to check his text messages. He expected to see your name at the top, but instead, it was Jake followed by Jay. He scrolled through, expecting to see your name at least somewhere. After all, it’d been three months since you’ve met. You should’ve at least talked about the CS midterm by now, right? But instead, he scrolled through to see his parents, his sister, and some random high school friends Sunghoon hadn’t thought of in years.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a headache coming on, and his heart was twisting into itself, wringing out all of his worries about his time-travel to soak up the anxieties of you. If he was here—if this was really freshman year, really November, really two years ago— then where the hell were you?

Sunghoon stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk, students brushing past him with annoyed mutters, enunciated scoffs, and eyerolls. His fingers trembled around his phone as he opened your contact again, except… there was no contact to open. Your name didn’t exist in his phone, and there was nothing to remember you by. His stomach dropped to his feet, and from his feet, crept up the nauseous nagging of… what if you didn’t exist at all now, these two years ago that he was in?

“No, no, no…” he muttered under his breath, swiping faster like your name might magically appear if he looked hard enough. But it didn’t. All that stared back at him was the image of fucking Christian Bale laughing at him, jeering at him as if making a mockery out of Sunghoon.

Could… this not have been his timeline entirely? Instead of going back to the past, did he somehow fall into a world where you never even existed?

Even the beginnings of the thought was enough to make Sunghoon keel over, steadying his body on a nearby tree and focusing his eyes into the nearby bush. Was this world not the version where you sat next to him in CS 1010 and whispered gossip to him during lectures? Because if so, then this wasn’t the version where he walked you home after late-night study sessions and fell in love with you under fluorescent library lights. This wasn’t the version where he kissed you outside your apartment in the snow for the first time.

The version of him that had met you.

Sunghoon’s breathing started to shorten again. He had one hand pressed flat against it the thick and textured trunk of the tree, as if it could keep the world from tilting. The autumn air began feeling suffocating instead of crisp, and the stray threads inside his stupidly bright green sweater began scratching at the hairs on his arms, penetrating through to itch his skin.

think think think think think

Jake? Jake knew you first, didn’t he?

He couldn’t give less of a fuck about his stupid CHEM 1010 class, not when the idea of you not being in his life again was wrapping heavy hands around his neck and choking him. His thumb fumbled as he opened Jake’s contact and scrolled through his messages. Most of it was stupid nonsense, with the most recent text being Jake begging him to skip class for food. Then, buried between them, secluded amongst the sheer amount of back-and-forth texts, was a diamond in the rough.

jake: bro r u coming to the library tmrw nite? jake: y/n’s gonna be there too jake: bro please be normal this time 😭🙏

Sunghoon choked out a broken sound, a cacophony of laughter and sobbing. His knees nearly gave out from the release of tension in his muscles. He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, digging it into his eyes to steady himself. Sunghoon didn’t care that he looked like an idiot in the middle of campus while students walked around him. After all, they were ignoring him like his spectacle was an everyday occurrence. He couldn’t care less.

you existed here you were here alive breathing here here in this world not six feet under but above ground walking talking breathing living

Sunghoon stared at the message until the words blurred.

y/n’s gonna be there too

alive alive alive

You were no longer trapped inside of the pictures hung up on the walls. Not reduced to old voice messages and the lingering scent on the piles of clothes you left around the apartment and in your hamper. Not a mere name carved into stone and buried under the solid, winter dirt.

alive.

Sunghoon’s chest caved in on itself. If he had not met you like he did two months ago in the dining hall, then would you both be starting from square one now? Does that mean that he had another chance to start from the beginning? To love you again, wholeheartedly, and make sure that you wouldn’t die? That instead of two measly years, he could love you for an entire lifetime? Or were you destined to meet the same fate again?

He didn’t hesitate to decide. No matter what lifetime he was in, he would make the same decision. He would choose you again, every time, even knowing how it ended. Grief this devastating could only exist because love had once been so kind, and now that he had a chance to experience your living love again, he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity.

Sunghoon: r we still on for the library?

“I didn’t think making a grade calculator would be this fucking hard, oh my god.”

You and Sunghoon were both deep into three Red Bulls, eyes bloodshot and accessorized with grey and purple bags hanging under them. Sunghoon exhaled and slammed his laptop shut, before immediately pulling it open again to reveal the same piece of coding that had been mocking the both of you for hours. Meanwhile, you were slumped over your own laptop, fingers tapping away at your keyboard meaninglessly. Honestly, you weren’t even trying to fix the code, you were just typing a bunch of bullshit into the program.

“Seriously, why did I choose CS?” Sunghoon sulked, about to begin reflecting on every decision that led him there, before you snapped him out of it with a few delicate taps to his arm.

“How about we take a study break, hm?” You tilted your head, smiling up at him. Even though you look exhausted, you still managed to muster up a warm grin on your lips that instantly quelled his anxieties about your project. “Where should we go… it’s pretty chilly outside…” You thought aloud. The way your eyes flicked up and your hand dramatically stroked your chin endeared him, blossoming an aggressive affection in his chest. He squeezed his hands into a fist, trying to resist pinching your cheeks.

“What time is it now? 2AM? Is anything even open?” Sunghoon yawned. You thought about it for a second before gasping. Sunghoon could almost visualize the lightbulb flashing above your head.

“Let’s eat ramyeon at the convenience store on the main road!” You suggested. The brown-haired boy hummed in agreement, standing up abruptly to stretch before putting on his coat. You both abandoned your things and put your trust in student honor as you began your 10-minute walk down the street, leaving the warm and humid library in favor of the chilly autumn weather.

“Sunghoon, have I ever asked you about your lore?” You suddenly asked. Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows.

“Lore? What does that mean?” He responded, confusion puppeting his eyebrows into a furrow. You puffed up your cheeks as you thought about how to explain the term.

“Like– your cool anime backstory, or whatever…” You answered, embarrassed at the way you chose to describe it. Sunghoon snickered, shaking his head.

“Uhm, I don’t think I have a cool anime backstory, or whatever…” He started to think. “Well… I have a younger sister and then I used to figure-skate. Nothing really interesting, I don’t think…” You gasped at his downplaying of his abilities.

“You used to figure-skate? That’s so cool! When did you start?” You smiled, eyes sparkling at looking up at him with wonder. Sunghoon’s face flushed even harder.

“Uhm… when I was pretty young… I was pretty good at it, other people tell me. But I didn’t have many friends when I was a kid because I was the only guy who did figure-skating,” he continued. You tilted your head curiously.

“Do you have any pictures, Hoon?” You perked up. He tried to ignore the flutter in his heart with the usage of your sudden nickname, instead opting to fumble for his phone. He hid away the Patrick Batemen lockscreen he forgot to change before flashing you a photo of his younger self.

Child Sunghoon was round and soft, with a cute and awkward smile on his face. He wore a flashy costume, a white button-up with silver glitter lining everywhere that it could trace. In his hands was a trophy and a bouquet of flowers. A coo immediately erupted from your throat as you took it in. “Sooo cute, ohmygod!” You gasped. His shining pupils disappeared as he smiled, bashful as he looked away. He turned off the phone, causing you to whine.

“Nooo~ Hoon, send me the photo! I’ll make it your contact!”

As much as he didn’t want to give in, ultimately, he did. He airdropped the photo to you, which you received with a delighted squeal. Sunghoon peered over your shoulder, trying to subtly look at what you were going to do. Just as you said, you immediately went to change his assigned contact photo to the child version of his picture. But as you opened his chatbox, his heart stuttered. His number was saved under ‘hoon <3.’

He immediately jerked his head away, blushing profusely as he tried to ignore the steady and rising thumping in his chest. You looked up at him, oblivious to the motions his body was going through.

“Soo, what ramyeon should we eat?”

Sunghoon didn’t know shit about biology, so he left his lab as soon as the class ended.

His labmates were very obviously frustrated, not-so-subtly glaring at him as they passive-aggressively shot their DNA samples into the wells of the gel electrophoresis. One of his lab mates, a nice boy named Sunoo, leaned in to whisper into his ear, “Are you okay? You’re normally never this slow?” And after a reassuring nod, Sunoo pouted and looked away. Sunghoon guessed that meant he was actually skilled in biology, but he knew for sure that this Sunghoon, the one who wanted to pursue cybersecurity, didn’t know jackshit about DNA, RNA, and whatever the Central Dogma was.

Sunghoon was hungry, his brain was overloaded with too much new information, and all he could think about was the thought of seeing you. Breathing, alive, and here. So as soon as the TA dismissed everyone, he sprinted out of the lab and across campus to the library. He didn’t care if he looked stupid, clutching his backpack strap and punching his shoulders backwards and forwards in order to gain more momentum as he ran for his life. All he cared about was you. you you you

As he neared the library, waiting for the crosswalk to turn green for pedestrians, he whipped out his phone to text Jake.

Sunghoon: Hey Jake. Where are U sitting. Sunghoon: What floor are U on? Sunghoon: Where R U located. jake: ???? jake: were on the fourth floor in a cubby jake: why r u texting so weird LOL when dod u use punctuations n caps? Sunghoon: Uhhh trying out a new style of texting. jake: wtv man just dont act like a weirdo with y/n LOL jake: dont tell her i said this but she said shes excited to see u

Sunghoon’s heart was pounding, and he was sure it wasn’t because of the intense cardio. He looked back and forth on the road, tapping his foot impatiently as the crosswalk was still red. As soon as the street was cleared of cars, he began rapidly walking across the road, ignoring the protests of the crossguard with an embarrassed expression on his face.

He practically bolted across the small lawn in front of the library in order to enter it, panting as he climbed up the large flight of stairs leading up to the main entrance. He pushed the doors open, his feet rapidly clicking against the tiled floor as he raced to find you and Jake. He rounded around the entirety of the fourth floor, ignoring the pointed and obvious stares of the other people trying to study. Soft chatter and giggles filled the wide floor, as well as the sounds of keyboards clicking under pressure and Apple pencils tapping against screens. But one particular sound stood out to him.

The sound of your sweet, sweet laughter.

He nearly tripped as he rounded the corner, only to see the glorious sight that his heart had been searching for forever.

You.

You were sitting cross-legged on one of the seats in the cubby, your laptop balanced on your thighs and a Red Bull cracked open beside you. The same, sugar-free flavor that you always liked when you both studied together and that Sunghoon conditioned himself into loving, too. Jake was next to you, saying something dramatic with his hands, and you were laughing at him– your head tipped back slightly, eyes squinting, your smile so bright that it was the only thing he could see.

For a moment, the entire world went silent until his ears began ringing. There was nothing else in the world except you.

Just you.

Alive.

Not framed in a photograph, not buried under frozen dirt, and not simply reduced to a voice memo he replayed at three in the morning because he was afraid he’d forget the exact cadence of your laugh.

You were here.

You were breathing, laughing, smiling, moving, existing. Alive.

Sunghoon stopped walking.

His body forgot how to function, rooted to the tiled floor as if one more step would shatter the fragile miracle in front of him. His vision blurred almost instantly, tears gathering so fast it embarrassed him.

Because you were there, right in front of him after the seasons had changed and months had passed since he last saw you.

Wearing some oversized hoodie he recognized from years ago, sleeves covering half your hands. Your hair slightly messy, your lips wrapped around the straw of your drink, your foot absentmindedly bumping against Jake’s chair.

You were so alive.

Sunghoon’s throat closed as the tears wouldn’t stop. He hurriedly brought up his sleeves to wipe his eyes. He had spent months begging the universe for this. Whether he was in the kitchen, pleading to have you back so you could wash your dirty dishes. Or buried in the side of your bed, his face smothered by the scent-heavy fabric of your pillow case. At your grave, where your name engraved into the stone mocked him and the dates of your birth and date blending in together. In every quiet second where grief became too heavy to carry, and Sunghoon’s body would collapse from the sheer weight of it all on his back.

Yet now, here you were, as if no time had passed at all and Sunghoon was back to day one. 

Jake noticed him first, standing outside the cubicle like a weirdo. To be fair, Jake thought Sunghoon was a weirdo until he recognized the vibrant fashion choice. “Dude, finally—” Jake started, the beginnings of a laugh about to escape his throat, but the words died in his throat when he saw Sunghoon’s face, because Sunghoon looked like he was seeing a ghost.

Your eyes followed Jake’s, landing on him, and Sunghoon’s breath hitched. He had your eyes on him, and they hadn’t changed from the last time he saw you. They were as bright as he remembered, with the stars of the night filling them with a shine so breathtaking that Sunghoon couldn’t believe that this was real.

And then you smiled, the same smile that always instantly calmed him down, alleviating him of any negative thoughts. You smiled like you hadn’t fucking died, and Sunghoon was almost angry at how naive you looked, oblivious to the suffering that he had gone through for months without seeing that beautiful visage. But as soon as your lips curled, they faltered.

“Sunghoon?” you said, tilting your head a little. “Are you okay?”

God, your voice was as melodic as he remembered. So softspoken per usual, with a tune that was like angels were singing. A broken sound left his throat before he could stop it— a half laugh and a half sob mixing together to produce something ugly and raw. His hand came up to cover his mouth like he could physically shove the emotions and sound back inside of his throat. But he couldn’t. because you were looking at him finally after months of going without it.

alive alive alive youre really alive and youre really here and youre smiling so pretty so beautiful my sweet girlfriend my y/n mine mine mine youre mine

Tears spilled over despite every humiliating attempt to stop them. Your expression immediately shifted, your weak grin fading into a concerned look as you stood up too quickly, chair scraping against the floor.

“Dude— are you crying?” Jake asked. You hissed at him, silently scolding him for his dumb question. Sunghoon couldn’t help but laugh because that was such a you thing and you were doing it like you always did before and he can’t stop crying you’re you you’re you you’re you

“I’m fine,” he lied instantly, voice cracking so badly it made Jake wince.

You took another step closer. You were so close, so close that he could smell the same sweet perfume that you always wore. The one that he kept on your nightstand to let macerate after you died. The one that was masked by the putrid smell of formaldehyde at your funeral. The one that he spent the last couple of months trying to get a whiff of out of your dirty clothes and unwashed pillowcase.

This was torture. You were standing there looking so beautiful but so painfully not his. Because at this point in time, you didn’t know him yet. Not the way his you did. No, this you didn’t know the shape of his hands in the dark, or how he took his coffee, or the way he only liked sleeping if the weight of his leg was thrown over his. You didn’t know about the apartment that you both lived in until it was just him, alone, with the broken promises of forever and eternal love left to remember you by.

Sunghoon’s fingers twitched at his side. He wanted to reach out to at least brush his fingertips over your arms. He wanted to hold your face. He wanted to hear your heartbeat to make sure that it was beating. He wanted to bury himself in your arms and stay there until the last few months faded until it didn’t exist to him anymore, so he could at least pretend like your death had never happened and he finally got his happily ever after. But he was scared. So scared that if he touched you, he was afraid he would never let go, or you’d vanish and disappear, or he’d wake up from this beautiful dream that was your world.

So instead, he just stood there sobbing and shaking his head like an idiot in the middle of the library.

Sunghoon was inconsolable for an hour.

He honestly thought that an hour was too short for his whiplash of relief and anguish to stop, but he was fine.

Nope, he wasn’t. You patted his back and he began sobbing again.

“Dude, are you okay? What’s wrong, man? I’ve never seen you like this before…” Jake asked, worry laced in his accent-heavy voice. You looked at Jake, your eyebrows knitted in concern for the poor boy sobbing his heart out in front of you.

“Are you having a hard time because of midterms? It’s okay, Sunghoon, it’s okay to cry… let it out, you’ve probably had a stressful week… don’t worry, you’ve worked hard…” You tried to comfort him, but he only sobbed harder because this was something that you would definitely say. Sunghoon sniffled, but let out a few coughs instead. Jake unsuccessfully stifled his snickers as the younger boy began to cough excessively, before crying harder.

“Jake…” you silently hissed, thwacking his shoulder with a heavy hand. His mouth opened as he flinched back. Sunghoon finally calmed down after a while, staring at you with wide eyes. Your hand was still resting lightly against his back, warm through the thin fabric of his sweater, and he thought he might start crying again just from that alone. It was after he processed your body heat that he realized you were touching him. You weren’t a memory or a dream anymore, and most importantly, this is real. Not some cruel hallucination his grief-ridden brain had conjured to keep him from completely falling apart.

Jake looked between the two of you like he was watching a live drama unfold in front of him. “Okay,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “So, uh, what happened, man?”

Sunghoon opened his mouth.

Nothing. Because what was he supposed to say? Sorry, I watched the love of my life die, spent months rotting in our apartment, cried myself to sleep holding her jacket, and then apparently got thrown backward into freshman year like some sick cosmic joke?

He knew Jake believed in the idea of multiple universes. He knew that from his constant rant about physics and the laws of the galaxy or whatever the hell Jake yapped about– it wasn’t like Sunghoon didn’t care about Jake’s interests. He just didn’t understand. But Sunghoon wasn’t sure that Jake would be so open-minded to find out that he had time-traveled two years into the past from a future that you died in.

Sunghoon simply swallowed hard and just looked away. “I just…” His voice came out hoarse. “I had a really bad dream.”

Jake blinked. “Dude, that bad?” He grimaced.

Sunghoon nodded with a small frown. Your expression softened immediately, and Sunghoon immediately noticed the shift in your face. Because you were giving him that unbearably gentle look you always gave him when he was trying too hard to pretend he was okay, the same look that Sunghoon got when he failed his CSO midterm in sophomore year and when he almost flunked Prob Stat. It made his chest ache with a comforting nostalgia.

“Sunghoon,” you said softly, pulling your chair out beside yours, “you should sit down before you pass out or something. You look like you ran here.” You giggled. Sunghoon sniffled, his plump bottom lip jutted out in a pretty pink pout. His cheeks were now streaked with the dried-up stream of his tears and his entire face was flushed and puffy. You sounded so pretty when you said his name. Sunghoon let out a weak, embarrassed laugh and sat where you told him to, because your voice still had the same authority over him that it always would.

Jake shoved a tissue packet toward him across the table, the plastic messily torn open, as if Jake didn’t care for tabs that instructed him. “For our sobbing Sunghoon…” he snickered. You and Sunghoon both smacked his arm.

“Shut up,” Sunghoon croaked, his voice still ruined from crying. You laughed softly at that, and the sound nearly made him start all over again. He pulled off his glasses and dabbed uselessly at his face while desperately trying to act like a normal person and not a man whose entire soul had just been resurrected by the sight of you alive. When he put back on his glasses, his vision clear from tears and poor eyesight, they landed on your laptop.

The screen was still open beside you, but instead of lines of code and an unfinished project like he expected, he caught sight of anatomy diagrams and a color-coded set of notes. Organs, labeled veins, tiny handwritten mnemonics in the margins. On another tab, a link to register for CNA classes. Sunghoon blinked, confused.

“…You’re not in CS.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them. Jake snorted immediately. Your eyebrows lifted in confusion before you laughed. “No? Definitely not.” You turned your laptop a little toward him, showing him the mess of biology notes even though you didn’t really have to prove it to him.

“I’m a nursing major, unfortunately,” you sighed dramatically. “Heavy emphasis on the unfortunately this week. I have a poster presentation due for chem lab this week, and my group partners suck… They keep ghosting me… but what can you expect from engineering majors?” You joked lightly. “Hey, did you think I was a CS major ‘cuz I keep hanging out with this stinky loser?” You pouted.

“Hey!” Jake protested in the background, but Sunghoon didn’t care. His word was tilting even more on its axis, and he felt like the laws of the universe were rewriting themselves.

“No– No, sorry… I guess I mistook your major for someone else’s…” Sunghoon nervously laughed. “Uhm… Is– is it hard– Nursing, I mean?” Sunghoon meekly gulped. You smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, but, I guess everything is hard, right? I don’t think I could ever take discrete or linear or anything of that sort.” You giggled. Sunghoon swallowed dryly and nodded. What would you think if you knew you were his tutor in those classes when you guys dated? Would you laugh him off in disbelief, or would you brush it off and claim yourself as a genius…?

Jake rolled his eyes at how awkward you both were. He distracted himself with his Calc III homework, trying to ignore the very obvious attraction looming over the both of your heads. He thought to himself as he made a very hard point to not stare at the both of you guys speaking.

“Man, I hope I don’t have to third-wheel.”

Your number was in Sunghoon’s phone now, saved under your name.

You had input your own contact name, a simple formality of your name, and in parentheses (jake’s friend). But you were more than just Jake’s friend to him, so he changed it as soon as he got back to his dorm, replacing the parentheses with a sweet and simple ‘<3’ instead. He resisted the urge to text you as soon as all three of you left the library.

Sunghoon took a shower as soon as he got back to his dorm. It had been so long since he stepped foot in a communal shower that he almost stepped in barefoot. He almost freaked out when he realized he forgot his shower slippers. He stepped back in, feet now clad in slippers and his shower caddy in hand. The water pressure was harsher than he remembered, the shower spray hitting his scalp like bullets. His caddy only contained a simple shampoo, conditioner, and bar soap, which made him grimace internally. When he did his skincare, he tried to ignore the oily feeling that sat like a film over his skin.

Jay greeted him when he entered his dorm again, his wet hair dripping a pathway into the shared space and his slippers flopping against the wooden floor. “Hey man.” Jay briefly looked up, staring at his laptop as he softly strummed his guitar. “You going to bed soon? I can stop playing.”

“No, you’re good, Jay…” Sunghoon replied, taking off his glasses and setting it back into the case, the magnetized plastic snapping shut. Sunghoon grunted as he climbed onto the top bunk of his bed. Jay smiled and nodded, before going back to playing around with his acoustic guitar.

Sunghoon tucked himself under the covers, letting out a small sigh of relief. His back was aching, and his eyes felt a bit sore. He rubbed at the sides of his cheekbones, trying to relieve the puffiness in his face. Suddenly, his phone pinged, causing the black-haired boy to flinch. He reached for his device, tucked under the pillow, opening it only to see your name in his notification center.

y/n <3: hii sunghoon! did u get back to ur dorm yet? i just got back y/n <3: r u feeling better now? Sunghoon: I got back safe. Sunghoon: Thank U for today. Sunghoon: Sorry for being weird. y/n <3: LOL its okay y/n <3: honestly i was kinda flattered Sunghoon: Flattered??? y/n <3: yeah y/n <3: imagine crying that hard after seeing me y/n <3: my ego is huge now y/n <3: but seriously are u okay?

Sunghoon stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Too many answers began to crowd his throat, and he was certain he was about to start crying again. But instead, he typed:

Sunghoon: Bad dream. Sunghoon: Thats all. y/n <3: aw man i’ve been having weird dreams too… but i hope u have a good dream tnt… y/n <3: come study w me again tomorrow!!!

Tomorrow. There was going to be a tomorrow with you.

y/n <3: OH y/n <3: and dont cry again when u see me pls y/n <3: what if i get bullying allegations…

Sunghoon covered his face with one hand, laughing weakly into his palm. God, you were just like how you were back in freshman year of college. Always so approachable and kind, so sweet and patient. Sunghoon bit his lip to stifle his tears, not wanting to interrupt Jay’s peaceful strumming.

Was this a chance from the universe to win you back? To have you back in his arms where you were supposed to be? Were the stars realigning for your love to reconcile? To give you a chance at the life that was taken away from you too early?

Because if so, then who was Sunghoon to deny the universe’s gift?

He vowed it there and then– that he would make you his once again.

The next few weeks blurred together for Sunghoon. Time did feel fake, after all.

At first, he thought being around you again would continue hurting. He’d thought that every time he’d seen you after your first encounter, he’d start crying over and over again. He thought every glance at your face would reopen the wound inside his chest until he bled out from the sheer amount of grief that had welled up in his hollow chest since that fateful winter morning.

But instead, Sunghoon got used to you again.

Between your late-night study sessions and meaningless unproductive chatter in the library, you slipped into his life as naturally as you did the first time around. And now, you managed to sew yourself into the knittings of his daily life cycle again. Your “study nights” turned into convenience store midnight snacks. You invited him to your dorm to “fix the wallpaper” which ended up with you guys reminiscing about your high school days. Your texts became routine too, and every single notification still made his heart jump. Some nights, you’d call him instead. (But your sleepy voice through the speaker sounded too much like the nights in your shared apartment when you’d mumble nonsense into his chest before falling asleep.)

Sunghoon didn’t realize it until late, but he began to notice he was listening and watching you pre-emptively. When you told him about the guy you had beef with for talking back to the teacher back in high school, Sunghoon already knew that. Before you told him you had a bad habit of chewing on the sides of your fingernails when nervous, Sunghoon had already told you to stop. He already knew everything about you. From the way you’d subtly eye the way he took bites of food even after insisting you weren’t hungry to the way your nose would twitch before you started crying– Sunghoon knew every single minute detail about you.

You never commented on it. Sunghoon hoped you just chalked it up to him being observant rather than looking like a creepy stalker who cried whenever he saw a pretty girl. 

“Hoon? Helloooo? Earth to Hoon?”

Your hand was waving in front of his face, a pout on your lips. “Zoning out again?” You huffed. He smiled, cheeks puffing up as he looked at you. You both were in the convenience store again, looking for a late-night snack amidst your endless studying for finals.

“Yeah, just thinking what to get,” he replied, following you around as you scoured the aisles. You kept whipping your head back and forth, scanning each item meticulously as you thought about what you were craving. Absentmindedly, you rubbed your tummy over your hoodie, pouting slightly. 

“I dunno what to get either. Should I get a drink too? ‘M kinda thirsty.” You hummed, pinching a drink pouch between your fingers as you examined the flavors. Sunghoon watched as you looked around. He suddenly reached out to give you a green grape flavored drink pouch. You looked at him, confused but still smiling.

“Thanks, Hoon, but I don’t really like green grape.”

What?

Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows, confused. “Really? You don’t like green grape?” His tone was wavering, and you were puzzled. He sounded so torn up about the fact that you didn’t like green grape.

“Are you a green grape superfan, Hoon?” You laughed, reaching for the lychee pouch instead. Sunghoon’s face remained confused, his eyebrows knitted and lips twisted up into a weird pout. He shook his head, making you laugh.

“You’re so weird sometimes, Hoon…” you said, giggling as you picked up an ice cup. Sunghoon followed you, still perplexed as you continued to pick your late-night meal.

Because you loved green grape and hated lychee.

He remembered when you told him about how you hated lychee. It was too sweet, but green grapes were just right for you— a perfect balance of sour and sweet in a small fruit. He remembered laughing at you about it, teasing you for being so nitpicky with your fruit, so why were you here eyeing every sweet fruit flavored pouch?

Your fingers skimmed across all of the ramyeon cup noodle packages, your head tilting as you tried to find the perfect one. Sunghoon was still behind you, but his footsteps became slower and more mechanic as his brain was racing. “What about this flavor?” Sunghoon picked up your favorite, Carbonara Buldak. You scrunched your noise and picked up the 2X Spicy Buldak instead.

“I like really spicy things, Hoon! The carbonara isn’t spicy enough for me!”

His mind was clipped, as if everything he had been thinking of suddenly disappeared. Sunghoon could excuse the change of majors— hell, his own major changed when he woke up in the past. But the few little things that he had grown to love were even changing in front of his own eyes.

“Ah? Really… this flavor is good too…” he mumbled, nearly incoherent. You laughed, furrowing your eyebrows before going to pay for your food. He followed behind, mindlessly tapping his card to pay for your things, his racing mind drowning out the sounds of your whined protests.

It was after that when Sunghoon began watching you closely.

During movie nights, you happily stole bites of Jake’s mint chocolate chip without even batting an eye, but you hated mint chocolate chip ice cream because your cousin threw it up on you when you were seven. You sucked at chemistry and nearly cried over memorizing all the molecular orbital structures, but now you could solve a retrosynthetic analysis question with a single glance, as if you were adding one plus one. You told him one late night walking back to the dorms that you became a nursing major because your mother was a nurse, but Sunghoon remembered his “future-mother-in-law” actually worked in an IT department, which led to your passion for computer systems.

This version of you didn’t scrunch your nose at sickly sweet candle scents anymore. This version of you didn’t like wearing cute pieces of jewelry that framed your body like an art piece. This version of you didn’t like dogs. This version of you hated rom-coms. This version of you wasn’t exactly his.

The more time Sunghoon spent in this world, the more wrong everything felt. You were still here, and that’s all that he believed he cared for. But everything felt wrong enough to keep him up at night, recounting all of the true memories he shared with you. This place looked like his world, his universe, but every day, more tiny differences revealed themselves like cracks in glass to the point where the fragile world that Sunghoon wanted to believe in was about to collapse.

You’re still Y/N. Sunghoon couldn’t deny that. But you didn’t feel like the same Y/N that he fell in love with sometimes. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from loving you again. Sunghoon could ignore the minor changes in your life if it meant having you all over again, right?

“You’re staring again.”

Sunghoon blinked, immediately looking away from you across the table. Where was he again…? He glanced around, taking in his surroundings that was the study area on the first floor of your dorm building. Sunghoon briefly looked at the multitude of formulas you had written on the whiteboard of the small room before directing his gaze back at you.

“I am not,” he muttered.

“Soo we’re lying now…?” you laughed, spinning the whiteboard marker between your fingers. “You always stare at me, Hoon. Do you know that? It’s like you know something I don’t… like you know everything, or something, or whatever… You’re so suspicious sometimes….” Sunghoon shrugged awkwardly and looked back down at his laptop screen.

“It’s not that, promise. You’re just hard to look away from,” he mumbled before he could stop himself, the reply coming easily to him. It was something that he used to tell you all the time.

Your face flushed immediately, and Sunghoon felt warmth crawl up his own neck too. But unlike before, he didn’t panic under your gaze anymore. Sunghoon used to be scared of moving closer to you. Was it too bold to constantly sit next to you? To comfortably lean into your space as if it was his too? He was itching to have you be his again.

But over the past month, you had become comfortable around him too. Comfortable enough to lean against his shoulder during late-night bus rides. Comfortable enough to nab food off of his dining hall plates. Comfortable enough to text him first thing in the morning and last thing before sleeping. Comfortable enough that sometimes, when you laughed too hard, you’d instinctively grab onto his arm.

You’re too cruel. You were unknowingly becoming his again. But Sunghoon didn’t know what to think. All his mind could conjure was the question of how fast you could be his again– should he confess now? But instead, he continued to stare as you worked through your chemistry practice exam questions.

One evening, the three of you ended up stuck in the library until nearly midnight because Jake refused to finish his Calc assignment anywhere else. Sunghoon had long stopped pretending to study. Instead, he watched you again. He couldn’t care less if you thought he was staring again. To be fair, you were half-asleep beside him, cheek squished against your folded arms while pretending to read anatomy notes. It’s not like you could exactly call him out when you were on the verge of passing out.

Your highlighter slipped from your fingers. Sunghoon picked it up before it rolled off the table. Your eyes fluttered open tiredly. “…Thanks,” you mumbled softly. Even exhausted, you looked beautiful. A dangerous tenderness spread through his chest so intensely that it almost scared him. He felt like he was falling harder this time, especially knowing how you both would end up anyways.

“Sunghoon.”

He blinked out of his thoughts. You were staring at him again, your hooded lids fighting to stay open to look at him properly. “Yes?” He replied softly, not wanting his loud voice to puncture you out of your sleep-filled daze.

“You were zoning out...” You frowned slightly, your voice slurring slightly from how exhausted you were. “You’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

Every time he looked at you for too long, memories overlapped. You laughing in the library became you laughing in your apartment kitchen. You falling asleep beside him at a study table became you sleeping on his chest during thunderstorms. Your warm fingertips caressing his soft cheeks before leaning in to press your lips against his–

Sometimes the timelines blended together so badly he forgot which version of you he was seeing. But Sunghoon couldn’t say that, so instead he lied, “I’m okay.”

You looked unconvinced. Then, after a moment, your hand slowly slid across the table toward his. It was a decision that you carefully made– Sunghoon could tell by the way you suddenly spaced out and looked left to right as if physically weighing the choices between touching and not touching him. It was barely anything– a pebble of physical touch that pebbled in comparison to the boulders of love that he used to share with you. It was just your pinky lightly touching his, tentative and careful. You looked shy immediately after doing it, eyes darting away. But Sunghoon felt love blossom in his chest nonetheless.

“…You don’t have to tell me if something’s wrong,” you murmured. “But I hope you know you don’t have to deal with everything alone.” The warmth of your skin against his nearly killed him.

Fuck, so what if some things changed? You were still you in every universe. So kind and gentle and always reaching for him, noticing almost intuitively when Sunghoon was about to lose himself. He carefully hooked his pinky around yours under the table, sending you a reassuring and small grin. Your breath caught slightly, not expecting him to so confidently touch you back.

Jake looked up from his homework. “…Am I interrupting something,” he deadpanned, already knowing the answer despite still asking.

“No,” both of you answered immediately. Jake narrowed his eyes, but didn’t reply. He just let out a quiet sigh before going back to scribbling on his iPad again. You finally closed your eyes to go back to sleep, a subtle and content smile lingering on your lips. Your pinky was still tightly interlocked with his while your other arm relaxed.

Maybe the universe had rewritten details. So what your majors changed or your histories changed? Who cares if this wasn’t his original life?

Because all that mattered to Sunghoon was that you still found your way back to him anyway.

“Hey Hoon!”

Jay entered the dorm in a ruckus, hissing as his guitar case nearly slammed the doorframe and cursing when he stubbed his foot against the wooden plank of the actual door. Sunghoon rushed to hold the door open for his roommate, wincing as Jay slammed his backpack to the ground.

“You okay, Jay? I haven’t seen you in awhile.” Sunghoon took note of the slightly older boy’s appearance. He looked disheveled, with eyebags accessorizing his face and sunken-in cheeks.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’ve just been busy looking for internships and studying for finals— shit— and these networking events are kicking my ass. They’re like, ‘oh, you need at least 3 years of experience!’ But it’s a fucking entry-level position!” He ranted. Sunghoon smiled softly at the familiar ramblings— at least Jay didn’t change.

“What a tough life you live, Jay.” Sunghoon sighed.

Jay dropped face-first onto his bed with a loud groan, one arm dangling off the side dramatically. “I’m serious, Hoon. If one more recruiter tells me to ‘circle back next semester,’ I’m actually gonna lose it.”

Sunghoon huffed out a quiet laugh from his desk, spinning a mechanical pencil between his fingers. He had chemistry notes spread out in front of him, though he hadn’t processed a single word in the last couple of hours. His brain had been occupied by you since the moment he woke up. “Whatcha doin, man? Homework?” Jay peered over the railings of his bed to look down at Sunghoon’s desk. The younger boy ran his fingers through his silky hair, tilting his head.

“Yeah, just reading the textbook for my Chem discussion. I’m not going to lie, I don’t really understand anything right now…” Sunghoon laughed. The side of Jay’s lips crooked up into a teasing smirk, like he knew something that the other boy didn’t.

“Oh? Chem discussion, huh?”

“What does that mean?” Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. Jay wriggled his eyebrows suggestively, licking at his bottom lip in a weird display that made Sunghoon squirm with discomfort.

“OKAY, don’t tell Jake that I told you this but… he’s been texting me about you and Y/N…” Jay let out, sounding exasperated as if he just lifted a huge weight off his shoulders. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. He didn’t expect Jay to say this to him, but he was sure that Jake was telling at least some other person about the rapid development of friendship between you and Sunghoon.

“Really? What is he saying?” Sunghoon acted nonchalant, trying to appear relaxed to coax Jay into spilling more. Jay looked around briefly, biting his lip before leaning in closer.

“Okay, basically.. he’s saying that you and Y/N have been hanging out a lot like— one-on-one without him…” Jay excitedly rolled. Sunghoon nodded. “But you know how Jake is– he tried asking Y/N about you and she thought he was acting weird because he sucks at being subtle… so can I ask you about it? Like, are you guys talking or…” The silver-haired boy trailed off awkwardly, waiting for Sunghoon to finish his question.

The raven-haired male tilted his head. “Uhm… I guess so…” he sheepishly replied. What else was he supposed to say? “Nah, I’m actually trying to get my girlfriend back after she died in another universe???”

“I’m happy for you man, really.” The sincerity in Jay’s voice was almost worrisome.

“Oh, uh, thanks, Jay…” Sunghoon smiled awkwardly, unsure how to respond to the genuine pride that Jay had carried in his tone. The silver-haired man nodded, seemingly content before rolling back into bed. But seriously, what the hell did he mean by Chem discussion?

“I never expected you to make the first move, honestly. I heard from Jake that you were the one who initiated your first hangout together, right?” Jay spoke, his eyes glued to the ceiling that had white paint falling off the bone. Sunghoon hummed in agreement, but was getting impatient. Couldn’t Jay get to the point already? “Man, I remember when you first talked about her to me. They grow up so fast,” he continued to ramble, his speech slurring as sleep began hitting him. Sunghoon furrowed his eyebrows. When did he ever talk to him about you?

“Jay, I think I just met the love of my life in Chem discussion!”

Sunghoon froze. He shot up in his seat, nearly tripping as he ran to the side of Jay’s bunk. His fingers curled into the railings protruding from the frame of the bed, his warm skin cooling against the frigid metal material. “What? Jay, what? When did I tell you this?” He rapid-fired at the older boy. Jay yawned, rubbing his eyes.

“Remember? When school started? You went to Chem discussion annoyed with the readings and came back like a lovestruck idiot.”

“What? When school started back in August, Jay?” Sunghoon sputtered out. Jay nodded with another yawn.

“Yeah, man, remember? You woke up so annoyed about all the readings you did, but when you came back you were like, head-over-heels. You said it was love-at-first sight.” Jay snorted quietly at the memory, rubbing sleepily at his eyes. “Dude, it was actually kinda insane. You came back to the dorm and wouldn’t shut up about her.”

Sunghoon stared at him, pulse beginning to pound against his ribs.

“…What did I say?” he asked carefully.

Jay grinned immediately, already amused by the memory. “You were acting crazy, man. Like genuinely gone.” He pushed himself up slightly on his elbows. “Jay, I think I just met the prettiest girl ever. Jay, I think I’m in love. Jay, she smiled at me and I forgot what I was saying!” He exclaimed, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s unique tone.

“You’re exaggerating,” Sunghoon muttered weakly, but his head was slowly began to pound with the thought of him gushing about you before he met you. As if his consciousness existed before he woke up in the past.

“Swear, I’m not.” Jay laughed. Sunghoon’s stomach twisted. “You told me she sat two rows ahead of you during discussion, that she had these little charms hanging off her pencil case, that she kept pushing her hair behind her ear while talking to her discussion group—” He suddenly paused, staring at Sunghoon suspiciously. “Wait, why are you acting like you don’t remember this?”

Sunghoon’s throat tightened immediately. He didn’t. This wasn’t the right beginning or the right way of meeting you. He could’ve excused the minor changes about your preferences, discrepancies in your life, but now there were too many that his head couldn’t keep up. And now, your entire story was beginning to collapse in front of his eyes, through his ears, even if he wasn’t there to experience it.

“I dunno,” he lied quickly. “I think I’m just tired. I– I have a headache…” Sunghoon stumbled to his side of the bed.

Jay looked unconvinced for a second before shrugging. “Well, anyway, after that you started acting weird as hell,” he continued.

“Weird how?”

“You kept dressing up for Chem discussion.” Jay barked out a laugh. “Like suddenly you cared about your appearance. You asked me if your hair looked okay before class.”

Sunghoon nearly recoiled in horror. “I would never ask you that. I always look good.”

Jay furrowed his eyebrows, but barked back accusingly, “You did. And then after discussion ended, you’d come back looking all devastated because you never talked to her.”

Sunghoon’s chest ached strangely. He felt as if he could picture it so vividly. Him sitting in chemistry discussion secretly staring at you. Getting nervous. Fixing his hair in the reflection of his phone screen. Trying to work up the courage to speak to you. Falling in love slowly and naturally without grief or death or memories of a future that already happened clouding every rational thought in his brain.

Jay continued rambling, oblivious to the way Sunghoon’s expression had begun to fall. “And then one day Jake mentioned his hometown friend named Y/N and you literally interrupted him mid-sentence.” Jay laughed harder now, fully awake from recounting the story. “‘Wait— Y/N? Nursing major? Chem discussion on Thursdays?’ Dude, your face was priceless.”

Sunghoon felt sick. He didn’t know you were a nursing major until that fateful night he had seen you in the library. “Oh my god, dude I feel like I’ve been holding this in. Remember the first time you guys talked?” Sunghoon’s heartbeat was thudding loudly in his ears, and he’s sure that they were about to ring. He remained silent, and Jay took it as a sign to keep rambling.

“You said she asked to borrow an EXPO marker during discussion because hers was out of ink or something.” He snorted. “You kept replaying the conversation like a loser, saying that her voice was like descending from the angels.

Sunghoon’s grip tightened around the railing of Jay’s bunk. He agreed, but he wouldn’t ever verbalize is like that so shamelessly. He honestly thought saying something like that was a little corny, and then the realization began to sink in.

He wouldn’t say that. No, not him. Another version of him.

It was then when it dawned about Sunghoon. God, he hadn't even considered the possibility that another version of him existed before he became conscious. But that meant something that Sunghoon didn't even want to even think about considering– some empty timeline where he had conveniently slotted himself into a vacant life, or where he went back into the past two years with just a few butterfly effects changing the outcomes. This universe already had a Park Sunghoon who liked you before future Sunghoon ever woke up here. And Sunghoon had stolen it.

Jay kept talking, unaware of the devastation crawling across Sunghoon’s face, like a spider mapping out its web of a trap. “Then.” Jay cackled. “You literally flopped face-first onto your bed and said– hold on, I remember this exactly–” It seemed like talking about you energized him or woke him up, because he cleared his throat dramatically, trying to imitate Sunghoon’s voice again.

“Jay, I’m actually gonna marry her.’”

Sunghoon’s breath hitched. He had said that before, two years into the future, when he was drunk off two bottles of Original Soju as he was eating barbeque with a much more mature Jay and a burnt-out Jake. He had never brought up marriage before until that night, a few days after you guys moved into your apartment together.

But apparently, this version of him had said it too before any of that happened, even with only knowing your name and that you were Jake’s friend.

Was loving you inevitable in every universe?

Jay blinked suddenly, his teasing grin faltering slightly as he finally noticed how pale Sunghoon looked. “…Hoon?” Sunghoon looked away quickly, swallowing hard. “You okay?”

No. No, he really wasn’t.

Because Sunghoon’s entire world and entire universe was collapsing. His fate was twisting, and the red string that threaded it together was tangling within itself. Was the universe fucking with him now? After giving him so much hope with your presence in his life after losing you? What’s the point of him going back in time if not to reclaim his love story?

Because now, it felt like he was interrupting someone else’s.

“It’s snowing!”

Your voice was cheery, lilted so lightly that it instantly spread a feeling of warmth across Sunghoon’s body despite the cold air penetrating through his heavy puffer. You were both outside the library, about to trek to the convenience store when the sudden weather inclement put a hole through your plans. Delicate snowfall began raining upon the campus, fluttering down beautiful in a flashy array of flakes.

“It is,” he acknowledged, following after your hyper footsteps that began tracing a circle in the translucent sheet of snow that had already fallen onto the ground. You ran around, whooping and cheering as you basked in the icy sensation of snowflakes landing on your skin. Sunghoon could only watched, endeared by how excited and energized you suddenly were.

Suddenly, you ran up to him, burying your open fingers under his arms and around his waist. He laughed, caught off-guard by your abrupt hug, stumbling back a little. “What’s with you, hm?” He softly crooned, wiping your hair out of your face. You smiled up at him, eyes shining despite the overheard dark sky looming over you.

“It’s so pretty, Hoon! I didn’t think it’d snow this year!” You cheerfully exclaimed, eyes curling into crescents as your mouth parted with the sheer excitement coursing through your body. He pulled you in closer on instinct, and you let out a small “oomph!” from the impact of your bodies colliding into a tighter embrace.

“You know what they say, Hoon? If confess during the first snowfall, your love will last forever!” You spoke up. Your speech was murmured, but Sunghoon had heard every word perfectly.

“Yeah? Do you believe in that?” He looked at you fondly. You nodded.

“Sunghoon, I like you so much, let’s go out!”

His mouth fell agape as your confession rang through the snow air. You looked horrified immediately after, but Sunghoon had pulled you in impossibly closer, tight enough to where you almost couldn’t breathe. “Hoon,” you whimpered miserably, hiding your face inside your scarf. “This is so embarrassing…”

“You like me?” he breathed out incredulously before bursting out into laughter. Snowflakes landed in his dark hair as he laughed, falling off as quickly as they came from how hard his body was shaking.

“You’re so mean!” you accused.

“I’m not laughing at you,” he insisted between breaths.

“Then why are you laughing?!”

“You’re just so cute,” Sunghoon confessed, his voice so tender and blossoming with the unsurmountable affection he had for you. “I like you too,” he admitted softly, “ever since I saw you in the dining hall.”

You smiled, but when he blinked, suddenly he was in the middle of his apartment. The cold air dissipated, bringing in the warmth of the heater he left on in the living room. His arms were still wrapped around something, no, someone. No.

Nothing.

His hands clenched around empty air, and the snowfall transformed into the city lights outside of the apartment windows. Your scarf that was in between his fingertips disintegrated into the dust that he never cleaned. Your laughter was still ringing in his ears, so elated and bright and it was mingling with something so sharp jarring annoying–

His ringtone?

The sound grew louder and louder until it drowned out everything else, until your smiling face started blurring at the edges. You were still standing in front of him beneath the snow, cheeks dusted from the cold with flecks of flakes littering your face.

“Hoon?” you laughed softly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

His phone kept vibrating.

“Hoon?”

The screen lit up across the dark apartment with an unknown number, and under the bold white digits in grey was the name of the university hospital. His breathing turned ragged instantly. His body moved before his brain could catch up, fumbling for the phone with trembling hands. But when he looked back up, you were still there. Snowflakes still landed in your hair. You were still smiling, cheeks puffed up and smile lines indenting your skin.

“I like you too,” he heard himself saying again, the memory replaying against his will. “Ever since I saw you in the dining hall.”

“Hoon?”

But this time your voice sounded farther away. His thumb shook over the accept button, and  when he pressed the green button, everything crashed together all at once, creating a collision in his mind. Your confession beneath the snowfall. Your wet toothbrush beside his in the apartment bathroom. Your warm hand in his while crossing the street. Your cold hand dangling under the white sheet in the morgue. Your voice whispering goodnight. The casket being lowered six feet deep in a hole that seemed too big for you.

Sunghoon doubled over violently, nearly dropping the phone as nausea twisted through him. It felt like someone had reached into his skull and ripped every memory apart before shoving them back in the wrong order. His head was pounding, throbbing violently as each memory churned in his head like butter. Then it curved into a dull ache, static on a television screen. 

“Is this Park Sunghoon?”

And just like that, the snow was gone, and the only cold he felt was the absence of your warm body.

“Sunghoon, you’ve been acting weird lately.”

“Oh, hm?”

Your face was suddenly in front of his, and you had a concerned pout on your lips. “You’ve been zoning out so much, it’s really worrying me… I know it’s just your personality, but you’ve been doing it so much…” You frowned, leaning forward, your shoulders hunching into your sides.

“I’m sorry– there’s– there’s just a lot going on…” He weakly replied. You let out a soft sigh.

“You know you can tell me anything, right? Me or Jake… I care for you a lot, you know. I hope you really know, Hoon…”

Sunghoon forced a tight-lipped smile and nodded. “I know,” he responded, his words sharper than intended. Your eyes were staring right into his, and before, Sunghoon would’ve felt the warmth. But now, all that he felt was the chills that Jay had instilled into his body. You stilled, before pulling away from the conversation, instead opting to grab your straw. Instinctively, he picked it up before you could, punching the plastic out of the wrapper and puncturing your drink for you.

“Oh, thanks Hoon. You really didn’t have to do that.” A sweet giggle escaped your lips, and the sound instantly grounded him.

“It’s not a big deal, let me do these things for you,” he easily said in response, the reply leaving his mouth naturally as it used to do.

“Sunghoon, do you act like this with everyone?” You suddenly asked. He looked at you, confused. “I mean– like, do you always act so sweetly towards everyone? Or is it just me…” you almost seemed embarrassed asking him this. 

“No, it’s just you?” He retorted, as if it was common sense that he would treat only you with the utmost care. Your face was warming up, and he could tell that you were flustered by his response.

“Really? So like, uhm, there’s no other girl that you’re, uhm… acting like this with, right?” Your voice was timid as you asked another question. Sunghoon scoffed, taken aback by how ridiculous your inquiry was. From the future and now in the past, you were the only girl for him, so why were you being so ridiculous now?

“Of course not,” he nearly snapped. He regretted it as soon as he saw your face falter and your posture shrink. No, what was he thinking? You didn’t know that. Of course you would ask. “I’m– I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me ba…” He trailed off as the nickname nearly slipped from his lips, so naturally that it was like calling you by your name. “Uhm, Y/N. I’m sorry. I think I’m just having a tough week. I promise you.”

You nodded, so patient as always, as you sipped on your drink. “It’s okay, Hoon. I hope things get better.” You smiled. He nodded, biting tentatively into the pastry. He didn’t like this cafe, and he knew that you didn’t like it either, but he didn’t want to ruin your first experience here. He half expected you to actually like the cafe if the past weeks were anything to go by, but he was pleasantly surprised when you instead scrunched your nose.

“This matcha is too milky…” You whispered. He smiled and nodded.

“Yeah? This pastry isn’t too good either. Wanna try?” He lifted up the dessert to your mouth, letting you take a bite right where he had previously taken one. You bit into it, lips curling into disgust.

“Should we just go and toss our stuff somewhere else? I don’t want to waste it, but it’s really not that good…” You whispered. Sunghoon laughed and nodded, holding out his hand. You hesitated, but took it, letting him lead you outside the cafe. You threw your drink and his pastry into the nearby trash can, just as you did before in Sunghoon’s original universe.

“Are you still thirsty? Should we get something from the convenience store instead?” He asked. You shook your head.

“No, I’m okay. Can we just walk a little?” You asked. Sunghoon nodded automatically.

You both began walking side-by-side down the sidewalk, your shoulders occasionally brushing together from how close you were. Autumn had left too soon, now bringing in the frigid weather of winter. The city was quiet, with everyone buried inside of their comforters during the early chilly morning. Some joggers and dog-walkers passed by, but it still only felt like you two were the only ones existing in that peaceful morning atmosphere. For a while, neither of you spoke. Sunghoon shoved a hand into the pocket of his coat while the other was still holding yours. He was trying not to stare at you again, but it was difficult when you were right there beside him, looking so soft beneath clouded skies.

“What I said back in the cafe… you’ve been treating me so differently,” you murmured suddenly. His stomach tightened.

“…Differently how?” He carefully asked back.

You slowed your pace slightly, looking down at the pavement. “I don’t know.” You laughed nervously. “You just… take care of me a lot. I remember when I first met you in Chem discussion, you were so shy. It was like you were scared of me. Then, you started crying in the library when you saw me… and now… it’s like you’re so much more mature than me… Does that make sense?”

“Is that bad?” he asked quietly.

“No– no, of course not. But, I don’t know Hoon. You stare at me… kinda weird,” the words carelessly slipped from your lips, and it was obvious with the way you let out a gasp and a flurry of apologies, before stumbling onto what you mean to say. “God, that’s not what I meant–! I meant… I don’t know. Like you take care of me so naturally, and you seem to already have a good sense of like–” you laughed nervously, rubbing at your face in embarrassment, “I don’t think you’re weird or anything, Hoon. I actually really like how caring you are.” Your voice softened at the end. “It’s just…” You slowed to a stop beneath the awning of a closed convenience store, your joined hands swinging slightly between your bodies.

Sunghoon turned toward you quietly, and you looked conflicted, with your mouth screwed and lips pressing up against each other so hard that the skin was jutting out uncomfortably. “Sometimes I think you’re so confident about knowing me that you forget there are still parts of me you don’t know yet? Is that too deep?” His chest tightened instantly, and he inhaled before he knew it, trying to regain the breath that you had just knocked out of him.

You kept talking before you lost the courage. “Like… you always know what I need before I say it. Like when I’m cold, when I’m tired, when I’m not feeling well…” You smiled faintly. “And it makes me really happy. It does.”

“But?” He pressed on, trying his best to hide his impatience.

“But sometimes it also feels like you’ve already decided who I am, in a way? Like, you seem to expect something differently than what I give you, Hoon. And sometimes…” you continued hesitantly, “I’ll say something that surprises you, and you get this look on your face like I said the wrong thing or something– and it’s kind of… okay, I’ll be honest, it’s kinda weird…” You laughed again, and the noise seemed like it was punched out of you like a soundboard.

“Like, you always try to guess what I like or what I don’t like or what I prefer– and at first I thought it was endearing, but it’s almost always wrong. And that’s fine, I guess. But sometimes you sound so confident that it’s– I dunno. That’s why I asked if there was another girl. Like, I don’t know, are you thinking of someone else?” You breathed out.

No, no, no, never. He always thought of you. He could never stop thinking about you. He inhaled and opened his mouth, wanting to defend himself, but you sputtered out something else so rushed like you were forcing it out of your throat, “I– I really want you to know me, Hoon.”

Sunghoon wanted to throw up. He had spent so much time trying to preserve the memory of the girl he lost that he had started overlooking the girl standing right in front of him. His skin was itching with the lovebugs crawling up it. He felt selfish. And suddenly, the image of him, nerdy and lanky and gushing to Jay with a flush on his pale cheeks struck his mind, hitting him bluntly on his noggin.

His fingers loosened around your hand before tightening again like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go completely. You looked nervous after your confession, eyes darting away from your intertwined hands immediately. “Sorry,” you laughed weakly. “That sounded way harsher than I meant it to.”

“No,” Sunghoon answered as soon as you stopped speaking, his voice coming out rough. “No, you’re right.” Your eyebrows furrowed slightly. He looked away before he could see your expression fully. “You’re right,” he repeated quieter this time. 

I really want you to know me. Not her. No. You? This version of you, the one standing beside him now. He looked at you, but was met with the sight of your side profile. The side profile that belonged to the same woman who he met at the dining hall, who moved in with him, who cooked him soup in the shared kitchen when he fell sick– memories hit him so violently he almost staggered, and he couldn’t tell where the lines were anymore.

Your favorite drink, your laugh, your habits. Were they yours? Hers? Was he loving you because you were you, or because he was desperately trying to keep the you that he remembered, alive?

Sunghoon felt sick. He felt saliva rapidly rise under the muscle of his tongue, and he kept swallowing and swallowing to keep it down. He felt like he was going to throw up.

“Hoon?” Your voice softened instantly at the sight of his face. Concern replaced your apprehension immediately. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” he muttered. You blinked. “You were honest.” He swallowed hard, nearly gasping for air as he opened his mouth to speak. “I think… I needed to hear it.” Your expression slowly softened, though puzzlement still lingered behind your eyes. Sunghoon stared down at the pavement.

For the first time since waking up two years in the past, his brain turned to mush, soft enough to let a thought penetrate his mind that he had been avoiding. Was loving you here ever supposed to be about getting his old life back with you? What was he here for? Images of him– not him, the him that you knew, came crawling back into his neurons.

Things wouldn’t have been like this if he had come. You and the right Sunghoon could’ve been where he was. The guilt began creeping down his throat and accumulating in his chest, weighing down his lungs with every shortened breath he took in.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to anymore. To you? To the girl he loved in the future? To himself? Or the other version of himself that he was living through?

You shifted slightly beside him, worry crossing your expression. “Hoon…? Sunghoon…?” You quietly spoke up, hesitant as your palm gently brought itself up to cup his cheek. He instinctively leaned into your warmth, but squirmed as his face rested in his palm. The ink of his guilt began to spread further as if his body was just dipped into water. He tightened his grip on your hand again on instinct, but it felt wrong, like was still trying to anchor himself into an ocean with waves that were too crashing upon each other.

“I didn’t…” his voice broke. “I didn’t mean to–” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. What was he trying to say? What was he even freaking out for, apologizing for? Because as much as he wracked his brain, he couldn’t grasp onto an answer still. For loving you wrong? For loving another version of you? For erasing you because you were right here, all alive and happy and oblivious? Sunghoon exhaled sharply, almost choking on it.

His hand finally loosened. “…I’m sorry,” he said again, but softer this time. You gently stroked his face with your thumb.

“Hoon, please don’t cry on me again.” You tried to lighten the mood. His eyes were shimmering with tears that built up in his ducts, but he simply shook his head, whispering out another apology.

“I’m not okay,” he admitted finally. You flinched, and the honesty honestly surprised him too, but you didn’t pull away. You just continued to comfort him, just as you always would. No. Sunghoon closed his eyes for a second. He shouldn’t think like this anymore. When he opened them again, he was looking at you. Just you, standing there, as you were.

“I think…” His voice cracked slightly, so he paused, forcing air back into his lungs. “I think I’ve been… confusing things.” Your expression softened, but you didn’t interrupt. “I thought I came back to something I lost,” he continued vaguely, “But I think I’ve just been standing in front of someone I never took the time to understand.”

His feelings felt like it finally had somewhere to go, not onto you, or even to him, but somewhere where Sunghoon couldn’t reach. It felt freeing, unraveling a tight knot of emotions that he didn’t have the energy to release before. Your hand lowered, as if drawn to pull off of his face. He let go of your other hand, finally loosening his grip.

“So then let me help you,” you whispered. His heart dropped. “Hoon…” Your voice trembled slightly now, heavy with the weight of the emotions pulsating between the both of you. “I know you’re confused right now, but I–"

He already knew what you were going to say, because you had the same hopeful look on your face that fateful winter night when you confessed under the snowfall. And before, selfishly, he would’ve let you. He would’ve let you pour out his feelings to him, accept them as easy as reciting ABC, and live without the burdens of the future weighing him down.

But this time, the words felt too important to take from you and from the other him that had been waiting for you.

“…Don’t,” he whispered. The hurt on your face was immediate, and he had to will himself to not take back his words. “No, no– not like that,” he corrected quickly, voice cracking. “I just… I don’t think I’m ready to hear it yet.” Snowy breath escaped your lips slowly into the cold air. “You deserve someone who can listen to you properly,” he said quietly. “Someone who can know you for who you are now. And I don’t think…” He inhaled shakily. “I don’t think I’ve been doing that.”

“Hoon…” You softly spoke up, but he interrupted you as soon as your mouth opened.

“I want to,” he admitted immediately. “I really do.” He wasn’t lying. Every part of him still wanted to hear you confess, to keep you close, to selfishly pretend like nothing was wrong. But loving you like this was beginning to feel cruel, so instead, he took a small step back.

“Will you…” He paused. “Will you meet me again another time?”

Your expression crumpled slightly in confusion. “When?” You whimpered. Sunghoon pondered for a moment, before he felt like he found the right answer.

“When I’m finally able to see only you.” He smiled. He had walked you back to your dorm, letting the silence loom over the both of you. He left you with an adjustment to your scarf and an endearing pat on your head.

That night, when he slept, he dreamt of your funeral.

The sky had been gray that day, with cumulonimbus clouds blocking any trace of sun. Just as your death had obstructed the access to the light of his life. People were crying around him. Jake had been sobbing openly beside Jay, shoulders shaking violently as he kept wiping at his face with trembling fingers, but Sunghoon remembered standing there completely still.

He hadn’t believed it yet.

Even as your framed photograph sat in front the altar. Even as your parents bowed their heads. Even as people whispered about how young you were. Even when he received consolations from everyone, telling him about how much you loved him. He remembered thinking absurdly as he stared at your altar.

How could you look so happy when his entire world had just ended?

The question echoed through the dream as Sunghoon stood frozen before your altar. Then slowly, memory after memory began surfacing around him. The first night you basked in your love after moving into your apartment, cuddling together so tightly that separating you guys would’ve been like pulling magnets apart. The night where you comforted him after his research symposium when he felt like he was the biggest failure in the world. The mundane moments where you laughed at him after burning rice and the soft moments where you whispered “I love you” so much that it was like you were reaching a quota.

The memories came so quickly that they stopped hurting individually. Instead, they melted together into something warm and alive. And suddenly, Sunghoon understood something he had been too devastated to realize before, that your death wasn’t the biggest thing about you. Your life was.

Not the funeral or grief, but just you as you were. The way you smiled, laughed, cried, and loved. The way you existed so brightly that even now, after death, you still filled every corner of him. Tears finally slipped down his face in the dream, but he wasn’t drowning in them anymore.

And standing there in the stuffy funeral home, Sunghoon quietly laughed to himself. “You’d be so mad that everyone’s crying this much,” he murmured. And he could hear the echoes of your voice scolding him for being so torn up when he should be moving onto better things because he was so young (just as you were.) The thought made him smile through his tears. Your memory no longer felt like a wound splitting open inside him. It felt like hands pressed gently around his heart. 

And when Sunghoon finally opened his eyes, he was no longer standing in the funeral home. He was home, in his apartment. Morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, warm gold spilling across hardwood floors and untouched, uncleaned furniture. The silence was familiar now. It wasn’t as sharp and reverberating against emptiness like it used to be, but quiet in the way winter mornings were quiet.

For a long moment, he just layed on the couch. The blanket you used to complain about because it “shed fuzz everywhere” was still draped over his body. One of your hair ties still sat around his wrist from weeks ago. The apartment still carried traces of you in every corner, soft remnants of a life that had once intertwined with his so naturally that even death couldn’t fully unravel it. Sunghoon slowly sat up after a while. For the first time since you died, the ache in his chest did not immediately make him want to chase after you. It only made him miss you.

A framed photo caught his eye from across the room. A snippet of a beach date where you both were smothered in sand and shattered seashells. He remembered that day now without feeling like his ribs were caving inward. He remembered it and smiled.

The sunlight continued pouring into the apartment little by little, warming spaces that had long felt frozen over. Sunghoon looked toward the empty side of the couch beside him. Then quietly, he whispered your name into the stillness, but for the first time, it wasn’t a plea to the Heavens. 

Winter took you from him, and Sunghoon spent the cold months treating his grief like something sacred, afraid that healing meant betraying you. But Spring came quietly, melting ice from sidewalks and blooming flowers through the cracks, and he finally learned that acceptance didn't mean loving you less.

You’ve been having strange dreams lately.

They felt so vivid, so clear to your vision that it felt like you could reach out and touch them. In these dreams, Jake’s cute nerdy friend, Sunghoon, was in them. He was in all of them, actually.

Visions of Sunghoon and you, on a date sipping on cola floats together. Visions of you both curled up in the library cubicle, giggling and sharing secrets instead of being productive. But oddly enough, he wasn’t wearing his thick-rimmed glasses and features grew into a more mature version, with a stronger jawline and deeper eyes. In these dreams, you could see the warmth in his eyes, hear the sounds of his soft laughter, and feel the intimacy of his affection.

Sometimes, the dreams were absurdly specific. Like mundane captures of you both arguing in the grocery store over what meat to buy, snapshots of an apartment you’ve never stepped foot in, and images that you don’t remember taking.  Sometimes, the dreams hurt. They echoed with the sound of anguished cries that made your chest ache when you woke up, made you feel empty like something was hollow from inside and like you were missing something that mattered so dearly yet you couldn’t remember. 

All he was to you was a boy in your Chem discussion and Jake’s close friend, so why did your dreams think differently, as if he was the most important person in your life?

You went to the library one night with Jake, and Sunghoon came later, only to end up crying as soon as he saw you. And for some reason, your heart signaled to your mind that, maybe he was, for some reason, because your chest began to ache with an odd sense of familiarity and endearance. So, it was only natural that you began to form a crush on him. But sometimes, your feelings felt deeper than just a mere crush, as if your feelings had roots that stretched somewhere your thoughts couldn’t reach.

You began hanging out with Sunghoon so much that you barely saw Jake anymore. Not that the Australian boy complained– after all, he was too busy trying to survive whatever war engineering majors had to go through that he didn’t even have time to hang anymore. But the more frequent your hangouts were, the more frequent the dreams were. You dreamt of tiny domestic things, like him stealing bites of your food and folding laundry terribly while you laughed at him. Falling asleep on his shoulder during movie nights. Listening to him hum quietly in the kitchen while making late-night ramen.

Eventually, you stopped trying to suppress what your heart already accepted. You liked him. (Maybe too much for someone you technically barely knew.)

So when the wintry season hit its peak, you saw Sunghoon again after texting him to meet you near the cafe where he initially rejected you. You both still hung out, but after that morning when you failed to confess properly, he seemed different. He looked lighter and full of life. Before, he seemed like a shell that was carrying an invisible burden that you couldn’t begin to understand. But now, he acted naively, as if there was nothing in the world that could dare drag him down.

“Hoon?” you called softly. He turned toward you immediately, expression warming the second he saw you approach. He smiled widely and adjusted his glasses. It was obvious he took some time to look good, with his hair styled up and his fashion seemingly taken from another closet. (Jay’s, you presumed. You heard his roommate had good fashion taste.)

“Hey, Y/N! Why did you want to meet me here?” He asked cheerfully.

You smiled as your fingers tightened around the straps of your bag before you finally blurted, “I’ve been having dreams about you.” His expression froze, and his eyebrows knitted together so adorably. You swallowed hard as you continued abruptly, realizing how bad that could’ve sounded. “Not wet dreams– shit, I mean, like– They’re weirdly specific. Like… really specific.” You laughed awkwardly. “Like dreams of us. Together. Dating…” You shyly trailed off.

Sunghoon stared at you silently, kindly waiting for you to finish as he listened intently.  “And sometimes,” your voice softened, “they’re sad.” Something flickered painfully across his face. You continued carefully, “In one of them, you were crying. Really badly.” Your chest tightened at the memory. “And I remember thinking that I wanted to comfort you more than anything, like that day you cried to me in the library…”

The breeze carried the scent of frost between you both. Sunghoon’s eyes began glossing over as he watched you, looking conflicted and a bit more confused. “I don’t really understand why this is happening.” You smiled faintly despite your nerves. “So…” You laughed softly.

“Maybe this is crazy, but I think I like you, Park Sunghoon. Do you want to go out with me?” You shyly asked. His mouth fell agape as his eyes widened.

“You– You like me? Like me, as in Park Sunghoon?” He sputtered out in disbelief, pointing a gloved hand at himself. You giggled and nodded.

“Yes, you idiot,” you laughed, cheeks warming from how genuinely stunned he looked. “How many Park Sunghoons do you think I know?” You teased, tilting your head to the right. His lips parted as stutters spilled from them unintentionally. And then, to your complete shock, his eyes immediately began watering.

“H-Hoon?” you gasped. “Oh my god, are you crying again?!”

“A– Again? When did I– snnfffh– When did I ever cry in front of you?” He choked out, sniffling away the snot that began to run down his philtrum, his voice cracking into two. He ripped his glasses off quickly, furiously wiping at his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater. You burst into laughter at how offended he sounded despite the tears visibly collecting on his lashes. Sunghoon groaned softly under his breath, embarrassed, before hiding his face behind one hand.

“This is so humiliating,” he muttered miserably, “Yes– God, a million times yes– I want to go out with you. Please go out with me,” his voice curved into a plea. You giggled, slotting your body into his to form a warm lock of an embrace.

You looked up at him, and it began to snow.

[w00yngie]

heartbreak anniversary

pairing: jung wooyoung x fem!reader

genre: angst, hurt w/comfort (i'm not a monster cmon), established relationship, nonidol!au

word count: 10.7k

warnings: no use of y/n, mentions of alcohol, miscommunication (again!), possessive!wooyo, soft dom!wooyo, also whiny wooyo, pronebone!!!!!, praise kink, make up sex, unprotected sex (wrap before you tap!), p in v, mating press (kinda), multiple o's, fingering, oral, felching, breath play, spit play/spit as a means for lube, creampie, cockwarming, slight choking (?), mutual masturbation, body worship, breeding kink (mentioned like once tbh), a little bit of edging, emotional sex (he cries, her kitty did too), overstimulation / lmk if i missed any!

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── author's note: based on this request! i lowkey went overboard and got carried away with the makeup sex but who's going to complaing if their steak is too juicy and the lobster too buttery, yk? :p i hope you enjoy this my love @moilele <333

permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs @mourninglizzy + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))

The key turns in the lock at 1:47 AM. You’ve been staring at the clock for so long the numbers have burned into your vision, following you even when you close your eyes. The candlelight dinner you prepared hours ago has congealed on the table, the wax from the candles having melted into sad, misshapen puddles.

When Wooyoung stumbles through the door, the smell hits you first—sharp, medicinal, unmistakably alcohol—before you even see his face. He’s loosening his tie with one hand, the other gripping the doorframe for balance. He tries to toe off his shoes and only manages to get one halfway off before giving up. He lets the other one fall with a thud, then drops his battered work bag into the hallway, not caring if it blocks the door or if either of you end up tripping over it later.

“Hey,” he mumbles, not quite meeting your eyes. “What are you doing still awake?”

You don’t answer immediately. You just watch him, this man who hasn’t texted you in nine hours, who left you sitting here with a heart that sank deeper into your chest with each passing minute. The silence stretches between you, taut as a wire.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” you finally say. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected, a calm that doesn’t match the storm inside.

Wooyoung blinks, processing your words through the alcohol fog. “Sorry, we were out at the bar. The project…” He waves his hand vaguely. “It went really well. Everyone was—”

“Celebrating,” you finish for him. Your eyes drift to the table behind you, the two plates still set with the meal you spent three hours preparing. The anniversary cake you ordered sits untouched in its box, the words “One Year” now barely visible through the condensation that’s gathered on the lid.

It hits you then, with a clarity that makes your stomach drop. He doesn’t remember.

“Look, I know I’m sorry that I’m late again,” Wooyoung says, finally noticing your expression. “Things got crazy at the office. You know babe, the promotion, it’s—”

“Do you know what day it is?” you ask quietly.

He frowns, clearly trying to think through his drunken haze. “Uhh Tuesday?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch the realization slowly dawn on his face, the way his eyes widen slightly, the way his mouth opens then closes without sound.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Oh fuck…”

“You forgot our anniversary.” It’s not a question.

“I didn’t—”Wooyoung runs a hand through his hair, his movements still uncoordinated. “The project deadline was today. We’ve been working toward this for weeks, you know that. And then everyone wanted to go out, and I couldn’t just—”

“Couldn’t just text me? Couldn’t just call to say you’d be late?” Your voice rises slightly, despite your efforts to keep it steady. “I sat here for hours, Wooyoung. I thought something happened to you. I called your friends, hell I even called your office phone.”

“I’m fine,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice now, defensive. “I’m right here. Everything’s fine.”

“Everything is not fine.” You stand up, needing the distance between you. “You’ve been working non-stop for weeks. You come home exhausted, barely speaking to me, and now you can’t even remember our anniversary?”

Wooyoung sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion and frustration. “I’m doing this for us, you know that—”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “Stop saying that. I’m not asking you to quit your job, Wooyoung. I’m asking you to be present. To remember that I exist when you’re not at work.”

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a moment you see the man you fell in love with—the one who used to notice when you changed your hair, who used to call just to hear your voice. But then his expression hardens again.

“You don’t understand the pressure I’m under,” he says, his voice tight. “This isn’t just about me. It’s about our future.”

“Our future?” You let out a humourless laugh. “What fucking future? I barely see you anymore. When was the last time we had an actual conversation that wasn’t about how tired you are?”

“I’m trying to build something for us.”

“No, you’re building something for yourself and calling it ‘us’ to make yourself feel better.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and honest in a way that makes your chest ache. “I feel like you only love me when it’s convenient for you. When you have the time and energy.”

Wooyoung’s face darkens. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” You step closer, needing him to see, to understand. “When was the last time you asked how I was doing? When was the last time you noticed anything about my life that wasn’t directly related to yours?”

“I’m under a lot of stress right now, baby.”

“We’re all under stress, Wooyoung. That’s not an excuse to disappear on your girlfriend.”

The room falls silent. Wooyoung’s shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched. You can see the exhaustion etched into every line of his face, the dark circles under his eyes that have been there for weeks. Part of you wants to reach out, to comfort him, but the hurt is too fresh, too deep.

“I’m doing my best,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m trying to balance everything.”

“Your best isn’t good enough.” The words hang in the air between you, sharp and painful. “Not when your best means I spend our anniversary wondering if you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere because you couldn’t be bothered to send a text.”

Wooyoung flinches. “That’s not—”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Your voice breaks. “To sit here, watching the clock, imagining all the worst possible scenarios because the man I love can’t remember I exist?”

“I do remember you exist,” he says, and there’s frustration in his voice now. “I think about you all the time. I’m doing all of this for you.”

“For me?” You laugh, the sound hollow. “This isn’t for me, Wooyoung. I never asked for any of this. I asked for you. Not this stressed-out stranger who comes home at midnight and falls asleep on the couch.”

He’s silent for a long moment, and you can see him struggling, the alcohol and exhaustion making it hard for him to find the right words. When he finally speaks, his voice is strained.

“Maybe this is the real me,” he says. “Maybe this is who I am now and you just don’t like what you see.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. You take a step back, your breath catching in your throat. You shake your head, denying the words that came out of his mouth.

“That’s not true,” you whisper.

“Isn’t it?” Wooyoung’s voice rises, matching your earlier statement, fuelled by frustration and alcohol. “Because it seems like nothing I do is ever good enough for you. I’m either working too much or not making enough money or not paying enough attention—”

“I’ve never said that.”

“You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face every time I come home late. Every time I’m too tired to talk.” He runs his hand through his hair again, the gesture agitated. “Maybe you should just find someone who can give you what you want, since apparently I can’t.”

The silence that follows is absolute. You stare at him, unable to believe the words that just came out of his mouth. Wooyoung looks just as shocked as you feel, his eyes widening as he realizes what he’s said.

“Wait… shit no that’s not what I meant…” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You want me to leave?” Your voice is barely audible.

“No, I didn’t mean…“ Wooyoung takes a step toward you, but you back away. “I’m sorry, I’m drunk and exhausted and I didn’t—”

“You meant it,” you say. There’s no anger in your voice now, just a deep, bone-weary sadness. “Maybe not all of it, but part of it.”

He doesn’t deny it. The silence stretches between you, filled with everything that’s been left unsaid for weeks.

“I need to be alone,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. The words hang between you, a barrier neither of you has the strength to cross. “I can’t do this right now.”

Wooyoung opens his mouth to respond, but you’re already moving, already turning away from the wreckage of your anniversary night. You don’t look back as you walk down the hallway to your bedroom—the bedroom that was supposed to be shared, not a place of retreat. The door clicks shut behind you with a finality that makes your chest ache.

In the darkness of your room, you press your back against the door and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor. Your shoulders shake with silent sobs you refuse to let him hear. The anniversary card you’d written him earlier sits on your nightstand, the words inside now feeling hollow and foolish.

Time passes. You don’t know how long you sit there, but eventually, you stand on trembling legs and change into your sleep clothes. The bed feels too big, too empty. You lie on your side, staring at the empty space where Wooyoung should be, and wait for sleep that doesn’t come. An hour passes. Maybe two. Your anger has cooled to a dull ache in your chest, but sleep still eludes you. Finally, you slip out of bed, needing water, needing to move.

The living room is dark except for the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. And there he is—Wooyoung, slumped on the couch, still in his work clothes, one arm thrown over his eyes. Even in the dim light, you can see the tear tracks on his face, the dark stain on the cushion beneath his cheek.

Your heart constricts. Despite everything—despite the anger, despite the hurt—you still love him. You still care.

You move silently to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and grabbing the bottle of aspirin from the cabinet. Your movements are careful, deliberate, as you place them on the coffee table beside him. You don’t wake him. You don’t say a word.

Instead, you stand there for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his chest. Even in sleep, his face is troubled, his brow furrowed. You want to smooth the lines away, to tell him everything will be okay. But you can’t. Not yet.

So you do the only thing you can. You take care of him, silently, the way you’ve always done. Because even when he forgets, even when he’s lost in his own world of stress and ambition, you remember. You remember the man you fell in love with, the one who’s still in there somewhere, buried under exhaustion and pressure.

You pull the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drape it carefully over him. Your fingers brush against his hair, just once, so lightly he doesn’t stir. Then you turn and walk away, back to the bedroom that feels emptier than it should. You climb into bed alone, the space beside you cold and untouched. You wonder if this is how relationships begin to break—not through lack of love, but through all the ways people fail to hold onto each other when life becomes too heavy. Sleep comes eventually, but it’s fitful, troubled by dreams of a future that feels increasingly uncertain.

══════════════════ Wooyoung wakes slowly to the dull throb of a splitting headache and a sharp ache running down his neck. The couch digs painfully into his back, one arm numb from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in. For a few disoriented seconds, he just stares at the ceiling, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the apartment. Then last night hits him all at once. The argument. Your tears. The look on your face when he realized what day it was.

With a quiet groan, he pushes himself upright, rubbing a hand over his face. That’s when he notices the blanket draped carefully over him. The glass of water sitting on the coffee table beside two aspirin. His chest tightens. You took care of him anyway. Even after everything.

Wooyoung stares at the medicine for a long moment before letting out a weak, humourless laugh under his breath. “Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, guilt crawling up his throat. 

He swallows the aspirin dry before forcing himself to stand, exhaustion still heavy in his limbs. The apartment is quiet as he makes his way toward the bedroom, each step slower than the last, like he’s afraid of what he’ll find on the other side of the door. He eases it open carefully. You’re asleep, curled toward his side of the bed even though it stayed empty all night. In the soft morning light, he notices the tear tracks dried against your cheeks immediately, and something inside him caves in at the sight. His own eyes still burn from last night, raw and swollen in a way he knows mirrors yours. For a moment, he just stands there in silence, looking at you. At the woman who still tucked a blanket around him after he forgot about your anniversary. After he hurt you. Wooyoung closes his eyes briefly, jaw tightening.

He closes the door to your shared bedroom and makes his way to the kitchen. He quietly reaches for his phone and silences the alarm for work before typing out a lengthy message to his boss with determined fingers. Nothing at work feels more important than this anymore.

He had to fix this.

══════════════════

Your eyes open to the empty space beside you, the pillow still perfectly fluffed, untouched. Of course he’s already gone. The realization settles in your chest like a stone. You lie there for a moment, the events of last night crashing back with brutal clarity. The forgotten anniversary. The heartbreak that ensued. The fight. The words that can’t be unsaid. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, forcing the tears to remain at bay.

Then you hear it—the soft clink of dishes from the kitchen.

Your heart stutters. You freeze, listening. There it is again—the unmistakable sound of someone moving around in the kitchen. The one that should be empty right now. Panic rises in your throat. He’s still here. Wooyoung is still here, and you have no idea what to say to him after everything that happened. After everything you both said.

You sit up slowly, your body heavy with emotional exhaustion. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you pad toward the bedroom door. Your hand hesitates on the doorknob. What will you see when you open it? Will he be packing his things? Will he be waiting to tell you it’s over?

The door creaks as you pull it open. The hallway seems longer than usual as you make your way toward the kitchen. With each step, your anxiety grows, a tight knot in your chest that makes it hard to breathe.

And then you see him.

Wooyoung stands at the counter, his back to you. He’s still wearing the same clothes from last night, rumpled and wrinkled. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles. He moves slowly, methodically, as if each action requires immense concentration.

“Aren’t you going to work?” The words slip out before you can stop them, your voice hoarse from crying.

Wooyoung turns, and the sight of him makes your breath catch. His eyes are bloodshot, his face pale. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, like he’s been carrying the weight of your argument with him through the long night.

“I told them I wasn’t coming in today or for the rest of the week,” he says simply.

The words hang in the air between you. You stare at him, trying to process what this means. Wooyoung never calls in. He’s the type who goes to work with a fever of 102, who works through weekends and holidays without complaint.

“What? Why?” you ask, the question barely audible.

Wooyoung sets down the cup he’s been holding. His knuckles turned white as he gripped onto the glass tighter. “I already lost enough time with you yesterday. I’m not about to just leave you here alone, again.”

The simplicity of his words hits you like a physical blow. You lean against the doorframe, suddenly weak. The kitchen table is set—two plates, two mugs, the breakfast you used to make together on weekend mornings. The silence that follows is thick with everything left unsaid. You watch as he turns back to the counter, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion. There’s a vulnerability in his posture you haven’t seen in months—the confident, ambitious man you’ve been watching slip away replaced by someone unsure, someone hurting.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, still facing away from you. “For everything I said last night. For making you feel like you don’t matter to me.” He turns to face you, and the raw emotion in his eyes makes your chest ache. “You matter more than anything, and I’ve been acting like you don’t.” You want to go to him, to bridge the distance between you, but your feet feel rooted to the spot. “And the rest?” you ask. “What you said about me finding someone else?”

Wooyoung’s face crumples. “I didn’t mean any of that stupid shit. I was an idiot and said the most hurtful thing I could think of because I was angry at myself, not at you. What I said to you was inexcusable.” He runs a hand through his hair, the gesture agitated. “I was so terrified of failing you that I ended up failing you anyway.”

The truth of his words settles over you. You step into the kitchen, moving toward him slowly, giving him the chance to retreat if he wants to. He doesn’t. “I don’t want someone else,” you say quietly. “I want you. Not the version of you that’s so caught up in work he forgets we exist. That I exist.”

Wooyoung’s eyes filled with tears. “I’ve been so focused on building a future for us that I forgot to be present in our now.” He takes a step toward you. “I’m so sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away or ever but—God, I fucked up so bad.”

You look at the breakfast he’s prepared—eggs perfectly set, toast golden, the smell of coffee already doing something to the tension in your shoulders. He’s always been a better cook than you. You’d forgotten that, somehow, in the wreckage of last night.

“Come here,” you say softly.

He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, and then his arms are around you, holding you so tightly it’s almost painful. You can feel him trembling, feel the way his heart hammers against your cheek. Your face tucks just under his chin, and you feel the warm wetness of tears landing soft in your hair.

“I love you,” he whispers, the words muffled against your hair. “I love you so much, and I’m so sorry I made you doubt that.” You hold him just as tightly, your own tears spilling over. “I love you too,” you mumble against his chest. “Don’t shut me out like that again, You know I’m always here for you.”

Wooyoung pulls back, his hands coming up to cradle your face. His thumbs brush away your tears with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. “I know,” he says. “I’ll do better for you. For us. Today, tomorrow, and however long as it takes.”

He leans forward and presses his forehead against yours. “Can I show you something?” You nod. “I got you something,” he says. “I remembered that I had a whole elaborate plan to give this to you.” He exhales, something between a laugh and a sob. “Then I got the promotion news and I just—I let that take over everything. Your gift has been sitting in my bag for two weeks while I was out celebrating myself.” He shakes his head. “I made our anniversary about me. I’m such an idiot.” “Yeah, the biggest idiot of all time.” He lets out a small chuckle, a hint of guilt and sadness follow the hollow laugh. A flicker of something hopeful crosses his exhausted face. “Can I still give it to you?” You look up at him. “Of course.”

Wooyoung’s face lights up with a small, tentative smile. He takes your hand and leads you to the living room. You both sink into the couch where he spent the night, your shoulders touching. His work bag sits on the floor beside it. He reaches down and pulls out a small velvet box.

Your breath catches.

“It’s not what you think,” he says quickly, seeing your expression. “Not yet, anyway.” He opens the box to reveal a delicate silver bracelet, with a small charm hanging from it—a tiny compass.

“It’s so you always find your way back to me,” he explains, his voice soft. “Even when I’m being a complete dumbass.” You look from the bracelet to his face, seeing the hope and fear mingled in his eyes. This is what you fell in love with—not the ambitious, driven man who works too much, but this man who’s vulnerable enough to admit when he’s wrong, who’s brave enough to try to fix what he’s broken.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, holding out your wrist.

As Wooyoung fastens the bracelet with trembling fingers, you realize that healing won’t happen overnight. There will be more conversations, more difficult moments as you both learn to balance his career with your relationship. But as his hand finds yours, the bracelet cool against your skin, you know you’re willing to try.

Because some things are worth fighting for. Some people are worth the struggle. And this man—flawed and imperfect but trying, always trying—is one of them.

“I should have called,” he says finally, his voice quiet in the morning stillness. “I should have texted. I kept thinking about it, but then someone would pull me into another conversation, and I’d get distracted, and then...” He trails off, shaking his head. “That’s no excuse.”

“No, it’s not,” you agree, but there’s no anger in your voice now. Just bone-deep weariness.

Wooyoung’s shoulders slump. He looks smaller somehow, diminished by his own guilt. “I’ve been so focused on proving myself at work that I forgot to be present here. With you.” His eyes find yours, red-rimmed and sincere. “I’m drowning, and instead of asking for help, I’ve been pulling you under with me.”

Your chest tightens at his words. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own hurt that you haven’t fully considered his perspective. “Why didn’t you tell me you were struggling?” you ask softly.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Because I was supposed to be the strong one. The one who had it all figured out.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t want you to see how overwhelmed I was. How scared I am that I won’t be enough.”

The admission hangs in the air between you. You reach for his hand, your fingers hesitantly brushing against his. He turns his palm up, letting you take it.

“I’m sorry too,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “For being so accusatory last night. For making you doubt that your best wasn’t enough. And for dismissing the fact that you work so immensely hard to provide for us.”

Wooyoung looks up, surprise evident in his eyes.

“I was angry,” you continue, “but I was also terrified. Every time you came home late without calling, I imagined the worst. And then I’d feel so stupid when you finally texted, like I was being dramatic or clingy.”

“You’re not,” he says firmly. “You were right to be worried. I’ve been a completely inconsiderate asshole.”

You squeeze his hand. “And I said things I didn’t mean. About you not loving me.” The words are hard to say, hard to admit. “I know that’s not true. I just... I missed you. I missed us.”

A tear slips down Wooyoung’s cheek. “I’ve missed us too,” he admits. “I’ve been so caught up in work that I forgot how to be a person. How to be your person.”

You shift closer to him on the couch, the gap between you narrowing. Your free hand reaches up to brush away his tear, your touch tentative, questioning. He leans into it, his eyes closing briefly.

“I’m going to do better,” he promises. “I’ve already talked to my boss about setting better boundaries. About leaving work at a reasonable hour, about not checking emails at home.” He opens his eyes, looking at you with such intensity it makes your breath catch. “You deserve more than the scraps of time and attention I’ve been giving you.”

“What if you can’t?” you ask, voicing the fear that’s been haunting you. “What if work pulls you back in?”

Wooyoung’s expression turns determined. “Then I’ll walk away. Find something else. Because nothing is worth losing you over.” He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Nothing.”

Your vision blurs with fresh tears. “I don’t want you to give up your career for me.”

“I’m not,” he assures you. “I’m choosing our relationship. Choosing you. The career is just a job. I can be replaced at any given moment but you? You’re my whole life. You’re irreplaceable.”

The words wash over you, healing some of the hurt that’s been festering. You move closer still, until your knees are touching, until you can feel the warmth of him beside you.

“I love you,” you say simply. “Even when you’re being an idiot and forgetting our anniversary.”

A watery laugh escapes him. “I love you too. I’m your idiot, though.”

Your hand finds its way to his face, cupping his cheek. His stubble is rough against your palm, grounding you in this moment. He turns his head slightly, pressing a kiss to your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion.

You nod, unable to form words around the lump in your throat.

Wooyoung leans forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t. When his lips meet yours, it’s like coming home after a long journey. There’s relief in the touch, and longing, and a deep, abiding affection that transcends the hurt of the past weeks.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m so sorry.”

His kisses move to your cheek, to the corner of your eye where tears still linger. “I’ll do better,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

You tilt your head, giving him access to your neck, where he presses soft, apologetic kisses. “I know you will,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his hair. 

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “I don’t deserve you,” he says. “But I’m going to spend every day trying to be worthy of you.”

You shake your head. “You already are. You just got lost for a while.”

He pulls you into his arms, holding you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear. His hand strokes your hair, gentle and soothing.

“I was so scared,” you admit, the words muffled against his shirt. “That we were falling apart, and I didn’t know how to stop it.”

His arms tighten around you. “We’re not falling apart,” he promises. “We’re just... learning how to be together in a new way. With new challenges.”

You look up at him, seeing the determination in his eyes. “Together,” you repeat. “That’s the important part.”

Wooyoung nods, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Together. Always.”

The breakfast he made sits forgotten on the table, growing cold. But you don’t mind. There will be other breakfasts, other mornings. Right now, all that matters is this—the two of you, holding onto each other, finding your way back to what matters most.

“I think,” Wooyoung says after a while, his voice soft with sleepiness and emotion, “that since i took a few days off we could spend more time together. Just us. No work, no distractions.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Taking time off? Who are you and what have you done with my workaholic boyfriend?”

He laughs, the sound warming you from the inside out. “I’ve been replaced by someone with better priorities.” His expression turns serious. “I mean it, though. We need this. I need this. To remember that I have a lot of making up to do.”

The idea is tempting. “And how would you do that, hm?”

“I could think of one way right now,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre that sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can respond, Wooyoung stands and scoops you into his arms, his movements surprisingly fluid despite his exhaustion. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck as he carries you toward your bedroom—your shared bedroom that’s been missing his presence for far too long.

“Wooyoung,” you breathe, your heart racing as he pushes the door open with his foot. “Put me down! I could’ve walked to the bedroom too, idiot.”

“Sorry princess. I couldn't help myself,” he says, his eyes dark with desire as he lays you gently on the bed.

He climbs onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. For a moment, he just looks at you, his expression a mixture of reverence and hunger that makes your breath catch.

“Missed you,” he whispers, his hand coming up to trace the line of your jaw. “So much.”

You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss that’s deeper than before, more urgent. His lips move against yours with a desperation that speaks volumes about the distance that’s grown between you. You can taste the salt of dried tears on his skin, feel the slight tremble in his hands as they slide down to your waist.

You fist your hands in the crisp fabric of his shirt. The buttons press sharp and insistent against your chest, and you tug at them, desperate, fumbling until the first one gives. He groans, shifting so he can help, pulling away just enough to make quick work of the rest. The shirt falls open, exposing him to the morning light, the edges of his collarbone flushed and vulnerable.

Your breath hitches—you’d forgotten, somehow, how beautiful he is like this. His body is lean but not slight, muscle hugging bone and sinew in all the right places. You drag your hand along the inside of his forearm, tracing the thick black lines of the rose inked from his wrist to the curve before his elbow. You glide over the leaves and thorns, half-expecting the tattoo to prickle beneath your touch. He shudders, eyes hooded, drinking in the sight of you devouring him.

You slide your palm up, across his biceps, his shoulder—mapping every inch, reacquainting yourself with the geography of him. His chest heaves, the faint dusting of hair there rising as you scrape your nails down to his abs. You can’t help but smile a little at how his stomach tenses, how he jerks when you reach the sensitive dip above his hips. He grabs your hand, bringing it to his mouth, kissing each knuckle in apology and in thanks. He’s trembling with wanting, with relief, and you want to swallow it whole.

You pull him closer, reaching up to slide the shirt off his shoulders. It pools at his elbows, then falls away, leaving him naked from the waist up. He presses you into the mattress, his lips everywhere at once—your jaw, your neck, the hollow at your collarbone. His hands are greedy, slipping under your shirt, seeking skin, worshipping you as if you’re the only thing in the world that makes sense.

Wooyoung’s fingers curl into the soft cotton of your sleep shirt as though he’s gathering every ounce of courage in his body to peel away not only the fabric but the distance he’s put between you. The morning light filters through gauzy curtains, illuminating the swirl of dust motes in the air and casting a gentle glow over your skin. He pauses, breath catching as he drinks you in—every freckle on your shoulder, every rise and fall of your chest—before tugging the shirt up and over your head in one smooth, practiced motion. The cool air of the room grazes your bare skin, sending a shiver through you as the light catches the gentle pebbling of your nipples and the subtle flex of your stomach muscles.

He chases away the chill, warm palms gliding up your sides, fingertips tracing the lines of your ribs, thumbs circling the soft shadows beneath your breasts as if to reassure himself that you are real—solid and here. “W-Wooyoung,” you breathe out, barely more than a tremor in the air, but it hits him like a bullet: his gaze snaps up, blown wide and hungry, jaw tensing so hard you can see the cords in his neck stand out. “Hmm?” He sounds dazed, already gone for you. He searches your face for a clue, a hint of what you want, even as his hands keep moving—roaming your waist, palming the flare of your hips, stroking reverent up and down your spine. You shudder, skin prickling everywhere he touches. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, you arch your back and hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear—your last layer—and drag them down, inch by inch, teasing yourself as much as him. You kick them off, letting them flutter to the floor, and stretch out on your stomach, arms reaching above your head, pressing your cheek into the pillow. You tilt your hips up, highlighting the bare swell of your ass, lush and expectant, every inch of you primed for him. The effect is instantaneous. He groans, low and feral in the back of his throat, his cock straining visibly against the thin grey of his sweats.

“What are you doing, baby?” he chokes, voice ragged, eyes glued to the sight of you so shamelessly presenting for him. 

You glance back lazily over your shoulder, lips parted, smile hazy and filthy. “Lay on top of me.” Your voice drips with need, teasing, coaxing, as your ass shifts again, the jiggle intentional, sinful.

His adam's apple bobs, eyes glued to the way you’re presenting yourself to him, pussy glistening and waiting. He sits frozen for a second, maybe trying to get his breath back, maybe just marvelling at how good you look, spread out and waiting.

“Bet."

Then he’s on you, crawling up the bed with a focused intent that sends another thrill through you. “Up,” he murmurs, tapping your hip. You lift obediently and he slides a pillow beneath you, angling your hips up off the mattress before he kneels behind you, pushes your thighs apart with strong hands, trapping your legs beneath his as he blankets your body. His heat, heavy and suffocating in the best way, seeps into your skin. Your cheek sinks into the sheets; you can smell your own slick in the air, feel the pulse of anticipation between your thighs. He leans in, lips skimming up your spine, worshipping every vertebrae, every goosebump and dimple, before he settles his weight against your back, pinning you down and making you feel tiny beneath him. You can’t help it: you reach back, grab at the waistband of his slacks, desperate to feel more of him. Your fingers brush the rigid outline of his cock and he shudders, hips jerking, the tip already wetting a dark stain into the fabric. He lets you tug down his pants, lifting his hips just enough to help you get them over his ass, down his thighs, clumsy and urgent. As soon as they’re off, he kicks them away, a brief chill racing up your legs before he covers you again, hotter and needier than before. You’re both trembling—maybe from nerves, maybe from how badly you need each other. 

“Please,” he moans, the word nearly a whimper, as you wrap your hand around the bulge beneath his boxers, feeling him throb in your grip. He’s so hard it almost hurts, and when you pull the waistband down and finally set him free, he gasps, forehead dropping onto your shoulder. His cock springs out, thick and flushed, the head angry red and already leaking.

“Jesus,” you hear yourself say, voice thick with awe. “Someone’s a little eager.” He laughs, shaky, like he’ll fall apart if he doesn’t.

“You have no fucking idea.”

His hand traces your thigh, kneading your flesh, fingers digging in with just enough pressure to bruise. You feel how much he needs you in every trembling touch. He cups your ass, squeezing and spreading, and then lets his hand drift lower, fingers ghosting along your slit. You’re soaked—embarrassingly so—and he groans when he feels it, slicking his fingers through you, teasing your entrance with featherlight touches. Your hips buck back, desperate for more, but he holds you firmly in place, taking his time, savoring the way you writhe under him.

“Are you gonna make me beg?” you pant, rutting against his hand.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder blade, voice thick and broken. “I want to hear you say you need me.”

“You already know I do.” 

“Say it anyway.” His tongue flicks your earlobe, his words vibrating in your chest. “I need you, Wooyoung. Please.” The words tumble out, more desperate than you mean them to, but you don’t care. You want him—need him—so bad it’s physically painful. He lines himself up at your entrance, the heat of his cock a brand against your skin. But he doesn’t push in—not yet. He grinds the tip against your folds, smearing his precum through your wetness, teasing you with shallow thrusts that never quite give you what you want. You sob into the pillow, body arching, entirely at his mercy. “God, look at you,” he whispers. “You’re so perfect. Fuck, I don’t deserve you.” “Yes you do.” The words are a gasp, but you mean them. Even after everything, you want to give him this. You want to give him everything. He’s shaking, whole body vibrating with the effort of holding back, not just rutting into you like an animal. “Is this okay?” he asks, voice so weighted with emotion it almost makes you cry. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.” “I want you,” you say, “I always want you. I want you right now, more than anything.” He lets out a choked breath, as if you’ve released him from a terrible spell. “Fuck, yes.” He buries his face in the curve of your neck, breath hot and ragged. You feel the tip of his cock press against your entrance, stretching you slowly, inch by inch as he slides in. The stretch is sweet, burning, perfect. You moan, the sound loud and raw, echoing off the walls of your shared bedroom. He fills you up, deeper than you remember, and it feels like coming home after a long, cold exile. You clench around him, savouring the drag, the friction, the pulse of his heartbeat through the thickness of his cock. He starts to move, slow at first, drawing out each withdrawal and thrust so you feel every centimetre, every ridge and vein. His hands on your waist are trembling, sometimes gripping too hard and then letting go, as if he’s afraid to hurt you, afraid to let go of this moment. You arch your back, pushing yourself up into him, greedy for more. “Harder,” you urge. “Fuck me harder."

He whimpers, hips stuttering, and then sets a punishing pace, hips snapping forward to drive into you with every ounce of pent up longing he’s been carrying. The mattress creaks, the headboard smacks the wall. He’s so big, so deep, so desperate, and you love it.

“Don’t… fuck– say that shit,” he whines, his voice cracking. “Y’feel so good, so fucking tight.”

You arch back, meeting his thrusts, loving the way he loses control. His need for you is unfiltered, all-consuming, and you drink it like oxygen. He sets a rhythm, fast and merciless, hips slamming into you so hard it feels like a punishment, but you crave it, need it, want him to fuck you so hard you forget the argument and only memorise the feeling of him inside you. The slapping sound of skin on skin is obscene, even over the creaking of the bed and your shared moans, but you don’t care, don’t care if the whole apartment building hears you. Wooyoung is not gentle, not now; he’s desperate, driven by weeks of withheld affection, of loneliness and longing. He covers you, bites your shoulder, fucks you like it’s the last time, every thrust a plea for forgiveness and a pledge of eternity.

He leans more of his weight into you, his hand snaking around to your front, fingers seeking your clit. The first touch is electric—you jerk, stars bursting behind your eyes. He circles your clit with the pad of his finger, fast and hard, no finesse, just pure need to make you cum.

In a cruel twist of fate, his hips slow suddenly—the rhythm of his hips bullying yours breaking. You whimper at the loss, your body clenching around him, so desperate for more. But he pulls out completely, leaving you empty, aching.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice rough with need.

You crane your neck back over your shoulder, cheek still pressed into the sheets, and find him watching you with that dark intensity that makes your breath catch. His cock glistens with your combined wetness, the head swollen and flushed as he drags it slowly up and down your entrance, the angle making you feel every torturous inch of the tease—just enough pressure to feel but not enough to satisfy.

“Please,” you gasp, hips tipping higher. His lips curl into a wicked smile from somewhere above and behind you. “Not yet.” He circles your clit with his slick tip before sliding back down. Your thighs tremble against the pillow he placed under your hips. “Spit,” he commands, reaching his palm around to your mouth.

You obey without hesitation, gathering saliva that he uses to coat himself again, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. He returns to his maddening teasing, the new slickness making his cock glide effortlessly against your swollen flesh.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, the words punched out between ragged breaths. “Look at you—taking everything I give you.” You’re beyond words now, reduced to desperate sounds as he continues his exquisite torture. When you can’t stand it anymore, you reach behind your body, guiding him back to where you need him most. He lets you, but only for a moment. With a growl that vibrates through your chest, he pushes your hand away and positions himself again, his eyes locked on to the way your body is so responsive to his. Then he leans down, lips pressing soft and slow into your shoulder, and you feel his breath warm against the curve of your neck “Princess” he whispers, voice cracking open at the edges, his cock still dragging slowly and torturous against your entrance. “You can forgive me right? Shit…You can forgive your Wooyo right?” “Yes,” you gasp, hips rolling back into him helplessly. “Yes, yess—fuck, I f-forgive you… Wooyoung, I need you so bad, please!" Something breaks in his expression—all restraint shattering. He thrusts forward in one powerful motion, burying himself to the hilt with a sound that borders on a sob, hands clutching your hips—his grip bruising but full of desperate love. “God, you feel so good,” he croaks. “I missed this. I missed you. I missed you so fucking much.”

The force of it knocks the wind out of you, the fullness so shocking you can only moan, the sound muffled by the pillow but loud enough for him to hear—maybe for the neighbours to hear too. He doesn’t care. Neither do you. The words degenerate into a string of curses and pleas, all dignity and composure long abandoned. You’re reduced to this: the shudder of your hips, the filthy slickness on your thighs, the way you beg for him with every inch of your body.

He’s lost to it now, rutting into you with a violence born of weeks—months—of wanting, of regret, of all the shit he’s made you both suffer through in his absence. Every motion is a contradiction, a punishment and an apology, as he fucks you harder than he ever has, hips snapping so fast you barely have time to catch your breath between thrusts. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, yanking you back onto him, fisting in your hair, ghosting along your ribs and then down to your clit. His fingers rub you with the same desperate rhythm as his cock, no finesse, just pure, animal drive to make you cum first, to make you remember what you are together.

He doesn’t say a word at first, just grunts and breathes your name into your hair like a prayer. But when you look back at him, head turned over your shoulder, you see his face twisted in something rawer than lust. Love. His eyes are wet. He thrusts in, deeper, grinding the head of his cock against the spot inside you that makes your vision white out at the edges.

“God, I missed you,” he whines, the words hitching on the upstroke. “I missed you, princess, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—” He laces his apology into every movement, every thrust, trying to convince you with the force of his body how much he means it. “No one else can have you, fuck, never anyone else, not ever, you hear me?” His hips stutter, losing rhythm, and you know he’s close, so close, but he won’t let himself finish until you do.

He snakes his hand around your throat, the gentlest squeeze, just enough to remind you who’s in control. The pressure is perfect; you arch into it, into him, hips rocking back greedily to milk every inch of his cock. He bends over you, mouth against your ear, breath hot and frantic: “Cum for me, princess. Wanna feel you cum all over me.” And you do, splintering apart around him, pleasure ripping through you so hard it borders on pain. You scream, you swear, you claw at the sheets, and he fucks you through it, pace relentless, never slowing, never breaking.

He’s shaking above you, groaning your name, his hand still tangled in your hair as he thrusts a few more desperate times and then comes, deep inside you, with a guttural wail. The heat of his release is almost shocking, the way he fills you leaving no doubt that he’s yours, utterly and absolutely. He stays pressed to you, sweat-slicked and trembling, for long, silent seconds, his cock twitching with aftershocks, his breath turning softer, steadier. You can feel his heart thumping against your back, the wild rhythm slowly synchronizing with yours.

He never lets you go, not even as he softens inside you. He just wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in your neck. You can’t move, can barely breathe, but the only thing you want is to stay like this forever—his weight, his warmth, his love, every bit of him pressed into you until you forget where you end and he begins. He’s the apology and the forgiveness, the punishment and the reward, and you take every last bit of him, all over again, until neither of you has anything left to give.

You’re both gasping, boneless, ruined, but it’s the best kind of ruined—like you’ve been put back together again, better than you were before. He kisses your neck, soft now, lazy, like he can’t help himself, and when he finally pulls out, both of you whimper at the loss.

You shift, rolling onto your side, facing him. His face is damp—sweat, tears, who even knows—but his eyes are clear and bright as he looks at you. He traces your jaw with a shaking finger. “You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “and I’m never letting you go, you got that?”

You laugh, delirious, and pull him close, your lips finding his in a kiss that’s slow and deep, the kind that says I forgive you, I want you, I’ll never be done with you. He sighs into it, like he’s waited a lifetime for this, like he’s never tasted anything sweeter.

And then his hand is between your legs again, gentle now, and you realize he’s not done with you yet. Not even close.

But you weren’t done with him either. “Wait,” you mumble against his lips, pulling back just enough to see his eyes. “Let me watch you.”

Wooyoung’s brow furrows, a question forming in his gaze. You slide your hand down his chest, over the damp skin, until your fingers wrap around his still-sensitive cock. He hisses, body tensing at your touch.

“Wanna see you touch yourself,” you clarify, your voice dropping to a husky whisper.

Understanding dawns across his face, followed by a slow, wicked smile that makes your stomach flip. “Yeah?” he asks, already shifting position. “You want to watch me jerk off, baby? Naughty girl.”

You nod, your own hand moving between your legs as you settle back against the pillows. Wooyoung sits up, kneeling between your spread thighs, his eyes never leaving yours as he wraps his hand around his length. He’s already hardening again, his cock responding eagerly to your gaze. You watch, transfixed, as his fingers begin to move, a slow, deliberate stroke from base to tip that makes his breath catch.

“Fuck,” he groans, his head falling back slightly. “Play with yourself too, princess.”

You’re touching yourself now, circling your clit with teasing pressure, your other hand squeezing your breast. The sight of him pleasuring himself while watching you is intoxicating—his muscles flexing, his lips parted, his eyes dark with desire.

“Show me…shit," you urge, your voice barely audible. “Show me what you think about when I’m not around to suck you dry.”

He moans, his pace quickening. “I’m always thinking about you, ” he admits, his voice rough. “About your pretty mouth, your perfect tits, the way you feel when I’m inside you.” His hand moves faster now, his breathing growing ragged. “I think about making you cum—fuck, l-love thinking about watching you fall apart because of me.”

Your fingers move faster, matching his rhythm, the sight of him pleasuring himself pushing you closer to the edge. The room fills with the wet sounds of your mutual pleasure, your soft gasps mingling with his deeper groans.

“I’m c–close,” you pant, your hips rising off the bed. “Baby, I’m so fucking close.”

“Me too,” he gasps, his hand moving furiously over his cock. “God, the way you’re touching yourself—fuck, I can’t—"

“So fucking good… haah—” you whimper. “Cum with me.”

His eyes lock with yours, and you see the same desperation, the same need reflected back at you. Your fingers move faster, your thumb circling your clit with just the right pressure as you watch his hand fly over his length, his body tense with impending release.

“Wooyoung,” you cry out as the first wave hits you, your body arching off the bed.

“Oh god, yes you’re so hot fuuuck,” he groans, his release spurting hot across your stomach as he watches you come undone.

You’re both panting, chests heaving as sweat trickles down your bodies and Wooyoung’s cum glistens wet and hot across your stomach—but even as you come down, the air between you only grows thicker. His eyes linger on your face, hungry and soft all at once, and you know before he says a word that he isn’t finished with you yet. He swipes his thumb through his mess, smearing it across your skin, and then lifts his hand to your lips. “Open,” he murmurs, voice already roughening around the edges, and you open obediently, tongue laving over his skin, savouring the salt and the faint sweetness of him.

He watches you, transfixed, and then the hunger snaps back into focus. With a sudden, fluid motion, he grabs you by the hips and guides you onto your back, landing you with a gasp and a bounce that sends aftershocks through your spent body. For a second you just lie there, limp and loose-limbed, but Wooyoung is on you before you have time to recover—his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and desperate, greedy possession. He devours you, biting your lower lip so hard you nearly yelp, but then he’s soothing the sting with a velvet-soft lick, fingers already roaming, cupping your jaw, winding into your hair, squeezing the back of your neck until you’re gasping into his mouth.

“Last one baby,” he rasps, voice vibrating right against your teeth. “Need to breed your pretty pussy one last time.” He’s already sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses over every inch of skin—your throat, your collarbones, the peak of your tits. He bites down gently on your nipple, then flicks it with his tongue, the sensation sharp and electric and so fucking precise. He lavishes both breasts with attention, sucking bruises in places only he will see, then lets his tongue trace a hot, wet path down your torso.

He stops at your belly, swiping a finger through the sticky mess on your skin. “Look at you,” he says, voice thick with pride and awe, and you feel your cheeks flame even as you spread your legs wider for him. He dips his head, lapping at where his cum has pooled in your navel, and you shiver at the lewdness of it, the way he worships every part of you. When his mouth finally moves lower, you’re already shaking with anticipation, your core clenching tight, desperate for more even though you should be wrung out.

He dives between your thighs, licks a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, and you nearly come off the bed from the shock of it. He laughs, low and dark, and buries his face in your cunt, eating you like a man starved. His tongue is everywhere. Circling your clit, plunging inside you, mixing slick and spit and the faint metallic taste of his own release. You fist your hands in his hair, grinding your hips against his mouth, shameless in the way you beg, “More, more... please, fuck, don’t stop—” and he doesn’t.

He works you with ruthless precision, two fingers thrusting deep while his tongue flicks rapid-fire at your clit. You feel the pressure build, so much faster than before, your legs trembling, your thighs clamping tight around his head. He holds you open, arms braced under your knees, keeping you spread and helpless as he brings you right to the brink and then eases off, just enough to drive you insane. He does it again, and again, pulling you apart, making you plead for it.

“Woo—” you whimper, your voice thin and shaky. “Please, please—”

He lifts his head, lips glistening, and you see the wild satisfaction in his eyes. “You’re so fucking pretty when you beg,” he says, and the praise sends another rush of heat through your veins.

“Please,” you say again, and this time he relents, sucking your clit into his mouth and moaning around it. The vibration hits you like a lightning strike and you come hard, arching your back, crying out his name so loud you know it will echo in your ears for days. He keeps going, licking you through it, not stopping until you’re sobbing with oversensitivity and shoving at his head to make it end.

He crawls up your body, cock already hard again as he rubs it against your thigh, your stomach, the sticky aftermath on your skin. He lines himself up at your entrance, and you’re so wet, so open for him, that he slides in with barely any resistance. The stretch still hurts—just a little—and he winces with you, kissing your cheek, your ear, whispering, “Shh, you can take it. You’re so good for me.”

You rake your nails down his back, desperate to pull him deeper, and he obliges, ramming into you with a force that makes the whole bed frame rattle. This time, he doesn’t pace himself—he fucks you with abandon, every thrust a fierce apology, a vow, a plea for forgiveness. “Pretty cunt was made for me, wasn't it baby?" he growls, the words muffled against your skin, and you believe him, every time.

He shifts your legs, bends you almost in half putting you into a mean mating press, and the new angle has him thrusting right against your g-spot. You claw helplessly at his arms, nails digging crescent moons into his biceps, and he just grins, sweat beading at his hairline, loving every second of your unravelling.

"'M not going to last... I'm g'na cum holy fuck Wooyoung," you moan out, feeling yourself edging closer to your own climax.

You feel him getting close—his rhythm falters, his hips jerk, his breath comes in ragged gasps. He slides a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit, determined to take you with him. “Oh fuck—Cum f’me princess, make me proud.” And you do, the orgasm ripping through you so violently that black spots dance at the edge of your vision. You scream, you sob, you babble his name like a prayer, and he follows, spilling inside you with a strangled cry. He shoves in deep, holds you there, and then collapses, pinning you to the mattress with the full weight of his body.

You lie like that for a long, breathless moment, your bodies trembling and tangled, sweat sticking you together, his cock still throbbing inside you as he pants in your ear. For a second you think he’s fallen asleep, but then he props himself up on one elbow and looks down at you, eyes shining, lips parted as if he might start crying all over again.

He rolls you onto your side, still joined, and wraps an arm around your waist, spooning you so tight you can barely move. You reach back and stroke his hair, feeling the way his whole body melts into your touch—the tension draining from his muscles, the way his breath evens out. The world feels impossibly far away, like it’s just the two of you floating in a bed-shaped universe, nothing but heartbeats and skin and the mess you’ve made of each other.

The room falls quiet, your breathing gradually slowing in tandem. Wooyoung’s arm tightens around you, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the nape of your neck. “Don’t move,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from use. “I’ll be right back.”

He pulls out gently, and you whimper at the loss, feeling suddenly empty. But he’s already sliding from the bed, his naked body glistening with sweat as he pads to the bathroom. You hear water running, and then he returns with a warm washcloth in his hand.

“Let's get you cleaned up yeah?” he says, his eyes soft as he kneels beside you.

His touch is reverent as he cleans between your thighs, wiping away the evidence of your passion with gentle, circular motions. The warm cloth feels heavenly against your sensitive skin, and you sigh, your body relaxing into his care.

“Better?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, too blissed-out to form words. He disappears again, returning with a glass of water that he holds to your lips. You drink greedily, not realizing how parched you were until the cool liquid slides down your throat.

“More?” he asks, and you shake your head.

Wooyoung sets the glass aside and moves to his dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer. He rummages through it for a moment before pulling out a faded blue t-shirt that you recognize immediately. It’s one of his oldest, the fabric soft from countless washes, the university logo barely visible anymore.

“Arms up,” he murmurs, and you comply, letting him slip the oversized shirt over your head. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent—that familiar mix of his cologne and something uniquely him that makes your chest ache with tenderness. He adjusts the collar, his fingers lingering at your neck, before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Perfect,” he whispers, his eyes warm as they take you in.

You watch as he pulls on a pair of boxers and a simple white t-shirt, his movements languid, unhurried. There’s something intimate about watching him dress—the way his muscles flex beneath his skin, the casual grace of his movements. He catches you looking and says nothing, just gives you a small, tired smile before he climbs back into bed, pulling you against him. His fingers begin to trace lazy patterns on your arm, up and down, the touch so light it makes you shiver.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I hope you know that I adore you so much.”

You turn in his arms to face him, finding his eyes in the dim light of the bedroom. There’s something raw and vulnerable in his gaze that makes your heart ache.

“I know,” you say, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. “I love you too.”

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I’m going to do better. I promise.”

“I believe you, I know you will,” you whisper, and you do.

He pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces. His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining. The bracelet he gave you catches the light, the tiny compass charm glinting. He brings your wrist up to his lips and places a kiss on the charm, a silent reminder for you that’ll he’ll always be your north. No matter where you are, he’ll always be there for you.

“I’ve got you,” he coos, his voice dropping to that impossibly soft register he only uses in these moments. “I’m here, I'm not going anywhere.”

You hum in acknowledgment, too far gone for words. He softly chuckles at your sleepiness. His hand resumes its journey down your spine, each vertebra a landmark he maps with infinite patience. Another yawn overtakes you, your eyes watering at the corners. Wooyoung brushes away the tears with his thumb, his touch reverent.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers. “My whole heart.”

A melody begins to form beneath his breath—something soft and wordless that you recognize from nights when sleep wouldn’t come, when anxiety gripped your throat. His chest vibrates with the sound, a lullaby composed of nothing but his love for you. Your consciousness begins to drift, the edges of your thoughts blurring like watercolours on wet paper. The scent of him—clean sweat and that cologne he’s worn since the day you met—wraps around you like a second blanket.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing your temple. “Happy anniversary, my love. I promise to make every one from now on better than the last.”

The words follow you down into darkness, a tether to the world you’re leaving behind. The future for the both of you still holds challenges—his career won’t become less demanding overnight, and you’ll both need to work to maintain the balance you’re rebuilding. But as Wooyoung’s arms tighten around you, as you feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, you know you’ll face those challenges together. Because love isn’t about never making mistakes. It’s about having the courage to admit when you’re wrong, and the strength to keep trying, even when it’s hard. And as the morning light spills across the tangled sheets and your intertwined bodies, you know that’s exactly what you have—not a perfect love, but a real one.

© w00yngie 2026 | do not steal, plagiarise, translate or feed my work to ai.

[slutforwoo]

Witches Brew

|| WITCH READER X BARISTA WOOYOUNG! ||

☆In which Wooyoung randomly finds himself wanting to be around his bitchy manager, and suddenly wanting her to like him? When one of his friends start to have suspicions, he recommends going to the cafe across the street. Rumor has it, the cafe name isn’t for show and the owner is actually a witch.

☆MDNI! there will be 18+ scenes in this smau!

☆TW!: none so far

☆Feel free to comment to be added to the taglist!

☆SATUS: ONGOING

well let’s get into it yea?

☆ the witches coven

☆ caffeine addicts

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

☆ Chapters!

☆ 1. gotta keep an eye out for selener

☆ 2. wheres hr when you need them

☆ 3. ho are you a vampire too

☆ 4. are pigs flying now

☆ 5. woahhhh buddy

☆ 6. eat a dick, you prick

☆ 7. no face no case

☆ 8. i’m scared but okay

☆ 9. yall hear that? har har har

☆ 10. do I look meetable?

☆ 11. my taste are expensive

☆ 12. wtf is wrong with me?

☆ 13. pathetic in a cute way

☆ 14. I must've been a saint

[w00yngie]

title: return on investment

pairing: frat boy!song mingi x f!reader

genre: non idol!au, college!au, fluff, kind of a slow burn with a very happy ending, mutual pining!!!!!!!! he falls first and hard, she too falls hard and fast :)))

word count: 25k, deadass.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

warnings: acquaintances to lovers, economics jumpscare, reader is a tutor and mingi is your not so average frat dude that does an athletic scholarship, eventual smut, praise kink!!!!!, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), dry humping, lowk breeding kink mingi freaky, switch!mingi & reader, softdom!mingi, spanking (?), possessive!mingi, cockwarming (a lil!) / lmk if i missed any!

author's note: guys i finally locked in!!! this story has been such a bitch to write but i'm finally happy with it lmfaoaoo. the only reason why it took so long its cause i deadass remembered all my econ concepts from my first year at uni and i got flashbacks sooooo. if its inaccurate don't come for me. also ngl mingi ain't even that much of a fratboy, he is but he's a little nerd!! you'll see - i hope you guys enjoy!!

permanent taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist, let me know :))

You hear him before you see him. The sound is impossible to miss—someone’s torn the universe open and stuffed it with a live wire; the room buzzes, vibrates, orbits around a single axis. Song Mingi is that axis, black hair messy from hands that are never his own, smile bright enough to reflect off the bottles lining the kitchen counter. It’s the kind of house party that exists more as myth than reality until you’re standing in the middle of it, your feet sticky with last weekend’s spilled vodka, your ears ringing from bass and laughter and the high-pitched screeching of people who either want to be him or be with him.

You don’t want either. In fact, you don’t really want to be here, but your roommate insisted—a rare Friday night without any assignments due—and now she’s traded you for a swarm of sweaty college kids in the living room. You’re left clutching a warm can of seltzer, surveying the landscape like a tourist on safari: here, the drunken pack of freshman girls hunched over a phone for a group selfie; there, the duo of varsity rowers relishing about morning practice, each trying to outdo the other’s misery; everywhere, the constant, inescapable gravitational pull of him.

He’s posted at the middle of it all, a bottle of expensive liquor in one hand and a girl in the other. She’s whispering in his ear, probably promising him things people only say out loud when their inhibitions have been loosened by alcohol and the hope of being remembered. It’s a practised scene, and you can tell from the way Mingi’s eyes slide from her face to the crowd and back again that he’s already bored. He’s hunting, you realise, and the realisation leaves you faintly amused.

You’ve had classes with him before and found his intellect sharper than his reputation suggests, but he’s never bothered to speak to you directly, which is fine. You prefer it that way. You know exactly what happens to girls who mistake the man for the myth.

But tonight, for whatever reason, he looks right at you.

You don’t realise it at first; you’re half-listening to the rowers behind you, half-calculating the economic impact of the university’s new housing policy for the department group chat. There’s a lull in the noise, a momentary vacuum, and then his gaze lands like a physical thing. It takes you off guard—the pure concentration of it, as if he’s seeing you in high-definition while the rest of the house blurs into obscurity. His attention is so heavy, so absolute, that even the girl on his arm notices and goes rigid with annoyance.

Your instinct is to look away. But for some reason, you don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in your veins, maybe it’s the novelty of being the focal point in a room devoted to him, but you meet his eyes and hold them. Mingi’s mouth quirks, not into a smirk but something strange and speculative, and when he finally looks away, it feels less like defeat and more like a challenge accepted.

Within the hour, he maneuvers his way to your side of the party, the girl from before abandoned to the mercy of the crowd. He props an elbow on the countertop, leans in so dangerously close, “Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You arch an eyebrow, the response easy. “It really isn’t, my roommate dragged me out.”

He grins, all teeth and promise. “I have to thank her for bringing such a pretty girl to my party.”

You roll your eyes, annoyed but not surprised. The rest of the party moves around you in a kind of staccato blur. A game of beer pong erupts into a shouting match in the dining room; someone’s Bluetooth speaker dies mid-chorus, leading to a plaintive chorus of off-key singing. People bump into you, apologise, and then linger a beat longer than necessary to see if you’re still talking to Mingi. He doesn’t seem to notice, but you do. He asks what you’re studying, and you answer. You ask him what he wants to do after graduation, and he shrugs, but the gesture is so carefree yet careful.

“If this soccer thing doesn’t work out, I’ll intern at some start-up company,” he explained. “Or I’ll sell feet pics.”

You cringe at the image. The girl from before stalks past, her glare sharp enough to sever arteries. Mingi watches her go but his gaze falls right back to you. 

By midnight, the house dissolves into its constituent parts: the freshies, the clean-up crew, the drunk casualties. Mingi drifts away, then back again—at your side, across the kitchen, never quite out of reach. He offers you a drink at one point; you decline, still nursing the same seltzer. It doesn’t stop him. He keeps finding his way back, as if every conversation eventually leads to you.

You leave before he does. There’s no dramatic goodbye, no exchanged numbers or whispered invitations—just a passing nod, the kind that could mean anything or nothing at all. You don’t look back. By the time you’re out the door (your roommate long gone with a lacrosse player, leaving you to fend for yourself), the night already feels like it’s starting to blur at the edges. Whatever that was, if it was anything, you let it go.

Inside, though, Mingi doesn’t. He’s still watching the spot where you disappeared, gaze fixed a beat too long, like he’s waiting for you to reappear. The noise of the party swells back in around him, but he doesn’t move—drink untouched, conversation abandoned mid-thread.

A shoulder bumps into his.

“What’s with that look on your face?”

Mingi blinks, like he’s just been pulled back into the room. “What look?”

Yunho huffs a quiet laugh. “That look. You had heart eyes bro don't even play.”

Mingi scoffs, quick, automatic. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His friend raises an eyebrow, unconvinced, following his line of sight to the now-empty doorway before glancing back at him. Mingi exhales through his nose, finally tearing his gaze away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck like he can shake it off. He should've definitely asked for your number.

══════════════════

Monday morning arrives with the kind of headache that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with three consecutive all-nighters. Professor Kim’s Advanced Macroeconomic Theory is notoriously brutal, and you’ve spent the weekend buried under supply-demand graphs and inflation models. As you slide into your usual seat, you’re already mentally rehearsing your presentation on fiscal policy scheduled for next week.

Which is why, when Mingi strolls through the lecture hall doors at 8:58 AM, you momentarily forget how to function.

He shouldn’t be here. This isn’t his class, or at least it hasn’t been for the past six weeks. You’ve never seen him in this lecture hall before, despite it being nearly midterm. Yet there he is, wearing dark jeans and a simple white button down that somehow looks so irritatingly good on his frame, scanning the room with casual confidence. His eyes find yours immediately, as if it’s magnetised. The smile that follows is different from Friday night’s—smaller, more genuine, it was like he wanted to see you. Before you can process what’s happening, he’s navigating the row of seats, stepping over backpacks and laptops until he’s standing right next to you.

“This seat taken?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair beside you.

You blink, thrown by the unexpected proximity. “I didn’t know you were in this class.”

“I’m full of surprises.” He drops into the seat, arranging his long legs in the cramped space. “So, how’d you find the party?”

The question is casual, but there’s something careful in his tone, as if your answer matters more than he’s letting on. You notice he pulled out a notebook AND a pen, this was definitely exceeding your expectations of him. Then again, what did you expect anyway? 

“It was... something,” you reply, deliberately vague. “Though I’m surprised to see you conscious before noon, much less in an 8 AM econ lecture.”

He laughs, the sound low enough not to draw attention but warm enough to settle somewhere beneath your ribs. “What, you think I spend all my mornings hungover?”

“The evidence suggested a statistical probability.”

“Maybe I’m an outlier.” He leans closer, close enough that you catch the scent of his cologne—smelling faintly of citrus and cedarwood. “Or I just needed the right motivation to show up.”

Thankfully Professor Kim walks in and begins the lecture, leaving you no time to tweak out over whatever the fuck he said. You expect Mingi to lose interest, to pull out his phone, or to doze off, like half the class inevitably does when the professor starts droning on about aggregate demand curves. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes focused on the presentation slides. Ten minutes in, when he introduces a particularly convoluted model, Mingi shifts slightly toward you.

“Hey,” he leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “If the Phillips curve is supposed to show the inverse relationship between unemployment and inflation, why is he saying it’s unstable in the long run?”

The question catches you off guard—not because it’s difficult, but because it’s astute. “Because expectations adjust,” you whisper back. “Workers anticipate inflation and demand higher wages, which shifts the curve.”

He nods, considering this. “So it’s only reliable as a short-term predictor?”

“Yeah, you got it.”

Throughout the next hour, Mingi continues to ask questions—thoughtful ones that reveal he’s not just listening but actively processing. Each time he leans in, you feel a strange flutter of... something. Not just attraction, though that’s undeniably there, but surprise. Mingi, the guy who supposedly once turned the campus fountain into a bubble bath during finals week, is engaging with macroeconomic theory like it genuinely interests him.

“The Solow model assumes diminishing returns to capital,” he murmurs at one point, frowning slightly. “Doesn’t that contradict what we’re seeing with tech companies? They seem to get increasing returns the bigger they get.”

You stare at him for a beat too long. “That’s... actually a good point. The model was developed before the rise of digital economies. Network effects change the math.”

A smile spreads across his face, pleased and slightly smug, as if he’s won something. “I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

The comment should be annoying, but delivered in a whisper while the professor drones on about growth rates, it makes you roll your eyes and bite back a smile instead. By the time class ends, you’ve had to recalibrate your entire perception of him. He’s taken actual notes. He’s asked intelligent questions. He’s made connections between concepts that some of your study group members still struggle with. It’s disorienting, like discovering your cat can suddenly understand what you’re saying. As you pack up your laptop, he lingers, watching you with that same intense focus from the party.

“So,” he says, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “I think I deserve some credit for showing up today. Maybe we could grab coffee, and you could explain more about that Phillips curve thing?”

The invitation is transparent—he doesn’t need your help understanding the Phillips curve—but there’s something almost endearing about his attempt.

“Is that your go-to line?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement from your voice. “Pretend to need academic help to get a date?”

“Only with the smart ones.” His grins unapologetically. “Is it working?”

You laugh, shaking your head as you stand. “No. Nice try, though.”

Rather than looking discouraged, his eyes light up with what can only be described as delighted challenge. He falls into step beside you as you head for the door.

“You know what this means, right?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. “Now I have to come up with something better for Wednesday’s class.”

“Wednesday’s class?” You stop at the doorway, genuinely surprised. “You’re coming back?”

Mingi looks at you like you’ve said something ridiculous. “Of course. I paid for this course, didn’t I? Besides,” he adds, his smile turning slightly wicked, “I’ve got a new reason to show up now.”

Before you can protest this presumptuous declaration, he’s backing away, walking backward down the hallway with that infuriating confidence.

“See you Wednesday,” he calls. “Maybe by then you’ll have reconsidered that coffee date.”

You watch him go, torn between irritation and a reluctant spark of interest. The worst part is, you already know you’ll be thinking about him for the rest of the day, analysing his questions, his attention, the way he looked at you like you were a particularly fascinating economic theory he was determined to master. Despite your best intentions, you’re already wondering what he’ll come up with on Wednesday.

══════════════════

True to his word, Mingi shows up to every single class over the next few weeks. Not just Macroeconomic Theory, but your shared Political Science workshop and even the optional Economics Department lectures that most students skip. Each time, he gravitates toward you like you’re the north to his south, sliding into adjacent seats with casual determination.

At first, you’re suspicious—waiting for the punchline, the reveal that this is some elaborate bet or another frat bro prank. The punchline never comes. Instead, he brings you coffee and snacks, asks thoughtful questions about the material, and occasionally makes you laugh with whispered commentary when Professor Kim goes on one of his tangents about his glory days at the Federal Reserve.

You find yourself slipping into a strange routine. He’ll wait for you after class, walking you to your next destination while debating fiscal multipliers or the ethics of quantitative easing. Sometimes his soccer teammates call out to him across the quad, and you watch the transformation—how he shifts into the boisterous, larger-than-life Mingi they expect, before settling back into the more thoughtful version when he returns to your side.

It’s Tuesday afternoon when everything shifts. The library is packed with students cramming for midterms, the air thick with desperation and the smell of overpriced coffee. You’ve claimed your usual table by the economics stacks when Mingi drops into the chair across from you, his expression unusually serious.

“I need to ask you something,” he says, no preamble, no charming smile.

You glance up from your notes, pen hovering. “Okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair—a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “I need a tutor.”

You stare at him, waiting for the joke. When it doesn’t come, you set down your pen. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve been getting the material just fine.”

“No, I haven’t.” His voice is lower now, stripped of its usual confidence. “I’ve been barely keeping up. The midterm’s in two weeks, and I’m—“ He stops, jaw tightening. “I need to pass this class with at least a B+.”

“You’ve been answering questions in class,” you counter, confused by this sudden admission. “You made that connection about endogenous growth theory that even Professor Kim said was insightful.”

Mingi’s laugh is hollow. “Yeah, after spending six hours the night before trying to understand it. Look—“ He leans forward, elbows on the table. “I’m not as smart as you think I am. Not naturally, anyway. I have to work twice as hard just to keep up.”

You study him, searching for signs of insincerity. “Why are you telling me this now? And why me?”

“You’re the smartest person in this class. I–I don’t know who else to ask…” His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable. “I think you might actually help me without making me feel stupid about it.”

Something doesn’t add up. You’ve seen him joke around with teaching assistants, charm his way into deadline extensions. “I don’t understand–”

Mingi glances around, then lowers his voice. “I’m on an athletic scholarship. Full ride, but I have to maintain a 3.5 GPA, or I lose it.” He runs a hand over his face. “My advisor warned me last week. This class is dragging everything down. If I don’t get at least a B+ on this midterm, I’m screwed.”

The admission hangs between you, reshaping your understanding of him. You didn’t expect him to be so honest, let alone be honest with you. You knew you were more than capable of tutoring him, you’ve tutored multiple students and peers in past. A part of you wants to deny him— to encourage him to try the other capable tutors in this course but something about his vulnerability made you hold back on that decision. 

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” you ask, softer now.

“Because it’s embarrassing?” He gives a self-deprecating smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The dumb jock stereotype exists for a reason. I’ve been fighting it since high school.” He hesitates. “And maybe I wanted you to think I was smart enough to keep up with you.”

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. This is a different man than the one who struts across campus with practised nonchalance, who holds court at parties with effortless charm. This Mingi looks tired and worried, seeing him like this made your heart sink a little.

“I can’t afford a professional tutor,” he continues when you don’t immediately respond. “Most of my scholarship money goes to housing and food. I can pay you a tutor fee if you have one. Please.”

You should say no. You have your own exams to study for, your own GPA to maintain. But there’s something about seeing him like this—defences down, pride set aside—that makes it difficult.

“If I do this,” you say slowly, “there would be conditions.”

Hope flickers across his face. “Name them.”

“First, you pay me. My normal rate is sixty per session but considering your situation, I can lower the cost—this is work, not charity.” You hold up a finger. “Second, you actually put in the effort. No skipping sessions, no half-assing the practice problems I give you.” Another finger joins the first. “And third, no messing around. This isn’t a backdoor way to—I don’t know—whatever it is you might be thinking.”

“You think I’m using this as an excuse to hit on you?” For the first time, genuine amusement crosses his face. “That would be a pretty elaborate scheme, even for me.”

“I’m serious, Mingi.”

“So am I.” The smile fades. “I need this scholarship. Please.”

You sigh, already second-guessing yourself. “Fine. We start tomorrow. Six pm, here. Bring your textbook, all your notes, and any practice exams you can get your hands on.”

The relief that washes over his face is so raw it makes you uncomfortable. He reaches across the table, squeezing your hand briefly. “Thank you. Seriously.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you warn. “I’m not going to go easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” He stands, some of his usual confidence returning.

As you watch him walk away, shoulders straight but tension visible in the line of his neck, you can’t shake the feeling that you’ve just crossed some invisible boundary. This isn’t just coffee after class or witty banter during lectures. This is entangling yourself in his future, taking partial responsibility for his success or failure. You turn back to your notes, trying to focus, but your mind keeps drifting to the look in his eyes when he admitted he needed help. The vulnerability there was real—you’re almost certain of it. Almost. As you pack up your things hours later, doubt creeps in. You’ve seen how charming he can be, how easily he navigates social situations to get what he wants. What if this is just another performance? What if you’re falling for an act designed to manipulate you into doing his academic heavy lifting? The questions follow you all the way home, lingering as you prepare for bed. You set an alarm for tomorrow and added a reminder to prepare some preliminary materials for your first tutoring session. Despite your misgivings, you’re already mapping out a study plan, identifying the concepts he seemed to struggle with most.

Surely, this little arrangement you have going on won’t be a mistake… Right?

══════════════════

You arrive at the library fifteen minutes early to set up, spreading out practice problems and your own colour-coded notes across the table. You’ve been overthinking this all day—wondering if he’ll even show up, if this whole vulnerable confession was just an elaborate ploy to get you to do his work for him. The clock hits 6:00 PM. Then 6:05. Your suspicions start to crystallise into something like disappointment.

At 6:07, Mingi rushes through the library doors, slightly out of breath. He’s carrying a tray with two coffees and a small paper bag that smells suspiciously of baked goods.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, sliding into the chair across from you. “The line at the café was insane.”

You eye the coffee sceptically. “Is this a bribe?”

He laughs, quieter than his usual boisterous sound, mindful of the library setting. “No, it’s a thank you. Here, try this.” He slides one cup toward you. “Oh, and I got those almond croissants you mentioned the other day. Though honestly, I might have also gotten them because I’m starving.”

The fact that he remembered your drink order is surprising enough. That he recalled an offhand comment you made about pastries during a five-minute conversation between classes is something else entirely.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmur, but you accept the cup anyway, the warmth seeping into your palms.

“S’alright, I wanted to.” He pulls out his textbook and a surprisingly organised binder of notes. “So, where do we start?”

For the next hour, you walk him through the fundamental concepts of various economic principles, expecting his attention to wander, waiting for the inevitable check of his phone or glance at the clock. It never comes. Instead, Mingi leans forward, brow furrowed in concentration, asking questions that reveal he’s been paying closer attention than you gave him credit for. 

“So if technological progress is exogenous in this model,” he questions, tapping his pencil against the page, “then what actually drives long-term growth? Since capital accumulation alone has diminishing returns, right?”

“Exactly.” You can’t help the surprise in your voice. “That’s one of the model’s main limitations. It doesn’t explain where technological progress comes from.”

He nods, making a note in the margin of his textbook. “Which is why we need endogenous growth theory.”

You stare at him. “You’ve been reading ahead.”

A hint of his usual smirk appears. “Don’t sound so shocked. I told you I’m locked in for our sessions.”

“Reading ahead is a bit more than just locking in,” you point out.

“Maybe I’m trying to impress my tutor.” He winks, but there’s something different about his teasing now—less performative.

You roll your eyes, fighting back a smile. “Focus, Mingi.”

“I am focused,” he protests, gesturing to his detailed notes. “See? I’m being a model student.”

“A model student wouldn’t have waited until three weeks before midterms to ask for help,” you counter, but there’s no bite to your words.

“True.” He stretches, his arm brushing against yours as he reaches for another practice problem. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through you. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company on a Wednesday evening.”

You ignore the flutter in your stomach. “Haha. Very funny.”

As the session progresses, you find yourself relaxing into a rhythm with him. He’s attentive, asking thoughtful questions and working through problems with determined concentration. When he gets stuck on a particularly tricky concept about crowding-out effects, he doesn’t get frustrated—instead, he listens carefully to your explanation, his eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that makes your cheeks warm.

“Like this?” he asks after reworking the problem, sliding his paper toward you.

Your fingers brush as you take it, and neither of you pulls away immediately. You study his work, acutely aware of how close he’s sitting, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the drinks between you.

“That’s...actually perfect,” you admit, surprised by the clarity of his work. “You got it exactly right.”

His smile is different from any you’ve seen before—not the practiced charm he flashes at parties or the competitive grin on the soccer field. It’s smaller, more genuine, edged with relief.

“I have a good teacher,” he says simply.

You clear your throat, suddenly finding the library too warm. “Let’s try another one.”

Two hours fly by faster than you expected. Mingi works through problem after problem, his understanding visibly improving with each explanation. When he successfully graphs a complex IS-LM model without assistance, the pride on his face is so unguarded it catches you off guard.

“See? Not just another dumb jock,” he says, but the joke doesn’t land quite right. You hear the insecurity beneath it.

“I never thought you were dumb,” you say carefully. “Unmotivated, maybe. But not dumb.”

He looks up from his notes, expression surprisingly vulnerable. “Most people don’t make that distinction.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” he agrees, studying your face. “You’re definitely not.”

The moment stretches between you, taut with something unspoken. You’re the first to break eye contact, shuffling papers with unnecessary focus.

“It’s getting late,” you say, glancing at your watch. “We should probably wrap up.”

Mingi begins gathering his things, but his movements are unhurried. “Same time Friday?”

You hesitate. You hadn’t planned on making this a regular thing, certainly not multiple times a week. But the progress he’s made in just one session is undeniable.

“You don’t have practice on Friday?”

“Not until seven.” He zips up his backpack. “Unless you’re busy.”

“No, I’m not busy.” The admission comes too quickly. “Friday works.”

As you pack up, he helps you organize your notes, handling the color-coded pages with careful precision. His fingers accidentally brush against yours again as he hands you a folder, and this time the contact lingers for a beat longer than necessary.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” he says quietly, shouldering his bag. “Most people would have.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in your chest. “You didn’t give me a reason to.”

You walk together to the library exit, the night air cool against your skin after hours in the stuffy study area. Campus is quiet, most students either out for the evening or locked away studying. Mingi pauses under a lamppost, its glow casting shadows across his features.

“I can walk you home,” he offers. “It’s dark.”

“I live in the opposite direction from you,” you point out. “It’s fine, I’ve been walking home alone for two years now.”

He grins. “Just being a gentleman.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest in mock pain. “You wound me.”

You laugh at his dramatic act. “Goodnight, Mingi.”

“Goodnight, Miss tutor.” He takes a step backward, still facing you. “Dream of fiscal multipliers.”

“That’s your homework, not mine,” you call after him.

His laughter carries on the night air as he walks away, and you stand watching him for a moment longer than necessary. It’s only when you’re halfway home that you realize you’re still smiling, the warmth in your chest having nothing to do with the coffee you shared.

You tell yourself it’s just satisfaction from a productive tutoring session. Nothing more. Certainly not the way his eyes crinkled when he finally understood a difficult concept, or how his hand felt when it accidentally brushed yours, or the genuine gratitude in his voice when he thanked you. Definitely not that.

As you unlock your apartment door, you find yourself already planning Friday’s session in your head, thinking of ways to explain concepts he struggled with, wondering if he’ll bring coffee again, if he’ll sit as close, if he’ll look at you with that same focused intensity. It’s purely academic help, you insist on yourself. Professional concern for a student who needs help. Even if you don’t quite believe it.

Your roommate is waiting when you get home, practically vibrating with curiosity. “So? How was tutoring Mingi? Did he make any moves?”

“It was just tutoring,” you say, setting down your bag. “He’s actually pretty smart, thought nothing was going on upstairs to be honest.”

Her lips thin out into a straight line, looking disappointed by your lack of gossip. “That’s it? No flirting? No rizz? Nothing?”

You think about the moment he challenged your explanation, the genuine satisfaction in his eyes when he understood a complex concept.

“Nope, nothing at all,” you deadpanned at your roommate.

As you lie in bed reviewing your day, you remember the intensity in his eyes when he thanked you. The way his smile changed when he was actually engaged with the material. The surprising depth of his questions. You wonder what other assumptions you’ve made about Song Mingi might be wrong.

══════════════════

The following Friday, you’re setting up the study materials when Mingi arrives five minutes early this time. You almost burst out in laughter seeing the way he was trying to balance two cups of coffee in his hand.

“Okay once you're done clowning me, you have to try this vanilla latte. It's really good.” He sets them down carefully on your side of the table.

You eye the offerings suspiciously. “Are you sure this isn’t supposed to be a bribe?”

“Hm? For what?” He looks genuinely confused as he takes his seat.

“I don’t know. Extra help? A better grade?” You push the coffee slightly away. “I can’t accept this, you’ve already bought me so much stuff the past couple of days.”

Mingi laughs, the sound unexpectedly warm in the sterile study room. “It’s just coffee, don’t sweat it. Consider it a thank you for the last session. I actually understood what Professor Kim was talking about yesterday.”

You hesitate before reluctantly pulling the coffee back. “Fine.”

His smiles. “If I wanted to bribe you, I’d need to do better than a coffee, doll. Consider it fuel for our session today.”

The nickname catches you off guard, heat rising unexpectedly to your cheeks. Mingi’s eyes flicker briefly to the colour spreading across your face, but he simply slides the coffee closer without comment. You accept the cup, fingers brushing his momentarily. It’s still hot, and exactly how you like it. The gesture is small but thoughtful in a way you wouldn’t have expected.

“Thank you,” you hummed, setting up your materials. “Don’t think this earns you any leniency on today’s session.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, already pulling out his completed homework—all of it done correctly, you note with surprise.

Over the next few sessions, a pattern emerges. Mingi has become significantly more punctual as your sessions progress, always bringing you coffee (though sometimes he switches it up with tea when you mention a sore throat), and always has his work prepared. The coffee becomes such a fixture that on the one day he arrives without it, you actually feel slightly disappointed.

“No liquid bribery today?” you quipped, trying to keep your tone light.

His face falls. “The line was insane, and I didn’t want to be late.” He runs a hand through his hair, slightly panicked. “I can go get some if you—“

“I was joking,” you interject quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I’ll make it up to you next week,” he shrugs, as if that helps explains everything.

The following week, he brings not only coffee but also a small paper bag containing a blueberry muffin from your favourite bakery across town.

“Wha— Mingi, this is…” you marvelled, eyeing the bakery logo. “That place is twenty minutes from campus.”

He shrugs, focusing intently on opening his textbook. “My morning run took me that way.”

“Your morning run took you four kilometres out of your way?”

He leans forward slightly, his voice dropping. “I’m an athlete. You could say that I’ve got excellent... endurance. A little detour doesn’t bother me.”

You roll your eyes, you want to press the issue but are distracted when he pulls out the work you assigned him the previous session. He’s not only completed all the assigned questions but has tackled the bonus problems you included as an afterthought. His work shows an elegant approach to the material that makes you pause.

“This solution,” you point to his work on comparative advantage models, “where did you learn this method?”

“Oh,” he looks almost embarrassed. “I was reading this paper by Stiglitz that mentioned a similar approach, so I adapted it. Is it wrong?”

You blink at him. “You’re reading Joseph Stiglitz for fun?”

“God no, not for fun,” he says, looking uncomfortable with your scrutiny. “I was trying to understand why the models in class weren’t clicking for me. Sometimes I need to see the bigger picture.”

“You know,” you say slowly, “you might actually enjoy Behavioural Economics next semester. It challenges a lot of the classical assumptions.”

His eyes light up. “That’s the unit with Professor Ryu, right? I’ve been wanting to take that.”

“Wait, seriously?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That class is notoriously difficult.”

“So am I, apparently,” he scoffed, but there’s no bite to it. “At least according to my tutor.”

The sessions continue, and with each one, your perception of Mingi shifts. When discussing economic inequality, he brings up points about systemic barriers that show he’s thought deeply about privilege—including his own. During a session on game theory, he demonstrates an intuitive understanding of strategic thinking that surpasses most of your other students that you tutor.

“It’s like poker,” he explains when you comment on his grasp of Nash equilibrium. “Everyone thinks it’s about the cards, but it’s really about understanding people’s patterns and incentives.”

“You play?” you ask, imagining loud frat house games with red cups and shouting.

“My grandfather taught me,” he mumbled, something softer in his expression. “He was an economics professor, actually.”

The revelation hangs between you, another piece of the puzzle that is Song Mingi. You want to ask more but sense his reluctance to elaborate. Maybe another day, you hope.

══════════════════

As your midterm approaches, your sessions intensify. You meet three times in the final week, once in the campus coffee shop when the library study rooms are all booked. Mingi still insists on paying for your drinks and snacks.

“Okay hear me out, I’m applying economic concepts for when I order us coffee,” he announced before you can comment. “You’re providing a service, I’m compensating you beyond our agreed terms because the value exceeds the price.”

“That sounds suspiciously like something I said two sessions ago,” you point out.

“I told you, I pay attention,” he corrected, and something in his tone makes you look up from your notes.

He’s watching you with an expression you can’t quite decipher—something more complex than what he shows the rest of the world. It makes your heart beat uncontrollably in your chest in a way that has nothing to do with caffeine. The night before the exam, you receive a text from him. Multiple actually.

The night before the exam, you receive a text from him: If monopolistic competition exhibits zero economic profit in the long run, why do firms bother entering the market?

You smile despite yourself and type back: Non-monetary incentives. Brand loyalty, market positioning, the satisfaction of seeing their competitors throw a bitch fit.

His response comes immediately: So spite is an economic motivator? They just like me fr.

You laugh out loud, drawing a curious look from your roommate.

“Is that Mingi?” she asks, eyebrows raised suggestively. “Just a last-minute economics question,” you answered, trying to sound casual.

“Mhmm,” she hums skeptically. “Smiling over econ, right…”

You ignore her, sending Mingi one final message: Get some sleep. Economics rewards the well-rested. His reply makes your heart do something complicated.

I will, doll. Thank you. 

On exam day, you spot him across the lecture hall. He catches your eye and gives you a small nod—no flashy smile, no charming wink, just quiet determination. For some reason, this affects you more than any of his rehearsed moves ever did that you observed in the past.

When Professor Kim calls time, you watch him hand in his exam with confidence in his posture that wasn’t there six weeks ago. As students file out, he makes his way to your seat.

“How’d it go?” you asked as you slowly gathered your things.

“I think,” he hums, “that Professor Kim might actually have to give me an A.”

“Don’t get cocky,” you scoff at his delusion, a small feeling of pride swells in your chest.

“Never,” he agrees solemnly, then ruins it with a grin. “I did crush that section on market failures. Turns out my experience with failed relationships was finally useful for something.”

You roll your eyes, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. “And here I thought we’d made progress beyond that frat boy persona of yours.”

“Old habits,” he nudges you with his elbow, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom. “Seriously, thank you. I couldn’t have done this without your help.”

You walk in silence for a moment, acutely aware of how his stride has adjusted to match yours. It’s these small, unconscious accommodations that you find yourself noticing more and more lately.

“So,” he clears his throat, breaking the quiet as you cross the quad, “My frat is hosting our end-of-semester bash this weekend.” His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something else. “Saturday night, starting around nine.”

You keep your eyes focused ahead. “I’m sure half the campus is already going and planning their outfits.”

“Probably,” he agrees with a light laugh. “But I, uh, was wondering if you wanted to come?”

When you don’t immediately respond, he adds quickly, “As a thank you for helping me ace this exam. I mean, I’m pretty sure I aced it.”

You slow your pace, finally turning to look at him properly. “You’re inviting me to your party? Me?” The disbelief in your voice is unmistakable.

“Is that so hard to believe?” His expression is somewhere between amused and offended.

“Mingi, I don’t do parties.” You adjust your bag strap, uncomfortable with how this conversation is veering into territory you’ve carefully avoided. “You of all people should know that.”

He frowns, “Don’t you want to celebrate? You helped me pull off a minor academic miracle here.”

“I think you’re exaggerating your previous academic despair,” you hesitated. “Besides, I don’t think I’d fit in with your crowd.”

“My crowd?” He scoffs. “You’ve never even met my friends.”

“I’ve seen enough from a distance, I know enough.” You start walking again, faster now. “Thanks for the invitation, but I’ll pass.”

His long strides enable him to keep up with your pace. “Come on, just for an hour. You can leave if you hate it.”

“Mingi—” 

“One hour, doll” he repeats. “That’s all I’m asking. I’ll personally ensure no one spills anything on you and tries to bother you the whole night.”

Despite yourself, you laugh. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I know my crowd.” His smile is softer now, more genuine. “Please? I want you to see that there’s more to us—to me—than the stereotypes.”

You study his face, searching for the manipulation, But all you see is sincerity and hope. 

“Fine,” you groaned, not quite believing the words coming out of your mouth. “One hour. That’s it. I’m leaving the second someone tries to get me to play beer pong.”

His face lights up. “Deal. I’ll text you the details.”

As you part ways, you wonder what exactly you’ve just agreed to. You’ve spent nearly three years avoiding exactly this kind of social situation. Loud music, drunk students, the messy intersection of alcohol and attraction. Yet somehow, when Mingi asked, your carefully constructed refusal crumbled. 

Your roommate squeals when you tell her your weekend plans.

“You’re going to the end of sem party? With Mingi?” She clutches your arm dramatically. “This is basically getting an invite from the MET gala!”

“It’s just a thank you for the tutoring,” you explain, trying to sound casual as you sort through your closet. “I’m only staying for an hour.”

“Sure,” she drew out the word with obvious disbelief. “That’s why you’re trying on your fourth outfit.”

You drop the dress you’ve been holding up. “I just want to look appropriate.”

“Appropriate for what? Or is it for making mister Song Mingi realise what he’s been missing?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.

“For not looking like I’m trying too hard,” you correct her, settling on dark jeans and a simple top that manages to be both casual and flattering. “This isn’t a date.”

“Whatever you say.” She flops back on your bed. “By the way, you should know that Mingi doesn’t personally invite just anyone to these things. Especially not someone he’s been staring at across classrooms for months.”

“He hasn’t been—“ you begin, but stop when you remember all those times you felt his gaze on you in the library and the lecture hall.

“Oh honey,” your roommate giggles, “for someone so smart, you are so stupid.”

══════════════════

On the night of the party, you and your closet have declared war. What began as a gentle sifting through hangers two hours ago has devolved into a cyclone of black crop tops, frayed denim, and shoes you forgot you owned. Your roommate’s voice, pitch-perfect for the college musical she never auditioned for, belts a running commentary from the bed: “You look hot in that, but hotter in the other,” and, later, “If you don’t wear that skirt, I will.” For every option you parade, she offers a one-woman panel’s worth of praise, criticism, and lewd suggestions, but when you finally emerge from the pile in a black singlet and the aforementioned denim mini, she sits up so abruptly the bedsprings squeal.

“Yes,” she hollered, pointing both index fingers at you as if firing a pair of pistols, “That’s the one! Fuck you look good.”

You tug at the hem, self-conscious. The skirt is so short your thighs feel like they might spontaneously combust with the friction of walking, and the top is cut low enough to leave no room . The outfit is, by college standards, conservative. By your standards, the edge of a personal revolution. You pace, boots heavy and loud. You layer on a thrifted blazer, then throw it off, then drape it over one arm for insurance. You sit on the edge of the bed, stand again, cross the room to the mirror, assess your reflection from the most punishing angles. You practice smiling in a way that suggests effortless fun rather than “I’m in hell and wish I were home in the comfort of my bed.”

Your roommate paints your lips red, then wipes it off with a tissue, then reapplies in a shade closer to your natural colour.

“There,” she beams, “like you rolled out of bed looking like this.”

You try not to look at the clock, but it’s everywhere—on your phone, on the microwave, in the stomp of boots hitting the tile as you stalk the kitchenette looking for a cup to fill, then abandon. Your hands shake when you pour yourself a glass of water. You spill some on your wrist, wipe it away, then notice your palms are already slicked with sweat.

“Stop fidgeting.” Your roommate’s tone is gentle, but there’s a note of command you recognize from years of friendship.

She takes your hands in hers, holds them steady, and says, “You’re just going to a party. With a boy. Not even a date.” She squeezes your fingers and grins. “You should be more excited! There might be hook-ups, or at least drama. At the very least, there’ll be free food.”

You want to laugh, but your stomach is a tight fist. You’ve spent the last three years avoiding exactly this scenario—rowdy house parties, the unwritten social contract of collegiate fun, the humiliation of standing awkwardly in a crowd of people who all seem to know exactly how to move, talk, flirt. You’re not anti-social, not truly, but your preferred company is to be alone with your trusted circle of friends. The thought of plunging into a frat house, even for an hour, makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

And yet. There’s Mingi, the wild card. He’s never made you feel like a project, or an obligation, or a checkmark on a list of collegiate experiences. When he smiles at you, it isn’t the rehearsed, camera-ready grin you see him use on campus tour guides or in group photos. It’s something softer, quieter, reserved for moments when he thinks no one else is watching. You remember the way he said “please” when he invited you, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours even after you tried to look away. He made it sound like this party wasn’t just another party, but an extension of the strange, fragile thing growing between the two of you. You’re not sure you trust it, but you want, for once, to try.

You stall in the doorway, hand poised on the knob, running through possible disasters. Your roommate senses your hesitation, materializing at your side with a pep talk worthy of a sports movie.

“Remember,” she says softly, “you’re not obligated to like it. Just survive the hour, and if you hate it, I’ll be waiting with post-party ramen and a debrief.” She presses the blazer into your hands and shoves you gently toward the elevator.

You take the stairs instead, one flight, then another, legs trembling with anticipation. The campus is alive with spring: the air is thick with the cloying perfume of flowering trees, the distant thump of bass from speakers, the migration of students in clusters, each group moving toward its own temporary destiny. You keep your head down, hoping to avoid unnecessary conversation. You  find yourself counting steps, then counting heartbeats, and by the time you reach the block of houses that host the Greek life ecosystem, you’ve rehearsed twenty variations of how to say hello without sounding desperate. You pass a group of girls in matching pastel tank tops, their laughter ricocheting like pinballs off the sidewalk. You duck your head, wondering if they recognize you from Intro to Business Law, but they breeze past without a second glance. In the darkness, your reflection glances back at you from every window: a stranger, confident and composed, even as anxiety gnaws at your insides.

You approach the frat house, the lights already blazing, music leaking from every crack in the siding. In the front yard, a couple makes out with the desperation of people who know they’ll regret it in the morning. A boy in a toga sprints past, pursued by a girl wielding a pool noodle. The porch is a wall of bodies, some familiar, most not, and for a moment you consider walking straight past, circling the block, and returning to your dorm in defeat.

You almost do. You’re on the verge of turning around when your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with a text from Mingi: Where are you? I’ll come out front.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Before you can reply, the front door swings open and there he is—Mingi, framed in the doorway like some ridiculous cologne advertisement. He’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that make your mouth go inexplicably dry. His hair is styled differently tonight, swept back to reveal his forehead in a way that transforms his entire face.

He scans the yard, eyes skipping past you once before snapping back, recognition dawning. When his gaze lands on you properly, something shifts in his expression—his confident smile faltering, eyes widening slightly.

“Oh,” he says, just that one syllable hanging in the air between you. He clears his throat. “I—you—“ He stops again, seemingly unable to form a complete sentence.

You feel heat creeping up your neck, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin. “Is something wrong?” you ask, tugging self-consciously at your skirt.

The question seems to snap him out of his daze. His trademark smile returns, but there’s something different about it—something genuine that settles in your chest in a way you don’t quite name.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he finally blurts out. “You just look... different.” He takes a step closer. “Good different I mean– Like really good different.”

You duck your head, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just a skirt and top. Nothing special.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, and the sincerity in his voice makes your blush deepen. His confidence seems to grow in direct proportion to your bashfulness, and he extends his hand to you. “Come on. Let me introduce you to some people who aren’t total disasters.”

You place your hand in his, telling yourself it’s just to be polite, but the warmth of his palm against yours sends a current up your arm. He guides you through the crowded doorway, his body naturally creating a buffer between you and the jostling partygoers. You’re fully aware of his proximity, the cologne he’s wearing, the way his hand occasionally brushes against the small of your back as he leads you deeper into the house.

The living room has been transformed into a makeshift dance floor, furniture pushed against walls to make space. The kitchen beyond is crowded with people mixing drinks and laughing over red cups. Mingi steers you away from both, toward a slightly quieter corner where a group of guys are engaged in animated conversation.

“Hey,” he calls out, and seven heads turn in perfect unison. “This is my econ tutor, the one I’ve been telling you guys about.”

You’re suddenly faced with an assembly of some of the most attractive men you’ve ever seen in one place, each with a distinctive style that somehow works in harmony with the others. They regard you with varying expressions of curiosity and amusement.

“So you’re the one who got our Mingi to actually open a textbook,” a guy with sharp features and an even sharper smile walks up to the both of you. “I’m Hongjoong. House president.”

“Co-president,” Mingi corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Pfft whatever dude,” Hongjoong waves dismissively. “This is Seonghwa—“ he gestures to a tall, elegant-looking man who offers you a polite nod, “—Yunho—“ a friendly giant with dark hair raises his cup in greeting, “—Yeosang—“ a guy with delicate features and knowing eyes gives you a small smile, “—San—“ an energetic man with dimples deep enough to drown in waves enthusiastically, “—Wooyoung—“ a mischievous-looking guy with red hair winks at you, “—and Jongho.” The last member, compact but powerful-looking, gives you a respectful bow.

“Nice to finally meet the person who’s been occupying all our friend’s time,” Wooyoung whistles.

“And thoughts,” San adds, earning him a death glare from Mingi.

You shift uncomfortably under their collective gaze, but their smiles are genuine, lacking the judgment you expected from Mingi’s inner circle.

“Don’t believe anything they tell you about me,” Mingi says, leaning close enough that you can feel his breath on your ear. “Especially Wooyoung. He’s a pathological liar.”

“Nuh uh, that’s just not true!” Wooyoung protests. “I only lie on Tuesdays and public holidays.”

The group erupts in laughter, and to your surprise, you find yourself laughing along. There’s an easy camaraderie among them that feels inclusive rather than exclusive, drawing you in despite your reservations.

“Mingi says you’re top of the econ department,” Seonghwa mentioned, his voice calm and measured. “That’s impressive.”

Before you can respond, Yunho chimes in: “He wouldn’t shut up about how you explained game theory using poker analogies. Said it was ‘revolutionary’ or some shit.”

“I did not say revolutionary,” Mingi denies, but the pink tinging his ears tells a different story.

“You did,” Jongho confirms flatly. “Multiple times. Over breakfast.”

You glance at Mingi, oddly touched that he’s spoken about your tutoring sessions to his friends. “It wasn’t anything special. He’s actually really quick to grasp concepts once they’re explained properly.”

Mingi grins at the group. “See? I told you guys I’m not just a pretty face.” He sticks his tongue out at them, more out of habit than real offence.

“No one said you were just a pretty face,” Hongjoong replies, tone even. “We said you’re a pretty face that just so happened to be a little bit stupid.”

Mingi scoffs under his breath, but he’s smiling anyway. “That’s not better.”

“It’s accurate,” Hongjoong snorted.

The banter continues, and you find yourself relaxing into it, surprised by how comfortable you feel among them. They’re not what you expected—not the stereotypical frat boys you’ve spent years avoiding. They’re smart, funny, and surprisingly thoughtful in their questions to you.

After a while, Mingi leans in again. “How are you feeling? Do you want a drink? Or maybe some air?”

You nod gratefully. “Fresh air would be nice.”

He places his hand lightly on your back again, guiding you toward a set of French doors that lead to a back deck. The night air is cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of bodies packed inside. The deck is strung with fairy lights that cast a soft glow over the wooden boards, and surprisingly, it’s empty except for a few potted plants.

“The secret balcony,” Mingi explains, seeing your questioning look. “Off-limits to regular party guests. One of the perks of being house leadership.”

“So I’m not a regular party guest?” you raise an eyebrow, leaning against the railing.

“Of course not, you are far from it,” he mutters under his breath that makes your breath falter.

You both fall silent for a moment, the bass from inside creating a muted heartbeat beneath your conversation. You can’t quite decide what’s more surprising—that you’re here like this, or that it’s with Mingi of all people. You settle on not thinking too hard about either.

“Your friends are nice,” you finally break the silence. “Not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?” He leans next to you, close enough that your shoulders almost touch.

“Loud, obnoxious frat bros talking about the typical one night stand and having the collective IQ of a houseplant.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. “Oh, they can be loud and obnoxious too. But they’re also the best people I know.”

He pauses, looking out over the dimly-lit yard. “We all have our reasons for being here, you know? Hongjoong’s parents expected him to join their firm right after high school, but he wanted to go to college first. Seonghwa supports his younger siblings through school. Jongho’s on a full academic scholarship.”

You turn to look at him, surprised by this glimpse behind the fraternity façade. “And you? What’s your reason?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice has lost its usual confident edge. “My grandfather, the one I told you about, He was the first person in our family to go to college. He wanted to see me graduate more than anything.” His fingers tap against the railing, a nervous gesture you’ve never seen from him before. “He passed away during my senior year of high school.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you say softly.

“It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but...” He went on. “I promised him I’d make the most of college. Not just academically, but the whole experience. The brotherhood, the leadership opportunities, all of it.”

“Is that why you’re so determined to keep your GPA up? For your scholarship?”

“Partly,” he admits. “Mainly because I don’t want to just be the party guy, you know? I want people to realise I’m capable and somewhat intelligent.” 

Without really thinking about it, you close the remaining distance just enough for your hand to brush his. It’s tentative at first, almost accidental. When he doesn’t pull away, your fingers curl lightly around his. Mingi stills. For someone who’s always in motion, always talking, always performing, the sudden quiet in him is striking. His gaze drops to where your hands are joined, like he’s trying to process it, like this—you—is the one thing he never quite learned how to anticipate.

“It’s not a bad thing,” you say softly, your thumb brushing once, unconsciously, over his knuckles. “Wanting people to see more than what meets the eye.”

His hand shifts in yours, not pulling away—settling. Grounding.

“I know what it’s like,” you add, quieter now. “Being reduced to something simple. Convenient. Even if it’s… impressive on paper.”

That earns a small huff of laughter from him, but malice behind it. Just something tired, something honest.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we’re both victims of stereotyping huh.”

You smile faintly. “I guess we are.”

And then it hits you. The warmth. The contact. The fact that your hand is still wrapped around his. Your fingers twitch slightly, awareness crashing in all at once, and you pull back—just a little too quickly to be entirely casual. The absence of him is immediate, the cool night air slipping into the space where his warmth had been. Mingi notices. Of course he does. Something flickers across his face, it was subtle but you saw it there momentarily. A small dip at the corner of his mouth, a hesitation like he almost reaches for you again before stopping himself. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something lighter, easier, like he’s filing the moment away instead of questioning it. He clears his throat, glancing out in the distance. 

“Careful,” he teases. “Keep doing that and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

You scoff, grateful for the shift. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“Tragic,” he sighs dramatically. “Here I was, planning our future.”

“In your dreams.”

“Bold of you to assume you’re not already there.”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh escapes you anyway, the tension dissolving into something softer, more familiar. For a moment, you simply stand together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold below. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the angles you’ve studied during countless tutoring sessions.

“Can I ask you something?” he says finally, turning to face you.

“You just did.”

He rolls his eyes. “Why did you agree to tutor me? I asked some other people in our class and they said you turned them down.”

You consider the question, surprised by his awareness of your other rejections. “Honestly? You seemed desperate. Plus you actually pay me on time.”

“Ouch,” he winces, but his smile remains. “At least you’re honest.”

“Why did you ask me?” you counter. “There are plenty of other tutors on campus.”

He looks down at his hands, suddenly serious. “You were the only one who looked at me and didn’t see what everyone else saw.”

“And what’s that?”

“You know the usual stereotypes,” He shrugs, a gesture that carries more weight than it should. “Everyone thinks they know me because they hear all about my reputation.”

Something in his tone makes you pause, recognizing a sentiment that echoes your own experience. “I get that,” you say quietly. “People are like that with me too. They think what we are at face value is what we truly are.”

“Isn’t it?” His question is gentle, not challenging.

You shake your head. “No more than you’re just a frat boy who happens to look good in a button-down.”

He raises an eyebrow as his eyes meet yours, “You think I look good?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you scold as you bite back a smile. “Your ego is big enough already.”

“There you go again, humbling me.” His gaze softens as he steps closer. “I like that about you. You never let me get away with anything.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms loosely. “Yeah? I know there’s a lot of things you like about me.”

His eyebrows lift, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you continue, feigning nonchalance. “My intelligence. My work ethic. My incredible patience for difficult students—”

“—woah, woah,” he cuts in, laughing. “When did this turn into a self-evaluation?”

“You asked,” you shoot back. “I’m just being thorough.”

He steps closer, close enough now that the teasing edge softens into something warmer. “You missed a few.”

“Oh?” you raise an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

“The way you pretend not to care,” he responded quietly. “But still show up anyway.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you recover. “That’s not a quality. That’s just… basic decency.”

“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. “And the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

“You do,” 

You swallow, your voice coming out just above a whisper. “What does that look mean, according to you?”

He studies you for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say it.

“Like you’re trying really hard not to like me.”

Your heart stumbles over itself.

“That’s a bold assumption,” you manage.

“Is it, doll?” 

There’s barely any space left between you now. You’re aware of everything. How close he was to you, the warmth radiating off him, the way his gaze drops briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. Your own breath feels too loud in your chest.

“This feels like you’re fishing for compliments again,” you say, but your voice lacks its usual bite.

“Maybe,” he admits easily. “Only from you, though.”

The honesty of it lands heavier than it should. Your fingers twitch at your side, like they remember what it felt like to hold his hand. Like they want to again.

“Mingi—” you start, though you’re not entirely sure what you’re going to say.

He leans in slightly. Not rushed. Not cocky. Careful. Like he’s giving you time to stop him. You don’t. Your eyes flick down to his lips for just a second—long enough for him to notice—and that’s all it takes. The air shifts, something unspoken settling between you as you both lean in, slow and almost hesitant—

“Yo! Mingi!”

The moment shatters. You both jerk back slightly as the deck door swings open. Wooyoung steps out, slightly breathless, eyes flicking between the two of you with immediate recognition—and absolutely zero subtlety.

“Oh shit,” he says, smirking. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What do you think?,” Mingi says flatly, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Tragic,” his red haired friend replies, not looking sorry in the slightest. “Hongjoong’s looking for you. Something about the DJ setup dying and you being ‘useless but still required.’”

Mingi closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. “Of course he is.”

Wooyoung gaze shifts back to you, smile softening. “Hey, you’re staying, right? It’s just getting good.”

You hesitate. And Mingi notices.

His attention snaps back to you, something apologetic in his expression. “I—give me ten minutes? I’ll come find you.”

You glance toward the house, the noise, the crowd, the overwhelming swirl of everything you’ve been holding at bay all night. Then back at him. At the almost-kiss still lingering in the space between you. By the way your chest feels too full, too tight, like you don’t quite know what to do with everything you’re suddenly feeling.

“I think…” you start, then pause, shaking your head slightly. “I should probably head out.”

His expression drops, just a fraction. “Already?”

“I stayed longer than I planned,” you say, offering a small smile. “I have an early morning.”

It’s a weak excuse. You both know it. But he doesn’t call you out on it. Instead, he nods slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space—even if he doesn’t seem to want t

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. I can walk you–”

“No need, I can see myself out,” you reply softly. “Thanks for inviting me, I had a really good time.” 

There’s a beat. Something unfinished is hanging between you.

“Get home safe,” he adds, quieter now.

“I will.”

You turn before you can overthink it. Before you can look at him again and change your mind and make your way back through the house. The music feels louder now, the lights harsher, the press of bodies more suffocating than before. By the time you step outside into the cool night air, your head is spinning. Not from the party. From him. From the way he looked at you like that. You exhale slowly, starting down the path back to your dorm, your fingers curling slightly at your sides.

Your key turns in the lock with a sharp click that echoes through the empty hallway. The walk back to your dorm passed in a blur. Your mind replaying those moments on the deck over and over, his face so close to yours, the almost-kiss that’s now branded into your memory as a question mark.

Your roommate looks up from her laptop, eyes widening when she sees you. “You’re back early! I thought—“ She pauses, taking in your expression. “What happened?”

You drop your bag and collapse onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I think I just made a huge mistake.”

“What did he do? Babe I swear if he tried anything—” She’s immediately on alert, sitting up straighter.

“No,” you shake your head, pressing your palms against your eyes. “The opposite. He was... perfect. His friends were really nice, funny too. The party wasn’t terrible. And we almost kissed, and then I—I ran away.”

“You what?” She scrambles off her bed and sits next to you. “Back up. You almost kissed him and then you left?”

“We got interrupted, and then I just... panicked.” You sit up, hugging your knees to your chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Your roommate studies your face, her expression softening into something you haven’t seen before—concern mixed with understanding. 

“Holy shit,” she mumbled. “You like him.”

“No,” you protest automatically, then trail off. “Maybe. Shit. I don’t know?” Your voice muffles as you bury your face in your hands. “This is so stupid. I’ve spent years avoiding guys exactly like him.”

“Except he’s not exactly like anyone, is he?” She nudges your shoulder gently. “Not if he’s got you this fucked up.”

You groan. “That’s the problem. He’s supposed to be this shallow frat boy who only cares about parties and hookups, but then he goes and talks about his grandfather and his friends and looks at me like—like—“

“Like what?” she prompts.

“Like I matter,” you cried out, wiping away the tears from your face. “Not just as a tutor or someone to boost his grade. Like he actually enjoys my company.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I’ve never seen you like this over anyone before.”

“That’s because I’ve never felt like this before,” you admit, the words coming out in a rush. “I’ve probably ruined it by running away like some character in a bad rom-com.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” she says firmly. “You got scared. Shit happens.”

“You don’t understand.” You get up, pacing the small space between your beds. “I had this whole image of him in my head…this whole narrative about who he was and what he wanted. It was so much easier when I could just dismiss him as just some guy. But he’s not, and now I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Maybe you could try, oh I don’t know, talking to him?” Your roommate suggests, her tone gently teasing you as she hands you a tissue.

“And say what? ‘Sorry I ran away when we were about to kiss, I’m just terrified because I might actually like you’?”

“That sounds like a start.”

You collapse back onto your bed with a groan. “I fucked up so bad.”

“Maybe,” she concedes, “but not irreparably.” She picks up your phone from where you dropped it and holds it out to you. “Text him.”

You stare at the phone like it might bite you. “Like now?”

“Yes, now. Before you overthink it even more than you already have.”

Your fingers hover over the screen, hesitant. “What do I even say?”

“The truth,” she says simply. “Or at least part of it.”

You take a deep breath and start typing, deleting, typing again. After what feels like an eternity, you hit send on a simple message: Sorry for leaving so abruptly. Ty for tonight.

The response comes faster than you expected, your phone buzzing in your hand almost immediately: All good. Did u get home safe?

Something in your chest loosens just slightly. He’s still talking to you, at least. You type back: Yea, made it back like 5 mins ago.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again: Can I call you tomorrow?

Your heart does a strange little flip. “He wants to call me tomorrow,” you tell your roommate, your voice sounding strange even to your own ears.

She grins. “See? Not ruined.”

You type back a quick ‘Sure’ before you can second-guess yourself.

His response is just as quick: Good. Sleep well, doll.

Despite everything, you find yourself smiling at the nickname. Your roommate peers over your shoulder, reading the exchange.

“Oh, you’ve got it bad,” she says jokingly. “From the looks of it, so does he.”

“This is such a mess,” you sigh, but there’s less despair in it now. “I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. The one who doesn’t get caught up in... whatever this is.”

“Maybe that’s exactly why you need this,” she suggests, returning to her own bed. “When was the last time you did something just because it made you feel good, not because it was the smart, practical choice?”

You don’t have an answer for that. As you lie in bed, sleep eluding you, you replay the night in your head. The way Mingi looked at you on that deck, the warmth of his hand in yours, the honesty in his voice when he talked about wanting to be seen as more than his reputation. You think about how easily you could have stayed, how different the night might have ended if you had just stayed with him.

══════════════════

Morning arrives with harsh sunlight streaming through half-closed blinds and the persistent buzz of your alarm. The day crawls by in a strange haze. You go through the motions—catch up on any missed lecture notes, meet with your friends, grab lunch at the campus café—but everything feels slightly off-kilter. Your phone burns a hole in your pocket, conspicuously silent.

“He said he’d call,” you mutter to yourself during lunch, checking your notifications for the fifth time in an hour.

By mid-afternoon, anxiety has settled into a knot in your stomach. Was leaving the party abruptly really such a dealbreaker? Or worse—was the almost-kiss just another moment for him, easily forgotten once you walked away?

Your roommate finds you hunched over economics papers in your dorm, highlighter poised but motionless over the same paragraph you’ve been staring at for twenty minutes.

“Still nothing?” 

You shake your head, trying to appear more focused on your work than you actually are. “It’s fine. He’s probably busy with frat stuff.”

“He’s nursing a hangover,” she mused, flopping onto her bed. “Those parties don’t exactly end early.”

“Yeah, probably.” You force your attention back to your notes, determined not to care.

The sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your desk. You’ve moved on to grading papers for the professor you TA for, a task that usually requires your full concentration. Tonight, however, each essay blurs into the next as your mind wanders back to the deck, to Mingi’s face inches from yours. At 7:38 PM, your phone finally rings. You nearly knock over your coffee reaching for it, heart leaping into your throat when you see his name on the screen. Taking a deep breath, you answer with what you hope is casual nonchalance.

“Hello?”

“Hey.” His voice comes through warm and slightly hesitant. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, just grading some papers.” You lean back in your chair, trying to ignore how your pulse has quickened. “How was your day?”

“Long,” he admits with a soft laugh. “Had to deal with some post-party clean up that was... not ideal.”

“Sounds rough,” you say, picturing the chaos that must have followed after you left.

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Listen, I was wondering if you’d want to grab some ice cream? There’s this place near the science building that stays open late.”

You glance at your half-finished work, then at the clock. “Now?”

“Yeah, if you’re not too busy. I just...” He hesitates. “I think we should talk. In person.”

Your stomach drops. Those words never precede anything good.

“Oh,” you manage. “Sure. I could use a break anyway.”

“Great.” The relief in his voice is palpable. “Meet you there in twenty?”

“Make it thirty,” you say, already mentally cataloguing what you’re wearing—sweatpants and an oversized university hoodie, not exactly what you’d choose for whatever conversation is coming.

After hanging up, you change quickly into jeans and a sweater that’s slightly more presentable, running a brush through your hair and dabbing on lip balm before you can question why you’re bothering. Your roommate watches with barely concealed amusement.

“Just ice cream, huh?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, grabbing your keys. “He probably just wants to clear the air so tutoring isn’t awkward.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure. That’s definitely it.”

The walk to the ice cream shop takes exactly twelve minutes—not that you’re counting. When you arrive, you spot Mingi immediately, leaning against the wall outside. He straightens when he sees you, his expression brightening in a way that makes your heart stutter.

“Hey,” he greets you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “Thanks for coming.”

“For free ice cream? I’d be an idiot if I refused.” You aim for lightness, but your voice comes out slightly strained.

Inside, the shop is nearly empty, just a couple of students hunched over laptops in the corner. Mingi insists on paying despite your protests, and soon you’re seated at a small table by the window, a scoop of chocolate chip melting slowly in your cup. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You focus intently on your ice cream, hyperaware of his presence across from you.

“So uh,” he finally breaks the tension, setting down his spoon. “About last night.”

You look up to find him watching you, his expression more serious than you’ve ever seen it. “What about it?” you ask, playing for time.

He leans forward slightly. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t... misread things.”

Heat rises to your cheeks. “You didn’t,” you admit quietly.

Relief flickers across his face. “Then why did you leave?”

The directness of the question catches you off guard. You consider deflecting, making a joke, but something in his eyes—an earnestness you’re not used to seeing—makes you opt for honesty.

“I got scared,” you say simply.

His brow furrows. “Of me?”

“No.” You shake your head. “No this. Whatever is happening between us.” You gesture vaguely, as if that could dissolve it. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“The plan?” he echoes.

“My plan,” you clarify. “Graduate top of my class, get into a top-tier MBA program, no distractions.” You poke at your melting ice cream.

The words come easier than they should, like you’ve said them enough times to believe they’re ironclad. You scoop a fragile curl of choc chip into your mouth, watching it soften instantly, the chill doing nothing to settle the rest of you.

Mingi doesn’t look away. But something shifts in his expression—subtle, unreadable.

“You think this is a distraction,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the shape of the idea. There’s no bitterness in it, just a blunt apprehension that makes you want to fold in on yourself.

The words thud between you, heavier than any textbook you’ve ever carried. You set your spoon down, forced to confront the truth you’ve been working so hard to avoid: it would be much simpler if you could blame him. If the whole thing could be chalked up to a fluke in your otherwise disciplined trajectory: a blip, a party, a night on a deck that would fade with the semester. However, the real distraction is the way your mind keeps circling back to him even when he’s not there, the way your heart does that ridiculous stutter every time you see his name on your screen, the way—sitting here with him now—you feel some distant tectonic plate in your chest begin to shift. You hesitate. Then, because you’ve already started, you let it spill anyway.

“It’s not just that,” you admit. “I never planned on… this happening at all. And I definitely never thought you’d—” You stop yourself, exhaling a short, humourless breath. “Like, someone like me.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Someone like you?”

You gesture faintly, as if the words make sense on their own. “You know. You. Me. I just— I always assumed you wouldn’t go for someone like me. That you wouldn’t even look twice.”

The admission sits between you, heavier than you intended. Mingi leans back slightly, hands folding together, but not in his usual relaxed way. More like he’s trying to steady something. Then he lets out a breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

“I’ve been trying so hard to get you to notice me.” He says, shaking his head once.

You blink. “What?”

He looks at you properly now, like the answer should’ve been obvious all along. “You think I’m out of your league,” he says, almost incredulous. “I thought you were out of mine.”

That makes you go still. Before you can respond, he continues, voice softer now.

“You’re—” He stops, like the word itself isn’t enough. “You’re genuinely one of the most interesting people I’ve met. And you’re not just smart, you’re…” He exhales through his nose, like he hates how obvious it is. “You’re really fucking beautiful. And your brain? That’s honestly the most attractive part of you. I thought people were dramatic when they said intelligence was sexy, man I was so wrong.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

“I like what we are,” he adds, a little quieter. “The banter, the way you talk back to me, the way you don’t just—” He gestures vaguely, searching for the word. “Fold. It’s fun. It’s different. It’s… real.”

The honesty lands clumsily, unpolished in a way that feels impossible to fake. You look down at your ice cream before it fully melts.

“That’s… not what I expected you to say,” you admit.

“Yeah,” he says, a small, self-aware smile tugging at his mouth. “Join the club.”

“I know it’s unfair to judge you based on campus gossip, but...” You take a deep breath. “I’m scared of being just another story people whisper about in bathroom stalls.”

Mingi reaches across the table, his fingers hovering near yours without quite touching. “Can I?” he asks quietly.

You nod, and his warm hand covers yours, thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Listen to me,” he says, voice low and serious. “I won’t pretend I haven’t made mistakes. I have. But I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.” His eyes hold yours, unwavering.

“How can I know that?” you whisper, voicing the fear that’s been lodged in your chest since the moment on the deck.

“Let me prove it to you,” he says with such conviction that your throat tightens. “Not with words or promises, but with time. With consistency.” His grip on your hand tightens slightly. “I’m not asking you to trust me completely right away. I’m asking for a chance to earn that trust.”

You study his face, searching for any sign of the practiced charm you’ve seen him deploy across campus. All you find is raw sincerity that makes your heart race.

“What exactly are you suggesting?”

“Let me show you who I really am,” a small, vulnerable smile touches his lips.  “I promise I’ll put all those stupid rumours to rest. No pressure, no expectations.”

“If it doesn’t work out?” The practical part of your brain needs to know there’s an exit strategy.

“Then we go back to being tutor and student, friends if you want,” he says, though something flickers in his eyes that suggests it wouldn’t be that simple for him. “I think we at least owe ourselves the chance to find out.”

You look down at your joined hands, feeling yourself wavering on the precipice of something that terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.

“Okay,” you find yourself saying, the word slipping out before you can overthink it. “I’ll give us a chance.”

The smile that breaks across his face is nothing like his usual confident grin. It’s wider, brighter, almost boyish in its genuine delight.

“Yeah?” he asks, as if he can’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” you confirm, a small smile forming on your own lips. “But I have conditions.”

He laughs softly, squeezing your hand. “Of course you do. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t have any.”

“We take it slow,” you say firmly. “For now, this is just between us. I’m not ready to tell everyone about us just yet.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees immediately. “What else?”

“If at any point I feel like this is becoming too much—“

“We reassess,” he finishes for you. “I understand.”

You nod, feeling a weight lift from your shoulders. “One more thing.”

“Name it.”

“No more surprise coffees during tutoring,” you let out a laugh, you hope that he doesn’t take this rule too seriously. 

He clutches his chest dramatically. “Wow. Mind you, those were gifts from the heart.”

“The heart doesn’t need caffeine to function properly,” you counter.

“Debatable,” he grins, then grows serious again. “I promise to uphold all the boundaries that you have. If at any point you want outs, just say the word and we can call it off.”

There’s something in his voice—a quiet determination—that makes you believe him, despite all your carefully constructed defences.

“So,” he wonders, leaning forward slightly, “now that we’ve established the ground rules... Can I walk you home?”

“That would be nice,” you smile, finishing the last of your now-soupy ice cream.

Outside, the night air is cool against your skin. Your campus is quiet at this hour, most students either at the library or locked in their rooms studying. Mingi walks beside you, close enough that your arms occasionally brush, sending little sparks of awareness through you each time. The conversation falls into a comfortable silence as you walk side by side through the moonlit campus. Your mind races with everything that’s just happened—the confessions, the promises, the beginning of something neither of you had planned. Mingi’s hand occasionally brushes against yours, each contact sending little jolts through your system, but he doesn’t try to hold it. True to his word, he’s letting you set the pace.

“So,” he says as you approach your dormitory, “I was thinking maybe we could get dinner? Whenever you’re free… O-of course.”

The earnestness in his voice makes your heart flutter. “I’d love to.”

You stop at the entrance to your building, turning to face him. The lamplight catches in his dark eyes, making them shine with something that looks suspiciously like hope.

“Thank you,” you mumbled quietly.

His brow furrows slightly. “For what?”

“For being patient and understanding.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling shy. 

A smile curves his lips. “I’m full of surprises.”

“I’m beginning to see that.”

There’s a moment of hesitation. A breath where you both stand looking at each other, the air between you charged with possibility. You make a decision, stepping forward before you can overthink it. Rising slightly on your toes, you press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mingi,” you murmur, pulling back to see his eyes wide with surprise.

“Goodnight,” he coughs out, voice slightly rougher than before.

You turn quickly, swiping your keycard and slipping through the door before you can change your mind. Once inside, you can’t resist glancing back through the glass panel. Mingi stands frozen for a moment, hand raised to the spot where your lips touched his skin. Then, when he thinks you’ve gone, a transformation takes place. The cool, confident frat president dissolves into something entirely different. He pumps his fist in the air, does a little spin, and breaks into what can only be described as a victory dance—all limbs and unbridled joy, like a kid who just got exactly what he wanted for his birthday. He runs his hands through his hair, grinning so wide it must hurt, before composing himself and walking away with an extra bounce in his step. You press your hand to your mouth, stifling a laugh. Something warm blooms in your chest at the sight of him—campus heartbreaker, fraternity president, supposed player—celebrating a simple kiss on the cheek like it’s the greatest achievement of his life.

Maybe there’s more to him than you ever allowed yourself to see.

══════════════════

The following weeks unfold in a series of moments that feel stolen from someone else’s life. Mingi keeps his promise about taking things slow, but he finds other ways to show you he’s serious.

It starts with little things. A sticky note on your economics textbook when you leave it unattended for two minutes in the library: “Study Well!.” A cup of tea waiting for you before an early morning class, with honey already added the way you mentioned you like it once in passing.

Your tutoring sessions continue, but there’s a new undercurrent to them now. You maintain professionalism—mostly—but sometimes his fingers brush yours when you’re explaining a concept, lingering just a second too long to be accidental. Sometimes you catch him watching you with a softness in his eyes that makes your chest ache in the best way.

“Focus,” you scold during one such session, tapping your pencil against his notebook. “Our midterms are in coming up soon.”

“I am focusing,” he protests, eyes never leaving your face. “Just not on economics.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. “Looking at me isn’t going to help boost your GPA.”

“If it means looking at the prettiest girl in the room, it’s worth it,” he shrugs and the sincerity in his voice makes heat rise to your cheeks.

Walking with him after your brain numbing study sessions become so integral to your guys’ routine. It feels a little strange at first but when Mingi’s hand tentatively finds yours, all the stress melts away at his touch.

“You know,” he says during one such walk, “keeping you secret is killing me. The guys think I’ve gone celibate or something.”

You elbow him gently. “Your reputation could use the hit.”

“True,” he laughs, squeezing your hand. “For the record, this is the longest I’ve gone without posting on social media in ages.”

Mingi has been careful about keeping your relationship private. No Instagram stories featuring your coffee dates, no posts of your study sessions that sometimes devolve into conversations about everything and nothing. Just the two of you, learning each other in private moments stolen between classes and responsibilities.

One rainy Tuesday, he shows up at your dorm with takeout from your favorite Thai place and a stack of economics flash cards he made himself.

“I figured we could multitask,” he beams, setting up the food on your desk. 

Your roommate, who’s been watching this unfold with barely concealed delight, grabs her jacket. “And that’s my cue to give you two some privacy,” she announces, winking at you on her way out.

Once she’s gone, Mingi turns to you with a sheepish smile. “Too much?”

You shake your head, oddly touched by the gesture. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just not used to anyone doing this for me.”

His expression softens. “Well that's too bad, doll, start getting used to it.”

The study session is productive—mostly. At first, the two of you really do focus, perched shoulder to shoulder with a blanket across your knees, pencils poised as you quiz each other from the stack of flash cards. For a solid twenty minutes, you run through concepts, definitions, and theoretical graphs, congratulating each other with exaggerated fist bumps for every correct answer. Mingi is sharp, more so than you expected, but he keeps getting tripped up on the same three formulas, and each time he stumbles, you make him recite them from memory until he gets it right. By the fourth round, you’re both dissolving into laughter at his increasingly creative mnemonic devices.

Eventually, the flash cards are abandoned in favor of pad thai and mango sticky rice. You eat cross-legged on the floor, passing the container back and forth, chopsticks clacking as the conversation drifts from academics to childhood memories, to music, to the merits of various ramen brands. Mingi tells you a story about getting locked in a janitor’s closet during a fraternity scavenger hunt, and you laugh so hard you nearly spill sweet chili sauce all over your leggings. He grins, watching you with open affection, and you feel your defenses slipping a little more with each shared story, each easy silence.

You mean to get back to studying, really you do, but by the time your plates are empty, you’re both sprawled out on the rug, heads tipped together, trading lazy jokes and favorite movie quotes. The stack of flash cards lies forgotten somewhere behind you. Mingi stretches his arm behind your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. You’re acutely aware that you said you wanted to take things slow, but now, in the soft glow of your desk lamp, with rain pattering gently against the window, slow feels less like a rule and more like a suggestion.

At some point, you roll onto your side to face him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions, and you resist the urge to reach over and smooth it down. He catches the look in your eyes and grins, that same vulnerable curve of mouth you saw outside your dorm, and you realize you’re not even sure what you’re waiting for anymore. The next hour is a blur of tangled limbs, whispered jokes, and the kind of laughter that leaves your ribs aching. You don’t kiss—at least, not on the lips—but you end up with your head tucked against his shoulder, his hand tracing idle, feather-light circles on your back as you drift in and out of half-sleep. The textbooks are forgotten, the only thing that matters is the slow, steady rise and fall of his breath and the way it syncs perfectly with yours.

You don’t let him stay the night but you walk him to the door at midnight, both of you lingering in the hallway far longer than necessary.

“Tomorrow again?” he asks, voice low.

“Tomorrow,” you echo, smiling so hard it almost hurts.

You close the door behind him and press your forehead to the wood, equal parts giddy and terrified at how easy this is starting to feel.

That’s how it goes, week after week. Study sessions that turn into late-night conversations, walks that stretch on for hours, endless cups of tea and takeout and inside jokes that no one else would ever find funny. You find yourself looking for him everywhere: in the crowd of the dining hall, in the hush of the library at midnight, in the flicker of lamplight outside your window when you can’t sleep. Every time he appears, it feels like a secret only the two of you share. You start to notice the little ways he tries to care for you. The umbrella he brings when the forecast calls for rain, the pack of your favourite pens he leaves in your backpack before a big test, the playlist he makes for your morning runs, even though he can’t stand three-quarters of your “motivational” music. You tell yourself not to read into any of it, but you do. You’re hopelessly, helplessly reading into every tiny thing.

The night before your economics midterm, you meet up in the library’s quietest corner, both of you vibrating with nerves. He brings snacks and a fresh stack of flash cards, all hand-written in his messy scrawl, and the two of you settle in for a marathon review. For once, you manage to stay on task, quizzing each other with increasing intensity until you’re both exhausted. When the clock chimes one in the morning, you start to pack up, but Mingi hesitates, his hand hovering over the pile of books.

“You’re going to ace it,” he says, voice unexpectedly earnest.

You shake your head, smiling. “Only if you don’t distract me during the exam.”

“That’s going to be impossible,” he laughs, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “I’ll try my best.”

You snort, shouldering your bag. “I sure hope so.”

As you walk him out into the silent quad, he reaches for your hand—not tentative anymore, not asking permission, just doing it. You let him. The campus is empty, the sky ink-black and starless, and it feels like the entire world has narrowed to just the two of you, hands entwined, hearts beating a little too fast. He stops at the steps of your dorm, pulling you in for a hug that lasts a few seconds longer than normal. You memorize the feeling: the way his arms wrap around you, how he smells like detergent and the faintest hint of aftershave, the way his cheek fits perfectly against your temple. He reminds you to get some sleep, even as he lingers like he has no real intention of leaving just yet. You echo the sentiment back to him, a quiet reminder about his final. There’s a brief pause—something unspoken stretching between you—before you part with a soft, almost reluctant goodbye, the kind that feels less like an ending and more like something paused.

══════════════════

The morning of the midterm arrives with an electric tension in the air. You walk into the lecture hall, scanning the rows of nervous students until you spot Mingi. He’s hunched over his notes, frantically reviewing formulas, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. When he sees you, his face brightens momentarily before anxiety clouds his features again.

“Doll, I can’t remember anything,” he whispers as you slide into the seat beside him. “It’s all just... gone.”

You reach over and gently close his textbook. “Hey, breathe. You know this material better than you think.”

“Easy for you to say.” His voice cracks slightly. “What if I blank? What if everything we worked on just disappears the moment I see the test?”

You take his trembling hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Look at me. You’ve put in the work. You understand the concepts. Trust yourself.”

He exhales slowly, eyes locked on yours. “I just... I can’t mess this up. Not after everything.”

“You won’t,” you say with such conviction that he almost seems to believe you. “Remember what you told me about game theory? It’s not about the cards, it’s about—“

“—understanding the patterns,” he finishes, a small smile forming. “The incentives.”

“Exactly. And you’ve got this. I know you do.”

Professor Kim enters the room, silencing the anxious chatter. As she distributes the exams, Mingi gives your hand one last squeeze before letting go. You mouth “good luck” to him before turning to your own test.

The exam is challenging, even for you. Two hours of intense concentration, complex problems, and theoretical applications that make your brain ache. Occasionally, you glance at Mingi. His brow is furrowed in concentration, pencil moving steadily across the paper. No panic, no hesitation. Just focused determination that fuels your own.

When time is called, you feel drained but satisfied. Mingi looks up from his paper, meeting your eyes across the room with an expression of cautious optimism.

“How’d it go?” you ask as you both file out of the lecture hall.

“I think... I think it went okay,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “That section on monopolistic competition? I nailed it.”

“See? I told you.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get cocky just because you were right. Again.”

Three days after the exam, your phone lights up with his name: Grades are posted, lock in.

Your fingers fly across the screen as you log into the portal. There it is: Econ1000 - Final Grade: A+. Not surprising, but satisfying nonetheless. You’re about to text him back when another message comes through: Can we meet? I’m outside your building.

Your heart races as you rush down the stairs. Mingi is pacing outside, face unreadable. When he sees you, he stops, and for a terrible moment, you think he’s failed.

“Mingi? What happened? Are you—“

His face breaks into the widest grin you’ve ever seen. “I got an A, I did it!”

Relief and joy flood through you as he picks you up in a spinning hug that lifts your feet off the ground. “I knew you could do it!” you laugh, arms wrapped around his neck.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, setting you down but keeping his hands on your waist. 

“Hey give yourself some credit, you did all the work,” you counter, unable to stop smiling. “I just provided occasional guidance—“

“—And motivation, patience, and belief when I had none.” His expression grows serious despite his smile. “Thank you.”

You feel your cheeks warm under his intense gaze. “You’re welcome.”

He takes a deep breath, a flicker of nervousness crossing his features—something you’ve rarely seen from him. “So, I was thinking...” he begins, his hands sliding from your waist but not completely letting go, fingers lightly brushing against yours. “Maybe we could celebrate properly? Tonight?”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Dinner,” he says simply. Then adds, with uncharacteristic hesitation, “At an actual restaurant with fancy ass menus and shit.” His eyes meet yours, surprisingly earnest. “A date. Just you and me.”

The word “date” hangs between you, weighted with meaning. These weren't the standard study sessions or casual hangouts anymore. He wanted to take you out to dinner.

“A date,” you repeat, testing how the words feel.

“Yes.” He nods, watching your face carefully. “I want to take you somewhere nice. To celebrate, but also because...” He pauses, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just want to treat you to a good meal, feels like the right thing to do.”

You laugh, the tension in your chest dissolving into something warm and bright. “In that case, yes. I’d love to go to dinner with you tonight.”

The smile that breaks across his face is incandescent. “Great! I’ll pick you up at seven?”

“Seven works,” you nod, already mentally cataloguing your closet, wondering what constitutes appropriate attire for an official date with Song Mingi.

As if reading your mind, he adds, “Wear something nice. I made reservations at Stellina.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. Stellina is easily the most upscale restaurant near campus—the kind of place parents take their children when they visit, or where professors celebrate tenure. Definitely not somewhere college students typically go for casual dinners.

“Stellina?” you echo. “That’s... wow.”

“Wait, do you not like Stells?” he asks, suddenly uncertain.

You shake your head quickly. “No, it’s perfect. I’m just surprised.”

“Good surprised?”

“Very good surprised.”

He beams, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “I’ll see you at seven, then.”

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of anticipation. You text your roommate the news, which results in her immediately abandoning whatever plans she had to help you prepare. By six o’clock, your room looks like a boutique exploded—clothes strewn across both beds, makeup scattered across the desk, and your roommate critically assessing every option.

“This one,” she declares finally, holding up a simple black dress you bought for a cousin’s birthday last year but haven’t worn since. “Classic, elegant, but still says ‘I’m not trying too hard.’” You slip it on, the silky fabric settling against your skin. It’s more fitted than you remembered, hugging your curves before flaring slightly at the hem. Nothing flashy, but undeniably flattering.

“Perfect,” your roommate nods approvingly. “Now, shoes...”

By 6:55, you’re pacing nervously in front of the mirror. The dress looks good, your hair is cooperating for once, and your roommate has worked minor miracles with minimal makeup. Still, anxiety flutters in your stomach like trapped butterflies.

“What if this changes everything?” you ask, chewing your lip. “What if it’s weird or awkward or—“

“Or what if it’s amazing?” your roommate cuts in, adjusting a strand of your hair. “Stop catastrophizing and let yourself enjoy this. The man is taking you to Stellina, for god’s sake. He’s clearly serious about you.”

Before you can respond, your phone buzzes with a text: I’m outside.

Your roommate practically shoves you toward the door. “Go! And I want all the details when you get back!”

You take one last deep breath, grab your small purse, and head downstairs. The moment you step outside, you spot him immediately standing beside his car, looking almost unrecognizable in a tailored navy suit. His hair is styled away from his face, revealing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. His eyes widen slightly as they take in your appearance, moving from your face to your dress and back again with an appreciation so obvious it makes your skin warm.

“You look...” he starts, then shakes his head, a soft laugh escaping him. “I had a whole line prepared, but now I can’t remember it. You look incredible.”

“So do you,” you manage, taking in how the suit fits his broad shoulders perfectly. “I didn’t know you owned clothes like this.”

“Special occasions only,” he grins, stepping forward to offer you his arm. “Ready?”

The drive to Stellina is short but charged with a new kind of tension—anticipation mixed with awareness. Mingi keeps glancing at you when he thinks you’re not looking, and you catch yourself doing the same. When you arrive, he insists on opening your door, offering his hand to help you out of the car with an old-fashioned gallantry that would seem affected from anyone else.

Inside, the restaurant is everything you expected and more. Soft lighting from crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, the gentle clink of expensive silverware. The hostess greets Mingi by name and leads you to a quiet corner table partially secluded by a decorative screen.

“This is...” you begin, looking around at the elegant surroundings.

“Too much?” he blurted out in a panic, studying your face carefully as he pulls out your chair.

You shake your head, settling into your seat. “No, it’s beautiful. I’m just not used to... all this.”

“Neither am I,” he admits with a small laugh, taking his own seat. “I wanted tonight to be special.”

The waiter appears with menus and a wine list, addressing Mingi with practiced deference. You watch, slightly amused, as he navigates the wine selection with surprising confidence, asking questions about vintages and pairings that you wouldn’t have expected him to know.

“Since when are you a wine expert?” you ask after the waiter leaves to fetch your selection.

He grins, slightly sheepish. “I’m not. I spent an hour yesterday watching YouTube videos about how to order wine without looking like an idiot.”

The admission is so endearingly honest that you can’t help but laugh. “You’re crazy.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he shrugs, no trace of his usual bravado. “Is it working?”

“Maybe a little,” you concede, smiling.

The wine arrives—a crisp white that pairs perfectly with the appetizers Mingi suggests. As you sip and sample delicate bites of food you can barely pronounce, the initial awkwardness melts away. Conversation flows as easily as it always has between you, ranging from classes to childhood stories to dreams for the future.

“So,” he says as the waiter clears your appetizer plates, “now that we’ve conquered economics, what’s next on your academic hit list?”

“Advanced Econometrics,” you grimace slightly. “Not exactly light reading.”

“Sounds intense,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll need a tutor for that one? If so, I know a guy…”

The teasing question makes you smile. “I think I can manage. What about you? What are you taking next semester?”

He hesitates, something vulnerable flickering across his face. “Actually, I registered for that Behavioural Economics class you mentioned. And...” he pauses, “I’m thinking about adding a minor in Business Analytics.”

“Really?” You can’t hide your surprise. “That’s a pretty intensive program.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding, “someone made me realize I might actually be good at this stuff. When I’m not being a, what did you call it? ‘Stereotypical frat boy with the collective IQ of a houseplant?’”

You wince, remembering your harsh assessment from months ago. “I was wrong about that.”

“Not entirely,” he laughs. “I can be that guy sometimes. It’s easier, you know? To be what people expect.”

The honesty in his voice touches something deep in your chest. “You don’t have to be that with me.”

His eyes meet yours across the table, warm and sincere,  “I know.”

The main courses arrive—seared scallops for you, steak for him—momentarily pausing the conversation. As you eat, you notice how Mingi keeps finding excuses to touch you: his fingers brushing yours when reaching for the wine, his knee pressing gently against yours under the table. Each contact sends little sparks along your skin, building a current that hums just below the surface.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a comfortable lull in conversation.

“Of course.”

“When did you start liking me?” The question is direct, curious rather than cocky. “I mean, I know you couldn’t stand me at first.”

You consider this, taking a sip of wine. “I think... it was during our third tutoring session. You spent twenty minutes arguing with me about income inequality and its effects on consumer behaviour.”

He looks surprised. “That’s what did it? An economics debate?”

“You were passionate,” you explain. “And knowledgeable. And you didn’t back down just because I disagreed. I was impressed.”

His expression softens. “For me, it was the party. That first night. When you looked at me and didn’t seem impressed at all.”

“Really? That early?”

He nods, a small smile playing at his lips. “You have no idea how refreshing that was. Everyone else was... I don’t know, wanting something from me. You just looked annoyed that I existed.”

“I wasn’t annoyed,” you correct him. “I was... intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” he repeats, smile widening. “I’ll take it.”

As dinner winds down, the restaurant gradually empties around you. Neither of you seems eager to leave, conversation flowing from topic to topic, punctuated by laughter and moments of surprising vulnerability. When the waiter discreetly brings the check, Mingi insists on paying despite your protests.

“This was my idea,” he says firmly. “My invitation, my treat.”

“At least let me cover the tip,” you argue.

He shakes his head, sliding his card into the leather folder. “Next time. You can plan the whole thing if you want.”

“Next time,” you echo, liking the sound of it more than you expected to.

Outside, the night air is cool and clear, stars visible despite the campus lights. Mingi takes your hand as you walk back to the car, his thumb tracing small circles on your palm.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say quietly. “It was perfect.”

He stops walking, turning to face you under the soft glow of a streetlight. “Thank you for saying yes.”

There’s a moment where neither of you moves. Then, slowly, as if giving you time to pull away, Mingi leans in, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. The moment his lips meet yours, everything else fades away—the restaurant, the streetlight, even the nervous flutter in your chest. His kiss is gentle at first, almost reverent, like he’s been waiting for this moment and doesn’t want to rush it. Your eyes flutter closed as you lean into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling his heartbeat racing beneath your fingertips.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for so long,” he murmurs against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

You smile, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. “What took you so long?”

Instead of answering, he kisses you again, deeper this time. His arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against him, the warmth of his body seeping through the thin fabric of your dress. Something shifts in the air between you—the careful restraint you’ve both been maintaining giving way to something more urgent, more honest.

Your hands slide up to tangle in his hair, messing up his carefully styled look. He makes a soft sound against your mouth that sends heat rushing through you, his fingers digging slightly into your waist as he pulls you impossibly closer. The kiss turns hungrier, months of tension finally finding release as his tongue brushes against yours, tentative at first, then with growing confidence when you respond in kind.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, pupils wide as he looks at you with undisguised want.

“I should’ve done this at the party ages ago,” he whispers, voice rough. “That night on the balcony. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”

You laugh softly, feeling dizzy and light-headed in the best way. “Better late than never.”

He grins, pressing another quick kiss to your lips like he can’t help himself. “Do you want to go somewhere more... private?” The question is careful, giving you an out if you need it.

The responsible part of your brain reminds you of early classes tomorrow, of the boundaries you set, of taking things slow. But the part of you that’s been dreaming of this moment for longer than you care to admit is already nodding.

“Your place?” you suggest, surprised by the boldness in your own voice.

His eyes widen slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to agree so readily. “You sure?”

In answer, you pull him down for another kiss, letting your actions speak louder than words. When you pull away, his smile is almost dazed.

“My place it is,” he says, taking your hand and leading you back to his car with renewed purpose.

The drive to his fraternity house is charged with anticipation, the air between you electric with possibilities. His hand finds yours across the center console, thumb stroking over your knuckles in a way that seems both soothing and maddening at once. At a red light, he can’t resist leaning over to kiss you again, quick but deep enough to leave you breathless.

“If you keep doing that, we might not make it to your place,” you warn, only half-joking.

His laugh is low and warm. “Worth it.” ══════════════════

When you arrive, the house is mercifully quiet—most of his frat brothers either out or already asleep. He leads you through the common areas with your hand firmly in his, up the stairs to his room on the second floor. Once inside, he closes the door softly behind you, and suddenly the reality of where you are—in Mingi’s bedroom, alone, after the most perfect date—hits you all at once.

His room is larger than you expected, and surprisingly neat. A double bed occupies one corner, made with actual matching sheets and pillows. Bookshelves line one wall, filled not just with textbooks but novels, economics journals, and what looks like a collection of vintage records. A desk sits beneath a large window, offering the promised view of campus, lights twinkling in the distance.

“So,” you say, turning to face him, “this is where the golden boy lives.”

He pushes off from the door, crossing to stand before you. “Disappointed that there's no mattress on the floor and it’s not covered in beer pong trophies?”

“A little,” you admit with a teasing smile. “Though I do see at least one trophy.” You nod toward a shelf where a single golden cup sits next to a framed photo of Mingi with an older man, both smiling widely.

“Economics award from freshman year,” he explains, following your gaze. “That’s my grandfather, the day I got my acceptance letter.”

You move closer to examine the photo, aware of Mingi following you, the space between you shrinking with each step. When you turn to face him again, he’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. Something shifts in his expression—the playful fraternity president giving way to something more raw, more honest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your lower lip.

His fingers tremble against your cheek as he exhales shakily. “I’ve never been this terrified of messing something up,” he confesses, voice cracking slightly.

“Every time I look at you, I see everything I’ve ever wanted but never thought I deserved.” His eyes search yours with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I keep pinching myself that you’re actually here, with me. You’re not just another person to me—you’re my person.” His thumb brushes your lower lip, reverent. “I adore everything about you. The way you laugh, how you challenge me, even how you roll your eyes when I’m being ridiculous.” He swallows hard. “I’m serious about us. So serious it scares me.”

The word hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You see it in his eyes, the battle between desire and fear. Fear that he’ll scare you away, that he’ll move too fast, that you’ll retreat behind those walls he’s spent weeks carefully dismantling. Your hands, almost of their own volition, drift upward to press against his chest. Under your palm, you feel the erratic thrum of his heart, each frantic beat echoing your own.

“Mingi,” you whisper, and the sound of his name—so soft, so certain—shatters the fragile barrier he’s been holding between you. For a suspended moment, your gazes lock, electric and trembling, and then he moves with a sudden, desperate clarity.

Mingi’s restraint snaps like brittle glass. He surges forward, kissing you with an intensity that’s as bright and blinding as a detonated star—no preamble, no hesitance, just pure want. His lips crash into yours, hot and hungry, arms banding around your waist so tightly you feel like you might dissolve into him. There’s nothing tentative in the way he holds you; he’s all-in, every muscle taut with reverence and longing. The kiss is a reclamation, a promise, and the culmination of every unspoken thing that’s hung between you for weeks.

You can only cling to his shoulders, overwhelmed by the seismic shift in energy. Your breath is stolen, your senses alight, your mind gone white-noise blank. The room could be on fire and you wouldn’t notice. Mingi kisses like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets up for even a second—like you’re the last oxygen left on earth and he’s learning how to breathe. And yet, underneath the urgency, there’s a trembling tenderness, as though every pass of his mouth is asking, Is this okay? Am I too much? Do you want me, too?

You answer with your body, arching into him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, jaw tilting to deepen the kiss. His hands slide up your back, mapping the length of your spine; one finds its way into your hair, cradling your head, the other splayed possessively at your hip. He tastes like citrus and hope and the sharp, metallic shimmer of anticipation. There’s nothing careful about it—your teeth clash, your lips bruise, and when you gasp for air, he only uses the opportunity to trail kisses along your jaw, your neck, the delicate hollow at your throat. This is messy, urgent, but it’s also so fiercely sincere you’re left raw by the force of it. When he draws back, just long enough to search your face, his breathing is ragged, his eyes dark with wonder and disbelief.

“God, This might be better than the first time we kissed,” he pants, chest heaving as he regains control of his breathing. He brushes your hair away from your face, fingers gentle where his grip had been bruising. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

You shake your head, already chasing his mouth again, needing to erase the words and replace them with more—more of him, more of this. He laughs against your lips, the sound reverberating through your bones. You feel untethered, weightless, every nerve ending singing. You’re dimly aware of your back pressing up against the closed door, Mingi pinning you there in a cocoon of warmth and want. Every inch of you is alive, hypersensitive to the slide of his hands, the brush of his breath against your skin.

He kisses you again and again, in greedy, overlapping intervals, his self-control disintegrating the longer you let him. But even as the kiss turns molten, there’s nothing careless in the way he touches you—no sense of entitlement, just awe and gratitude, as though he still can’t believe you’re real, you’re here, you’re choosing him. When he finally slows, his forehead drops to yours, both of you panting, foreheads and noses pressed together, steadying yourselves against the aftershocks.

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then your ear. “Sorry,” he whispers, not sounding sorry at all. “I got carried away for a second.”

You laugh, shaky and breathless. “It's okay, it was kinda cute.”

He smiles, teeth grazing your earlobe. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“I learned from the best.”

He laughs again, quieter this time, and it morphs into something softer, more vulnerable. “The student becomes the master now, huh?”

You step back, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies, and meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with desire, but there’s hesitation there too—a question. You answer by taking his hand and leading him toward the bed, your heart hammering against your ribs. When his legs hit the edge of the mattress, you place your palms on his chest and gently push. He sits immediately, looking up at you with such reverence that it steals your breath. For a moment, you simply stand between his parted knees, admiring how beautiful he looks like this—waiting, wanting, completely focused on you.

“Can I?” you ask softly, fingers playing with the top button of his shirt.

He nods, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. “Of course. Whatever you want, doll.”

You take your time undressing him, savouring each new inch of skin revealed. His breathing grows more ragged with each button you slip free, with each brush of your fingertips against his heated skin. Your hands drift lower, finding the buckle of his belt. His eyes never leave yours as you work it loose, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room. There’s something intoxicating about the way he watches you—patient yet desperate, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. When you pop the button of his pants, his hands grip the edge of the mattress, anchoring himself down.

“Lift your hips,” you instruct softly, and he complies immediately, allowing you to slide his pants down his thighs. The fabric pools around his ankles, and he kicks them away, leaving him in just his boxers.

You take a moment to admire him like this—the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle definition of muscle beneath smooth skin. Mingi has always seemed larger than life, but here, partially undressed and vulnerable before you, he’s beautifully human. When you trace a finger along the waistband of his underwear, he shivers, a small sound escaping his throat. He tries reaching for you, but you catch his wrists. 

“Not yet,” you murmur, and he immediately stills.

“‘M Sorry,” he breathes, letting his hands fall to his sides. “I’ll be good.”

Something about the way he says it—like he’s never had to wait before, like he’s never been the one following someone else’s lead—makes the heat pool low in your belly. You lean down and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rewarding his patience.

“Lie back, let me take care of you,” you instruct, and he complies without hesitation, shifting up the bed until his head rests on the pillows. 

You take your time undressing yourself, hyperaware of his hungry gaze tracking every movement. When you finally stand before him in nothing but your underwear, he lets out the sweetest whimper that’s graced your ears.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice strained. “You’re so beautiful. I—“

He cuts himself off, holding back a moan as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. His hands hover uncertainly at your waist, waiting for permission.

“Go ahead, you can touch me,” you grant, and his hands are on you instantly. Feeling the warmth of his hands as they trace the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine.

You lean down to kiss him properly, deep and slow, savouring the taste of him. His lips part eagerly beneath yours, letting you set the pace, following your lead with a pliancy that’s intoxicating from someone normally so in control. You begin grinding against him for friction and he reciprocates. He groans into your mouth, mumbling curses under his breath. You felt his boner poking your ass while you both humped each other so so desperately. His bedroom is filled with the harmony of your heavy breathing, his whines, and the wet sounds of your lips crashing.

“Please,” he gasps. “I need—I want—“

“What do you want, Mingi?” you ask, pulling back slightly to watch his face.

“Need to feel you,” he says immediately, no hesitation. “Don’t want to—haah—cum in my pants like a fucking virgin.”

You giggle at his admission, you slowly reach behind you to squeeze his bulge, feeling it twitch in the palm of your hand. Mingi’s head tips back in bliss, growling at the sensation. The rawness in his voice makes your chest tight. You press soft kisses down his throat, across his collarbones, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips. His hands slide up your back, tangling in your hair, but he doesn’t push or pull—just holds on like you’re his anchor in a storm.

When you finally strip away the last barriers between you, his whole body trembles with anticipation. You wrap your fingers around his shaft, feeling the velvet skin slide beneath your touch as you position his flushed tip at your entrance. His eyes lock with yours—dark pools of need and surrender. You lower yourself with deliberate patience, savouring the stretch as his thick length fills you, watching his full lips part and his lashes flutter against flushed cheeks.

Mingi whines the second you ease down on him completely, hips trembling beneath you. His hands fist in the sheets, as if he’s physically restraining himself from thrusting up into you.

“Fuck, baby—“ he gasps, head tipping back against the pillows, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. His jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful as he struggles for control. “Feels so good around my cock, shit—“

You lean down, hushing him gently, both palms cradling his flushed face. You treat him like something precious, something to be cherished as you press your lips to his in a slow, deep kiss. Your tongue curls against his languidly, unhurried, as if you have nowhere else to be but here, joined with him in this perfect moment.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” you murmur between kisses, your voice soft and sweet and infinitely patient. Your forehead rests against his, noses brushing, sharing the same heated breath. “You’re doing so good for me.”

He moans at your praise, his entire body shuddering beneath yours. He’s all muscle and barely contained strength under you, his powerful frame completely at your mercy. You can feel how desperately he wants to move, to take control, but he surrenders to your pace instead, letting you have him exactly how you want him.

You remain still, just sitting there with him buried deep inside you, feeling the way your cunt pulses around his length. The sensation must be overwhelming for him because his eyes squeeze shut, his breathing ragged and uneven.

“Is it too much?” you cooed, reaching to brush damp strands of dark hair from his forehead, your touch gentle and soothing

He shakes his head frantically, his grip on your waist tightening. “N-no,” he whines with a soft, shattered sound. “Just—fuck, just need a s-second—feels too fuckin’ good—can’t think—“

Sweat beads at his hairline, eyes squeezed shut in some primal effort to hold himself together, chest heaving under your hands like he’s afraid his ribs will break apart from the force of it. You melt a little at the sight of him—a six foot force of raw sex appeal—now reduced to a mass of shaking limbs and shattered breath, undone and writhing beneath you. There’s something intoxicating about the way he trusts you to see him like this, about the way he lets himself be taken apart so openly, without armour or artifice. You savour it, every trembling, helpless second, and you want to draw it out forever.

You lean down, brushing your lips to his cheek in a soft, featherlight kiss. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he turns his head, chasing your mouth with a need so naked it nearly undoes you. You let him catch you, let him press his lips to yours—not in a kiss, exactly, but a silent plea, a lifeline. You answer by kissing him deeper, slower, letting your tongue trace the seam of his lips, coaxing him open, coaxing him back to the surface. His hands slide up your back, frantic but reverent, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you by touch and touch alone. His heart beats wild under your palm, a frantic semaphore that reads: I want you, I want you, I want you. You press another kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his jaw, then down the delicate line where his pulse hammers beneath thin skin. He shudders, his whole body rigid and shivery. You thread your fingers through his hair, stroking the side of his face 

“Hey,” you murmur, voice as gentle as you know how to make it, “Relax, I’ve got you. Can you do that for me?” 

He nods, so obedient and desperate it makes something deep in your chest ache with tenderness. One breath, then another, and you feel the tightness in his body begin to unravel—incremental, but real. You rock your hips slowly, experimentally, watching his face for every flicker of sensation, every micro-expression. His lips part in a helpless moan, but his eyes finally flutter open, dazed and shining. He tries to say your name but it comes out as a whimper, half-beg, half-blessing.

“That’s it, baby” you praise, kissing him again, softer this time. “You’re doing so well.” 

The words seem to go straight to his core—he clings to them, drinking them down like water in the desert. You keep up a steady stream of encouragement, every whisper and touch meant to anchor him, to let him know you want him just like this: open, needy, trembling with the effort of holding back.

You draw the next movement out deliberately. The slow, aching drag of your hips, the way you squeeze around him with every tiny shift. Mingi’s hands grip your thighs like lifelines, fingers biting into your skin, but he doesn’t dare take back control—the restraint is exquisite, painful to watch. He’s at your mercy and loving it, if the way his eyes keep darting to your mouth, your chest, your hands, is any indication.

“Gonna let me do what I want, yeah?” you crooned, savoring how your voice makes him flinch with anticipation. “Keep being good for me.” 

He nods, lips trembling as he struggles to keep his composure “Fuck. Yes—pl-please, ‘m yours.”

You build your rhythm, slow and steady, each grind calculated to wring the maximum shudder from him. Sometimes you pause, letting him throb helplessly inside you, watching his jaw flex and his throat work as he swallows the urge to move. Sometimes, you bring yourself up just enough that only the tip of him is inside, and let him feel the loss, the emptiness, right before you sink down again in one slow, molten pulse. Every time you do it, Mingi’s head tips back, a sound escaping his throat that’s closer to a sob than a moan. You let the building friction wind both of you higher, but you don’t let yourself get lost in it; you want to see him come apart, to savour every second of his surrender.

You pick up the pace, just enough to make it impossible for him to stay silent. The bed frame squeaks softly beneath you, his hands finally dragging up your ribs, desperate for anything to ground him in this sinful reality. He reaches up and cups one of your tits, rolling and squeezing your nipple until it hardens against his warm touch. Your eyes shut at the sight, your body starts to falter under his grasp. Every inch of him is trembling too, his body strung tight as wire. His thrusts are growing more desperate, cockhead now slamming into your weakest spot, ripping a pornographic moan from you. 

“Please, doll,” he rasps, voice gone rough and wild. “Please, can I—?”

You lean in, your lips at his ear, your breath hot and deliberate. “You want to cum?” you hum, rocking down hard and slow, grinding your hips just the way he likes. “You want to fill me up?”

He makes a strangled sound that could be your name, or a prayer, or both. “Pleasepleaseplease,” he says again, as if the word is being pried out of him, as if he’s never begged for anything in his life.

You decide he’s earned it.

“Do it,” you cooed. “Cum for me, Mingi. Wanna feel you cum inside me.”

The effect is immediate. He bucks up into you, helpless, his face contorting with pure, blissful pleasure. His hands drag you down against him, holding you in place as he comes deep inside you, the force of it making his whole body shudder. Your juices drip down his balls and your gummy walls clamp down hard on his sensitive length, throwing into his orgasm and washing his vision white. You feel his warmth spreading in your insides, creamy ropes of cum making you feel fuller than before. You ride him through it, slow and greedy, squeezing him with your cunt until he’s wrung out and gasping, eyes rolling back as he drowns in sensation. His chest trembles under his shaky breaths as he pulls his half-hard cock out of your sticky heat, looking up at you through dampened lashes. You press your lips to his damp temple, stroking his hair until the aftershocks fade. For a moment, the world goes silent save for the hammering of both your hearts, the heat of your bodies, the sweat cooling on your skin.

All of a sudden, the equilibrium tilts.

Mingi comes back to himself by degrees, eyes still glazed but mouth already curling into a grin that’s all sharp canines and mischief. You’re still trembling, the aftershocks ricocheting through your bones, but the way he’s holding you now—possessive—is different from before. There’s a shift in the air, a gathering of purpose behind the lazy drag of his palm up your spine.

“Alright, you’ve had your fun,” he rasps, voice rough with spent desire, “my turn.”

Suddenly he’s moving, rolling you onto your back in a single, fluid motion. His hands are everywhere—kneading your ass, your thighs, greedy in their hunger. His body covers yours, heat and weight and muscle, and you realise that he’s been biding his time, letting you have your way only so he could give it back to you tenfold. 

“Did you really think you had all the control, doll?” he drawls, the words fiery and playful at once, goading you with the memory of your earlier dominance—all while letting you know it was only ever on loan.

His hands bracket your hips, fingers splayed and greedy, and you feel the faintest quiver in his arms as he holds himself over you, like a predator savouring the moment before the pounce. His eyes never leave yours as he takes himself in hand, his cock already hardening again. You feel the blunt head of him brushing against your sensitive folds, teasing at your entrance. He drags it slowly up and down your slit, still slick with his cum and your arousal, circling your clit with deliberate pressure that makes your hips buck involuntarily.

“So responsive,” he murmurs, eyes darkening as he continues to tease you, tapping his tip against your cunt with feather-light touches. “Look at how eager you are f’me.” You moan as he continues his torturous teasing, rubbing his hardening length against your swollen lips, gathering your shared wetness along his shaft. Your hips buck involuntarily, chasing the fullness you crave. Mingi just chuckles, keeping his movements shallow, the head of his cock just barely dipping inside before retreating. The emptiness is maddening.

“Use your words,” he commands softly, continuing the torturous tapping against your entrance. “Tell me what you need.”

“I— ohmygod... I need—,” you try to answer, but the question melts on your tongue. 

His smile is triumphant as he finally, finally pushes forward, sinking into you with one smooth thrust. He buries himself deeper, hips rolling with a languid, relentless power. Every inch of him fills you, presses you open, makes you ache. He fucks up into you with a slow, devastating grind that leaves your toes curling and your nails digging into his biceps for purchase.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, nipping at your pulse point, tongue flicking over sweat-salted skin. “So wet for me. You like being stuffed by my cock don't you?”

“Oh fuck.. yes!” You whimper, and he grips your jaw, thumb pressing into your lower lip, enticing you to be louder.

“Let me hear you,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “Fuck—let the whole dorm hear how good I’m making you feel.”

He fucks you like he has nowhere to go and nothing else to do but ruin you, each punishing thrust deliberate and deep, perfectly tuned to hit every trembling, oversensitive sweet spot inside you, drawing out increasingly desperate sounds that seem to fuel his hunger. The room is a riot of sensation: the slap of skin on skin, the obscene squeeelch of your own arousal, the sweat that drips from his brow onto your collarbone as he leans in to bite at your shoulder.

He laces his fingers through yours, pinning your hands above your head, and the new angle is exquisite—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, so intense you can’t manage a sound. He’s watching your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure and pain, cataloguing the way your body arches and clenches around him.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking you harder now, the headboard rattling with each thrust. “You look so pretty like this—spread out for me, fuck. This is what you wanted, right?”

You feel the weight of him first, that heavy press of Mingi’s body pinning you down against the sheets, his hips grinding slow and deliberate as he sinks deeper. Every inch of his cock stretches you wide, the burn mixing with that sweet ache that makes your toes curl and your breath hitch. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into the scarred skin, but he doesn’t flinch. He just growls low in his throat, pushing harder, stuffing himself in until there’s no space left between you. All you can feel is him, that thick length buried deep, pulsing against your walls as he drives in again and again. a whimper escapes your lips, broken and needy, your body arching up to meet him even as the overload makes you want to pull away. Mingi notices immediately. his hand shoots up, fingers tangling rough in your hair, yanking your head forward with just enough force to make you gasp.

“Look at me,” He rasps, voice strained like he’s fighting through something sharp and brutal.

His grip tightens, holding you steady so your eyes lock onto his. Yours are wide now, pupils blowing out wide and dark, swallowing the colour until there’s just that hazy black stare reflecting back at him. He watches it happen, the way they dilate under the dim light, pulling him in like you’re lost in the haze of it all. His sounds get louder, desperate almost, grunts turning into these deep, guttural moans that vibrate through his body into yours.

“Fuck—I'm gonna lose my mind,” he groans, the word dragging out low and pained, like the pleasure is edging on torture. his free hand digs into your hip, bruising as he pulls you closer, slamming in one last time. “Your perfect cunt was made for me wasn't it?”

You nod, frantic, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming fullness. He slows, just enough to let you catch your breath, then leans in, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as comfort. His tongue is rough, demanding, and he swallows every helpless sound you make. 

Then, in a cruel twist of fate, he pulls out entirely, leaving you empty and clenching at nothing. Before you can beg, he’s flipping you onto your stomach, hands manhandling your hips up until you’re on your knees for him, face pressed into the pillows. He lines himself up behind you, the heat of his cock nudging at your entrance, and you whimper in anticipation.

“You're gonna let me fuck you sooo good, right baby?” he promises, voice gone dark and needy, and then he slams back into you in one brutal, beautiful stroke. The sound you make is sweet, involuntary, a sob torn from deep in your chest. He gives you no quarter, hips pistoning relentlessly, the flat of his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends you clenching around him.

“So beautiful,” he purred, running his palm over the stinging flesh.

With every thrust he drives the point home, each one punctuated by a filthy litany—mine—until you can feel the word burning into your skin. He grabs a fistful of your hair, jerks your head back so you’re forced to arch, to present yourself to him, to let him see how utterly, beautifully ruined you are.

“Say it,” he orders, voice raw. “Tell me who you belong to.”

You gasp, barely able to form words. “You! Mingi. I’m all yours—“

He rewards you with devastating thrusts, so deep your vision starts turning white.

“That’s”—thrust!—“right”—thrust!—“all”—thrust!—“mine.”

You can feel yourself unraveling, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge. He’s relentless, fucking you through your first orgasm and into a second, not stopping even when you collapse boneless onto the mattress. He kisses your spine, your shoulder blade, every vertebrae, as he keeps you pinned and takes you, over and over, until your vision blurs and you forget your own name. 

“M-mingi! M’ so close, gonna cum—“

“Gonna cum inside you again,” he promises, voice shaking with how close he is, hips stuttering. “You gonna take it for me? Gonna let me breed this perfect pussy?”

“Yesyesyes—fuck!”

The words rip something out of you. You nod, desperate, grinding back against him, greedy for his release.

“That’s my girl, c’mon cum with me baby.”

He bites down on your shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, and fucks you through his own climax, cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up again, so much it slicks out around the edges and paints the inside of your thighs, messy and obscene.

You collapse together, his arms locked around your waist, breath ghosting warm across your neck. He stays inside you, softening only a little, like he can’t bear to let you go yet. You lie there, bodies tangled and sticky, sweat cooling on your skin, and you feel the heat of him still throbbing inside you, a silent claim.

Neither of you moves for what feels like hours, your breathing gradually slowing to match each other’s rhythm. Mingi’s weight on top of you is heavy but comforting, his cock still nestled deep inside you despite having softened slightly. The gentle pulsing of him against your walls sends occasional aftershocks through your system, little reminders of the intensity you just shared.

“Stay like this,” you whisper when he finally stirs, your hand reaching back to keep him in place. “Just a little longer.”

He makes a soft sound of agreement, pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. “You like feeling me inside you, don’t you?” His voice is a gentle rumble against your skin. 

You nod, feeling strangely vulnerable in your admission. There’s something deeply intimate about this—more so, somehow, than the passionate sex you just had. Mingi seems to understand, adjusting his position slightly so he’s not crushing you but remains connected, his chest pressed to your back, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

“This okay?” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Perfect,” you sigh, melting into the mattress beneath his weight.

The room falls quiet except for your mingled breathing and the distant thrum of music from downstairs. The party continues without you, but at this moment, the world outside this room might as well not exist. Mingi nuzzles against your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to the marks he left earlier.

“I’ve never done this before,” he confesses quietly.

“What, sex?” you tease, knowing full well that’s not what he means.

He laughs softly, the vibration traveling through both your bodies. “No, smartass.” His arm tightens around you. “This,” he clarifies, fingers drawing gentle patterns on your skin. “Having someone stay over.”

You twist your neck to look at him, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Wait, seriously? But you’re—you’re you. How—”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah I know…I don’t bring people here. Ever.”

“Ever?” You shift slightly to face him better, wincing as you feel him slip out of you. The loss is immediate, leaving you empty in a way that makes you want to chase the connection again. He reaches for tissues from his nightstand, cleaning you both with surprising tenderness before settling back beside you. His eyes meet yours, unusually vulnerable.

“Never,” he confirms, voice soft. “This room is... I don’t know. It’s mine. My space. I don’t share it with just anyone.”

The implication hangs between you, heavy with meaning. You’re not just anyone. You’re someone he wants in his private world, someone he’s letting see parts of himself that others don’t.

“But all those stories about you...” you begin, confused.

He shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “Not saying I’ve been a saint. But those hookups? They happened elsewhere. Never here. Never in my bed.” His fingers trace your cheekbone with careful precision. “Never like this.”

Something warm blooms in your chest, spreading outward until your whole body feels flushed with it. You’ve been the exception to so many of his rules already—the girl he studied for, the one he took to Stellina, the one he waited patiently for. And now this—being the only person he’s ever brought to his most personal space.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

“How could you?” His smile is small but genuine. “I’ve spent a lot of time making sure everyone sees exactly what they expect to see.”

You reach up, touching his face with gentle fingers. “And what am I seeing right now?”

“The real me,” he says simply. “The one who’s terrified of messing this up. The one who thinks about you constantly. The one who...” he hesitates, taking a deep breath before continuing, “the one who wants you to be his girlfriend. Officially.”

Your heart stutters in your chest. Despite everything that’s happened between you—the tutoring, the dates, the incredible sex you just had—hearing him say it out loud makes it suddenly, overwhelmingly real.

“Mingi...” you start, uncertain how to respond.

His face falls slightly, but he quickly masks it. “I’m rushing things, aren’t I?”

“No, it’s not that,” you say quickly, not wanting him to misunderstand. “It’s just—this is all happening so fast. A few months ago I couldn’t stand you, and now...”

“And now?” he prompts when you trail off, eyes searching yours.

“Now I can’t imagine not having you in my life,” you admit. The truth of it surprises even you. “I just need a little time to process everything. Can I... can I give you an answer tomorrow?”

Relief washes over his features. “It’s not a no?”

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Definitely not a no.”

He pulls you closer, wrapping you in his arms like he’s afraid you might disappear. “Tomorrow it is. I can wait.”

You fall asleep like that, tangled together in his sheets, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm on your neck. For the first time in years, you don’t worry about your schedule or your plans or what comes next. You just let yourself exist in this moment, with him.

═══════════════════

Sunlight streams through the gap in the curtains, painting golden stripes across the bed. You stir slowly, your body pleasantly sore as consciousness creeps in. For a moment, disorientation clouds your mind—this isn’t your dorm room. All of a sudden, rapid flashbacks enter your mind from the events of last night. Mingi is gone, the sheets cool where he should be. For one terrible moment, panic seizes your chest—did he regret last night? Did he change his mind about wanting you as his girlfriend?

Then you hear footsteps in the hallway, the door handle turning. You sit up, clutching the sheet to your chest, heart pounding.

Mingi backs into the room, hands full. He’s balancing a tray of coffee cups, a small box of chocolates tucked under his arm, and—your breath catches—a bouquet of lilies and hydrangeas cradled against his chest. He hasn’t noticed you’re awake yet, too focused on not dropping anything as he nudges the door closed with his foot.

When he turns and sees you watching him, his face breaks into a smile so bright it rivals the sunlight streaming through the windows.

“Morning,” he says, suddenly looking shy. “I was hoping to be back before you woke up.”

“What’s all this?” you ask, unable to keep the smile from your voice.

He approaches the bed, carefully setting down the coffee cups on the nightstand. “Well, I figured your answer might depend on how convincing my case was.” He hands you the flowers, the stargazer lilies’ pink-speckled petals unfurling beside clusters of blue hydrangeas that catch the morning light. “These reminded me of you.”

You bury your nose in the blooms, inhaling their sweet fragrance. “They’re perfect.”

“There’s more,” he says, offering you the box of chocolates. “Your favourite, right? The ones with the salted caramel centers?”

You blink in surprise. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned it once, when we were studying for the midterm. Said they were your stress food.”

The fact that he remembered such a small detail makes your heart swell. He passes you one of the coffee cups, the rich aroma of your preferred brew wafting up as you take it.

“And this…” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small envelope. “This is the most important part.”

You set the coffee aside and take the card with trembling fingers. The envelope is simple, your name written on the front in his familiar handwriting. Inside is a handmade card, decorated with what appears to be hand-drawn economic graphs and formulas. You open it, and a laugh bubbles up from your chest as you read the message:

According to my cost-benefit analysis, being with you yields the highest returns on investment. Our relationship has increasing marginal utility—the more time I spend with you, the more valuable each moment becomes. Will you be my girlfriend and help me maximize our happiness and love function?

It’s nerdy and sweet and so perfectly him that tears spring to your eyes. When you look up, he’s watching you nervously, waiting for your response.

“Soooo?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You set the card aside carefully and reach for him, pulling him down until he’s sitting beside you on the bed. “You're so stupid,” you say, cupping his face in your hands. “Of course I'll be your girlfriend”

The relief and joy that wash over his features are almost painful to witness. He leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s somehow both gentle and fierce, like he’s trying to pour every emotion he’s feeling into this one perfect moment.

When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed as if he’s committing this to memory.

“You know,” you say, threading your fingers through his hair, “for someone who was failing economics a few weeks ago, that was a pretty impressive application of the principles.”

He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of you. “What can I say? I had an excellent tutor.”

“Damn right you did,” you tease, pulling him in for another kiss.

Outside, the campus is waking up. Students are heading to class, professors are preparing lectures, life is continuing as it always has. But in this room, wrapped in each other’s arms, you and Mingi have created something new—a world that belongs just to the two of you, built on unexpected connections, shattered assumptions, and the courage to see beyond the surface. As his lips find yours again, more insistent this time, you let yourself sink into the certainty that some economic theories are universal: the most valuable things are often the ones you never saw coming, and the greatest returns come from the investments you make not with your head, but with your heart.

© w00yngie 2026 | do not steal, plagiarise, translate or feed my work to ai.

[jaysbaefie]

AITA? | psh

synopsis: in which you post about the most insufferable guy in your class on an AITA thread, only to find someone in the comments defending him a little too passionately.

genre: enemies to lovers??

pairing: insufferable!sunghoon x menace!reader

warnings: sexual tension, so many gawddamn arguments, some eye fucking from sunghoon’s behalf, lowkey bratty!reader, dom!hoon, semi-public sex, washroom sex, spitting, choking, oral (m rec.), fingering, biting, mirror sex, so much degrading, begging, spanking, slapping, teasing, unprotected p in v (don’t do it…), creampie, light cum play…i think that’s it…

wc: 13k

a/n: i love me some enemies to lovers i feel ashamed 😔😋 anyways after almost 3 months ya gurl is back w anotha banger 😛😛 warning, this isn’t edited properly i did like a quick read over or 2 and ran out of patience. ill sit down months later to revise it (no i wont). as always, notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy :p

˙𐃷˙

the literature lecture hall buzzed quietly with the usual sounds of a monday morning class—keyboard typing, coffee lids snapping shut, chairs dragging lazily across the floor.

rain streaked against the tall windows beside you, grey light spilling across rows of half-awake university students while professor choi clicked through his lecture slides at the front.

this class was your last pick and you were barely listening until the next discussion question appeared on the board.

what does meursault's emotional detachment represent?

professor choi adjusted his thick framed circle glasses.

"thoughts?"

and then, unfortunately, park sunghoon raised his hand.

you already knew this was about to piss you off. your face twisting into one of pure disgust before the man even opened his mouth.

sunghoon sat three rows ahead of you, posture relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he owned the lecture hall. he didn't even look interested in the discussion, which somehow made it more annoying whenever he spoke and everyone listened anyway.

professor choi nodded toward him."go ahead."

sunghoon spoke evenly, like a corrupt politician who was going to promise world peace. like he was delivering some groundbreaking intellectual revelation instead of absolute nonsense.

"i think the novel critiques performative emotion more than emotional detachment itself."

you narrowed your eyes immediately. all you could hear was blah blah blah meh meh meh.

sunghoon continued, his tongue jutting out to wet his lips so the bullshit he was going to spew would come out smoother.

"society condemns meursault not because he committed murder, but because he doesn't react the way people expect him to emotionally. he refuses to fake grief, guilt, remorse—"

"because he doesn't have any," you interrupted flatly.

a few heads turned instantly, students giving each other knowing looks.  sunghoon glanced over his shoulder at you.

not irritated. oh no no, worse. he was amused.

"that's an oversimplification." he clicked, leaning his head back to the front to give professor choi a lazy look that basically said 'you see what's happening here?'

"no," you said. "you're just romanticizing emotional incompetence because the author used fancy wording."

a quiet snort came from somewhere behind you causing sunghoon to turn fully in his seat now. "you think the entire point of the novel is that he's a bad person?"

"i think the point is that detachment isn't inherently profound just because a man is quiet."

that got a reaction, small and subtle. a couple students trying not to laugh, their binders going up to hide their facial expressions as professor choi gave them a warning look.

sunghoon's eyes narrowed slightly for the first time.

finally.

"you're reducing existentialism to a personality flaw."

"and you're treating basic human empathy like it's optional."

professor choi opened his mouth and closed it again. probably deciding it was safer not to interfere yet.

sunghoon rested his arm against the desk beside him. "the novel literally argues that societal expectations of emotion are artificial."

"okay, but there's a difference between rejecting social performance and acting like a disconnected freak."

sunghoon gave you a look at the last word, "interesting choice of wording."

"oh please," you scoffed. "you're acting like meursault is some misunderstood visionary when really he's just emotionally constipated."

someone coughed to hide a laugh and sunghoon's jaw ticked slightly.

barely noticeable, but you noticed. because you notice everything about park sunghoon, the good and the bad. unfortunately, more of the good which was all physical. nothing mental of course, the man had an IQ of a turnip.

arguing with park sunghoon had become a skill you'd accidentally perfected over the past two years. he always looked composed, always calm. but there were little tells and small cracks. tiny expressions that appeared when you pushed hard enough.

and right now? he was getting annoyed.

good.

"you're too emotionally reactive to engage with the text objectively," he said, his dark eyes boring into your own as if he was trying to get under your skin.

which, to be fair, he was. you knew that, and he definitely knew that.

you let out a short laugh. "and you think sounding detached makes you intelligent."

his gaze held yours for a second too long. steady and sharp. "maybe i just know how to separate emotion from analysis."

"maybe you just enjoy hearing yourself talk."

sunghoon tilted his head slightly, "you've interrupted me four times."

"because every sentence somehow gets worse."

a few quiet laughs spread through the room again. you saw professor choi pinch the bridge of his nose from the corner of your eye.

sunghoon looked entirely unbothered by the class watching. if anything, he looked more focused now.

like he enjoyed this, he enjoyed the attention he was receiving. the perfect spotlight to argue with a classmate. which made you irrationally angrier. "you're intentionally ignoring nuance."

"and you're intentionally making this deeper than it actually is."

"literature is supposed to be analyzed deeply."

"not every quiet man with a god complex is philosophically revolutionary, sunghoon."

that one landed, hard. his brows lifted slightly and the room went quieter. you could practically feel everyone pretending not to listen now.

sunghoon leaned back slowly in his chair. still staring at you, not daring to break eye contact.

"you know," he said lightly, "for someone who claims i'm insufferable, you spend an impressive amount of time thinking about my opinions."

your stomach flipped in annoyance. strictly annoyance.

"trust me," you replied sweetly, "criticizing you is not a difficult intellectual exercise."

the corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. which only irritated you more because why did he look entertained right now?

"you get weirdly passionate whenever i disagree with you."

"because you say insane things with unnecessary confidence."

"and yet you always argue back."

you opened your mouth immediately. "because someone has to humble you."

sunghoon's eyes flicked briefly down toward your mouth before returning to your eyes so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.

almost.

then he said quietly, "you've been trying for two years."

your heartbeat stumbled once, completely involuntary by the way. and judging by the sudden silence in the lecture hall, several other people noticed the shift too.

professor choi finally sighed loudly enough to cut through the tension.

"well," he muttered dryly, "this has certainly been more engaging than most of your discussion contributions."

a few students laughed softly.

you tore your gaze away from sunghoon first, reaching for your pen like your pulse hadn't just betrayed you for absolutely no reason.

meanwhile, across the room, sunghoon leaned back in his chair again.

looking entirely too pleased with himself.

˙𐃷˙

by the time professor choi dismissed the class, the atmosphere in the lecture hall felt weirdly charged.

like everyone had just witnessed something they definitely shouldn't have.

chairs scraped against the floor as students packed up their bags, conversations immediately erupting around the room.

you shoved your laptop into your tote aggressively, muttering curses about the boy who shall not be named.

mostly because you could still feel park sunghoon's smug expression somewhere in your peripheral vision.

you hated him and his stupid fucking beautiful face.

the worst part was that he never even looked genuinely angry during your arguments. no matter how heated things got, sunghoon always stayed calm—relaxed posture, steady voice, slightly amused expression like he was watching you self-destruct for entertainment.

it was infuriating.

sunoo appeared beside your desk, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "you know," he said casually, "that was kind of the highlight of my week."

you glared at your so called best friend, "you're sick."

"no seriously," sunoo grinned. "when you called him emotionally constipated i almost started clapping."

you huffed, standing up. "he deserved worse." together, you and sunoo started toward the lecture hall doors with the crowd of students funneling out into the hallway.

except—someone was standing near the exit.

waiting, wearing a black hoodie. arms crossed loosely.

park sunghoon.

of course he was, because the argument that had erupted during class just wasn't enough for this troll doll. your steps slowed instinctively and sunoo noticed immediately, his smile widened, ear to ear.

fucking traitor.

sunghoon's eyes found yours through the crowd almost instantly. calm as ever and annoyingly unreadable.

then, as you got closer, he pushed himself off the wall.

you already knew he was about to say something irritating, you could feel it.

sunghoon stepped aside just enough to let other students pass before leaning slightly closer toward you.

close enough that you caught the clean scent of his cologne beneath the lingering smell of coffee and rain.

"for someone who hates my opinions," he murmured quietly, "you seem obsessed with hearing them."

you stopped walking and slowly turned your head toward him. you hated how you had to crank your head up to make eye contact with him, the height difference between you two surrendering your loss.

"and for someone who claims to be emotionally detached," you replied sweetly, "you sure spend a lot of time trying to get my attention."

sunghoon's mouth twitched, that stupid almost-smile again. he looked down at you at with this look that you couldn't quite identify.

"see you monday." you hope one of you don't make it to monday, preferably him.

you stared at him for one long second, really stared. at his stupid face. his stupid sharp jawline. his stupid pretty mouth that constantly said the most unbearable things imaginable.

then you walked away before you committed a felony.

sunoo was already laughing beside you. "OH my god," he breathed. "you two are unbelievable."

"he's unbelievable," you snapped immediately, a faint flush covering your face and neck.

sunoo hummed, clearly unconvinced. he was your best friend since elementary school, he knew exactly what this was.

the hallway buzzed with students moving between lectures while rain hammered softly against the windows lining the corridor. you shoved through the doors toward the outside courtyard, irritation simmering hotter with every passing second.

"i genuinely cannot wait until i graduate," you muttered. "the second i get my degree i'm never seeing that freak again."

sunoo snorted, looking at your pink tinted cheeks with a grin. "you still have two years left."

your eye twitched at the realization.

right.

two more years.

two more years of literature classes and discussion boards and seeing park sunghoon sitting three rows ahead of you looking annoyingly composed all the time.

you groaned dramatically. "i can't do this anymore."

sunoo bumped your shoulder lightly. "you've survived two years already."

"barely."

the more you thought about him, the angrier you got. because sunghoon was the exact type of person that's easy to hate.

too calm. too smug. too aware of how intelligent he was. and worst of all—too attractive for absolutely no reason.

everything about him irritated you.

his stupid perfect smile whenever he thought he'd won an argument. his stupidly long fingers tapping against his desk during lectures. the way his hoodies stretched across his broad shoulders.

the fact that he somehow looked composed even when everyone else looked exhausted during midterms.

it was deeply, deeply annoying.

you physically smacked yourself in the forehead.

sunoo blinked at your sudden outburst. "what was that for?"

"nothing."

sunoo narrowed his eyes. then slowly—dangerously—he smiled. "oh my god."

you frowned immediately, not liking the way he was smiling down at you. "what."

"i think you might be the issue."

you stopped walking so abruptly someone nearly walked into your shoulder. "excuse me?"

sunoo shrugged innocently. "i'm just saying."

"how the hell am i the issue?"

"you do start a lot of the arguments."

you stared at him in betrayal. "because he says ridiculous things."

"sometimes."

"all the time."

sunoo hummed thoughtfully, not agreeing, which was offensive. why is your best friend not blindly supporting you even when you're probably wrong, which you aren't, but even if you were—the fuck?

you scoffed loudly. "sunghoon is literally the one who started this whole thing."

and he had, freshman year. first semester.

he'd corrected one of your points during a class discussion with that calm, mildly condescending tone of his and something inside you had immediately gone: absolutely not.

listen you can take criticism, just not from that man specifically.

ever since then, every interaction between you had turned into some kind of competition. you couldn't help it. sunghoon always acted so composed, so polished, so annoyingly perfect that it made you want to knock him down a level, or several.

sunoo shoved his hands into his pockets. "okay but maybe if you stopped interacting with him—"

"impossible."

"you didn't even let me finish."

"because you're wrong."

sunoo laughed softly, knowing damn well that nothing he was going to say would penetrate through your thick skull. "you could just ignore him."

you looked at him like he'd suggested murder.

ignore park sunghoon? absolutely not.

that sounded suspiciously like losing. sunoo noticed your expression immediately and burst out laughing. "see? that's exactly what i mean."

you crossed your arms. "i am not the problem here."

sunoo just gave you a look. one of those deeply irritating best friend looks that implied he knew you better than you knew yourself.

which, unfortunately, he probably did.

you pulled your phone out of your pocket causing sunoo to raise a brow.

"what are you doing?"

"i'm getting unbiased opinions."

"from who?"

you opened reddit with complete confidence and sunoo immediately groaned.

"oh no."

˙𐃷˙

your dorm room was suspiciously quiet except for the aggressive tapping of your keyboard.

sunoo sat cross-legged at the end of your bed eating gummy bears straight from the bag while watching you with the exact same expression people have witnessing a public breakup.

concern mixed with entertainment.

you ignored him. because right now you were busy crafting the most objectively accurate reddit post ever written.

the glow from your laptop lit your face as you reread the title for the fifth time.

AITA for telling a guy in my class to shut up because he thinks he's always right?

perfect. concise. truthful.

you cracked your knuckles dramatically before continuing to type. sunoo snorted from the other side, picking out all the red gummies before stuffing them into his mouth.

- there's this guy in one of my university classes and he is genuinely one of the most irritating people i've ever met.

he's quiet but in a pretentious way? like he thinks being emotionally constipated makes him intelligent. he corrects EVERYONE during discussions and somehow always sounds smug even when he's technically being polite.

the worst part is that he's annoyingly good at everything. presentations? perfect. essays? perfect. participation? professor's favourite somehow.

one time i got a question wrong during class and this man literally smirked at me. SMIRKED. like a disney villain.

today we got into an argument during lecture because he was saying some pseudo intellectual nonsense and i told him to shut up because nobody cares about his superiority complex anymore.

now some people are saying i overreacted but i genuinely think he needed to be humbled.

AITA? -

you hit post.

then immediately grabbed your phone while bouncing slightly in your seat.

sunoo stared at you with mild distaste. "you look like you just launched a cyber attack."

"i'm right and soon the public will confirm it."

sunoo snorted. "you're insane."

the first comment appeared almost instantly.

you gasped dramatically. "OH MY GOD." sunoo leaned over slightly as you opened it, rolling his eyes as soon as he read the first word.

- NTA this guy sounds like if a philosophy podcast became a person. -

you slapped sunoo's arm excitedly."SEE?"

another comment appeared.

- girl stand UP. why are you letting a man who's probably named after a victorian disease humble you in public -

you folded over laughing, sunghoon was a disease alright. a disease that would rot and corrupt your brain before leading you to your own destruction.

sunoo grabbed your laptop before you dropped it off the bed. "okay that one was funny."

more comments flooded in rapidly and sunoo watched as your expression morphed into one of pure joy. like a kid who had just walked into a candy shop with an unlimited budget and no parental supervision.

- NTA he sounds insufferable. - ESH you both sound annoying but in a sexual tension way. -

you frowned, "what does that even mean?"

sunoo looked away suspiciously fast, hiding his smirk.

another one.

- i know EXACTLY the type of man you're talking about. probably wears silver jewelry and thinks eye contact is a personality trait. -

your jaw dropped. "THEY GET ME."

sunoo popped another gummy bear into his mouth, eyeing you. "or maybe you're describing every business major ever."

you ignored him because the comments were getting better by the second.

- does he perchance look like this: 🗿 -

"OH MY GOD." he totally does.

- girl he likes you. ⤷ no literally this sounds like academic enemies to lovers fanfiction. -

"okay why does everyone keep saying that," you muttered, a deep frown now etched on your face. you were beginning to not like where these comments were headed.

sunoo made a noncommittal noise. you narrowed your eyes at him briefly before scrolling again.

- i'm crying at "emotionally constipated." please cook him again. - next class hit him with "you're not beating the pretentious allegations." - ask him if he learned emotional intelligence from patrick bateman edits and sigma bro podcasts lol. -

you physically wheezed, your body folding over in laughter. sunoo shook his head slowly, watching you upvote every single comment that dissed sunghoon.

"you're enjoying this way too much."

"because i'm finally being validated."

you pointed accusingly at him. "unlike SOME people."

sunoo rolled his eyes before muttering, "whatever bitch."

another comment appeared.

- INFO: is he actually arrogant or are you just threatened because he's smarter than you? -

your smile vanished instantly. "BOOOOO."

you downvoted it immediately, sunoo burst out laughing. "you are NOT supposed to interact emotionally with the comments."

"they interacted emotionally with ME first."

you kept scrolling, feeling increasingly euphoric as strangers across the internet continued confirming what you'd known all along: park sunghoon was deeply irritating.

the comments only got more ridiculous from there.

- "he smirked at you after you got a question wrong" oh huny he wants you BAD. - this sounds less like hatred and more like unresolved yearning. - enemies to lovers ahh post. -

"unresolved yearning?" you repeated aloud in horror.

oh fuck no.

sunoo was smiling now. not laughing. no no, he was smiling.

which was somehow worse, you turned your head slowly to shoot him a glare, "what."

he shrugged. "nothing."

you narrowed your eyes suspiciously then looked back at your screen.

another comment. this one longer.

- honestly i think you're leaving out context. from your own description, it sounds like he was trying to engage in discussion normally and you took it personally because you already dislike him. -

your smile faltered slightly.

who the fuck was this? and why the fuck do they think they know the situation?

the comment continued:

- correcting people during literary discussions isn't arrogance if he's contributing meaningful analysis. also, calling someone "emotionally constipated" because they interpret a book differently than you is kind of ironic. -

you scoffed loudly. "OH BROTHER." get a load of this guy, why don't they just go and suck sunghoon's dick at this point.

sunoo leaned closer, reading the comment out loud "wait that one kinda—"

"no."

you clicked reply immediately, your fingers flying across the keyboard.

- if you defend people like this i just KNOW nobody likes you in real life. -

sunoo let out a disbelieving laugh. "you're fighting civilians now?"

"they started it."

your reply posted and within less than thirty seconds— the person responded.

- bold assumption coming from someone who wrote an entire essay about a classmate because he annoyed her. -

you froze and slowly sat up straighter. you felt your face tense in what you can only identify as pure raw anger.

sunoo noticed instantly when your face went from. mildly annoyed to baboon ass red. "what."

your eyes narrowed at the screen. something about the reply irritated you immediately. the tone. calm. slightly condescending. annoyingly articulate.

...absolutely not. no way.

you started typing again with renewed aggression. you stared at the username with pure hatred.

notniceprince02

your eye twitched, something about it already annoyed you. the reply sat there on your screen like a personal attack.

calm and smug. condescending in a weirdly articulate way that made you want to throw your laptop across the room.

sunoo leaned closer from beside you. "what happened?"

you pointed aggressively at the screen. "this person thinks i'm the problem."

sunoo made a face. "well..."

you slowly turned toward him eyes like slits and your mouth scrunched. "choose your next words carefully." sunoo immediately looked back down at his gummy bears.

fucking coward.

you cracked your fingers dramatically before typing a response.

- sorry i didn't realize his defense attorney was in the comments section. should i call you next time he starts acting like a rejected sherlock holmes adaptation? -

you hit reply with satisfaction, finally letting out the breath of anger you had taken earlier,

sunoo blinked. "you type like you're in a duel."

"because i am."

less than a minute later—another response.

- maybe people correct you often because you're wrong often. -

you gasped so loudly sunoo nearly dropped the gummy bear bag. "OH this bitch."

you didn't know who this person was but you are not the one to be fucked with like this. your fingers flew over the keyboard with new found passion.

- and maybe you defend emotionally detached weirdos online because you see yourself in him. -

reply posted and the response came back almost immediately.

- emotionally detached = calm emotional instability = writing reddit essays because a guy disagreed with you in class -

sunoo physically leaned forward now the gummy bears had been abandoned.

"okay wait," he said slowly. "this is getting good."

you ignored him, mostly because your blood pressure was rising.

- if being calm means acting like a pretentious AI generated philosophy quote then congratulations i guess. -

reply and instant response.

- if being intelligent sounds pretentious to you that might be a personal issue. -

your jaw dropped. "PERSONAL ISSUE?"

sunoo was trying not to laugh, badly. you glared at him before pushing at his shoulder hard enough to have him almost fall of your bed. unlucky for you, he managed to catch his balance and stay seated next to you with a dumb grin on his face.

"i'm sorry but they kinda cooked you there."

"whose side are you on?" fucking twink.

"the entertainment's."

traitor.

you sat up straighter on the bed, narrowing your eyes at the screen like notniceprince02 had personally wronged your entire bloodline.

- you sound exactly like the guy i'm talking about btw. same superiority complex. same "i think i'm the smartest person in every room" energy. -

the response appeared almost immediately, which somehow irritated you more. did this person have no life? fighting with strangers on the internet like a loser.

this doesn't apply to you of course.

- maybe you're just intimidated by people who challenge you intellectually. -

you stared at the screen in disbelief.

sunoo let out a quiet whistle. "they hit a nerve?"

"i'm going to hit THEM."

you typed furiously, your thumbs cramping up but you don't let weak things like this stop you.

- intellectually challenge me? please. this man raises his hand in class like he's announcing a new world order then says the most pseudo intellectual nonsense you've ever heard. -

response.

- interesting. you seem to remember his class participation very vividly. -

you froze for like half a second and then scoffed loudly.

because it's TRAUMATIZING. not because you care enough to remember, but because it's shocked itself into the crevices of your brain.

sunoo snorted while you kept going.

- he literally smirks when people get answers wrong. do you know how deeply punchable that is? -

response.

- maybe he smirks because your reactions are dramatic. -

you narrowed your eyes dangerously. this conversation, more like argument, felt more natural that you'd like to admit.

- okay now i KNOW you're him. -

sunoo's brows shot up immediately. hold on...

you pointed at the screen frantically. "LOOK AT HOW HE TYPES."

sunoo leaned closer, the two of you stared silently at the replies for a moment. then—sunoo slowly looked at you. "that actually does sound like him."

"THANK YOU." validation surged through your body instantly. you pointed aggressively at the laptop. "RIGHT? the annoying calmness? the fake intellectual wording? the superiority complex?"

sunoo tilted his head, a shit eating grin plastered on his porcelain face. "you know him disturbingly well."

"unfortunately."

another reply appeared.

- i think it's funny how much attention you pay to someone you supposedly dislike. -

you barked out a laugh, completely humorless.

- oh my god. you ARE him. -

response.

- and if i was? -

you sat there, staring. sunoo sat there too, also staring. the room suddenly felt strangely quiet as you squinted at the screen.

"why did that make me mad."

sunoo was smiling again, that knowing smile. you hated that smile.

"because you think it might actually be him."

"it's not him."

"mhm."

"it's just some annoying reddit user." another response appeared before you could keep ranting.

- for the record, if this guy really is as arrogant as you claim, why do you keep engaging with him? -

you rolled your eyes instantly.

- because someone has to humble him. -

reply.

- sounds more like obsession. -

you gasped, like actually gasped. you? obsessed with sunghoon? out of all the people in this world? fuck no.

sunoo folded over laughing. "OH MY GOD."

"OBSESSION?" you typed so aggressively the keyboard started clacking violently.

- you people see a man and woman arguing and immediately think there's romantic tension. have you considered that i simply think he's irritating and unfortunate-looking? -

sunoo looked at you, slowly. "unfortunate-looking?"

you avoided eye contact because unfortunately that part wasn't true. at all. which was deeply annoying. you hated how you couldn't get away with dissing his appearance because as much as you hate to admit it, there was nothing to pick at.

another reply.

- unfortunate-looking yet you described his facial expressions in detail. -

you froze. sunoo froze. your eyes slowly widened as you stared at sunoo who looked equally as surprised as you.

"..."

sunoo pointed at the screen. "THAT IS ABSOLUTELY HIM."

"SHUT UP."

˙𐃷˙

by the next morning, your hatred for user notniceprince02 had evolved into something genuinely concerning.

your phone had been vibrating nonstop since eight in the morning.

every. two. seconds.

ping.

ping.

PING.

another reply. another argument. another smug paragraph typed in that calm, annoyingly articulate tone that made your blood pressure spike on sight.

you sat in the student lounge with your laptop open and your phone in your hand simultaneously, responding across two devices like a woman fighting in active warfare.

sunoo sat across from you, fully invested now. having the thread opened on his laptop as he watched you type out responses like it was war.

classes? irrelevant. education? secondary.

this reddit argument had become the main event.

"you've replied to him thirty-seven times just in this past hour " sunoo said.

"thirty-eight." you hit send aggressively and sunoo blinked in pure shock.

"that was immediate."

"because he's wrong." your phone buzzed again and you looked down instantly.

- notniceprince02: "you keep proving my point by reacting emotionally to everything." -

you scoffed so loudly the two people at the next table glanced over.

"OH my god." your fingers slammed against the keyboard.

- sorry i forgot being emotionally unavailable is apparently a personality trait now. -

send.

and would you look at that, a response within seconds.

- no, but making hating one guy your entire personality definitely is. -

you stared at the screen with a scowl etched on your face. offended, deeply offended.

sunoo leaned over your shoulder to see you clutching your phone was a grip that would shatter your screen. then immediately started laughing. "okay no because why does this genuinely sound like sunghoon."

"it's NOT him."

"__."

"it's just some weird sigma male ass kisser who probably listens to podcasts hosted by divorced men."

sunoo snorted. "that sounds exactly like something you'd accuse sunghoon of."

you ignored him because your phone buzzed again—another reply.

- you seem weirdly committed to misunderstanding him. -

you rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. at this point you wondered how many people at the library thought something was mentally wrong with you.

- and you seem weirdly committed to defending him. is this his burner account or are you just in love with him? -

send.

sunoo nearly choked. "OH?"

"what?"

"you're spiraling."

"i'm WINNING."

sunoo pointed at your screen, a thread of reddit beef that's exceeded an appropriate limit. "this does not look like winning."

you frowned at the ongoing thread. unfortunately, it had become one of the top comments under your post. people were fully invested now with random users jumping into the argument just to spectate.

some were taking sides while others were making it worse, much worse.

- y'all are literally flirting. - this is the most enemies to lovers thing i've ever read. - somebody invite me to the wedding. - "irl academic rivals is CRAZY." -

you physically recoiled at the thought of being shipped with that garden troll of a man. "what is WRONG with people?"

sunoo looked way too entertained. "they kinda have a point."

"they absolutely do not."

another comment:

- at this point just kiss and get it over with.    ⤷ i would rather chew denim. -

you typed immediately, brows furrowed and jaw clenched. this was the last thing you had expected as an outcome when you posted on reddit.

sunoo burst out laughing. "chew denim?"

"i'm emotional."

your phone buzzed again.

- notniceprince02: "that's dramatic." -

your eye twitched as you read the message out loud. "HE KEEPS SAYING THAT." people had now physically turned on their seats to look at the two of you with curious and annoyed looks in their eyes.

sunoo pointed accusingly at you while gives others a apologetic smile.  "because you ARE dramatic." he whispered to you harshly all while motioning you to shut the fuck up.

"you're both against me."

"no," sunoo corrected. "i just think this is the funniest thing that's happened all semester."

you glared at him before standing abruptly, grabbing your phone. "i'm going to the washroom."

if sunoo wasn't going to appreciate this properly, then some girl in the stall next to you will.  sunoo hummed absently. "tell your boyfriend i said hi if he replies again."

"die."

you walked off before he could keep talking.

the hallways buzzed with students moving between lectures, conversations overlapping with the sound of footsteps and lockers shutting nearby.

your phone buzzed again and without looking up, you immediately started typing.

- no, because at this point you're defending him like you want him carnally. -

send.

you turned the corner toward the washrooms—and slammed directly into someone.

hard.

your shoulder collided with a solid chest and your phone nearly flew out of your hand.

"shit—"

steady hands caught your arms before you stumbled backward. familiar hands. long fingers curling briefly around your sleeves.

your stomach dropped instantly, because of course.

of fucking COURSE.

park sunghoon looked down at you with mild surprise, dark hair slightly messy like he'd been running his hands through it all morning. a pair of headphones rested around his neck, black hoodie sleeves pushed to his forearms.

and unfortunately—unfairly—he looked really good today.

which immediately irritated you, because how dare he have a shit personality and look good while ruining your mood by just breathing in your vicinity.

sunghoon glanced at your death grip on your phone before meeting your eyes again, a small smirk playing on his pink plush lips.

"you should probably watch where you're going." his voice was calm, low and slightly amused.

you narrowed your eyes instantly. "maybe people would move if they weren't standing in the middle of hallways like decorative statues."

one corner of his mouth lifted slightly. there it was, that stupid almost-smile. you hated that stupid almost-smile.

sunghoon's gaze flicked downward briefly. to your phone screen which was still open to reddit. your heart stopped for half a second because the thread was visible. very visible. and at the top of the screen sat a fresh notification from—notniceprince02 replied to your comment

sunghoon's eyes lingered on the notification then slowly lifted back to yours.

silence. your brain short-circuited instantly, no. absolutely not. there was no way. sunghoon looked at you for one long second before asking casually, "still fighting with strangers online?"

your entire body went still, just for a second. because there was absolutely no way—no actual way.

sunghoon stood there holding your arm loosely, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve while your phone screen glowed between you both like evidence in a criminal investigation.

notniceprince02 replied to your comment.

your brain was buffering. loading. malfunctioning.

sunghoon's expression remained frustratingly neutral but there was something there. something subtle: amusement.

your eyes narrowed immediately. "why are you looking at my phone?"

smooth. good recovery. yup yup.

sunghoon let go of your arm slowly, way too slowly. "hard not to when you almost tackled me with it."

you scoffed, "you were standing in my way."

"you walked directly into me."

"semantics."

sunghoon hummed quietly as his gaze flicked toward your screen again and then back to you.

"so," he said lightly, "what stranger online managed to upset you this badly?"

your grip tightened around your phone instantly. absolutely not. you were NOT about to entertain sunoo's ridiculous theory.

"nobody."

sunghoon raised a brow, "you look homicidal."

"maybe that's just your effect on people." you retorted back almost automatically. you wonder if you've ever responded to sunghoon in a normal way.

that stupid almost-smile appeared again. small and annoyingly attractive. you hated it, like actually hated it.

sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "you know," he murmured, "you get strangely defensive whenever i ask simple questions."

your stomach flipped in irritation, strictly irritation. "and you get strangely nosy for someone who acts emotionally detached all the time."

his eyes held yours for a second longer than necessary, steady and focused. like he was trying to figure something out.

the hallway around you blurred into noise and somehow you were still standing there.

too close to him, way too close.

you noticed stupid things at the worst possible times, like the faint scent of his cologne or the tiny mole near his neck. or the fact that his hair fell into his eyes slightly when he looked down at you like this.

deeply irritating.

sunghoon's gaze flicked briefly toward your mouth before returning upward so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.

almost.

"what?" you snapped immediately. you could feel a small flush cover your cheeks and neck at the thought of sunghoon sneaking glances at your lips. maybe he thought you looked really slapable right now, or really kissable. it hurt your ego to think that either one of those things were deemed acceptable to you.

his brows lifted slightly. "nothing."

liar.

you narrowed your eyes harder. "you're being weird."

"you say that every time you don't know how to respond."

your jaw dropped at his audacity. "i always know how to respond."

"mhm."

that stupid calm tone again. you wanted to bite him. which—bad wording. very bad wording.

sunghoon watched your expression shift in real time and something in his face changed slightly. like he noticed the exact moment your thoughts betrayed you.

horrifying. absolutely horrifying.

you recovered immediately, sort of. "why are you even talking to me right now?" you asked. "don't you have some freshmen discussion group to intellectually terrorize?"

sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath—actually laughed. and it caught you so off guard that you momentarily forgot to stay angry.

which made you angrier. "you're the one who ran into me."

"unfortunately."

"yet you're still standing here."

you opened your mouth then closed it. sunghoon noticed, of course he noticed. the only thing he doesn't seem to notice is his mouth opening and closing with cow noises spilling out during class.

the corner of his mouth twitched again. "that's new," he said softly.

"what is?"

"you being speechless." your face heated instantly, not because of him.

obviously.

you crossed your arms defensively. "you're unbelievably annoying."

"and yet," sunghoon said calmly, stepping slightly closer, "you keep talking to me."

your heartbeat stumbled. just once. which was unacceptable.

because now he was close enough that you could see every tiny detail in his expression—the faint curve of amusement in his eyes, the way his lips kept threatening to smile fully.

he looked way too pleased with himself. you hated that too. a group of students walked past nearby and one of them whispered: "there's no way they're not dating."

you whipped your head around instantly. "WE'RE NOT—"

sunghoon's hand suddenly landed lightly against the wall beside your head. not trapping you, but enough to make your words catch awkwardly in your throat.

his expression remained perfectly calm which somehow made the gesture worse. "you're loud when you're flustered," he said quietly.

your brain short-circuited. flustered? FLUSTERED?

you stared at him in disbelief. "i am not flustered."

sunghoon hummed, completely unconvinced as he reached into his pocket to slip out his phone. your pulse was going insane now for reasons you refused to examine.

then—your phone buzzed loudly between you both.

the notification lit up the screen and your head snapped down, unlocking your phone to see something that only made your heart drop to your gut.

- notniceprince02: "you still haven't answered my question." -

silence.

sunghoon looked down at the notification then slowly back up at you. and this time—this time he smiled properly.

small. sharp. dangerous.

your stomach dropped straight to hell. because suddenly—suddenly you knew.

oh my god.

it WAS him.

your soul briefly left your body. there was no other explanation for the horrifying full-body shutdown you experienced standing there in the middle of the hallway.

because park sunghoon was smiling at you. actually smiling. not the tiny smug almost-smirk he usually wore during arguments.

a real smile. sharp at the edges. dangerously entertained. and your phone was still glowing between you both with the notification from: notniceprince02

oh my god. OH my god.

you stared at him, sunghoon stared back. this fucker was playing with you this entire time and he had the audacity to look calm, composed and completely evil all at the same time.

your voice came out accusing immediately. "you're insane." sunghoon's smile widened slightly. which honestly should've been illegal because why did he suddenly look—no.

absolutely not.

"that's a strong reaction," he said mildly.

"you've been fighting with me online for like fourteen hours."

"thirteen, actually."

you blinked up at him, horrified.

sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "you stopped replying around three in the morning."

your jaw physically dropped. "YOU KEPT TRACK?"

"you type aggressively when you're tired."

you looked genuinely offended. "that is such a weird thing to notice."

"you notice weird things about me too."

silence. dangerous silence. because unfortunately—unfortunately he was right. and judging by the look on his face? he knew he was right too.

you recovered immediately or at least attempted to. "okay first of all," you started, pointing at him aggressively, "using a burner account to argue with me on reddit is psychotic behavior."

sunghoon crossed his arms loosely still way too relaxed. "you made an entire public post about me."

"i didn't SAY your name."

"you described me like a wanted criminal."

"because you're irritating."

"it was weirdly detailed."

your eye twitched. "you're unbelievable."

sunghoon leaned slightly closer, close enough that your stupid heart started acting weird again. "you wrote three paragraphs about my facial expressions."

heat crawled up your neck instantly. because in hindsight—mentioning the smirking might've been a mistake.

"that was for CONTEXT."

sunghoon hummed not buying it for a second. "right....right"

you hated how calm he sounded. like this entire situation entertained him more than anything else. which made sense, considering the man apparently spent his free time anonymously provoking you online.

actual freak behavior.

"and YOU," you shot back, "were defending yourself in the comments like a loser."

sunghoon's brows lifted. "i was defending myself because you compared me to a podcast for divorced men."

"because you talk like one."

"you literally accused me of wanting attention 'carnally.'" your face heated instantly, sunghoon looked way too pleased saying that out loud. "that was BEFORE i knew it was you."

"does that make it better?"

"a little."

his mouth twitched again. you wanted to throw him into traffic. respectfully.

sunghoon glanced down at your phone screen where the reddit thread was still open. hundreds of notifications flooded the post now. people were still replying, still arguing and still shipping you both for reasons you refused to acknowledge.

sunghoon read one of the comments over your shoulder, then laughed quietly. "someone said we have 'academic rivals to lovers tension.'"

you looked horrified, shooting him a quick glare before downvoting on the comment. "don't read those."

"why not?" he asked lightly. "they seem passionate about us."

"there is no 'us.'" you snapped back.

sunghoon's gaze flicked back to yours, steady—focused. "you sure?"

your stomach dropped. hard. something about the way he said it felt unfairly intentional. like he knew exactly what he was doing now. which—he probably did.

you crossed your arms tighter, defensive. "you're enjoying this way too much."

"you started it."

"you kept replying."

"so did you."

"because i don't lose arguments."

sunghoon stepped closer again, just slightly. enough that your back nearly brushed the wall behind you.

"is that what this is?" he asked softly.

you frowned. "what."

"you needing to win." his voice had gotten quieter somehow, lower and suddenly the hallway noise around you felt distant again.

students walked past constantly but it barely registered. because sunghoon was standing too close and looking at you like he'd figured something out.

you swallowed once, annoyed at yourself for even noticing. "obviously," you replied.

sunghoon watched you for another second. then, "i think you just like arguing with me."

you let out a disbelieving laugh immediately. "that is genuinely the dumbest thing you've ever said."

"is it?"

"yes."

"then why do you always look excited before you disagree with me?"

your mouth opened. closed. opened again. nothing came out. because that was—that was not the point. like fuck, you caught me i guess.

sunghoon noticed your silence instantly, of course he did. his expression shifted into something smugger and more dangerous. "there it is again."

"what."

"speechless."

you hated him, like actually hated him. especially because he looked so unfairly good right now standing there with messy dark hair and that stupid smug expression like he'd won something.

you narrowed your eyes. "you know what? maybe people only think you're smart because you say things confidently."

sunghoon leaned one shoulder casually against the wall beside you. completely cornering you now without actually touching you.

"maybe," he said calmly, "you only argue with me because i'm the only person who argues back."

your heartbeat betrayed you again. you stared at him, sunghoon stared back. then—your phone buzzed loudly again between you both.

another reddit notification, sunghoon glanced down before taking your phone into his own hands then read aloud: "'just kiss already and save us all the trouble.'"

you lunged for your phone instantly. "give me that." sunghoon lifted it out of reach easily and your eyes widened. "park sunghoon."

he looked down at you with blatant amusement. "that's the first time you've said my full name without sounding homicidal."

"i AM homicidal."

"mhm."

you reached for your phone again, sunghoon caught your wrist lightly before you could grab it. everything stopped. your breath. your thoughts. your functioning nervous system.

his fingers wrapped loosely around your wrist, warm and firm. and suddenly you became painfully aware of how close he actually was.

sunghoon looked down briefly at where he was holding you and then back at your face. his expression changed slightly, less teasing and more—dangerous.

your pulse went absolutely insane. then quietly—way too quietly—he said, "you know... you're a lot less mean when you're flustered."

your brain completely stopped functioning. like genuinely. because park sunghoon was still holding your wrist, still standing way too close, still looking at you with that horribly calm expression while your pulse was actively trying to kill you.

and the worst part? he knew. you could tell he knew. his thumb shifted slightly against your wrist and your stomach flipped so violently it made you angry.

sunghoon's eyes flicked briefly to your mouth again. then back up, slowly and deliberately.

"you know," he murmured, "the comments might be onto something."

your brows furrowed instantly. "what comments."

his mouth twitched. "'just kiss already and save us all the trouble.'"

you stared at him in disbelief. "absolutely not."

"why not?"

"because i'd rather die."

sunghoon hummed thoughtfully. "dramatic."

"you make me dramatic." that slipped out before you could stop it, the silence was thick.

sunghoon's expression shifted almost imperceptibly. something darker settling beneath the amusement. your face heated instantly. great. excellent. love that for you.

you tried pulling your wrist back but he didn't let go. not fully, he just loosened his grip slightly. enough to remind you he could let go if he wanted to, but wasn't.

"you know what i think?" he asked quietly.

"i don't care."

"i think you enjoy this."

you scoffed immediately. "arguing with you is psychologically damaging."

"yet you keep doing it."

"because someone needs to humble you."

sunghoon smiled slowly, that smile should've come with a warning label. "you've been saying that for two years, i don't think you're making much progress, __."

your stomach twisted, you hated how softly he said it. like he'd been thinking about it too, absolutely disgusting.

you crossed your arms tighter, or tried to. hard to look intimidating when he still had your wrist trapped loosely in his hand. "you're weirdly obsessed with me for someone who acts emotionally detached all the time."

sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "says the girl who wrote a public essay about me." at this point the both of you were repeating yourselves for the nth time, none of you progressing anywhere.

"because you're irritating."

"and handsome?"

you nearly choked. "WHEN did i say that?"

"you didn't have to."

you looked genuinely appalled, sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath. the sound went straight through you in the most irritating way imaginable.

you hated that too, everything about him irritated you. his stupid voice, his stupid face, his stupidly long fingers still wrapped around your wrist.

"you're insufferable."

"you like that word."

"because it applies to you constantly." you say sweetly, batting your eyelashes in the most dramatic way you could possibly pull off.

sunghoon leaned closer, close enough that your back finally brushed against the wall behind you.

you swallowed hard, annoyed. deeply annoyed.

"you know," he said softly, "for someone who claims to hate me, you stare at me a lot."

your jaw dropped. "you stare at ME."

"because you're loud."

"and you're annoying."

"yet here we are."

your heart was beating so hard you were convinced he could hear it. which was humiliating, especially because he looked entirely unaffected.

calm. steady. composed. which is what his heart monitor would read after you ran him over with your car.  you wanted to ruin that composure so badly. sunghoon's gaze dropped to your mouth again, this time slower and less subtle. your breathing hitched involuntarily and that smug bastard noticed immediately.

his eyes darkened slightly. "there it is," he murmured.

"what."

"that look."

"what look?"

sunghoon smiled faintly. "the one you get before you start losing an argument."

you pushed against his shoulder instantly, hard. or at least hard enough to make a point but sunghoon barely moved. which only irritated you more. "i never lose."

"sure."

"i'm serious."

"mhm."

you glared at him, sunghoon stared back. then quietly— way too calmly—he said, "maybe we should give people what they want."

your stomach dropped. "what."

his fingers tightened slightly around your wrist before he stepped closer again, completely boxing you in now. "the comments seem very invested in us."

"there is no 'us.'" you repeated for the nth time.

"you keep saying that."

"because it's true."

sunghoon looked at you for one long second, then his voice dropped lower, dangerously soft. "then how about we start with the kiss?"

your brain short-circuited so violently you physically stopped breathing. "excuse me?"

sunghoon's expression remained infuriatingly calm. but his eyes—his eyes looked anything but calm now. "you heard me."

heat exploded across your face instantly. "you are OUT of your mind."

"probably."

"i would never kiss you."

sunghoon leaned down slightly, close enough that his voice brushed against your skin. "you keep saying things your body language disagrees with."

your stomach flipped violently. you hated him, because he sounded so certain, so unfairly confident. you opened your mouth to argue again but footsteps echoed nearby and a group of students rounded the corner laughing loudly.

both of you glanced over instinctively, the moment broke slightly. just enough, except sunghoon didn't move away. instead, his gaze flicked briefly down the hall toward the nearby family washroom.

then back to you and your pulse spiked instantly. "sunghoon—"

before you could finish, he tugged lightly on your wrist. your breath caught as he pulled you forward down the hall.

"what are you DOING?"

sunghoon glanced back at you once, that same dangerous almost-smile pulling at his mouth.

"proving a point."

your stomach dropped straight to hell. your sneakers squeaked slightly against the floor as sunghoon pulled you down the hallway.

not fast enough to look suspicious, which somehow made it worse. his hand stayed wrapped around your wrist the entire time—warm, firm, steady—like he already knew you wouldn't actually pull away.

which was irritating, deeply irritating. "park sunghoon—"

"you say my full name a lot when you're nervous."

"i'm not nervous." he glanced back at you briefly, that smug look again.

"sure."

you swore out his entire bloodline at this moment as your heart was currently beating like you'd just sprinted across campus. sunghoon stopped outside the family washroom and pushed the door open casually before looking back at you expectantly.

your eyes widened immediately. "oh my god."

"what?"

"you're insane."

"you've said that already."

"because you keep proving it."

sunghoon's mouth twitched then he gently tugged your wrist again. you should've walked away, seriously. you should've told him to go to hell and left immediately.

instead—you followed him inside. which honestly felt like a personal failure.

the door clicked shut behind you.

the washroom was too bright and too small. and now sunghoon was standing directly in front of you with nowhere to escape to, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms and dark hair slightly falling into his eyes.

you became painfully aware of every inch of space between you both, which unfortunately (fortunately) wasn't much.

your pulse went insane. sunghoon leaned back lightly against the sink counter, still watching you with that same unreadable expression. except now there was something sharper underneath it, something heated.

you crossed your arms immediately, defensive. "if you murder me in here i'm haunting you."

sunghoon laughed quietly, the sound bounced softly off the tiled walls. "you think i'd need to drag you into a bathroom to kill you?"

"probably not. you'd do it in a psychologically manipulative way."

"interesting that you've thought about it."

"i think about punching you constantly."

sunghoon hummed. "violent."

"you bring it out in me."

his gaze held yours for a second too long. then, "i know."

your stomach flipped, you hated how low his voice sounded in here. hated how every tiny expression felt amplified now that you were alone. you needed to regain control of this conversation immediately.

"so what exactly was your master plan here?" you asked. "corner me in a public washroom and continue being annoying?"

sunghoon tilted his head slightly. "you came willingly."

well, he got you there. "against my better judgment."

"yet still willingly."

you rolled your eyes aggressively. "you're obsessed with having the last word."

"that's rich coming from you."

"i'm right most of the time." sunghoon smiled slowly, there it was again. that stupid smile that made you irrationally aware of how attractive he was.

you hated that too, everything about him was annoying. the way he stood, the way he talked. the way his hands and forearms looked resting against the sink behind him—okay.

you needed to stop thinking immediately. sunghoon noticed your brief lapse in concentration. his eyes narrowed slightly, amused.

"what happened?" he asked softly. "lost your train of thought?"

"i'm deciding how much jail time i'd get for assault." good cover up!

"probably less if you looked this cute during the mugshot."

your brain completely blue-screened, you stared at him. sunghoon stared back. completely calm after saying the most insane thing imaginable.

"you—" nothing, your thoughts evaporated.

sunghoon pushed off the sink slowly, one step closer. then another. your back instinctively hit the door behind you.

oh my god.

"what?" he asked quietly. you swallowed hard, annoyed at yourself.

"you can't just say things like that."

"why not?"

"because it's weird."

"you're flustered again."

"I AM NOT FLUSTERED."

sunghoon looked down at you for a long second then his gaze flicked to your mouth again. slowly and deliberately. your stomach twisted so hard it physically hurt and you wondered what would happen if you just threw up your guts onto him. how pretty would he look with a bacon egg and cheese splashed onto him?

"you know," he murmured, "for someone who claims to hate me, you let me get very close to you."

"you cornered me." you snap.

"you could move." you opened your mouth then closed it. because—well technically. he wasn't wrong. you absolutely could move, but instead you stayed exactly where you were.

sunghoon noticed immediately, that smug look returned. "there it is."

"stop saying that."

"then stop proving me right."

you glared at him, he stared back. neither of you moved. the tension in the room felt ridiculous now. thick enough to choke on.

and the worst part? sunghoon still looked calm. slightly amused, even. like he was waiting for you to figure something out.

your phone buzzed loudly in your pocket. both of you glanced downward instinctively. another reddit notification, causing sunghoon laughed softly. "they're probably asking if we kissed yet."

your face heated instantly. "they're delusional."

"mhm."

"stop doing that."

"doing what?"

"looking at me like that."

his brows lifted slightly. "like what?"

you gestured vaguely, frustrated. "like you know something i don't."

sunghoon stepped closer again, barely any space left between you now. his voice dropped lower, quieter. "maybe i do."

your breath caught, his hand lifted slowly toward your face. you froze up, completely. sunghoon's fingers brushed lightly against your jaw, gentle and careful. somehow that made it worse. your heartbeat was so loud you were convinced the entire campus could hear it.

sunghoon looked at you for one long second. then quietly—almost teasing—he murmured "still think you'd rather die than kiss me?"

your brain was screaming because park sunghoon's hand was on your jaw right now. his thumb resting lightly against your skin while he looked at you like this —calm on the surface, but with something much more dangerous underneath.

and the worst part? you still hadn't moved away.

your back pressed against the door behind you as your pulse absolutely lost its mind. sunghoon waited patiently for an answer.

that smug bastard. "well?" he murmured softly. you swallowed hard. "you're very confident for someone who uses reddit burner accounts."

the corner of his mouth lifted immediately. there you were, finally talking again.

"deflecting already?"

"i'm not deflecting."

"mhm."

you hated that sound. hated how he kept looking at you like he could see directly through every thought in your head. because right now those thoughts were actively betraying you.

you were suddenly hyperaware of everything, the warmth of his hand, the faint scent of his cologne, the way his hoodie sleeves stretched around his forearms when he shifted closer.

deeply irritating. you narrowed your eyes, trying desperately to regain control of the situation.

"you know what your problem is?"

sunghoon hummed softly, looking down at you with an unreadable glint in his dark eyes. "you think everyone secretly likes you."

"not everyone."

his thumb brushed your jaw slightly as he spoke and your stomach flipped violently.

"just you."

your breath caught embarrassingly fast. sunghoon noticed instantly and his eyes darkened slightly. suddenly the teasing atmosphere shifted into something heavier, quieter.

you hated how good he was at this. "you're unbelievable," you muttered.

"you've said that too."

"because you keep acting insane."

sunghoon leaned down slightly, close enough now that his voice felt warm against your skin.

"you haven't told me to stop."

your brain short-circuited. because—because technically—you hadn't. you opened your mouth immediately. "stop."

sunghoon smiled faintly, but didn't move. "that sounded forced."

you glared at him. "you're annoying."

"and yet you're still here." he kept doing that. kept pointing out things you didn't want to acknowledge. like the fact that you could absolutely shove him away right now if you wanted to.

except you didn't, which felt like a massive personal failure. your phone buzzed again in your pocket making sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath. "persistent audience."

"they need hobbies."

"says the girl who argued with me online for thirteen hours."

"because you were WRONG."

"about what exactly?"

"everything."

sunghoon's brows lifted slightly. "including the part where you're obviously attracted to me?"

your jaw dropped. silence. violent silence. your entire nervous system shut down. "you—"

nothing came out and sunghoon looked way too pleased with himself. "there it is again."

"if you say 'speechless' one more time i'm calling campus security."

he laughed again, soft and genuine. and it hit you in the chest in the most irritating way imaginable because you'd never heard him laugh like this before.

not during class, not during arguments. this was different, warmer, more relaxed. like he was actually enjoying himself.

you stared at him suspiciously, sunghoon noticed immediately. "what?"

"why are you smiling like that."

"like what?"

"like you're having fun." his gaze held yours for a second, then, "i am."

your stomach twisted again, it felt as if your body was actively betraying you . you looked away first this time, suddenly very interested in the tiled floor beneath you. sunghoon's hand shifted slightly, fingers brushing gently beneath your chin.

guiding your attention back to him and your heart nearly exploded.

"don't do that," you muttered weakly.

"do what?"

"that."

"very descriptive."

you glared at him, or attempted to. hard to look intimidating when your face was hot and your heartbeat sounded like a construction site.

sunghoon studied your expression quietly for a moment. then smiled slightly, smaller this time and less teasing. "you know what i think?"

"i think you should stop thinking entirely." you spat out weakly.

"i think," he continued calmly ignoring what you just said, "you've spent two years picking fights with me because it's the only time you stop pretending not to care what i think."

your stomach dropped straight to hell you stared at him only to see him look at you with a look you were afraid to identify.  and somehow that was worse than the teasing, because he sounded genuine now.

which felt unfair.

you recovered immediately through anger, your favorite defense mechanism.

"oh my god you are SO full of yourself."

"am i wrong?"

"yes."

"then why are you blushing?"

you slapped your hands over your face instantly, and sunghoon actually laughed. fully this time and the sound was so unexpectedly attractive it made you want to walk directly into traffic.

"stop laughing."

"you're cute when you're angry."

"you're making me angrier."

"i know." his voice softened slightly on the last two words, your hands slowly lowered from your face.

sunghoon was still standing impossibly close. still looking at you like he wanted to see what you'd do next. your heartbeat wouldn't calm down and neither would your thoughts.

and then his gaze dropped to your mouth again, slowly—intentionally.

your breath caught again and sunghoon noticed. again. his hand slid lightly from your jaw to the side of your neck.

you completely stopped functioning. "sunghoon," you whispered, first name only this time. this was probably the first time in the two years you knew him that you had said his name with such softness.

something shifted in his expression immediately and his eyes darkened. his thumb pressed lightly against your neck.

"yeah?" he murmured.

oh.

oh this was bad.

his thumb pressed gently against the pulse hammering in your throat. that single point of contact felt like a live wire.

"yeah?" he murmured again, his voice dropping into a register you'd never heard, low and rough and utterly dismantling. you had no witty retort, no clever insult. your brain was static, every neuron firing toward the heat of his hand, the dark focus in his eyes.

he saw the surrender you hadn't even voiced. his other hand came up, fingers threading through your hair to cradle the back of your head, and then he was closing the last inch of space.

his mouth was on yours.

it wasn't tentative. it wasn't a question. it was a firm, smooth claim that stole the breath from your lungs and the strength from your knees. his lips moved against yours with a confident pressure that was instantly dizzying. he tasted like mint and something darker, something uniquely him.

a soft, surprised sound escaped you, swallowed immediately by his kiss. he angled your head, deepening it, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours.

it was an argument you couldn't win, a debate settled with a devastating, sensual finality. your hands, which had been balled into fists at your sides, came up to clutch at the fabric of his hoodie.

he broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against your swollen lips, "finally." then he was moving again, his body pressing you firmly back against the cool door. you felt your heart pounding in your chest like you had ran a mile, his one word stealing the strength from your legs.

in one fluid, shockingly strong motion, he captured both your wrists in one of his large hands and pinned them above your head. you gasped, a thrill of helplessness shooting straight to your core. his other hand returned to your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant, possessive weight.

"always so loud," he breathed, his lips trailing down your jaw. "so much to say." you could feel the hard, undeniable ridge of his dick pressing against your stomach through both your clothes. the evidence of his desire was a shockwave that made you whimper. he smirked against your skin. "what's wrong? no clever comeback?"

he leaned in again, but instead of kissing you, he hovered. his gaze locked on yours, dark and intense. then he gathered a bit of saliva on his tongue and let it fall, slow and deliberate, past his own lips and onto yours.

the warm, wet intimacy of it made your eyes flutter closed for a second. "open," he commanded softly. dazed, you did. he sealed his mouth over yours again, sharing the wetness, the kiss turning filthy and deep.

you drank him in, your earlier defiance melting into a desperate, aching need. you could feel your underwear stick to you uncomfortably, shifting slighting only to have sunghoon's large body pin you against the door harder. his bulge pushing into your stomach firmer, you could feel him grind against you.

he pulled back, his breathing slightly ragged, and began to mouth down the column of your throat. his teeth scraped lightly, then bit down, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough to make you cry out and arch against him. he soothed the spot with his tongue before sucking hard, leaving a brand you knew would bloom purple.

he admired his work, then the dizzy, wrecked look on your face. "look at you. all that fire, reduced to this." his free hand slid down, grabbing the hem of your shirt. "all those essays about my emotional incompetence," he said, tugging the fabric up. you shivered as cool air hit your stomach.

"all that time you spent thinking about me." the shirt went over your head, discarded somewhere on the floor. his eyes raked over your bra. "and for what? to end up here."

"you're—you're still insufferable," you managed to pant, even as you pressed your chest toward him—urging him to take it off.

"i know," he said, his fingers deftly finding the clasp of your bra. it came undone. "and you're still obsessed." the bra straps slid down your arms, still trapped in his grasp. he let go of your wrists just long enough to pull the garment away and toss it aside. immediately, his hand returned, clamping back down.

you used your momentary freedom to grab the bottom of his hoodie, pushing it up. he helped, releasing you to yank it and his shirt off in one impatient move.

then he was back on you, skin to searing skin. he was a biter, just as you'd imagined. his mouth latched onto the swell of your breast, teeth grazing your nipple before he sucked it deep.

you cried out, your head thumping back against the door. "if you can do it," you gasped, twisting to reach his shoulder with your mouth. you sank your teeth into the hard muscle there, a retaliatory claim. "then i can too."

"fuck." he groaned, the sound vibrating through your entire body. you think you just gushed and ruined your panties.

a competition of marks began. he left a trail of bruises and blooming red patches down your chest, over your ribs. you reciprocated on his neck, his collarbone, his pectoral, each bite earning a sharper gasp or a low, approving growl from him.

the pain was a bright, sharp pleasure, a physical manifestation of all your tangled, furious energy. suddenly, he was pushing you down. a firm hand on your shoulder guided you to your knees on the cold tile.

you looked up at him, dazed. he loomed over you, his expression one of dark, predatory amusement. he undid his belt buckle, the click obscenely loud in the small room.

"i wonder," he mused, his voice thick, "how much shit you can talk with your mouth full of me."

he popped the button of his jeans, lowered the zipper. the outline of his cock straining against his boxers made your mouth water. "hands behind your back," he ordered.

you hesitated, glaring up at him. with a frustrated noise, you reached for his waistband. he caught your wrist instantly. "ah-ah." his other hand came up and delivered a firm, almost casual pat against your cheek. it wasn't a hard slap, but it was a stinging, dominant correction that made your eyes widen and your clit throb. "i said, no hands."

swallowing your pride, you leaned forward. you nuzzled against the fabric of his boxers, feeling the hard heat beneath. using your teeth, you caught the elastic waistband and tugged it down, revealing him.

he was thick and fully hard, the tip already glistening. you licked a slow stripe from base to tip, looking up at him through your lashes. his jaw tightened as you took him into your mouth, slowly, relishing the salty, clean taste of him, the way his hips gave a tiny, involuntary jerk.

he let you set the pace for a moment, his hands fisting in your hair. "that's it," he breathed, his composure fraying. "all that attitude... fucking gone." you hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, until he hit the back of your throat.

you relaxed, letting him slide further, tears pricking your eyes. the rhythm became faster, harder, driven by the soft, choked sounds he was making above you. his grip in your hair tightened, guiding you.

you could feel his hips shudder and his pace falter as he peered down to see his cock disappear in your mouth. he felt his chest swell just at the sight of you, eyes watering and face red.

"gonna cum," he warned, his voice ragged. you didn't pull away. with a sharp, guttural groan, he spilled hot and bitter over your tongue and across your chest, painting stripes over your skin.

he took a second to admire the mess he had made of you, your skin flushed a pretty pink with his cum coating you like icing on a cake.

he pulled you to your feet, his own legs seemingly unsteady. he pushed your pants and panties down in one rough motion, his fingers immediately finding your slick heat.

he pushed your soaked underwear aside, sliding two fingers through your folds. "so wet," he laughed, a dark, triumphant sound. he brought his glistening fingers to your lips. "and for me. after all that."

he turned you around, bending you over the sink. your reflection was a shock—flushed face, bruised lips, hair a mess, his marks covering your skin. he positioned himself behind you, one hand wrapping around your throat again, pulling you back against his chest. the other hand rubbed tight, demanding circles over your clit.

"look," he whispered harshly in your ear, nodding at the mirror. "look at how silly you look. falling apart on my fingers when just hours ago you were calling me a 'rejected sherlock holmes adaptation' on the internet." the overstimulation was maddening. pleasure coiled tight in your belly.

"the comments... were idiots," you panted, even as you pushed back against his fingers trying to get him to slip them inside your needy weeping hole.

he chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back. "they saw right through you." he pushed a finger inside you, then another, curling them. you gasped, your knees buckling. "admit it. you wanted this every time you picked a fight."

"i wanted to win," you moaned, the words torn from you. he hooked his fingers in you, rubbing your gummy walls while his thumb continued to rub circles against your needy clit.

"you are winning," he breathed, nipping your earlobe. "look at you. you won my full, undivided attention." he removed his fingers, and you felt the blunt, hot pressure of his cock at your entrance.

he pushed in, slowly, inch by devastating inch, filling you completely. the stretch was divine. he held you there, both of you panting, watching in the mirror. he almost came at the sight of your fucked out face, his hands gripping your waist with pressure that would surely bruise.

he began to move, a slow, filthy grind that had you seeing stars. his hand on your throat kept you upright, the other hand sliding around to rub your clit in time with his thrusts. "beg for it," he murmured, his eyes locked on yours in the reflection. "beg me to let you cum."

you didn't answer, trying to avoid his gaze in the mirror only for a particularly rough thrust and his blunt nails digging into your face to swiftly put you back in your place.

"no," you gritted out, even as your body shook. he spanked you once, hard, on the ass cheek. the sharp sting made you cry out and clench around him. "beg."

"sunghoon—"

another spank. his fingers on your clit became relentless. you were so close, teetering on the edge, but he held you there, his thrusts measured and deep.

"you're so stubborn. just like online. all that typing." he punctuated each word with a thrust. "just. give. in." the pleasure was a tidal wave, held back by his will alone. you were so overstimulated, so desperate, your pride the only thing left. he leaned forward, his mouth at your ear. "come on, sweetheart. let go. tell me you need it."

as much as it killed you to beg, it also killed you to not cum all over his stupidly thick cock. you could feel the coil in your stomach tighten up as you try to push yourself back to meet his strong and unrelenting thrusts.

sunghoon smirks when he notices your desperation, slowing down on purpose. "c'mon, sweetheart. you don't wanna cum f'me?"

the pet name, the raw need in his own voice, broke you. "please," you sobbed, the word barely audible. "please, sunghoon, let me cum."

"good girl," he purred, and his rhythm became punishing and his fingers began to rub punishingly against your swollen clit. "now."

the orgasm ripped through you, blinding and violent. you screamed, your body convulsing around him as he fucked you through it, his own groans joining yours.

you felt his warm cum flood your cunt as you twitched with the aftershocks of your high.  he watched you fall apart in the mirror, his expression one of fierce, possessive satisfaction.

as your spasms began to subside, he slowed, still buried deep inside you. he was breathing heavily against your neck.

he planted soft kisses on your shoulder blade and neck, his dick still in you—twitching. your body trembled slightly, refusing to look into the mirror because then you would see the aftermath of what sunghoon had done to you.

the silence afterward felt strange.

not awkward. not exactly.

just... different.

like something between you had shifted permanently and neither of you quite knew how to deal with it yet.

the fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead while rain tapped faintly against the tiny washroom window. your heart still hadn't calmed down properly, which was deeply irritating considering park sunghoon looked entirely too composed standing in front of you when you had finally found your guts to look.

his dark hair was messy now, lips pink from kissing you. his body was covered in a thin layer of sweat that gave his pale skin a beautiful glow.

which—you immediately looked away.

absolutely not.

sunghoon noticed, of course. he noticed everything.

"you're quiet," he said softly.

you scoffed weakly, body twitching when you feel sunghoon grow hard in you. "this is emotionally traumatic for me."

the corner of his mouth lifted, that stupid almost-smile again. except now it looked softer somehow and less smug.

you attempted to move only for his body to keep you caged between the sink and him. you looked down for a moment to see his cum that had escaped from you dripping down your thigh, a shaky breath leaving your bruised lips.

"don't look at me like that."

"like what?"

"like you just won something, you didn't win shit."

sunghoon leaned back lightly against the door of the washroom eyes still fixed on you. "maybe i did."

your stomach flipped and you frowned immediately, just because you two fucked doesn't mean that you would admit defeat to sunghoon and his annoying antics. "you're so annoying."

"you keep saying that."

"because you keep being annoying."

sunghoon laughed quietly under his breath, shaking his head slightly. the sound hit you straight in the chest in the most irritating way imaginable.

silence settled again for a moment, except this time it didn't feel sharp or tense like your usual arguments.

it felt warm, which was arguably more terrifying.

your eyes narrowed suddenly. "sunoo is never letting me live this down."

sunghoon's smile widened immediately. "he already thought you liked me."

"he's delusional."

"mhm."

you pointed at him instantly. "stop doing that."

"doing what?" he snickers as he finally pulls out, a small whimper escaping your parted lips and sunghoon swears he could cum from that little sound alone.

"that fake calm thing."

"it's not fake."

"that somehow makes it worse."

sunghoon pushed himself off of you before turning you around so your back faced the mirror and stepped closer again.

not cornering you this time, just close enough that your pulse started acting stupid all over again. his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then your thighs that were trembling before returning to your eyes.

"so what now?" he asked quietly, his hands coming out to grab on to your hips.

you folded your arms tighter, defensive reflex.

"what do you mean."

"are you still gonna argue with me in class?"

you stared at him like that was the dumbest question ever asked.

"obviously."

sunghoon laughed softly. "figured."

"just because i fucked you doesn't mean your opinions suddenly got better."

"ouch."

"you still sound pretentious."

"and you still interrupt me constantly."

"because you're wrong constantly."

sunghoon shook his head, smiling now. his hand reaching down to push the cum that was trailing down your inner thigh back up—rubbing your swollen cunt with his remnants.

you squeaked out at the feeling, grabbing a hold of his wrist as he watched you with a lazy smile. you hated how much better he looked when he smiled properly.

your phone buzzed loudly against the counter beside you.

then again and again.

you looked down at the endless reddit notifications flooding your screen and groaned dramatically.

"i genuinely hate everyone on that app." sunghoon glanced at your phone before looking back at you, his fingers leaving your cunt to rest back on your hips again much to your dismay.

amusement flickered across his face immediately. "they were pretty accurate though."

"don't start."

"'enemies to lovers' seemed popular."

"they're unemployed."

sunghoon laughed again and you stared at him suspiciously for a second, then narrowed your eyes. "you know this is all your fault."

"interesting argument."

"you replied first."

"you made the post first."

"because you're irritating."

"and yet here you are."

your face heated instantly, sunghoon noticed. his expression softened slightly after that, teasing fading into something quieter.

more careful, he looked at you for a long second close enough that your heartbeat immediately betrayed you again. then, with that same smug little smile returning to his mouth, he tilted his head slightly and murmured, "so."

you narrowed your eyes immediately. "so what."

sunghoon's gaze held yours, steady, amused and dangerously warm.

"do you still think i'm the asshole?"

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

[minkieater]

three’s company — smg & yjh ⭑.ᐟ

⭑ bf!mingi x gf!reader x bestie!yunho ⭑ four days away at the beach, hiding your feelings from all of your friends while you’re all under the same roof, a week after yunho broke up with you and mingi. easy enough, right? ⭑ lots and lots of pinv, mxm, oral(m&f), edging, public play, bdsm dynamics (feel free to correct me on anything!! i tried to be accurate) praise, degradation, yunho being 3comp yunho. yes that's a warning in itself ⭑ part three of three / wc 36.5k ⭑ — holy shit i can't believe it's over. thank you to everyone who stuck with me through this, this series is my actual fucking baby. it brought so many eyes to my blog and led me to meeting so many wonderful amazing people, thank you so much if you're reading this, if you have read anything about my 3comp babies. no other series has taught me so much. nothing will ever mean as much as this. ⭑ — if you don't recognize my rortor or if haos confused you, pay my good friends a visit here <3 thank u @svgaplvm for letting my people hangout with yours <3

“You can’t seriously think this would ever work.”

You and Mingi haven’t moved an inch since he left for the bedroom. Now stood in front of you in cargo pants and the same dirty tee that was crumpled on your bed, it seems his anger hasn’t dissipated in the three minutes it took for him to get his things together. A bag thrown over his shoulder, jaw locked, eyes wide and wild like you’d just sentenced him to death, it seems very clear that Jeong Yunho wasn’t coming back here. 

“I was honest with you guys from the start,” his voice keeps its edge, “I told you what I look for in a relationship, what I want. There’s none of that here.”

Your teeth grit together, eyebrows slanted, fingers squeezing beneath your arms folded over your chest. “You’re overreacting,” you manage, heart running a marathon in your chest, ignoring the fact that his words hurt as you mask your feelings with a show of anger. 

“You two are together,” he points between you and your boyfriend with a finger. “I shouldn’t even be part of the equation. I let this go on too long, let it become too serious.”

“You think you’re the only one to blame?” Mingi surprises you with his words, the sharpness behind them, the glossiness in his eyes the only signal of sadness. “We thought we were already in a relationship, it’s all of our fault for not communicating.”

Yunho looks like he’s seen a ghost. “You– Are you serious?”

You nod, you thought it was obvious, “Yunho, we haven't been apart for more than twelve hours in weeks.”

He turns on his heel, “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

Mingi stands, following Yunho as he crosses your living room, “You’re just going to leave? You aren’t gonna talk this out?”

You watch from the couch, breathing deep into your lungs, ignoring how your eyes watered. Yunho turns around sharply, “What is there to talk about? We were fucking, and now we’re not. That’s it.”

You gasp from the couch, Mingi shrinks where he stands. Taking a step back, shaking his head, his voice is shaky as he says, “You don’t mean that.”

“I told you,” Yunho slips his feet into his shoes. “I’ve been honest from the start. If you took it more seriously, that’s on you. I’m sorry.”

Mingi’s arms fall to his sides as Yunho leaves through your front door, the heavy oak slamming shut behind him. Your heart breaks as Mingi’s head hangs low, his shoulders shaking, and it’s the sniff you hear from the couch that gets you on your feet, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend. 

“He’s just scared,” you whisper, tears lining your own eyes as Mingi racks a sob into your chest. “He’s just scared, Min. He’ll come around.”

His voice is wrecked, ragged and layered with grief, “I can’t believe he said all of that.”

“Me either,” you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks as you run your fingers through his hair, your other hand rubbing circles into his back. “It’s Yunho, we know how he is, especially with relationships.”

“I thought we were different,” Mingi picks his head up, pulling away from you to wipe his eyes. “I thought he was getting over his dramatic relationship block because of us.” He sniffs, then speaks through another sob, his voice cracking, “I thought he loved us, too.”

“You love him?” Your eyes widen, hands landing on his shoulders, and he nods without hesitation. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath, eyes screwing shut in an attempt to get your mind to bypass the shock so you can think. 

“Don’t you?” Mingi asks, his voice small, like if you said no he might crack entirely.

His laugh crossed your mind first. Eyes squeezed to crescents, grin spread wide, head tipping back as the most beautiful sound left his lips, you always got lost in him when he laughed. A hearty chuckle or a small giggle, when Yunho was emitting nothing but pure joy… Yeah, you loved him. 

You loved how he walked closest to the street, how he already had your order memorized at the cafe around the corner. You loved how he touched you, soft and delicate, how he complimented you every time he saw you. You loved that he wasn’t afraid to say the hard things, like telling you that you snore, or that this time your boss was in the right. You loved that he kept small pieces of you close in the years of knowing you, how he revealed his knowledge of you in the past month, how he wasn’t afraid to show his passion. 

You loved him, and you fucking knew he loved you back. 

“Yeah,” your nod isn’t immediate. “I think I do.”

Mingi’s lip quivers, “We’re just gonna let him leave?”

“We’re adults,” your voice is shakier than you need it to be, forever the rock holding Mingi’s hurricane. “He’s an adult. If he wants us, this, he’ll come back.”

Mingi shakes his head profusely, taking a step back from you, “If we love him then we fight for him, I’m not waiting around while he thinks this is over.”

Your lips curve upward, the most Mingi thing he’s ever said, “We’ll be with him for four days at the beach. Let him sit in the hole he’s dug himself in, let him miss us for a few days.”

Mingi looks at you like you’re speaking another language, “He probably won’t even look at us while we’re at the beach if we wait until then.”

“If we love him,” you step closer to him. “Then chances are he loves us, too. Let him take the time he needs to realize it.”

Mingi takes a heavy breath, thinking about who Yunho is, how he handles situations. With poise, consideration, vigilance. He thinks of all outcomes, all strategies, Yunho thinks of everything with his mind, and not always his heart. Mingi nods, because he hopes that just this once, he’ll think with his heart, and figure out the rest later. 

Yunho hasn’t called.  Not a text, not a word, not a breath. 

But you were on your way to Haos– and from Wooyoung’s call this morning, asking what time to pick you up, you found out that he’d talked to Yunho just before he called you, and he was still coming to the beach. A shred of relief washed over you as the words left his mouth, it couldn’t be that bad if he was still coming to the beach, four days spent in proximity with you and your boyfriend. And your ten other friends. Right?

“Do you want to stop at the convenience store for anything? Water, coffee, a snack?” Wooyoung asks from the driver’s seat, black hair shagged over his ears, his forehead, curling at the nape of his neck. 

Sana groans from the seat beside you, “Can we just go straight there? I’m itching to be on the beach with a drink in my hand.” Dressed in jeans and a strappy tank, heels on her feet, curled dark locks framing her cheekbones, she looked like she was going to the club rather than traveling for a vacation. Being eight in the morning, you looked like you just rolled out of bed. 

Mainly because you did. 

“I wasn’t just asking you, San,” Wooyoung cuts from the front of the black rental he drove. “We’ve been driving for an hour already.”

“Which means we should only have ten more minutes in the car if you just drive,” she bites back, rolling her eyes. She gives you a look, shaking her head as if Woo was asking the stupidest question in the world. She whispers to you, “He should have asked an hour ago.” 

You smile at her instead of giving her an answer, redirecting your gaze to the top of Mingi’s head that peeks over the headrest of the passenger seat. After spending some time away from her, you thought you’d at least be a little excited to see her, but alas, she still drives you up a fucking wall. You could have gone longer. 

You lean your head against the window for the last ten minutes, listening to soft rock music with your eyes glued to the intricate, tall houses along the coast, the small shops, the ice cream parlors, everything about this place screaming beach. Summer. Rich summer. You were still excited to come here, drama aside, spending time with your friends, cozying up in one of San’s queen-sized beds in one of his several bedrooms. You loved his house, the feeling it gave you, how badly you’d like to own something like it one day. 

You didn’t mind four days of pretending it was yours, nor did you mind laying on the beach, a drink in your hand. Maybe you’d shove your feelings aside and stay glued to Sana all weekend. 

Finally pulling up on a rocky driveway, you pull your eyes away from the beach just beside it, taking in the cream-colored fucking mansion before you. Ridiculous architecture, a two-car garage, a double main staircase, several balconies and a fenced rooftop, what always took your breath away was the windows. So much light poured into the house, salt scented air rushing through the space when the countless pairs of double doors opened, this house screamed happiness. It screamed carefree.

You let the feeling fill you, let it take a weight off your chest as you stretch your body upon leaving the backseat. Whatever happened this weekend, you’d accept. However you and Mingi returned home, with or without another boyfriend, you’d be okay. Both of you. 

You took a look around the driveway as Wooyoung and Mingi went into the trunk to grab all of your luggage. You and Mingi shared one, but Sana… She had two for herself, she bragged about it as soon as you opened the car door. 

Three other cars sat in the driveway. You recognized Yeosang’s, Jongho’s, Seonghwa’s, you assumed San and Jongin’s cars were in the garage. No sign of Yunho’s car. 

Mingi carried your luggage in behind you, you didn’t knock as you walked through San’s front door, nor did you have time to appreciate the creams, whites and blues stretching across the inside, because the only other person in the living room when you walked inside was Yunho. 

Your jaw clenched as your eyes slid over the back of him, faced away from you as he scrolled on his phone.

“Honey, I’m home!” Wooyoung yelled from behind you, and his voice echoed through the archways of the main floor, bouncing off each perfectly staged wall, the balcony above you. 

Yunho snapped around, meeting your eye, and he immediately stiffened. With one of his infamous linen sets on, barefoot and his hair swept back, you had to stop yourself from muttering damn under your breath. You loved when he looked like summer, but you also loved when he looked like winter, when he needed the comfort of fleece to keep him warm. Maybe you loved Yunho in anything. 

You looked away fast, turning to face Mingi who was already staring over your head, at his best friend who had undoubtedly become something more. Mingi stared at him with hope, with an unanswered question, with so much fucking love in his eyes you felt the cracking of your heart in your chest. 

“Finally!” You heard San before you saw him, shirtless and in swim trunks, body tanned and golden and sculpted by God himself. He wore a wide grin, Jongin following behind him, his boyfriend just as gorgeous as he is, taller and handsome and damn, just as sculpted. 

San pulls Wooyoung into a tight hug, “I missed you, man. It’s been too long.” 

“It’s barely been a month,” Wooyoung chuckles. “But yeah, too long.” 

Sana’s heels click against the pale hardwood as Jongin pulls her into a hug, the two men exchanging with the couple as you and Mingi attempt to ignore the elephant in the room only visible to the two of you. 

Wooyoung pulls Yunho into a hug as you and Mingi share exchanges with San and Jongin, just as the others start piling into the living room. 

“We’ve been waiting for you guys!” Tzuyu squeals as she enters your view, and you’re immediately pulled into all the women of the house, sharing hugs and kisses on the cheek. 

“I can’t believe we’re the last ones here,” you’re smiling, warmth filling your chest as you bathe in everyone’s excitement. 

Jihyo smirks, “Late because you were getting frisky?” 

You roll your eyes, heat warming your cheeks, “You need to let go of that. Like, now.” 

“Frisky?” Tzuyu pops a brow. “Fill me in.” 

“I went over her and Mingi’s place and saw a vib—”

“Okay!” You speak over her, hands ready to clamp over her mouth, and she winks at Tzuyu in a silent promise to fill her in later. You prayed it didn’t include Yunho’s name. 

“Who has which room?” Sana asks loudly, speaking over everyone in the midst of conversation. 

“We were waiting for you to decide, princess,” Seonghwa replies, voice smooth, a snarky remark hidden behind a beautiful smile. Your lips curl upward when you see him, stood tall next to his boyfriend, Seonghwa’s open shirt matched Hongjoong’s shorts. 

“Jongin and I have the master,” San says. “There’s five other bedrooms, one has a pull-out futon.” 

“Assuming I’m on the futon,” Yunho immediately adds, his voice flat. “Since I’m the only single one here.” 

Your eyes flicker between the two, heart thumping against your chest, stomach feeling sick at hearing him say he’s single. 

“You would have been fucked if you brought a date,” San's smile is anything but sheepish. “But I’m sure no one will mind if you crash their room, maybe one of the girlies are out of commission for sexual activity and it won’t matter.” 

Jongin smacks his chest with a disgusted look, but San giggles to himself. You look around the room and all the girls fall quiet, all the guys stay quiet, too used to San and his remarks to feed him a reaction. 

“He can room with you and Mingi,” Jihyo nudges your shoulder from beside you,.“Duh. You guys are super close, anyways, just kick him out when you wanna fuck.” 

“We aren’t twenty years old, Ji,” you muster. “We can go a few days without fucking.” 

You look up at Mingi and you can tell he’s teetering on the edge of losing his shit. You turn to Yunho and he looks like that’s the last thing he wants. Seeing his face, the clear dislike of the idea, imagining the thoughts racing through his mind, all of it combined makes you slap a smile on your face, “Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll take him.” 

“Hope you left the hitachi at home,” Jihyo whispers in your ear, winking. You nudge her back, forcing the smile to stay on your face— no one has any idea of what you’ve gone through the last few days. What happened. What started it in the first place. 

“Perfect!” San claps his hands together. “That was easy. Go unpack your shit and then we can go to the beach.” 

Mingi is at your side as soon as everyone takes a step toward the staircase, voice a low growl in your ear, “Why did you do that?” 

You whisper back, “It’ll be fine.” 

You didn’t know if it would be fine. 

“Three bedrooms on the second floor, two on the top, master is on the main floor. You guys can figure out which rooms yourselves,” San says from the base of the steps as you all make your way up, your shoes hitting the hardwood in chorus, everyone dragging their belongings behind them. 

Yunho stays close behind you and Mingi as you check each room in search of yours, taking in the detail of the hallways, where the bathrooms were. The paintings on the walls, tables with vases, starfish, framed pictures of small sayings of wordplays with the word beach, you made sure to take in everything, let it fill you with ease, you were on vacation. 

You wouldn’t let Yunho ruin it. 

On the third floor, Jihyo and Jongho peeled off into a room at the beginning of the hallway, a bathroom and two closets between you as yours lived at the end. A queen-sized bed, a couch along the wall that pulled out to a bed, the room was decently sized. Cozy, with its balcony attached, white covering the walls, the bedspread and couch a pale blue. 

Mingi threw your suitcase onto the bed as Yunho threw his duffle bag onto the couch. The air was tense, heavy, you could hear conversation downstairs, Jihyo and Jongho unpacking just down the hall. There was no sound coming from your room other than zippers sliding and clothes being shuffled. 

You stood opposite Mingi on either side of the bed as he sorted through the suitcase, zeroed in on his hands as he separated the clothes you were hanging from the ones going into drawers. With your bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you stood focused, yet thinking of nothing as your ears rang, buzzing beneath the heaviness of silence. 

What was he thinking right now? 

Your eyes flickered to him as he pulled clothes out of his duffel bag, folding them along the couch, laying out the clothes he was hanging up, keeping his toiletries separate. Your gaze fell on his shoulders, broad and muscular beneath the linen he wore, the length of his legs stretching to the floor beneath him, bare feet pressed against hardwood, stepping to the side to fold another tee along the cushion. 

You turn your attention back to Mingi, shaking off the discomfort as you grab the clothes to hang up, heading for the closet next to the couch. You lay the clothes over the armrest, hanging up tops, Mingi’s favorite pair of nice pants, the dress you brought to wear to the bar on Saturday. You think that’s the only time you were going out all weekend other than to small shops around the town. 

The last shirt you had to hang, one of Mingi’s, you knew you grabbed it from the stack of clothes on the bed, but it wasn’t splayed out on the couch beside you. Brows furrowed, you turned on your heel to check the bed, just for Yunho to be stood at your side, holding the shirt out for you while he had his own stack of clothes folded over his forearm. 

You swallowed, avoiding his eye, “Thanks.” 

Grabbing the shirt from his hand, your fingers brushed against each other, the feeling of his skin on yours no matter how small immediately sent a jolt of electricity up your forearm, into your shoulder. You were quick to hang up the last shirt, moving out of his way, back to where Mingi was before the dresser. 

While he laid folded clothes, pajamas, boxers and panties into separate drawers, you grabbed your bikinis, his swim shorts, cover-ups and the singular bra you brought to help him. The room still silent, suffocating with everything left unsaid, you began laying out your toiletries along the top of the dresser. 

You could feel his eyes. Lifting your gaze, meeting his stare through the mirror, you shuffled to the side as he sauntered up next to you, throwing his own clothes into the rest of the empty drawers. 

God, is this what the rest of the week was gonna be like? If so, fuck that, he can sleep on the couch. Downstairs. Far away from you and Mingi so you can enjoy this room and its balcony all to yourself. 

“Hey!” Tzuyu gleamed, knocking on the doorframe at the same time as she spoke. You jumped a foot in the air, hand clasping your chest, a gasp escaping your chest. She giggles, long brown hair in a braid over one shoulder, bikini already on her body. “Yeosang and I are going to the liquor store before we head down to the beach, want anything?” 

“Uh,” you glance up at Mingi, trying to find words. “Tequila, beer, some kind of seltzer to sip on. The usual shit.” 

She nods, “Same beer as always, right?” 

“Please,” Mingi nods back, giving her a smile that she would never know wasn’t real. 

Your stomach fucking aches. You could push your pain aside, but when it comes to Mingi, seeing him hurt in real time, you could feel it as if he shared it with you. Your jaw locks, you could not go the whole week like this. 

Tzuyu peeks her head back in, “You should get ready, we’ll be back in ten.” 

“Got it,” you smile, and when she bounces out of your room again, it drops. You needed to do something. You rack your brain as you zip the suitcase closed, shoving it beneath the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress. 

Yunho was pretending. He was forcing a mindset on himself, ignoring his feelings for you and Mingi, he was putting on a show that he didn’t mean. In his head, he was protecting himself, or maybe he was protecting you two from getting hurt, of what could go wrong in the future. 

You glance up at Mingi who stood leaned up against the dresser, on his phone. You glance over at Yunho who sits on the couch, on his phone. Just because he was acting like he doesn’t love you, doesn’t mean that he believes it. 

Your eyes land on Mingi again, holding them there. He looks up from his phone, meeting your stare. 

Your lips curve upward. I’m gonna do something crazy.  He pops an eyebrow, lips crinkling. Oh no.  Your smile grows, eyes flashing something dangerous. You gotta trust me on this one.  Mingi nods, face still wary. I always trust you. 

You push yourself up off the bed to the dresser, opening one of the drawers, pulling out one of your bikinis from the bottom. You should really thank Jihyo for even putting it in your mind that you should wear one of your college bikinis— so small and skimpy it could barely be considered anything other than string, you funneled confidence into your veins. You wouldn’t care about how you looked after a drink or two, anyways. 

Your eyes meet Mingi’s through the mirror, bikini in your hands. Are you picking up what I’m putting down? Mingi shoots you a silent laugh. You’re fucking nuts.  You stick your tongue out. You love it.  Mingi licks his lips. I love you, and that bikini.  You hold his eyes through the mirror. Remember what I said, trust me. 

Letting your eyes dance over Yunho once more, you lay the bikini out over the dresser, and then pull your shirt over your head in one quick motion. 

“Shiiit,” Mingi mutters under his breath, long and dragged out from the bed, purposely loud enough for Yunho to hear. His eyes pick up, seeing you through the mirror, eyes catching on you shimmying your shorts down your legs, then your panties. 

You don’t let your gaze linger, pulling the bottoms up your legs, then tying the top around your back. “Min, can you tie me?” 

He’s at your back in an instant, letting his hands dance along your waist before settling at the back of your neck, bikini strings between his fingers. You’re smiling at each other through the mirror and it’s then that you know he understands what’s going through your mind, the plan you cooked up just a minute ago. 

His hands settle on your hips after he finishes tying your top, and both of your eyes slide to Yunho, catching him just as he looks back down at his phone, fingers pressed to his forehead. You smirk at Mingi through the mirror, wondering if maybe you pushed Yunho just a little harder, could you crack the shell of his facade?

Yunho’s never been a huge fan of the beach. He burns easily, sand gets between his toes, in places he simply can’t reach, he hates how his hair looks after being in the breezy, salty air for too long. He’s been excited to come to Haos despite it, to spend time with you and Mingi away from home, but he didn’t give it enough thought to really consider the logistics of it all. 

To himself, he thought it easy: Around everyone else, you and Mingi would be your usual selves, madly in love for the world to see. At the end of the night, behind closed doors, where no one could hear you or see you, that’s when he’d have his way with you both. He’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t excited for that most of all. 

Forcing you into submission, into silence in the dead of night, so the whole house couldn’t hear the whiney moans that leave Mingi’s mouth when Yunho takes him, or the shrill screams that Yunho pulls from your chest when he pushes you just a little too far. It’d be fun— that was fun to him, keeping the two of you hidden away, his two nasty little secrets. No one had to know. 

Because if they did, if anyone knew anything, it’d break your perfect bubble. He’d be forced to admit that he hated the idea of not being able to touch you in public, not being able to kiss you, or even flirt with you. Either of you. Which opens another question, one Yunho wasn’t willing to answer, or give any more of his attention. 

Luckily, it blew up in his face before he had the chance to worry about it too much, like it has a hundred times before with plenty of different partners. This was the routine— fuck for awhile, become a little more on accident, realize that this isn’t what he wants, leave. Leave, leave, leave. Yunho was good at leaving, at hiding, at not taking what he wants when it’s staring at him in the face. 

It was too fucking vulnerable. He ached for love, for true routine, to wake up next to someone and go grocery shopping on Sunday mornings. He yearned for someone to know him down to his core, to love him for the silly things, not just how he fucked or how he guided. For how much he needed to take care of his partners, he never realized how much he needed to be taken care of, too. 

This morning, how you stared at him with a locked jaw, a storm in your eyes, he knew he deserved it. He deserved your anger, your pain, he wishes he could take it from you and keep it for himself. How Mingi looked at him, with pain and love and hope, seeing Mingi’s feelings raw in his eyes terrified Yunho. Knowing Mingi hurt, that he was the cause of his ache but also knowing he’d take him back in a second, it sent a shiver down his spine, leaving a hole too deep, too cold in his gut. 

He really fucked up this time. He really, seriously, absolutely fucked up. He's fallen asleep cuddled up to your side, he’s woken up beside you for weeks. He’s gone grocery shopping with you, he keeps a mental list of everything you have in your house. You made space for him in your home, for his body and his clothes, he has a toothbrush beside your sink, products in your shower, socks in the top drawer of Mingi’s dresser. He’s felt the rush of affection when Mingi finishes his sentence, he’s felt the pain sitting in the crease of your brow without it having anything to do with him. 

He walked into what he was most afraid of, but what he’s yearned for without even realizing. Everything happened so fucking fast. That night with Mingi was the true beginning, he thinks, the catalyst that made him fall headfirst without casting a net. That night changed all of your boundaries, leaving everything in open field for the taking. Yunho took it with greedy hands, but then he destroyed it all the same. 

He knows what you’re thinking. In that pretty little head of yours there’s millions of beautiful, strategic thoughts, plans, ways to get him back in your bed. Even though he fucked up. Even though he was the one that destroyed it all. 

The curve of your chest in the mirror, a peek of the goldmine between your legs as you bent over, if this was a week ago he would have pinned your chest to the glass and fucked you until you were crying just for teasing him. Mingi’s hands trailing down your skin, his breath on the back of your neck, jealousy infested Yunho like a disease. He could feel the ghost of Mingi’s hands on his body, on his chest, his abdomen, his torso, he forced himself to tear his eyes away so he didn’t break. 

Yunho was the one who fucked it all up, and here you two were, trying to get him to fix it. Naive and optimistic, two traits that you two shared that made Yunho feel like he was your missing piece. He wouldn’t break so easily, you two have to know that, you know him. 

He watches you run across the sand, wet chest bouncing beneath golden sunrays with a can grasped in your palm. Mingi follows you from the water, trunks slick to his thighs, the inseam of his shorts shorter than any other pair he owned. Yunho sits with his jaw locked, his fingers curled around the armrests of the beach chair beneath the umbrella, watching as Mingi picks you up from behind, a grin on his lips as he presses them to your cheek. 

You two didn’t do PDA. You haven’t since you were in your early twenties, when your relationship just began. Everyone in the group knows it, but no one notices, no one pays any mind to the clear show you were putting on just for him. Mingi’s arm is hooked around your torso, black hair clinging to his cheeks, his neck, the two of you dripping in saltwater and love. He keeps you there, hanging off his arm as he walks back up to where you set up, your giggles becoming clearer, reminding him of his favorite song the closer you get.  

He could just get up and go back inside. The beach was San’s backyard, after all. 

“Can you hand me another seltzer, please?” You ask sweetly as soon as Mingi puts your feet back on the ground. Yunho blinks beneath his shades before the question registers in his mind, it’s the first that you’ve spoken to him other than thanks in the bedroom. 

He reaches into the cooler, making sure to hand you your favorite flavor, feeling bile rise up in his throat when Mingi opens it for you and plants a kiss on your lips before you take a sip. Maybe he had it all wrong— maybe you didn’t fucking care that Yunho was no longer apart of your relationship. Maybe, in some sick, twisted way, what happened just a few days ago made your relationship stronger. Seems about right for the two of you. 

“Let’s play volleyball!” Wooyoung shouts over the hum of soft rock music and waves in his ear. He forces his eyes away from you two to glance at Wooyoung, holding a volleyball to his chest while beads of sweat drip down his bronzed, tanned skin. 

“Hell no,” Sana responds from her towel, laying on her stomach with a bucket filled with God knows what kind of liquor in the sand just above her head. “We’re relaxing.” 

“I meant the guys,” Wooyoung replies, the smile on his cheeks never faltering, ignoring his girlfriends’ tone completely. He wiggles his eyebrows at Yunho, “You up for it? A little friendly game?” 

“I’m out,” Hongjoong responds from his chair, can of beer in his hand, head laid back along the headrest beneath the shade of the umbrella, “I just ate a gummy.” 

“I’m out, too,” Yeosang lifts his head from his towel, Tzuyu at his side, the two of them cuddled up so close under the burning sun he wondered how they weren’t suffocating. 

“I’m going to swim,” Jongin waves a hand, already turning his heel to walk down to the shore. 

“I’m down,” Yunho says, needing a break from staring, standing from his chair. 

“I’m down, too,” Mingi adds as if on command, pressing another kiss to your lips before walking towards where Wooyoung stood behind Yunho. 

San, Jongho and Seonghwa make their way towards them, too, and Yunho quickly regrets his decision when Mingi stops directly at his side. He stiffens, eyes glancing down to where Mingi’s hand lingers inches beside his. 

“Three versus three then?” San smirks as the six of them make their way towards the net across the beach. “I call Woo and Mingi on my team.” 

Jongho breaks into a laugh as he leans on the pole beside the net, fingers sinking into the webbing, “So it’s me, Hwa and Yunho?”

“I think that’s fair,” San shrugs. “We share the towers.”

Yunho rolls his eyes, and Mingi’s smile is wide. Seonghwa dips under the net to the other side of the sandy court, “They’re both competitive, too. Think it’s best we share.” 

“We can hear you, y’know,” Yunho follows, sliding into position flanking Jongho’s side, a grin crawling over his cheeks that was nothing short of competitive. “No need to fight over us.” 

“First team to twenty,” Wooyoung juts out his chin from the other side of the net, “Best out of three?”

Yunho pushes out an accidental sigh, “Three games?” 

Mingi, like he’d been waiting for that comment, snaps. “Why not?” He cocks his head to the side, smile dangerous. “Three games too much of a commitment for you?” 

The blood from Yunho’s face drains, the amusement in his eyes gone. After Yunho’s face falls, Mingi giggles, and the rest of the guys seem completely unaware of the jab that just left Mingi’s mouth. Yunho glares at him, knowing now that the two of you are serious about getting under his skin, but he chooses to ignore the shred of pride he feels with your efforts. 

The first game went by quickly— Mingi, San and Wooyoung were good. Yunho, Seonghwa and Jongho were good, too, but fell just short of their opponents. The second game went by just as fast, but instead this time it seemed Yunho’s team had a chip on their shoulder, a little too much pride to let their friends win twice. The third game, everyone was drenched in sweat, covered in sand from diving for the ball, forearms burning from bumping it, everyone’s patience was running thin. Curses were shouted, insults thrown from one side of the net to the other, they had gotten serious real quick. 

Mingi and Yunho stood at either side of the net, eyes on the ball above their heads, the two of them jumping at the same time to either spike, or block. The ball fell on Mingi’s side and his eyes dropped for a millisecond to see Yunho, both hands up, palms flat out to block his spike. 

Yunho, ambition living in the slant of his brows, tongue peeking between his lips, didn’t give Mingi an opening to push the ball through. So Mingi hit it to the side, just past Yunho’s hands before he could even think of sliding his arms over. 

Yunho cursed, and Mingi’s arms went over his head in a cheer for winning them one more point towards victory. Mingi leaned in close to the net, a smirk on his lips, “Pay attention, Yun. You don’t want me thinking I’m distracting you, do you?” 

Yunho’s jaw locks. Mingi was pushing it, he usually wasn’t the bratty one, that was your area of expertise. 

“Careful,” is all he says, venom on his tongue as his chin tips upward, just to stare down at Mingi through lowered brows. 

Mingi’s smirk grows, almost a full smile, fingers hooking into the net to lean closer. “Or what?” 

Yunho licks his bottom lip, shaking his head as he turns around, back to where he stood, waiting for the ball to be served. Maybe he was stupid for considering you two didn’t care about him, especially after the bedroom, and now he had Mingi taunting him ten feet away? 

The ball hits the sand beside his foot before he can process that it was served. Mingi, San and Wooyoung high five, cheering because they were one point away from winning, and Yunho’s teammates turn to him with a scowl. 

“What are you doing?” Seonghwa stands with his arms out beside him, face warped into annoyance and confusion. 

Jongho barks from beside him, “Lock the fuck in, we’re winning this.” 

Yunho nods, shaking off his thoughts, “My bad.” 

Then Mingi calls your name. Yunho’s head turns, watching as you turn your head from where you stood with a group of girls that weren’t a part of your group, staring as you jogged towards them when Mingi ushered you over. 

That fucking bikini, all string, barely covering anything. His fists clenched when the house hooted and hollered for you, as Jihyo whistled when she saw you. It wasn’t for you. It wasn’t for Mingi. It was revenge. 

His neck snaps back to the court before him when he hears San’s hand smack the ball, body moving before his brain can think, diving into the sand to bump it up. Jongho is quick to get under it, two hands setting the ball high in the air, but as Seonghwa jumps to smack it over the net, Mingi is already there. 

Broad, sculpted abdomen, hard chest he’s rested his head on too many times, hipbones peeking from just above his waistband. Yunho watches Mingi’s arms flex as he blocks the ball, how his torso folds to send the ball into the sand, Yunho nearly shoves his face in the sand too when his three best friends jump for joy across the net. 

Seonghwa and Jongho stand defeated, faces set toward the sun, chests heaving. Yunho gets up slowly, just to see you perched on Mingi, arms and legs hooked around his body, lips pressed to his. Mingi’s hands hold you up by your thighs, fingers making indents where they pressed into your skin, and it’s war for Yunho to peel his eyes away from the sight. 

“Sorry,” Yunho runs a hand through his hair, keeping his eyes on the sand as he walks toward Seonghwa and Jongho. 

Jongho clasps a hand on his shoulder, heavy but reassuring, “It’s just volleyball. We’ll beat ‘em tomorrow.” 

Seonghwa nods his agreement, and at least one weight is lifted off his chest. He watches his friends duck under the net, and Yunho follows, ready to get berated by his three other friends, good sportsmanship be damned. 

“This is my boyfriend,” he hears, and his eyes land on where you stood with Mingi, just beside the court with the two girls you were standing with before. One a grinning dirty blonde, the other a miserable-looking brunette, Yunho tried to listen as his friends spoke beside him, but jealousy pierced his soul that Mingi was the only one standing beside you, getting introduced as yours. 

His feet moved before he could think about it, coming up to your side, and the blonde caught his eye, looking him up and down as he made his way over. You beamed, not showing a flash of surprise or confusion as Yunho stood beside you, you immediately gushed, “This is Yunho, he’s single, super tall, clearly.” You giggled, leaning into Yunho’s side, you were drunk. You whispered not quietly to the blonde, “I think you’d like him.” 

Yunho’s eyebrows furrowed, weight hitting his gut with force, and the blonde before him blushed as her hands gripped the cocktail between fingers, her eyes dragging over him again. 

The brunette, eyebrows low, stares at Mingi before her, “You look really familiar.” 

Your hand clings to his, wrapping your fingers into your boyfriends, shoulders pushed back, no one would know you were standing your ground unless they knew you. Mingi laughs along, “Really? You kind of do, too.” 

“Do you have any relatives that go to Nasara?” She cocks her head to the side, “We’re in ITZ, a sorority at Nasara University in Delo.” 

Mingi shakes his head, then turns it to look at Yunho, “Do you?” 

Yunho shakes his head, shrugging his shoulders, she does look familiar. Yunho asks, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Sitara Song?” 

The brunette makes a tch noise, then grabs the blonde’s hand, voice dripping in irritation, “Come on, Ror, I’m sure Wooyoung is missing you.” 

The blonde looks back at him twice as the brunette drags her away, and Yunho feels unsettled. Not only are you making a show with Mingi in front of his face, taunting him, but now you’re pimping him out to strangers? 

Mingi’s eyebrows are knitted together as they walk away, “They have an Wooyoung, too?” 

Yunho faces the two of you with his arms crossed, “What the fuck are you doing?” 

You’re already smiling, mischief in your eyes, “What do you mean?”

If the three of you were at home… 

“What was that?” He asks, a hand stretching in the direction of the two girls walking away. 

You giggle, back pressing into Mingi’s abdomen, “Was I wrong? You are single, aren’t you?” 

Yunho laughs a low, disbelieving chuckle. He turns on his heel, past the court, back to where you set up, sitting back in the chair he was sulking in before. He reaches into the cooler, pulling out a can of beer. If this was how the weekend was going to be, he might as well be drunk for it, too. 

Clean and close to sober, your hair was still wet after your shower as you sat around the bonfire, sweats on your body, under a blanket on the sand. Even in Haos the beach was cold at night, a sharp breeze ruffling everyone’s hair, egging the fire to blaze higher. 

Yunho barely looked at either of you during dinner. Lounged out on the back balcony after grilling, he laughed along with everyone, cracking jokes and engaging in banter, but he shut you and Mingi out. After his second beer it was as if he put a wall up, he was choosing to not let the two of you bother him, not that you had much to bother him with after the beach. 

Fear lived in all your joints that you took everything too far as you sat cuddled up to Mingi, head on his shoulder. With Yunho on your other side, you tried not to let your eyes slide to him, despite his closeness. Even mad, even apart you still drifted together, you try to let the thought relieve you, but you’re too tightly wound to let anything but his hands steady your heart in your chest. 

You missed the way Yunho doesn’t see your fear. Instead, all his tunnel vision allows is the way your arms lay over Mingi’s, the way you melt against your boyfriend, how comfortable Mingi looks with your body touching his. You don’t see his frustration, how his mind whirls a mile a minute in yearning to have any part of you two touching him, too. 

“You guys must have needed a vacation,” Hongjoong declared from across the fire, the growing blaze making his orange hair burn brighter, white teeth still shining despite the warmth laying over all of you. 

You smile, and Mingi agrees in a small noise from beside you. San perks up in a chuckle, “I haven’t seen you two act like that in years. There’s really never any trouble in paradise, huh?” 

Mingi snorts, and you close your eyes with a smile on your lips. If only they knew what trouble was terrorizing your paradise right now. 

Jihyo cracks a laugh, holding up a hand like she just remembered something hilarious, “No, can you guys remember the beginning? When they couldn’t keep their hands off each other?” 

Your cheeks burn as the group laughs around the fire, a chorus of amusement and remembrance. Jihyo continues, laughter still erupting from her chest, breaking up her words, “I miss when we still had true house parties, I remember catching you guys in Yeosang’s garage.” 

Mingi tips his head back with a groan at the memory, you remembered it like it was yesterday, he had you lifted on Yeosang’s father’s workbench, tools covering the space around you. Luckily, Jihyo didn’t see your legs spread for him, or his fingers hooked inside you. Your cheeks blaze hotter than the fire before you. 

“That’s not the only time, either,” Jihyo’s leaning forward now, cocktail in her hands threatening to spill over the blanket on her lap. 

San interjects, laughing himself, “I think we’ve all caught them once or twice throughout the years.” 

Wooyoung frowns, “At least none of you have caught them in your own bedroom. That’s worse, trust me.”

Your hand covers your face, digging your forehead into Mingi’s shoulder as he laughs along, muttering Enough in a low voice. The reason you weren’t as open with your relationship anymore was being laughed about in a circle, filling your gut with embarrassment and shame, Mingi felt it. 

You couldn’t see Yunho’s fists clenched at his sides, digging into the blanket above the sand. He tries to laugh along, he has a few stories he could tell himself, but he’s ruined them all with thoughts of what those memories would look like if he was included in them, too. He feels weird inside. Knowing it would always be you two, as it’s always been, but feeling so fucking frustrated that he isn’t included, as if two halves of him were fist fighting just beneath his skin. 

“My bad, today just reminded me of back then,” San waves a hand, a warm smile on his lips, showing his dimples. “I’m happy to see it. I’ve missed when you were attached at the hip.” 

“I was starting to get worried that you guys were chilling out too much,” Sana interrupts, her head tilted, a cheshire smile on her lips, “I assumed that’s why you didn’t have a ring on your finger yet, that your relationship wasn’t the same as it used to be.” 

The circle quiets. A beat of silence lays over you, thick and heavy, her comment feels like a jab. Yunho doesn’t know why it fills his veins with ice cold rage. He bares his teeth, “Where’s the ring on your finger, Sana?” 

Seonghwa gasps, Tzuyu’s eyes widen, Wooyoung cracks a smile. Everyone’s eyes dance between Yunho and Sana with fear at her awaiting rebuttal. She tips her cocktail back, takes a sip, then raises it up to Yunho with a sinister smile, “Hopefully we both see rings within the year.” 

You blink in confusion and awe, sitting up straight, both of your heads turned toward the black hair sat beside you. He meets your gaze and his eyes feel warmer than they’ve been all day, since before the fight, even. The others redirect the conversation into something lighter, but the three of you stay locked in on each other, a bubble within the ash and smoke surrounding you. 

You purse your lips. What was that for? Yunho smiles. Couldn’t help myself, I guess.  Mingi lays a hand over your thigh. Sana will always be Sana, it’s not worth it.  Yunho leans into his hands stretched out behind him. I’m tired of her sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.  Your cheeks warm with a small smile. Thank you. 

After all the cans had been thrown into the fire and San had smothered it with the lid, the whole group decided it was time for bed, your day tomorrow required a full night’s sleep. Beach, boardwalk, dinner, a repeat of today, but tomorrow you could really drink. You had half a mind to stay sober tomorrow, you think you had enough day-drinking already, your brain muddled and your limbs sluggish, you didn’t miss the feeling of a hangover. 

The queen sized bed felt like a cloud beneath your thighs compared to the sand you were sitting on prior, the bottle of water Mingi handed you when he entered your bedroom healing you. In a hoodie and sweats, the house much too cold for a summer night, you sat up and chugged while Mingi got his toiletries ready for a shower. 

Yunho didn’t enter the bedroom until Mingi had left, drying his hair with his towel, sweats hanging low on his hips, droplets of water still trickling down his abdomen. You kept your water in your lap, lips pursed, trying to think of something to say. Just earlier today you weren’t speaking at all, you teased him all day, and then he… Sticks up for you to Sana? It doesn’t make any sense. None of this makes sense. 

Yunho pulls a tee shirt over his head, barely glancing at you sitting on the bed, then reaches into the closet to grab a blanket. Folded over his forearm, he tucks a pillow under his other arm, then without as much as a word he makes for the door. 

“Hello?” You sit up a little taller, confusion in the knit of your brows. “Where are you going?” 

He looks back at you over his shoulder, “I’m gonna sleep on the couch downstairs.”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head, staring at him like the idea is ridiculous, because it is. 

He raises his brows, “No?” 

“Stay,” you urge, heart picking up speed in your chest. “We need to talk at some point.” 

He finally turns around, brows still raised as he shrugs, “Talk about what?” 

Your lips part but nothing comes out. Jaw clenching, you sit dumbfounded and annoyed. Talk about the fight? Talk about today? Talk about how there’s still clearly something romantic between the three of you? 

“How you toyed with me all day?” Yunho finishes your thoughts, taking a step towards your bed, “How the two of you drove me up a fucking wall? How I snapped at Sana to defend you because clearly I’ve lost the ability to control myself?” 

You stare at him wide-eyed, speechless, excitement rippling beneath your skin because he took a step toward you. 

“They were right, you know,” he tilts his head, taking another step forward, “You haven’t been all over each other like that in years. And I sat there, knowing it was all for me, and couldn’t do a damn thing.” 

“Yes, you could have,” you finally counter, voice barely above a whisper. 

“What would you have me do?” He says through a sharp chuckle, “Put you over my fucking knee in front of everyone? The whole beach? That's what started all of this, right?” 

“I— What do you—?”

“This all started because of sex. You worked me up all day to have me at my wits’ end when we finally got back here at the end of the night. That was the plan, right?” 

You blink at him, that was the plan. Partially. “I just wanted you back here so we could talk—”

He smiles as he cuts you off, “You don’t want to talk, not really. I know what you want.” 

You sigh, frustration curling your fingers around the water bottle, ignoring the heat between your legs. He drops the blanket and the pillow on the floor as he takes another step forward, thighs just touching the mattress you sat on. 

“I do want to talk,” you frown, heart pounding against your chest, scared those five words will stop him from doing everything he was about to do. Voice lowering, you whispered, “I want you.”

“It’s pointless,” he shakes his head, smile dropped,.“You can’t separate it.”

“Because it’s already blended together,” your voice is still low, teetering on the edge of shaky. “The lines were crossed a long time ago, Yun.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s right,” he meets your eye, and there’s nothing kind behind them. No emotion that makes you feel like there’s any possibility of salvaging what you had. You refuse to trust it, the mask he puts on, you cling to how he’s looked at you these past weeks, with love and trust in his eyes, the mask he wears now is to protect himself. 

You give him a bitter chuckle, “Who are you to tell me what’s right? Do you not feel anything when you look at me?” 

“When I look at you,” he keeps his face steady, emotionless. “I see Mingi’s girlfriend.”

“You’re a liar,” you spit, sitting up on your knees, crawling closer to him on the bed. He watches, unmoving, eyes not even flickering a change in feeling. “Why did you stick up for us to Sana then?”

“Because you’re my friends, and I’m tired of hearing her project her own insecurities onto you.”

“Why were you bothered when I told that Aurora girl you were single, then?” You stand on your knees atop the mattress, almost face to face with him. “You are single, aren’t you? You want to be single.”

“I don’t want to be single,” his voice cracks, exasperated, eyebrows shooting to his hairline, “but that doesn’t mean I can just join a relationship that’s been established for over five years!” 

“Why are you making it sound like a decision that’s made on a whim? We just spent the last four weeks already in one, Yunho,” you raise your voice to match his, every ounce of emotion punctuating each syllable. 

“We spent the past month fucking,” he lowers his voice, words sharp enough to cut. “That’s it.”

As if every single one of your emotions swim up to your waterline, your voice cracks as tears blur your vision, “You’re a bullshit fucking liar, Jeong Yunho.”

You keep your eyes on Yunho as Mingi enters the bedroom, catching the towel hanging from his waist out of your peripherals. Yunho breaks eye contact before you do, his eyes sliding to Mingi who stares dumbfounded in the doorway, then quickly closes the door behind him when his eyes land on you. 

“What’s wrong?” His eyes are wide and concerned, one hand on his towel as he quickly makes his way across the room. The streak of sunshine in a hurricane, you can feel the hostility fizzle, his presence comfort enough to cool the fire in your veins. 

“Nothing,” you shake your head, then wipe your eyes with one hand as you sit back down on the mattress, legs folded beneath you. Your sniff betrays you, as if Mingi didn’t already know you were crying, “I’m fine.”

Mingi stands beside Yunho, a knit in his brow as he turns to his best friend, “What did you say?” 

“Nothing I haven’t said before,” Yunho bends down, picking up the blanket and pillow he was holding before. “I’m sleeping on the couch downstairs.”

“No you’re not,” Mingi chokes out a laugh in irritated disbelief, all of his features blown out as he faces him. “You’re not leaving again, you don’t get to walk out twice.”

Yunho’s chuckle mirrors Mingi’s, his voice louder and strained, “I don’t know what else you want me to say!”

“Say you don’t want us,” you answer from the bed, voice unsteady, terrified of his answer even if you’re certain you know it already. “Say you don’t want this, and we’ll let it go.” 

Yunho’s eyes dance between the two of you, the cogs turning in his mind visible in his tight features. Mingi takes a step away, walking towards the dresser, pulling out a pair of briefs to sleep in as he mumbles, “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”

You stare at Yunho as his lips open and close, racking his brain for something to say that isn’t that. He shakes his head, “Even if I want this, it doesn’t mean it’s right. What will everyone say?”

The slap of Mingi’s briefs against his hips sounds through the room, “Who gives a fuck what anyone has to say?” He faces Yunho, “If we’re happy, that’s all that matters.” 

“It’s not that easy,” Yunho drops the blanket and pillow again, his shoulders pushed back in defense, trying to hold onto what’s left of his control as his hands wave with each word. “As much as I want to believe everything will be sunshine and rainbows, it’s you two. Your relationship is concrete, everyone’s expecting a wedding within the next few years and you want to fuck all of that up?!” 

Your stomach drops with the validity of his fear, cheeks warming, ears burning hot. You and Mingi have never decided on marriage, not fully, the two of you semi-estranged from your families, not completely in a place financially to make that kind of commitment. A ring, a big party to show off your relationship was nowhere in the near future. A house came first. Stability came first. 

Yunho knows that. He knows all of that, but his fear is still valid– because what happens when you are stable? You and Mingi never got that far, the rest was hopes and dreams that would maybe come true one day. You swallow, sniffing again, raising a hand to wipe what’s left of your lingering tears as understanding turns into a bloom of warmth in your chest. 

“I understand this isn’t normal,” Mingi takes a step toward Yunho, confidence clear in his voice, it seems you’ve switched places since the last time you talked. Mingi looks over Yunho’s shoulder to meet your eye for a second before looking at Yunho again, “But this won’t fuck anything up, Yunho, our relationship has always been… What it is. This.” 

“Your relationship,” Yunho reiterates, his voice quiet, body leaning towards Mingi. “What if that doesn’t stay the same with me in the picture? What if down the line, you decide you want to get married? Do you want kids? Where does that leave me?” 

A rush of something you can’t describe swallows you whole. It was overwhelming enough having this conversation with Mingi, and you haven’t had the conversation again with Yunho in the picture, what that would look like for the three of you. Tears crawl their way back up, a tightness in your throat, heat in your cheeks. You didn’t have an answer to his question, fear leaves your stomach hollow, your limbs tingly.

“We’re not asking you to make a decision now,” Mingi’s hands curl around his waist. “Even if it seems like we are. All we know is that we want to be with you, we’re willing to figure all of the details out together, with you. We want you, Yunho, isn’t that enough to at least try?”

Yunho’s head dips down, his face hidden, sucking in a deep, grounding breath. You need to touch him, feel close to him, you need your skin on his, you need to feel like he still wants you. It feels like losing him– a sentiment you can’t bear to accept, you haul yourself off the bed and press yourself into his back. 

“This is a lot,” his voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard it, weak, frail, strained with uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do, I- I want you too, but this is,” his voice breaks. “Terrifying.”

“I know,” you feel Mingi’s hands swimming along his sides as you keep your cheek pressed to his back, your fists balled into the cotton of his tee. Mingi continues, “You can do it, the commitment, the titles. It’s scary and vulnerable, but it’s us, we won’t hurt you.”

Another trembling breath leaves him as his forehead meets Mingi’s, his hands resting on your own, curled into his shirt. Your lip quivers, trying so hard to keep your own tears in to be the stability he needs, the rock you're used to being; seeing him hurting is like an arrow through your chest, it hurts the same way it does with Mingi.

“You don’t need to make a choice,” Mingi whispers. “But don’t shut us out. Don’t make us think we don’t mean anything to you.”

“I’m sorry,” Yunho whispers, sniffing, his body rigid between the two of you. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean any of it, I was scared. I am scared.”

You press your lips to his clothed spine, “It’s okay, Yunho.”

He squeezes your hands, palms over knuckle, his touch is grounding. Mingi’s hands glide from his waist over his chest up to the curvature of his shoulders, landing there for a moment as Yunho’s head perks up. Mingi leans in, lips grazing Yunho’s as his hands move to his neck, sliding up to cup his cheeks.

“Can I kiss you?” Soft, honest. Yunho barely gives him a nod before Mingi attaches their lips, Yunho’s hands darting to his waist. You keep your hands on him, body pressed into him, feeling Yunho’s body relax, shoulders drooping, back arching into Mingi’s touch. 

Their lips move slowly, unhurried, a practice of searching for something in one another, finding it, reveling in it. The air changes around you, expanding, room opening, tension slipping through the balcony door and into the saltwater air, dissipating into the humidity. Yunho’s hands find Mingi’s cheeks and they move together, bodies arching into one another, getting lost in emotion and feeling and longing, you could feel all of it, it bled from both of them and into you, watching from behind. 

Hands on Yunho’s waist, you guide him backward until your back hits the bed. You crawl onto it, never breaking your eyes from the pair, watching as Yunho uses one hand to support himself while Mingi lays him down onto the mattress. 

“I missed you.”

You’ve never heard him sound like that before. Emotional– soft and whiney, honest, like he’d pulled the words from the deepest part of his consciousness, a box he kept tucked away. It has you moving, crawling over to them, inserting yourself into their bubble. Yunho’s hand reaches for your cheek as soon as you come into view, your eyes meeting, and for the first time you see him consumed by lust without the harsh blade of control in his eyes. Raw, open, free, there’s nothing but delicacy swirling in chocolate brown as he pulls you down into him, attaching his lips to yours like he’d been waiting to do it all day. 

Hungrier than those with Mingi, his lips move quickly, tongue slotting between your lips to search your mouth for something true, as if you haven’t given him all of you since the start. “I want you,” you whisper, sharing his breath, a soft smile curving your lips before he swallows down your words with his mouth. You swing one leg over his hips and he sits up on an elbow, his other hand moving to your hip for leverage as he pushes himself up until he’s sitting, shifting you properly on his lap. 

Mingi moves behind him, hands on his waist under his shirt, lips finding his neck with soft presses of his lips as your fingers reach for the hem of his tee. “Need this off,” you whisper into his mouth. “Want to feel you.”

Mingi’s the one who pulls the cotton tee over his head, lips finding Yunho’s shoulder as you kiss his lips again, tongue dancing with his, hands splayed on his pecs, letting the warmth of him seep into you. Yunho reaches beneath your hoodie, fingers cold as they dance along your skin, palms curled around your waist while his thumbs brush against your abdomen, his touch is soft, like he’d break you if he pressed too hard. 

You break the kiss only to pull the hoodie over your head and Mingi steals Yunho’s lips, using two fingers to his chin to turn his face. You watch them for a moment before leaning in, lips following the curve of his jaw down to his throat, flattening your tongue down to the base of his neck, sucking into his skin just above his collarbone. He tastes clean, like his bodywash, him, your hands find the waistband of his sweats, tugging them downward. 

Yunho gasps as you slip them from under him, hips moving easily for you, “I– Are you sure?”

You’re nodding on command, “Of course, I’m sure.”

He’s talking as you tug his briefs down to his thighs. “I said a lot of things.”

“You didn’t mean them,” Mingi answers as you settle yourself between his thighs, coaxing Yunho backward until his back is pressed to his chest. 

His cock stands tall against his pelvis, pink-kissed and leaking, it makes your mouth water. Yunho’s hips twitch as your nails graze his thighs, making you smile, eyeing him through your brows. He looks… scared. Like this was unknown territory, his eyes wide, red splotched chest rapidly rising and falling, fingers curled into the sheets beside him. 

It makes you want to take care of him in the same way he’s always taken care of you. 

“Is this okay?” You ask softly, making him nod. Your head tilts, needing the words to continue, “Do you want this?”

“Yes– fuck,” his hips twitch again, brows raising like he’s surprising himself. “I want it, I want you. Please.” 

There’s a pit in your gut as the plea leaves his lips and you’re wrapping your fingers around his length, making a show of the glob of spit dropping from your tongue and onto his length, using your fingers to spread it. He groans, head tipping back into Mingi’s chest as you start working his length with your hand, watching him carefully. So pretty, hair mussed about, chest splotchy and body twitching, you wonder if this is how you look beneath him. You dip your head down, tongue lolling out of your mouth to lick at his tip, salty, raw, Yunho– you wrap your lips around him and suck. 

“Fuck,” he draws out the word, low and heavy, a hand reaching down to tangle into your hair. You let him ease you down his length, tongue flat against the underside of him, lips suctioned tight. “Missed that fuckin’ mouth.”

There he is. You smile, barely, lips stretched around the width of him, bobbing your head as your fist works the base of him, pumping, twisting, gripping him just right– the moan he releases is nothing but nasty, Mingi swallows it, stealing his lips again, you can hear their mouths as much as you can hear your mouth around his length, everything wet, sloppy. Mingi’s hands reach beneath his arms to his chest, thumbs flicking over his nipples and his hips buck into you, making you gag, a hand clawing into his thigh, eyes squeezing tight. 

“Sorry– fuck,” he curses again, voice desperate, “feels so good, don’t stop.”

You take him down your throat, gagging yourself purposefully as your nose meets the tuft of black hair at his base, the hand that was curled around him reaching below, cupping his balls softly, tightening your throat around him as you squeeze your palm ever so lightly. The sound that leaves him is obscene, abdomen clenching, his hands finding Mingi’s thighs, nails digging into his skin. You bob your head, breathing through your nose to keep him deeply rooted in your throat, constricting around him just to hear that noise over and over. 

“Oh my god,” his voice is strained, harsh, “I’m gonna cum– I want to fuck you, please, wait–”

His hand finds your hair but you don’t budge, keeping your rhythm on his cock, nose buried in his hair as your saliva drips from your lips and onto his pelvis, sliding down to where your hand lays below. 

“Baby, baby–”

His moan is strangled, caught in his throat as his limbs lock, legs straightening while his grip tightens in your hair, hips bucking into your mouth once, twice before his release shoots down your throat. You swallow him down, keeping your mouth suctioned to him as you ride out his high until he’s shaking, slipping off of him with your tongue still flat to ensure you’ve gotten every last drop. 

You break off of him with a pop, eyes glassy as you find him winded. Chest heaving, head lazily thrown on Mingi’s chest, your brown-haired boyfriend just smiled proudly from behind him. 

“Mouth just as dangerous as your pussy,” Mingi says, hands still splayed across Yunho’s abdomen, fingers softly petting his skin. 

“Only for you,” your smile is coy, of all things. Crawling up to where they sat, you lean down and press a kiss to Mingi’s lips, then one to Yunho’s. He still looks winded when you pull away, making you giggle, “You okay?”

He nods, “I just… I haven’t come since the last time, with you. Need a second.”

You snort, “A whole week, is that a new record or something?”

Yunho smiles, laughter in the exhale through his nose, “Don’t get smart with me, I haven’t forgotten about today.”

You lean down to press another kiss to his lips, keeping yourself close as you say, “Been waiting for the chance to do something about it, like you said?”

His eyes flicker up to yours. In that one sentence it’s as if you reminded him who he was, what he’s capable of. These eyes you know, deep and controlled, harsh in a way that tickles your spine. Your core clenches around nothing, tongue poking out to lick over your lips, anticipation heating your blood.

“Take off your pants, sit at the top of the bed.”

He barely gets the sentence out before you’re shimmying yourself out of your sweatpants, crawling up to your pillows. You’re vibrating as Yunho turns to Mingi, standing up on his knees, grabbing the younger man with one palm below his jaw to pull him upward. Mingi scrambles to his knees, brows already furrowed, lips still touching in the center as they part. 

Yunho smashes his lips into Mingi’s, there’s nothing graceful about the way his other hand digs into the nape of Mingi’s neck, making him arch into the older man with a whimper pouring straight into his mouth as his hands find Yunho’s biceps for leverage. It’s messy, rough, Yunho picking him apart with nothing but his lips– it makes your knees tie together, adding pressure between your thighs. 

“You,” Yunho starts, the word accusatory, giving Mingi another unforgiving press of his lips before he continues. “Teased me all day. Taunting me during volleyball, in front of our friends, do you have anything you want to say to me?”

“I’m sorry,” Mingi squeaks, fingers curling into Yunho’s biceps, the sound makes a smile spread across your cheeks, eyes flaring. 

“Louder.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Better,” Yunho mumbles, reaching down to pull his shirt up and over his head. One hand reaches down to palm Mingi over his briefs, palm flat and fingers splayed over his length, and Mingi folds upon contact. Head dipping low, abdomen clenching, a groan spills from his lips as his hips buck into Yunho’s touch. 

“Don’t tease,” Mingi whispers, voice a strangled moan. 

Yunho huffs a laugh, “Like you teased me earlier? You can dish it out but you can’t take it?”

Mingi lifts his head up to look at Yunho just as he starts grinding his palm against his length, bare chest leaning into Mingi’s, using his height to his advantage to look down at him. Mingi sputters, “T-That’s different, Yun. We were trying–”

“Trying to what?” Yunho squeezes his length and Mingi whimpers. Yunho smiles, “Bait me into fucking you in front of everyone?” 

“No–”

“Then what?”

“Wanted to feel like you still wanted us,” Mingi says it all in one strained breath, his voice rising in pitch as Yunho’s hand slips beneath his briefs, fingers wrapping around his length. 

“I wanted you,” Yunho’s voice slips into something quieter, other hand reaching up around Mingi’s neck, thumb brushing over his bottom lip as before brings his face to Mingi’s, lips almost touching. “The whole time.”

“You left,” Mingi’s voice is barely above a whisper, shaky, a hiss leaving his lips when Yunho twists his wrist, palm closing over the tip of his cock. Yunho pushes Mingi’s briefs down his thighs, lowering Mingi down until his knees are spread, arms splayed behind him, cock jumping against his pelvis, red, angry and leaking like a fucking faucet.

“Do you want my mouth?” Yunho, between Mingi’s knees, asks before his eyes slide to you at the top of the bed. “Or do you want to be filled?”

Mingi’s brows raise. “I get a choice?”

Yunho shrugs. “My way of saying sorry.”

Both of their eyes slide to you and your eyes widen under their attention, back straightening against the pillows. They drink in your posture, knees pressed together, hands scrunched in the sheets as if that’s the only thing keeping you from slipping your hand between your legs. 

“Come.”

Yunho’s voice is unyielding, it has you crawling across the mattress on all fours, landing on your knees before them. Mingi’s head tilts, “Thought I had a choice?”

Yunho snorts his amusement, “Like you’d choose anything other than my cock filling you up.” He plants a hand against your cheek, leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead, “You can kiss while I prep him, but don’t touch.”

You nod, eager as you settle yourself laid down in front of Mingi, your beautiful boyfriend who already looked so gone. Cheeks pink, chest heavy, his muscled biceps land on either side of your head against the mattress, your calves curling over his thighs with him above you. His cock lands against your lower tummy, heavy, sticky, the order not to touch has your heart picking up speed in your chest, a desire you can’t fulfill. 

“Hi, baby,” Mingi’s smiling as he presses one, soft kiss to your lips. Your arms are bent up, hands on either side of your shoulders, palms faced up with your fingers loose and limp, hips fighting the urge to buck up into him. 

You push out a sigh, “Need you,” your back arches instead, nipples pebbling beneath the breeze that drifts through the room. “Wanna feel full.”

He places another soft kiss on your lips, “Soon.” He deepens the kiss, tongue pushing into your mouth, you can taste him, taste Yunho, it makes you moan into him, fingers twitching because you want them on his face, in his hair, around his cock. 

Yunho leaves the bed to cross the room, you hear him opening the closet, the zipper of the duffel he brought sliding open, but Mingi’s tongue is licking into your mouth, rendering you thoughtless, you don’t care to look over. “Wanna touch you,” you whisper, back arching more until your nipples press against his warm skin, whining at the contact. 

“Patience, baby,” his lips find your jaw, elbows closing in around your head, tongue sliding down to your neck to lick a stripe back up to your jaw. You moan, legs tightening around his thighs, hips bucking against his length that tapped against your stomach with each movement. Torture, being naked beneath him, wanting so badly to touch, to feel. 

You feel the dip of the bed when Yunho kneels behind him, you hear the cap snapping open on what you can only assume is a bottle of lube. It makes you smirk, knowing he brought it with him, that it was in his bag, waiting to be used. Yunho’s palms flatten over Mingi’s ass, and his head dips down into your shoulder at the contact, in anticipation of what comes next. 

You watch over Mingi’s shoulder as Yunho squirts some into his hand, closing it before running two fingers down the space between, thumb circling his hole. Mingi’s whole body jerks, gasping into your neck, cock digging into your stomach.

“Open up for me,” Yunho says softly, “let me in.”

Mingi’s knees spread a little wider, lips meeting your shoulder, your neck, back arching lower, the position Yunho likes. Yunho keeps his eyes on you beneath him as he pushes a finger inside, his own brows furrowing together at the feeling of him, the tightness around his digit.

“Shit,” Mingi whimpers into your skin and one hand comes up to tangle in his hair, relaxing him into the stretch, all while keeping your eyes on Yunho. 

“That’s it,” Yunho nods, voice just above a whisper, “there you go.”

Yunho bites his lip as he crooks his finger and Mingi fucks back, head lifting from your shoulder to push himself into the older man, moaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. You quickly turn your head to catch a glimpse, his slacked jaw, eyes softly shut, brows knitted together in pleasure, so fucking beautiful. The sight of him when you’re wrapped around his cock versus Yunho pushing into him, the sight of his pleasure was so different, so raw seeing him this way, so open and desperate. 

“Yes,” you find yourself whispering, back arching at his pleasure, almost feeling it as if it were your own. 

Yunho adds another finger, making Mingi moan, lifting himself up onto his palms, head craning to see Yunho behind him. “More, gimme your cock, I can take it.”

Yunho nods, ripping open a condom packet from beside him and slipping it on in one quick motion. Tapping his cock between Mingi’s cheeks, he looks over Mingi’s shoulder to you, “Go ahead.”

At the speed of fucking light you’re reaching between you, making Mingi gasp as your fingers wrap around his length, Yunho lining himself up behind him as you line him up at your center. You didn’t need the prep, the head of his cock slipping around as soon as you brought it to your slit, sliding through your wetness until it caught against your entrance, making you gasp out a moan. 

“Fuck,” Mingi’s voice sounds strangled, strained, preparing himself to fuck you full while he gets fucked full– you’ve done it plenty, but each and every time it’s overwhelming for him, for you to be fucked by Yunho’s thrusts. 

“Breathe,” Yunho says, and it’s both a warning and an order as he pushes inside, making Mingi’s breath catch in his throat until he forces it down into the base of his lungs. Yunho groans, head tipping back as he slowly pushes inward until he seats himself inside. 

One of your hands cups his face, pressing your lips against his unmoving ones, “That feels good?”

“Full,” Mingi grits out as Yunho bottoms out, hands squeezing his ass, face contorted in pleasure. 

You smile, pressing your lips into the corner of his mouth, “Ready?”

He nods, eyes screwed shut, mouth stuck open like he’d unhinged his jaw. You tighten your legs over his thighs, an elbow planted under you, lifting your hips up to press his tip inside, and with Yunho’s next thrust he’s pushing inside, all the way, all at once. Your eyes blow wide as a shrill sound escapes you, and Yunho’s head picks up over Mingi’s back. 

“If you’re loud, I stop,” Yunho grits out. “We don’t need the whole house hearing us.”

Your other arm is clawing at Mingi’s shoulder, so fucking full and stretched out it’s dizzying, you barely process Yunho’s words as Mingi catches your lips with his own. The three of you readjust closer together now that you’re positioned, and with every thrust of Yunho’s hips against Mingi, Mingi fucks into you the same. 

“So tight, Min,” Yunho gasps. “Missed this ass, fuck, craved this tight fuckin’ thing.” 

He’s beautiful, hair soft and messy, brows quirked in focus as he watches himself drill into Mingi, how his cock disappears, how Mingi sucks him in with each thrust. You’re clinging to Mingi, one arm over his shoulder as your hips fuck back into him, his cock curving into you just right, making you moan into his lips as his tongue steals every sound from your throat, pouring another one right back into yours. 

“Faster,” you whimper, eyes lifting. “Please, Yun. More.”

“Never satisfied,” Yunho spits out through his clenched teeth, two hands gripping Mingi’s hips as he fucks into him harder, faster, ricocheting into you, body slamming into the mattress with each thrust. You’re a crying, whimpering mess, clawing into Mingi’s skin as he cries into your mouth, lost in a bubble of pleasure, Mingi’s body locking up with each thrust of Yunho’s hips. 

“I’m close,” Mingi whispers, straining. “Fuck, too good, so full, you’re so tight–”

“Cum,” you whisper, hips rolling into each thrust. “Fill me up, baby. Come on.”

Yunho’s hands slide up to his waist, nails biting into his sides, “Hold it.”

Your hips buck into him faster, a pit forming in your stomach as the pleasure builds, catching Mingi’s lips again. Yunho slaps his palm against Mingi’s ass as he feels Mingi buck into you, “Hold it.”

“Can’t!” Mingi cries, “I can’t, I cant, I’m cumming–”

You moan as his cock twitches inside you, still rolling your hips against him as he fills you up, warmth spreading through your lower half. Yunho hisses from behind, “You never fuckin’ listen.”

You smile, dazed and lazy as you stare up at him over Mingi’s back, “Happens every time.”

“Fuck,” Yunho huffs, “wanted to cum inside you, Min.”

You slow your hips as Mingi’s arms waver, shaking on either side of you. “’m sorry,” Mingi says, breathless. “Felt so fucking good.”

You pull your hips off of him as you let go of his shoulder, falling flat against the bed as he crumbles on top of you, Yunho pulling out behind him. Sated, he hums into your shoulder, left hand digging beneath your back, holding you close. 

Yunho slips off the condom and pulls you toward him by your ankles, Mingi’s startled enough by the action to roll off of you and onto his back, head turned with eyes half open to watch as Yunho tugs you upward by your hips. Yunho sinks down to sit on his calves, pulling your thighs over his, not wasting a second as he runs his cock through your folds, spreading Mingi’s release. You hiss at the contact, hips bucking into him, digging your elbows beneath you to hold you up. “Kiss me,” you beg, “kiss me while you fuck me, please. Need it.”

His brows furrow, lips parting like you’d just taken your cock down his throat, your words hitting like a pang to his gut. He lines himself up, cock prodding at your entrance as he leans forward, grabbing you by your waist to pull you on top of him, using your thighs on his as leverage to sit yourself over his cock. 

Lowering yourself onto him, you lay your hands over his shoulders to attach your lips to his, nothing about it structured or neat as he pushes inch after inch into your heat. You moan into him, whining as you reach the base of him, feeling the full length of him in your fucking guts. 

“Big,” you mumble, a whiney whisper. “Wanna cum on your cock, Yunho.”

His fingers tighten around your waist, lifting you up on his cock before slamming you back down, making you cry out into his mouth. “Quiet,” he grunts, then places a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I know it feels good, baby.”

Your fingers claw into his shoulders, “So good, missed your cock, fills me up so fuckin’ perfect, so full.”

He guides you with two hands on your waist, lifting you, lowering you, shifting you into a dirty grind, “Take me so well,” he says before he kisses you again. “Pussy so tight, missed her, missed you.”

You catch his lips, words staggered by each slap of your hips against his, “Don’t fucking leave again.”

His fingers sear your waist, squeezing so hard you’re sure they’ll leave marks behind, making you moan. You grind yourself into him, rolling your hips until his cock reaches the sweet spot inside you, a high pitched noise escaping your lungs before you can stop it. 

“Shit,” you cry out, panicking at the pleasure, lowering your voice. “Shit, shit, shit– good, right there, so good.”

Yunho meets you where you roll into him and your eyes drop to watch, his sculpted abdomen flexing under the movement, how you swallow his cock with each grind, it’s too much. Mingi’s behind you before you can process it, feeling his heat before his bare skin, his lips at your neck, teeth grazing your steaming skin, fingers toying at your chest, you fall into him as your hips move on their own. 

“Min,” you moan out. “Yunho, fuck– wanna cum, wanna cum,” you’re repeating the words like a mantra, Yunho’s cock kissing your walls, the tip of him running over that spot inside you like it has nowhere else to go. 

“Cum,” Mingi says into your skin. “Cum around his cock, let him feel it.”

You grind your teeth, a strangled sound escaping you, so close you could fucking taste it. 

“Need more, baby?” Yunho asks, breathless, jaw clenched like he was holding himself back. “My girl, never satisfied, always needs more.”

“Insatiable,” Mingi’s tongue drags along your neck and you nearly fold, the pleasure overwhelming. One of his hands dips down between you, two fingers rubbing at your clit and your eyes blow wide, entire body jerking forward at the touch. 

“There she goes,” Yunho smiles and your breath completely catches in your throat, hips stuttering in their grind, he quickly uses two hands on your hips to keep you moving in rhythm. You feel it building impossibly further, your orgasm right below the surface, your skin vibrating, your breath coming out in shallow bursts. 

Mingi reaches up, one hard pinch to one of your nipples and you’re falling forward, head on Yunho’s shoulder as your limbs lock, pressure blowing, euphoria consuming every inch of your being. You hear Yunho mumble something haphazardly to Mingi before he’s pushing you backward, holding onto your hipbones as he drills into you, chasing his own high. It’s more than overwhelming, your orgasm never ending, prolonged with each thrust of his cock inside you.

 “Mouth,” Yunho bites, and Mingi’s palm clasps over your lips on command. You don’t even realize what sounds are leaving you, that your lungs are even working properly, so consumed by euphoria. 

You’re seizing around him, body twitching, core clenching with each thrust of his cock until his hips stutter, emptying himself inside you with consistent, punched strokes so you feel every inch of him, every drop of him as he fills you up. 

Mingi releases your mouth when Yunho finally pauses, his hand shaky, chest heaving, cock half-hard again against his thigh. The only sound in the room is your breathing, distant waves crashing ashore, the sound of the breeze blowing through the room, making the curtains dance around the balcony doors. 

“I could watch you two forever,” Mingi mumbles, more to himself than to you. 

Yunho pulls out slowly, keeping a hand steady cupped over your center, so if you do drip it’s not on San’s comforter. Always thinking ahead, even after sex, when one would think his brain would turn at least a little fuzzy. 

You swallow down nothing but air in your dry throat, reaching for the man beside you and the other across from you, “Lay with me.”

“You need to shower,” Yunho counters, running his other hand through his hair, pushing it off his forehead. “Or pee, at least. Get this out of you so we can sleep.”

You mumble your discontent, groaning, body spent and tired but so fucking elated at what just transpired. Yunho smiles up at you, “We aren’t at home, little lady, you need to go pee.”

“Little lady?” You and Mingi ask at the same time, mocking him, brows furrowed, smiles amused. You snort, “Try a different nickname.”

“Shut up and go to the bathroom,” Yunho huffs, standing up off the bed, pulling you by your ankles to the edge. Mumbling under his breath, he’s looking at the sheets, “Always something to say.”

“You love it,” you smirk, standing on shaky, tired legs. You wobble, he slides a grounding arm around your waist, you look up at him with smiling eyes, “If I wasn’t such a brat you wouldn’t have anything to punish me for.”

“A well-behaved submissive is a well-trained one,” he’s quick to respond.

You scowl, eyes pointed as you look at him, throwing an arm over his shoulder, “I’m not your submissive.”

“What are you, then?” He asks and you steal your arm back from over his shoulder, ignoring the leakage between your thighs, just to look up at him and see him smirking, face fully amused. 

“Not funny,” you grumble. “Mingi will shower with me, you can wait outside.”

“No,” he half-whines the word, still fully amused, leaning into you before he bends at his knees, scooping you from beneath your legs into his arms bridal-style. “We’re all showering together, end of story. Say a prayer that Jihyo and Jongho are asleep.”

You’re giggling at him butt-ass naked in the dark hallway, it seemed Jihyo and Jongho were asleep with how easily you snuck into the bathroom without being caught, Mingi on your heel. Your shower was innocent, soft touches and bubbly soap, exhaustion dancing in the steam, the humor had dissipated and exposed what was left over. The three of you, together again. Whole.

Back in bed, you in the middle, Mingi on your left, Yunho on your right, you didn’t even bother with clothes. The only light came from the still open balcony doors, moonlight acting as a beacon, calming in how it coated the room in a soft pale hue. 

“I really did miss you,” Mingi cuts through what felt like an hour of silence, just waves and breeze. “We missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Yunho’s response is soft, fingers playing in Mingi’s hair above you, you cocooned in the middle of the two. 

For the first time, those three little words sat on your tongue, begging to be said. Instead, you ask, “You know what you said? The submissive thing?”

His hand cups your cheek, “I was just kidding, baby.”

“No,” you shake your head. “It’s not that. I was wondering… What it’d be like.”

“To be my sub?” His brows raise, tipping your head up to look at him. “Like, for real?”

You smile, “Yes, for real. I’ve wondered since Woo’s going away party, what you’re like when you’re serious about it.”

“You don’t think I’m serious with you?”

“You know you let shit slide,” you narrow your eyes. “A lot slide. I want to experience a day, in public and stuff when you’re being you. In your element.”

Yunho’s eyes slide up to Mingi, “You too, baby?”

Mingi smiles, bashful but honest, nodding. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious, too.”

“You’re both untrained–”

“You’ve taught us a lot,” you cut him off. Rearranging yourself, head pressed into Mingi’s chest so you can see Yunho easier, you urge, “We can do it. Let us try tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yunho.”

“Fine,” his smile is soft, eyes so dreamy it’s hard to comprehend that a man like him could ever be mean. If you hadn’t experienced it, you wouldn’t believe it. You love him mean. You love him nice. You love how he looks at you. You keep the words inside. 

“We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

You didn’t say another word, other than goodnight. You could still hear the waves crashing onto the shore just outside the house, you could smell Yunho’s body wash everywhere, the moon shining down on your bedroom, for the first time in days, everything felt… Peaceful. Normal. 

Your heartbeat hasn’t been this even since the day Yunho walked out of your apartment.

Feet twitching, a tickle on your leg, your nose scrunches as consciousness pulls your eyelids apart. You suck in a short breath when you feel warmth on your thigh, the heaviness of a hand, Yunho’s hand, it snaps you awake like someone poured cold water over your head. 

“What are you doing?”

His other hand moves your panties to the side, his head already between your legs, which was enough to answer your sleep-induced question. Your thighs parted for him further, arms limp against the bed, you could hear the soft snores from Mingi still fast asleep beside you. 

A moan passes softly through your lips as his tongue makes contact with your center, slipping between your folds, lips swirling around your clit. The fingers curling into your thigh tells you to shut up, and you listen by slotting your bottom lip between your teeth, your eyes screwed shut. 

Fuck, you’ve missed his hands on you, you’ve missed his mouth, you’ve missed the way he tells you what to do without saying a fucking word. You’ve missed everything about him. 

He pulls away only to pull your panties down your thighs, throwing them somewhere on the floor before both hands push into the plush of your thighs, spreading them wider than before. The mewl that leaves your lips, the way your leg bumps into Mingi’s sleeping body has his eyes cracking open, confusion and sleepiness present in the way he blinks himself awake. 

“Damn,” Mingi groans, stretching out his limbs as Yunho devours you all over again. “I’ve missed this.”

Mingi leans over, pressing his lips sleepily into your neck, tongue poking out to slide up onto your jaw, your mind clouded with a whirlwind of pleasure. Too long since you’ve had two bodies on you, focused on you, pleasuring you, days had felt like months. 

Yunho’s hand left your thigh to grab onto Mingi’s ankle, pulling him downward, a cue to get off of you without him saying a word. Mingi shuffled himself down the bed until Yunho grabbed his already stiff length over his briefs, Mingi pushed them over his hips and down his thighs, eager to feel Yunho’s touch like it was the first time. 

Yunho’s fingers slip through your folds to gather the wetness onto his hand just to use it in gliding his hand over Mingi’s length, which had both of you squirming in pleasure, light moans blending together. He spits on your center before sitting up on his knees, slipping two fingers inside you, the other hand still pumping Mingi’s length, he used the same rhythm on both of you, where you both stared up at him with parted lips, furrowed brows, glassy eyes, you think that maybe you were dreaming, or maybe you’d gone to heaven in your sleep. 

“Missed me, huh?”

You and Mingi nod erratically, your hips jerking into his touch, he wore a cocky smirk and half-lidded eyes that told you he missed you just as much. Having the two of you splay out beneath him, victim to his hands, to his hold over you entirely, he had you exactly where he wanted you. 

His fingers curled into you at the same time as his wrist twisted around Mingi’s length, movements he knew drove you close to the edge, you could feel the pit in your stomach forming just from how deep his fingers hit inside you. He knew you so well, too well, he could pull you to orgasm so fast, even at god knows what time in the morning. From the rising sun outside of your balcony, you knew it was early.

“You want to be with me for real?” Raised eyebrows, temptation in his voice, a depth to his eyes that only came out when he was in the mood to have you crying beneath him, the ghost of fear nipped at your spine. You nodded.

“You– fuck,” Mingi gasped, hips bucking into Yunho’s hand. “You know we do.”

“Then you’ll learn what it’s like to be with me,” staring down at you beneath his brows, his jawline sharp from where you looked up at him, you gulped at the sight of gravity in his eyes. Fingers hitting the spongy spot inside you repeatedly, it was hard to feel the fear through the pleasure, to understand the weight of his words as he pulled you so damn close to the finish line. 

 “Yes,” you whispered, back arching, eyes closing, your orgasm so close you could taste it. 

Mingi wasn’t far behind, his fingers curling into the bedsheets, his legs trembling, small gasps and mewls falling from his lips one after another, it was ridiculous how easily he had the two of you rendered stupid before him. 

Lifting yourself onto your elbows, your voice shaky, you cry, “I-I’m close.”

“Me too, don’t stop, Yunho,” Mingi moans from beside you, sounding weary, teetering on the edge. 

Yunho smiles, a flicker of something in his eye that assured you the fear in your spine was right. His fingers scissor you open like he could make you cum with his eyes closed. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t give you permission, and you push a heavy breath through your lips like it’d help pause your impending orgasm while you wait for the green light. 

“I’ve been too lenient with you,” he bites the inside of his cheek. “I did some thinking, too, and I think you two forgot who I am, why you asked me to share your bed in the first place.”

Your eyes blow wide, panic surging through you, “Yunho, I’m gonna cum–”

He slips his fingers out of you at the same time as he pulls his hand away from Mingi’s cock, your thighs snap together, a curse slipping from your lips. A too verbal cry leaves Mingi’s throat, his cock spurting ropes of white cum onto his hips, his stomach, his orgasm completely ruined. 

“We’ll see if you still want me by the end of today,” Yunho is smiling while ignoring Mingi’s heaving chest and teary eyes, proud of himself, happy with what he had just done to the two of you. Your eyes are dancing between Yunho and your boyfriend that has tears slipping past his waterline, his jaw dropped in shock, in anguish of what had just been done to him. You wished you could have seen his raw reaction, the moment his orgasm was denied.

“I didn’t forget everything that happened yesterday, did you?” He asks, eyebrows raised, eyes flickering between you and Mingi. “Today will be different.”

Your body was on fucking fire– fear, arousal, the orgasm that was still on the brink beneath your hipbones, you didn’t know which emotion to pay attention to first. You tried to speak, some form of rebuttal, every string of words came out jumbled, completely incoherent. Yunho grinned. Mingi whimpered. 

“Clean yourselves up and come to breakfast,” Yunho climbs off the bed, running a hand through his black locks as he makes for the door. “Don’t touch each other, don’t touch yourselves. I’ll know if you do.”

You swear the beach is hotter than it was yesterday. 

All thirteen of you, after having breakfast out on the deck, packed up for another beach day that was thankfully right in San’s metaphorical backyard. No one was acting out of the ordinary, it seemed safe that no one heard the three of you getting edged by Yunho’s hands just a few hours ago, or getting split open by his cock last night, but you wondered if anyone could pick up how fucking frustrated you and your boyfriend were come this morning. 

You obeyed Yunho, you didn’t touch each other after he left this morning, instead you kept your distance in your bedroom while you got ready for breakfast, as Mingi took a cold shower, letting ice fill his veins as he replayed his ruined orgasm in his mind. 

Yunho was careful around you at breakfast, around your friends, only meeting your eye when he felt yours on him, while you were daydreaming, fantasizing, watching how his veiny hands picked up his utensils, how his pretty pink lips wrapped around the food he ate, how his body bent when he stood up from the kitchen table, the low rumble in his tired voice as he spoke to Hongjoong…

“This one.”

After escaping a calm breakfast, you were upstairs, getting ready for the impending beach day. Yunho had picked out a pair of swim shorts for Mingi, ones with a longer inseam, and had ruffled through all the bikinis you brought with you, choosing one less skimpy, but still as revealing as a bikini would be. 

He handed you a black triangle bikini with small, white polka dots printed on the nylon, the bottoms were string-tied, the back ruched at the middle. Thrill danced in your blood at the thought of wearing something he chose for you, an invisible display of dominance to the people who would see you in it. He hasn’t done this yet. This was new. 

“We’re playing today,” he sat back on the bed, you and Mingi standing before him, backs straight, heels touching, as per Yunho’s request. You were already buzzing with adrenaline, excitement, anticipation. “If it’s too much, you know what to say, but I’ll be expecting obedience, without question. Understood?” 

You and Mingi nod furiously– he clicks his tongue. 

“Yes, sir,” scrambles out of both of your mouths simultaneously. You’ve never spoken about or decided on a title formally, you’ve only said the word to Yunho playfully a few times, just for him to respond ‘be careful what you wish for.’ 

You were more than careful, it’s indescribable how the title makes you feel. Yunho has taken care of you both from the start, slipped into a role on his own when he started spending time with you, but today he’d officially take on the role fully, no shortcuts, no excuses.

There were times you’ve gone grocery shopping or went out to eat and he’s told you to not speak unless spoken to, to only walk on the right side of him, Mingi on his left. Something like this lit a fire in your belly, playing in front of your friends when you and Mingi knew Yunho didn’t want them to know anything about you three, you’d have to be discreet, yet still obey him completely, it made you nervous. Excited to comply, to appease him. Still excited, but nervous about what happens if you don't. 

This was Yunho, unshielded, unapologetically himself, this was Yunho showing you who he is, what he wants. Your request had turned into a test, one you deeply wanted to pass; because in your mind, passing felt like the last obstacle. That if you passed, he’d have no reason to deny you any longer, no further reason to say no.

Because he didn’t answer you last night with a yes, in your mind, it was still a no.

Excitement flared in your eyes when he nodded, pleased, “Good.”

When he laid out the rules for today, they seemed simple. 

You’re to sit with good posture on his left, Mingi on his right. Easy. There shouldn’t ever be sand on his towel, if there is, you or Mingi clean it off when you see it. The thought of the two of you doting on him makes your heart skip a beat. 

You’re both to make sure he is never without a drink, you get him another when he’s finished the one he has. He’s testing your ability to pay attention, to focus on him only. He should be at the forefront of your mind all day— as if he already doesn’t live there. 

 If you need anything, if you want anything, you ask permission first. Submission, structure. 

No complaining about the sand, the heat, if you or Mingi are in distress, you tell him properly, without whining. He wants you polite, but neither you nor Mingi were one to complain about anything, anyhow. 

You both are to stay within arm’s reach of him all day. You want to be by his side, anyways, but being expected to… you would pass his test with flying colors. 

You didn’t ask what happens if you didn’t follow them, maybe you should’ve. It feels full circle from Wooyoung’s going away party all that time ago, when you were curious about the date he brought, why she acted the way she did. How a part of you craved it, when you didn’t even know what it was. 

The sun scorched the sand, inescapable, a dry heat that was only eased by the salty breeze that snuck past your bodies every now and then, so sporadically you could barely call it relief. You had created a small village on the beach, multicolored towels laid out in a line, beach chairs, umbrellas, coolers with liquor, bags full of snacks, a large speaker that played nostalgic music over the sound of waves crashing on the shore. Looking at the scene made you laugh, you could remember coming to the beach with the same damn people with nothing but a towel and a handle of vodka. 

A lifetime ago. 

You sat with your knees bent in a pretzel, back straight, palms in your lap. A drink was buried in the sand next to you, something sour, Tzuyu mixed it, she claimed one was enough to keep you buzzed for a while. That was fine with you, sunglasses on your face, watching the waves fold onto the wet sand at the shoreline, head tilted, humming to a song you knew all too well while it danced with the breeze. 

Yunho bent down beside you on the empty, clean baby blue towel, the corners still stiff and bent from how it was folded in San’s linen closet, the print on it still bright, likely new. Your chin perked up with his presence, sunglasses perched on his nose, black hair already damp with sweat and mussed on his forehead, sun-kissed and angelic. Your mouth watered before he uttered a word. 

“You have sunscreen on?” Short, curt, filled with expectation. It wasn’t just the simple question forcing a rush of adrenaline to sweep through you, heart rate picking up, fingertips twitching against your skin, it was his tone; strong, composed, yet somehow condescending, as if you couldn’t remember to put your own sunscreen on. 

You nodded, the need to appease him curling low in your gut, the desire to make him pleased. His tongue clicked, words. You sputtered, “Yes, I put some on before we left the house.” 

“That was an hour and a half ago,” he sighed, running long, milky fingers through the damp black locks on his head. “I’ll get some.”

He used his palms braced on his thighs to stand again and your neck twisted to Mingi on the far towel, raising your brows.

Mingi gave you a small shrug, Here we go. 

You glanced around the group, taking in everyone’s whereabouts. San and Jongin laid out on beach chairs beneath the sun, carved abdomens dipped in honey, shiny and slicked by sunscreen and sweat. Hongjoong and Seonghwa were down by the shore, mid-conversation, hats blanketing their hair, ankle-deep in the water. Tzuyu, Jihyo and Sana laid in a line to your left, gossiping, drinking, bodies a contrast to the towels beneath them. 

Wooyoung had dragged Jongho and Yeosang into the sand off to your right, convincing the two men to bury him. You think Wooyoung started drinking when his eyes opened this morning. 

You felt Yunho’s presence at your back like a shadow, a promise of unfinished business. He leaned in tight, next to your ear, “This drink is the only one you’ll have today.” 

Your breath hitched in your throat, but you nodded. You didn’t ask permission before drinking it. His silence, his lack of movement, snapped you back into place, back straightening. “Yes.” 

“Yes what?” 

Fuck. You could genuinely moan at his tone, the way he’s biting his words, silvery in what he expects of you, the power he holds in two small words. Maybe he wants you all fuzzy and moldable, like jelly, testing your ability to control yourself and keep your focus on him. 

“Yes, sir,” it’s a mere mumble under your breath, head tucked down, just low enough for him to hear. You can feel Mingi’s eyes on you, you wonder if he heard, too, or if your cowering body is lost on him. 

Yunho hums in satisfaction, “Sit on your knees, I’ll get your back.” 

You don’t hesitate to tuck your knees under your body, ass pressed against your calves, the breeze on your now exposed tummy making you feel bare. Exposed in front of your friends. You can’t believe how it sends a deep pang of arousal through your entire fucking body. You hear the bottle open, lotion squirting into his hands, rubbing it together in his palms before he touches you. 

It’s like lightning hit you, how your entire body jerks at his touch, how his palm pressed to your skin makes your thighs clench on command, excitement thrumming beneath your skin. You can blame it on this morning, how he left you tightly wound and needy, the rules swimming in your mind, but the truth was that any time his skin touches yours it’s electrifying, it reminds you of all the times he’s fucked you brainless, it makes you ache for more. 

He rubs the lotion onto your back slowly, massaging it in, you couldn’t tell if his movements were erotic or if your brain had dropped to the gutter. Over your hips, the sides of your waist, the tops of your shoulders, the backs of your arms, each movement was controlled, slow in a way that let you feel each point of pressure, how he was studying you as he worked the lotion onto your skin. Your neck inevitably bends, head drooping, shoulders slouching, despite the lotion being cold, his hands on you were so warm. Your thighs untensed, knees breaking apart, lungs emptying themselves into the summer air, it felt so fucking good to have his hands on you. 

One palm smoothes up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck, the other hand squeezing your hip over the waistband of your bottoms. “Up,” he bites, the singular word a nasty whisper. “Pathetic for you to lose your composure over sunscreen.”

You were grateful for your sunglasses– no one could see your eyes fluttering at his words. Your back straightens, knees kissing once more, hands folded in your lap. “Good girl,” his voice is still too low for anyone else to hear, if anyone was paying attention. It probably seemed like Yunho was just being friendly, helpful, putting sunscreen on your hard to reach places. 

It didn’t look like that at all to Jongho and Yeosang, sunglasses shading their eyes as they scooped sand onto Wooyoung’s body, hands going motionless with each curve of Yunho’s fingers on your skin. 

“Are you seeing this too?” Jongho asked the older man, eyebrows furrowed, his voice laced with confusion.

Yeosang nods, “And Mingi’s just watching. I’d lose my shit if you touched Tzuyu like that.”

“I’d fucking kill you if you looked at Jihyo like that,” Jongho agrees. Their eyes linger, watching how Yunho leans in close to your ear, how your back straightens, body locking all over again. 

Wooyoung’s head peeks up from the sand, “What am I missing?” 

“Do you think she’s cheating on Mingi?” Yeosang asks, sitting back on his heels. 

“What?” Wooyoung sits up straight, the layer of wet sand on top of him cracking and falling in chunks onto his lap. The two other men groaned, knowing they were going to have to put it back on him in a moment's time. 

Jongho shakes his head, “Mingi’s watching, no way she’d cheat, and no way Yunho would do that to him. Plus, he's never been territorial.”

Wooyoung’s neck stretches forward like he was squinting to see beneath his sunglasses. “Mingi doesn’t care if you flirt, I think giving her a back massage in front of the entire group is different.” His head tilts to the side. “But yeah, he really is just watching. Huh.”

“Interesting,” Yeosang’s lips scrunch, but he brings his head of red hair back to Wooyoung. “Lay down and let us restart, dumbass.”

After getting a slew of pictures of Wooyoung’s bronzed body buried beneath the sand, a mermaid tail packed over his legs, fake abs drawn onto his abdomen, the still-giggling men came back over to the group, covered in sand head to toe. 

Wooyoung ran a hand through his hair, shooting back a mouthful from his can, “Anyone wanna go swimming?”

Jongho and Yeosang were behind him, sweaty and beautiful, sand on their exposed bodies like a second layer of skin. You blinked at them, silent, because you didn’t wanna swim, part of you was scared that if you stood, someone would notice the patch of wetness on your bikini bottoms, despite them being black. Your fear held no bounds, no logic, but it was enough for you not to move a muscle. 

Mingi leaned into Yunho, whispering something in his ear. 

“Can I go?” Too low for your ears to catch, Mingi gave Yunho puppy eyes from below his shades, his voice sweet as candy. 

Yunho gave him a short nod, forgoing a rule for Mingi’s appropriate execution of another, your boyfriend hopped up, a smile on his face, following behind his friends down to the shore. His dimpled lower back above the green shorts, how they scrunched around his thighs, the muscles in his shoulders too defined as he jogged away, fuck. You felt like an animal. A perverted, sex-crazed freak with the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth at the sight of him, how your toes dug into the towel beneath you. 

You laid on your back instead, trying to rid your mind of the thoughts, of the expectations over your head. Taking a deep breath to ground yourself, to stop being so fucking horny on the blazing beach with all your friends around you. 

Yunho’s empty can pressed against your arm. 

You turned your head to see his jaw in a steady line, his brows raised. Shit. You stood up, walking over to the cooler in three steps, grabbing him another drink. You opened it for him, he thanked you as you handed it to him, you smiled as you took the empty one. 

Even doing something this small, this insignificant, had goosebumps raising on your body. Doing it for him.  

Yunho was facing you when you got back to your towel, laying back again, hands laying at your sides. His voice was quiet, soft in a way that meant he was just checking in, “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” you answer in a smooth breath. 

“Give me something better than that,” he frowns, voice lowering in volume, “I don’t want to ask you to throw a color all day, if I ask you how you’re feeling, give me words. Tell me what you’re feeling.” 

You sit up on your elbows, sunglasses sliding down to the bridge of your nose. The first word that comes to mind, “Stimulated.” You smile, head tilting, “Hot, a little frustrated. Mostly eager.” 

He smiles, “That’s good, right where I want you.” He leans back on his own elbows, his can buried in the sand beside him, between you. “Sometimes I think you were meant for this, y’know. You take structure well, you perform easily with it.” 

“That’s because I enjoy it,” you respond, words coming easily, the alcohol making your lips loose. “More than I’m supposed to, I think. I like it the other way around too, sometimes.”

He quiets, watching Mingi out on the water. “You both switch. I wonder what I’ll do with you both sometimes.” 

Your lip curls in gratitude as you lean your head towards him. “You’ve changed since spending time with us too, you know. Maybe you don’t need to do anything, maybe the three of us are fine how we are.” 

He turns his head tight, but doesn’t say anything. You stare through your shades, holding your ground, hoping he feels what you said, and doesn’t cower in fear because what you have is real. He jerks his head to the towel next to him, voice unyielding once again, “Over here.” 

You push yourself up without a word, cleaning off your towel before you grab your drink and move to Mingi’s towel, laying back down, all without question or hesitation. Yunho smiles, pride etched into the curve of his lips, “Good.” 

The praise sets you ablaze all over again. 

When Mingi returns, water dripping down his body, dark hair pushed back by his fingers, Yunho already had a towel in hand. Up by the umbrella, you watched with your head tilted back as Yunho ordered him over by just a nod of his head. 

“Water feels so good,” he beamed, sandy feet walking between your towels, shedding droplets of water from his swim shorts as he walked past. He didn’t even notice you’d switched spots, or if he did, he didn’t say anything. 

He reached a hand out to grab the towel from Yunho’s grip, but the older man shook his head, “I got it.” 

Mingi stood dumbfounded for a moment, but turned around to face the three boys’ gaze who walked up from the water, also dripping saltwater, coated in sunshine. You were sure Mingi’s skin was burning as Yunho dried him off, slowly wiping the towel across his wet skin, on his hair. You bit your cheek. For someone who didn’t want anyone to know, he wasn’t exactly being discreet, but you supposed no one noticed Yunho at the going away party, either. 

“They’re so weird,” Sana mumbled under her breath, on her stomach, elbows holding the weight of her upper body. She dipped her sunglasses down to the bridge of her nose, watching Mingi and Yunho across the sand. 

Jihyo and Tzuyu turned over on their towels, looking at Sana to see where her eyes were locked, then focusing in on the scene before them. 

Tzuyu smiled, “Yunho’s so sweet, it must be nice for them to be so close.” 

Jihyo squinted. The way Yunho’s hands dragged up Mingi’s body, his fingers curled over Mingi’s shoulder, how he leaned in to say something in his ear. She had a feeling since that morning, catching Yunho in your apartment, but brushed it off because you wouldn’t lie about something like that. Especially not to her. She would never judge you for having a threesome. 

But Mingi’s head dipped down, eyes on his own crotch, mumbling a few words in response, and Jihyo’s lip curled. There’s no fucking way. She turned her head, “I caught Yunho at their apartment, you know.” 

Sana and Tzuyu’s heads snapped to Jihyo, eyebrows raised, silently saying continue. Jihyo sighed, “Yunho was shirtless, towel on his waist, he had just gotten out of the shower. In their living room. Mingi had on boxers, she looked just-fucked. They said he was only there to shower because he had no water.” 

“Doesn’t he live right around the corner from Joong and Hwa?” Sana asked. “If he didn’t have any water, why didn’t he just go there for a quick shower instead of traveling across the damn country?” 

“They’re close,” Tzuyu leaned in, forever devil's advocate. “Would you go to Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s for a shower if Ji was home?” 

“First of all, girls are different,” Sana shook her head. “Also, yes. They have a waterfall shower, and those jets in the walls for your body, plus Seonghwa uses that really good body wash from—”

“Exactly!” Jihyo cuts in. “Literally exactly my point. There’s something going on there, right? I’m not crazy?” 

“Definitely not crazy,” Sana shook her head again. “Remember how Yunho snapped at me last night, too? When has he ever done something like that?” 

“Maybe he was tired,” Tzuyu’s voice was small, like she didn’t believe the words that were coming out of her own mouth. “I don’t know girls… They've been together forever. Do you really think Yunho would be involved with them… intimately?”

Jihyo shakes her head, lips scrunched, disappointed that you’d keep something so important from her. She even insinuated it, and you said no. “Who knows what goes on with them anymore. It’s not like we get any details.” 

Yunho is more than pleased when Mingi cleans off the left side towel for Yunho, then the center one for himself, after Yunho nodded his head in silent direction, instruction in his body language only. 

You were buzzing. You were both following instruction cleanly, discreetly, you were passing with flying fucking colors, you wondered if your ability to obey made him any more inclined to be your boyfriend. Your boyfriend’s boyfriend. You wish you could be inside his brain so desperately. 

Yunho stood, brushing the sand off his multicolored, patterned shorts, throwing his sunglasses back on the towel. You sat up involuntarily, knowing if he moved, you moved with him. 

He didn’t look back as he started for the shore. You stood, Mingi following, within arm’s reach as you flanked him down the beach, to the water. None of you knew you had eyes on you the entire time. Or that Wooyoung approached San the moment you walked away. 

You minded your surroundings as you breached the shore, no sign of Hongjoong or Seonghwa, they must be on a walk, or back at the house. You’ve been so laser focused on Yunho and Mingi you almost forgot everyone else was there. 

“Min said the water’s nice,” Yunho looked to you, then over to Mingi on his other side, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Wanna swim?” 

You nodded, even if you didn’t have a choice. You wondered where the line stood with things like this, if you didn’t want to swim, if the urge to obey wasn’t so heavy. Would you be punished? For something measly like swimming? 

Ice wraps around your ankles, your calves, your body shaking, hissing the deeper you went into the sea. Mingi and Yunho dove in, completely unaffected, fully submerged by the time you got up to your hips. “Fuck, it’s cold, fuck,” you had your arms tucked tight to your chest, slowly wading deeper into the water while they swam a few feet out, laying under the sun for hours would have made the warmest water freezing. 

“How the hell are you guys so deep?” You yell across the waves that crashed against your abdomen, water reaching your belly button. “It’s fucking cold.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Mingi teased, grinning, hair melted around his face, flat against the curves of his cheekbones. 

“And watch your mouth,” Yunho added, also teasing, smiling, on his back as he floated in the water. You scoffed, then faced the water before you, you’d have to rip the bandaid off if you were ever gonna be comfortable in the water. 

“Just go underwater, baby,” Mingi called again. “You can do it. I believe in you.” 

You scowled, eyes pointed, jaw locked. “It’s too fucking cold.” 

Yunho’s smile widens, listening to your complaints, drinking them all in. You hissed again, dipping your fingers into the sea, up to your forearms, legs pushing against the moving water to get deeper. Up to your waist, below the tie of your bikini top, you finally said fuck it and sank beneath the surface. 

Holding your nose, you gasped when you came back out to the salty air colder, ice consuming you head to toe. The two men just feet away cheered. 

“Come here, baby, swim over,” Mingi called out, ushering you over with one hand. Breathless from the cold, you wiped the saltwater out of your eyes, blinking through the sting as you swam closer to them. Clinging onto your boyfriend’s front for life, he tucked one arm under your ass as you moved his hair out of his face. He smiled proudly, eyes bronzy beneath the sun, “It’s nice, right?” 

You still shivered in his hold, but smiled playfully, he’s so handsome it hurts. “Fuck, fuck you.” 

“Curse again,” Yunho taunts from a foot away, swimming closer, affection in his voice. His eyes go over your head, scanning the beach behind you, before they land back on you, just as icy as the water. “See what happens.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whine, “it’s cold.” 

“I’m in the water with you, quit whining,” he muses, coming closer. “I’ll give you something to whine about. Is that what you want?” 

Arousal licks up your spine, you twitch in Mingi’s hold, but you shake your head. Yunho’s head tilts, “You sure, baby? You’ve been fidgeting all day, bet you’re feeling empty by now, aren’t you?” 

You’ve been doing so good. Keeping up with his rules, being obedient, focused, you didn’t think your arousal was noticeable at all. You shake your head again even if Mingi could feel your thighs clench, “No. No, I’m fine.” 

Yunho’s hands tug on your hips below the water, turning you until your back is pressed against Mingi’s chest, slotting himself between your floating legs. Mingi keeps his hands on your waist as your breath goes shaky, eyes widening, “Y-Yunho they can see—”

“Mingi is blocking us, they can’t see this far out,” Yunho cuts you off. “This body is mine. You don’t get to question me, you don’t get to worry. That’s my job.”

Even in the water, being held up by your boyfriend, he still feels so fucking big in front of you. You swallow, looking up at him through lashes coated in saltwater, voice as small as you felt, “O-okay.”

“You take what I give you, when I choose to give it,” he tilts his head, hands sliding down your thighs, thumbs curling into your plush skin, feeling so soft beneath the water. “Understood?” 

“Yes, sir,” you nod, and he grins. Leaning in, he presses a soft kiss to your lips, hands sliding up your hips, up to your waist, over Mingi’s hands. He breaks away just to press a kiss to Mingi’s lips, too. 

Your heart is racing in your chest. Intimidation, adrenaline, the press of cold surrounding you, concern about someone seeing you. 

He leans back, keeping himself close. “Tell me what you’re feeling.” 

“Horny,” you blurt and he laughs. You shake your head, smile on your face, “Overwhelmed.”

His eyes look up to Mingi behind you, who responds, “Also horny. Stretched thin.” 

“Color?”

“Green,” you and Mingi respond simultaneously without missing a beat. 

“Don’t be scared,” Yunho shakes his head, grabbing your wrists lightly, sliding them onto his abdomen. “Do you trust me?” 

You nod, “Yes, sir.” 

His eyes jump to Mingi who didn’t realize Yunho was talking to him too, in a rush he responds, “Yes, sir.” 

“Then make me cum.” 

Mingi keeps a knee beneath you as his hands race to Yunho’s waistband, reaching in to feel Yunho’s cock that wasn’t even hard. Mingi looks up at Yunho who smiles, “The water’s real cold.” 

At the shoreline, Hongjoong and Seonghwa had almost returned from their walk, fingers interlocked, legs moving at the same pace, mirroring each other’s movements. A mile down the beach, a mile back, the sun was warm, the water cooled them down, they loved everything about the beach. They’d get married on the beach, one day, soon. 

Standing in the shallow water, arms stretched by how Seonghwa kicks about the waves and sand, Hongjoong stops him. “Baby, Hwa.” Seonghwa looks up, his attention grabbed, Hongjoong’s chin dips in the direction of the sea, a little ways out from where they stood, “Is that Yunho out there with them?”

Seonghwa puts a hand atop his eyes, shielding his vision, squinting beneath his glasses. “I think so. Maybe they stopped fighting.” 

A theory the two had going from the time you’ve spent at San’s beach house so far, one they discussed before going to bed last night, a silly question from Hongjoong’s mouth that Seonghwa couldn’t believe he caught on to, too. From your reactions when choosing rooms to the bonfire yesterday to breakfast this morning, Hongjoong and Seonghwa have been keeping an eye on you three, reading your body language, your interactions. 

“Oh shit,” Hongjoong’s jaw dropped when Yunho leaned in to kiss you. “Oh shit,” he smacked Seonghwa’s arm when Yunho kissed Mingi, too. 

“What? What did you see?” Seonghwa is leaning in, bending forward, fidgeting where he stood, angling his head around to see. 

“They kissed, Hwa,” Hongjoong is whispering, his voice coated in sheer disbelief, “they fucking kissed!” 

“Who kissed?” Seonghwa raises himself on his tippy toes as if he wasn’t already taller than his boyfriend who could see clearly, “Joong! Who kissed?” 

“Yunho kissed both of them,” Hongjoong’s hand moved to Seonghwa’s forearm, “Holy shit.” 

“Holy shit,” Seonghwa whispers, a small mumble, his eyes widening beneath his sunglasses. “No- no, what are they doing now?” 

Hongjoong breaks out in a wide grin, before a disbelieving laugh punches through his lips. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. In public? In ocean water? People pee in there. Fish pee in there.” 

“I feel like we’re intruding,” Seonghwa shakes his head, turning away. “We’re definitely not supposed to see this. We shouldn’t watch. This is an invasion of privacy.” 

“They’re hooking up on the beach! They’re lucky there’s no one else out here.” 

“This section is private,” Seonghwa turns away fully. “San owns it, or something like that, I don’t know how it works. Plus, we can’t see what’s happening under the water, they could be—”

“You mean to tell me they aren’t jerking him off right now?” Hongjoong’s orange brows bend over the frame of his sunglasses, his smile completely amused. 

Seonghwa cringes, but turns around again to meet Hongjoong’s grinning cheeks. He looks out in the water, studying, frowning, “I don’t know if she’s doing anything. It might just be Mingi and Yunho.” 

“Okay, but still,” Hongjoong smacks his teeth. “They’re seconds away from fucking in the ocean. Am I wrong?” 

Seonghwa’s lips flatten, “Don’t say anything. They didn’t seem okay yesterday and today they’re inseparable, so clearly they’re figuring something out, and keeping it private.”

Hongjoong pouts, “Boo.” 

Seonghwa smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his boyfriend’s lips, “Do the right thing, my love.” 

“You’re right,” Hongjoong sighs, looking out in the water again. "That's so juicy, though. In the middle of the ocean for anyone to see is crazy.” 

You feel dizzy on your walk back up. Frustration curls low in your gut, a pestering weed left alone for too long, growing at a rapid pace through your veins, into your limbs, your chest. You needed to get off. Your composure was running scarily thin. 

“Can I go to the bathroom when we get back up?” You ask Yunho, fingers laced with Mingi’s, both walking behind him, you on his left side, Mingi on his right. 

“Are you gonna touch yourself?” He looks over his shoulder, brows raised. 

You shake your head, “No, sir. Just need to pee.” 

He nods, small, but permission-granting. 

You didn’t say anything to anyone as you walked past the group, up to the house, to the outhouse tucked into the side of the property. It was more like a shack, no roof, thin bamboo walls to separate the toilet from the shower, nothing was enclosed except for the main door which was latched shut. 

You eased a breath as you put the black steel hook through the matching loop, running your hands through your hair, eyes squeezing shut while the throbbing between your thighs becomes too much to bear in the silence of the bathroom. 

Just for cursing.  Just for complaining about the water being cold. 

He’s mean. He’s so fucking mean. You asked for this, he reminded you three times, but the words that left his mouth, so degrading, so teasing, all while being passed between them like a fucking doll. All while neither of them touched you. That was almost worse than having your orgasm ripped from you this morning, watching, listening to them pleasure each other, while being on the sidelines but also right fucking between them, you don’t know if you can do it. 

You don’t know if you can take him like this. Mean, arrogant, purposely denying you pleasure because you haven’t earned it yet. You’ve been good all day. You deserve it.

You sit on the toilet with furrowed brows, knees kissing, toes touching the wood beneath you. Your clit cries for attention, throbbing, buzzing, there’s a streak of wetness in your bikini bottoms that was too fucking slick to be washed away by the ocean. Your body feels tight, wound-up, aching for attention. 

You could probably get away with it if you touched yourself. He’s not in the bathroom with you, he’s down at the shore with Mingi, with your friends, he’d never know.  Your thighs clench at the thought, it wouldn’t even take long. You could probably get off in thirty seconds. Your jaw clenches, fingers curling to fists on top of your thighs. Don’t do it, your subconscious screamed at you. He’ll know. 

You swallowed, taking a deep, grounding breath. Your need to obey, to please him, outweighed the ache. At least that’s what you told yourself while you wiped. You opened the latch after washing your hands to be met with Yunho standing outside the door. You jumped, a gasp leaving your lips, “Shit, you scared me.” 

“Give me your hand.” 

You stared at him dumbfounded before the instinct kicked in. He pulled your fingers to his nose as soon as you lifted your palm, sniffing deeply. Just his fucking touch made your thighs clench. 

“You didn’t touch yourself,” he says it like he’s surprised. 

Biting your lip, you shake your head. “No, sir.” 

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, moving to push past you and you want to scream. He’s even denying you a kiss to your fucking lips?!

“I can’t do it anymore,” you whisper. 

He leans back, brows furrowed. “Can’t do what?”

“I need you to touch me,” your voice cracks on touch. “I need you to kiss me, I need you to fix whatever is happening to me right now. I’m gonna freak the fuck out.” 

His eyes thin, jaw settling and god you want to sit on his face. “You don’t need anything.” 

“Yunho,” you fall forward, forehead pressing against his still-wet chest, hands landing on his hips, the soft skin just above his swim shorts. “I need you. I can’t take it anymore.” 

His neck cranes side to side, a heavy sigh pushing through his lips, his hand landing on top of your hair, fingers massaging at your scalp. “I’m teaching you submission,” he says into your hair, his voice steady. “It’s what you asked for. This is what it would be like. You can say red if you want to stop.”

Red feels like giving up, failing the test. You’re frustrated, but not enough to say the three lettered word that would end it all. You’re wound tight, clit still throbbing for attention, but the need to impress him aches worse. 

You stare at him blankly, saying nothing. His lips curve, standing back a step. “You have your answer then.”

“Wait,” you interject, pleading with your hands on his chest. “Why did Mingi get to cum, then? How is he any more well-behaved than I am?”

“You didn’t follow the rules,” he shrugs, answering plainly. “I don’t have to give you a reason, if I don’t want you to cum, then you don’t cum. Your body is mine to do as I see fit.”

“I can’t,” you whine, hands going into your roots, frustrated. You don’t even know what was going to follow the two words, what’s left to say after that. 

“Stop whining,” he bites. “It’s ugly, and you’re not ugly.” 

Your bottom lip quivers, leaning into him, hiding your frustrated face. “I’ve been good.”

“And that’s ending now, I guess.”  “Yunho.”

“Are you acting like this because you want to get punished?” Two hands on your cheeks, he pulls you away from his chest, forcing you to look up at him. “Purposely whining to piss me off, even when I gave you clear, concise instructions for the day?”

You shake your head, ears tipping with heat. You can feel the heat everywhere. Shame, arousal, they blend together with the need to appease him, to impress him, you’re fighting against your own instincts.

“Then listen,” he snaps. “That’s the last time I’m going to say it.”

Jongin sees you as he leaves the house. He grabbed his keys from the rack in the kitchen after the group decided to go out for an early dinner, a place that served bar-food just down the street. You, standing with your head in Yunho’s chest, until he grabs you by your cheeks and tilts your head backward, talking to you… sternly? He stays pocketed behind the tall pampas grass, watching through leaves, his heart picking up in his chest. Is he catching something he isn’t supposed to?

Somehow, he moves far enough to where neither of you see him, and makes his way back down to the beach. He has to tell San, he has to tell Mingi– should he even get involved? Considering what Wooyoung told him and San earlier, there’s a chance Mingi is in on it, too. 

“Got our keys,” he smiled briefly at San. “We should wait until they get back.” 

San lifts a brow, “Did you see them? Any treachery?” 

Jongin shakes his head quickly, not exactly sure why his gut tells him to lie. “I saw him inside, she was outside. No treachery to be seen.” 

San’s lift lips in distaste. “Boring.” 

Jongin feels bad lying to his boyfriend of three years, the man who changed everything about himself for Jongin, the yin to his yang. But this felt out of his control, a little too heavy for the friend group to be throwing around so easily, it's more than gossip. You, Mingi, you’ve been together for so long… longer than he’s known San. From what he’s learned, you’ve been together longer than any of the couples here. 

Except for Hongjoong and Seonghwa. Maybe. He’d have to ask San for clarification on that one. 

It wasn’t long until you and Yunho were bouncing back down the beach, wide grins on your faces and damn, his conscience feels heavy after lying. You bend down to press a kiss on Mingi’s lips and the way he grins with stars in his eyes tells Jongin enough. He’d keep his mouth closed for now. But if you and Yunho were any more obvious, if you take another risk— maybe someone else wouldn’t be as nice. 

There’s bamboo everywhere. Sand under your feet, surf boards lining the baby blue, wooden walls, the roof coated in thatch, the tiki bar–cafe-restaraunt whatever the fuck was the pinnacle of everything Haos claims to be. An escape, another world, somewhere the wealthy pride themselves in vacationing, it reminded you to breathe. To enjoy everything around you, your friends’ laughter, how the sun just beginning to sink was now far less brutal, the way Mingi and Yunho both had a claiming hand on either one of your thighs under the long, wooden picnic table. 

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” with one hand on either of your shoulders, Yunho walked in the center of you and Mingi in the parking lot, one step behind you after you climbed out of Jongin’s Jeep. 

You were still playing. Stomach still churning, body still wound tight, you wished you could force yourself to believe that you wouldn’t explode if someone didn’t touch you soon. Still embarrassed over your outburst earlier, not being able to handle what you asked of him, most of you was glad he didn’t give in– even if arousal kept your body temperature heated to a low-grade fever.

Mingi, free as a bird, was giggling to himself at something Wooyoung said across from you, his face sunkissed, his forehead, the tip of his nose, like the sun shone down on Mingi alone. Maybe it did, your irresistible boyfriend with a heart of gold, you wouldn’t be surprised if the sun woke up every morning hoping just to see him. The sound was music to your ears, you leaned your head on his shoulder, hands holding onto the small, laminated menu. 

You flexed your thighs, I missed you guys.  The answering squeezes to your skin told you they missed you just as much. 

“Today went by too fast,” San shook his head of messy black hair to the left of Mingi, it was a rare sight to see him unkempt. San was always dressed to the nines, hair gelled back, face chiseled, the face of masculinity. Seeing him with pink cheeks and an affectionate grin made your heart swarm with affection, you loved it most when the group left business behind and lived in the moment instead. “I need to have you guys here more often.”

“Invite us then,” Wooyoung teased back, still shirtless, sitting on the end of the table across from Yunho. Skin bronzed and glowing, he reminded you of some kind of Greek God, like him and summer had a contract. “We’ll come when you call.”

Jongho leaned forward, his flower-patterned shirt unbuttoned and dragging along the picnic table, his dark hair messily sprawled across his forehead, sunglasses still sitting over his eyes. “Says the one who lives three states away.”

Wooyoung laughs, leaning forward, looking to his right to see Jongho almost at the other end of the table, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“At the risk of being fired, I’m sure,” Hongjoong smirks, the only person to his right Seonghwa, who held the end of the table. The pair still had their matching hats on, sunglasses resting above the brim, the only two whose faces were unaffected by the sun’s rays. Maybe you should all invest in hats, the sun was inescapable in Haos. 

Yunho leans in, eyes dancing between each speaker, “Are you gonna get fired?”

Wooyoung shakes his head with his face scrunched like his company wouldn’t dream of firing him. Sana’s dark eyebrows raised, glossed lips falling in a line like he wasn’t telling the whole truth, the sight made a snort fall from your nose. When Wooyoung noticed, he nudged her side, scoffing, “You know they won’t fire me, they need me. You’re supposed to be on my side, Sana.”

You lean back with a laugh, hand covering your mouth, so stupid it was funny. You missed him so much, and if the possibility of Wooyoung getting fired was any indication, you think he missed you guys just as much. 

“We should take pictures after dinner, at sunset on the beach,” Tzuyu chimes in, sitting in her crochet cover up between Yeosang and Jongin at the end of the table on your side. “No dressing up, just in our bathing suits with some drinks, candid style.”

Jihyo and Sana agree, nodding, sitting next to each other like two peas in a pod. “We should get couples shots, too,” Jihyo adds, dark hair waved by saltwater covering her bikini top, “Jongho and I haven’t taken a proper picture together in so long.”

“Woo and I need pictures for our holiday cards,” Sana agrees, nodding, already leaning into Jihyo. Wooyoung, with his sunglasses pushing his hair off his face, silently groans from beside her. You giggle at his face, stealing Sana’s attention. 

Before she could open her mouth, San leaned forward, talking across you and Mingi, “Yun, we need to get you a girlfriend so you can be involved, too.”

You stop laughing immediately like San had reached over and stolen the smile from your face. You blink as Yunho’s hand jumps from your thigh, your body stiffening, trying not to let your eyes widen, to show surprise or discomfort on your face while a sharp pang of something sour hits your chest. 

“We could ask a random girl from the bar to pretend,” Wooyoung snickers, eyes locked with San’s.

Jongho laughs, a high-pitched, amused sound, “We’d have to pry him away from those two first.”

Yours and Mingi’s attention jumps to Jongho, who eyes you both, mischief in his eyes. Yeosang, with his elbow on the table, props his chin on his cheek, staring down at Yunho, asks, “What happened to that girl from Woo’s going away party?” 

Yunho shakes his head of chocolate locks inflated by humidity. Voice clear like he wasn’t bothered at all, he answers, “Just didn’t work out.”

Your body is on fire. So badly you wanted to tell them all to stop speaking about the past, to not bring up a future that isn’t centered around yourself and Mingi. Yunho is yours. 

“Are you okay?” You pick your head up to Jihyo who was eyeing you carefully, eyes pointed, jaw set. “You look sunburnt.”

You shake your head, forcing an easy smile on your face, “I’m fine, probably am sunburnt.”

“How? Yunho put sunscreen on you, like, four times,” San wore a slimy grin, the table erupting with laughter. 

“It was once,” you counter, eyes narrowed, tone biting. “And I can’t reach my back.”

“You’re quiet, Mingi,” Wooyoung interrupts, and Mingi’s eyes pick up, wide and doe-like. 

“What do you want me to say?” He asks, brows furrowing, head tilting like Wooyoung said something stupid. You smile. Yunho puts his hand back on your thigh. 

Like a saving grace, the waiter finally approaches your table, breaking your conversation to ask for your order. Yunho orders for you, then for Mingi, exactly what both of you would have chosen if you’d ordered for yourself. You felt eyes on you as Yunho finished, but you didn’t dare meet a single person’s stare. You didn’t want to know what their eyes would tell you. 

You didn’t have to guess, not when San spoke after the waiter left your table, his voice a blanket over one end of the table to the other. “Am I crazy? Is anyone else seeing this, or is it just me?”

The three of your heads pick up in a line. The table is quiet, the only thing you can hear is the reggae music, soft from the speakers, dissipating into the summer breeze. Low, far but close, it melts into the sound of waves, offsetting how thick the tension had become at the table. 

San’s face bulges out, bewildered, “No one’s gonna say anything?” He turns to you three and your heart falls into your ass. “Are you three together?” You swallow the bile in your throat. “Are you fucking?”

“No,” Yunho’s answer comes before your lips could part. The word is rigid, a wall, a finality. You look at Mingi who’s already looking at Yunho, his eyes so big, so round, you can hear your heartbeat over the music, the breeze, the waves. No. 

Yunho even laughs a little. “Come on, are you serious?”

You glance at Jihyo who’s already looking at you like she knows everything. Like your skin was transparent, and she could see your heart cracking beneath your ribs all over again. 

“You’ve been joined at the hip all day,” Wooyoung’s grin is feline, like he wasn’t done prying for information. “Can’t blame our minds for going there, can you?”

You and Mingi don’t smile, don’t laugh. You can’t pretend. Yunho takes a sip of his drink, “They’ve been together for years, you know we’re close. It’s weird that your mind would go there.” 

Weird. It’s weird. He’s not yours at all. You feel like ice under the summer sun, melting too quickly, soon you’ll be a puddle darkening the sand beneath you if you don’t remove yourself from the situation. You refuse to let any of them see you upset. You hate that a part of you doesn’t want them to know if Yunho doesn’t want them to know.

You look at Mingi, I’m going to the bathroom. 

He nods once, eyes glossy, you wish you could bring him with you. Pushing yourself up with your palms on the table, you swing a leg over the bench and don’t look back, don’t listen to a single word as you nearly run to the bathroom. Your skin is on fire, there’s no air conditioning in the small two-stall bathroom with baby blue walls, it’s suffocating. 

You stand at the sink, throwing cold water on your face, two hands hooked around the white ceramic to force yourself to calm the fuck down. What was last night for? What did you talk about all of that shit for? What did you fuck for? Now you feel fucking stupid for today, for thinking you’d pass a test he was never proctoring. It all felt redundant. Pointless. 

The door swings open, you don’t move. “Are you okay?”

Jihyo, smiling softly, apologetically. Your lips tighten, you refuse to let tears fall. You refuse to repeat what happened last time. You should have expected this. 

“All good,” you force a smile. “I think I got too much sun today.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” she leans in the middle of the two sinks, shoulder pressed to the wall between the mirrors, one manicured hand on your forearm. “Did he lie?”

You huff amusement, it lacks any semblance of warmth. “Yeah, he lied.”

“Fucking asshole,” she crosses her arms. “What’s with him and commitment? That day I came over, I knew it, I knew what he was there for.”

All you can do is shake your head, “I don’t know, Ji.”

“How long has it been?”

You hum before answering. “A month? Five weeks maybe?”

“Damn,” she shakes her head. “The way he looks at you… I don’t understand him. I don’t understand the denial.”

You give her another weak smile. “Don’t tell the others. Please.”

“I won’t,” she scrunches her lips to one side. “You still have Mingi, though. And Mingi has you.”

“Thank god for that, right?” Your smile is only half-fake now, moving away from the sink, pressing your back against one of the stalls. “Although I think he’ll be more upset than I am.”

“He was holding it together out there,” Jihyo shifts to lean her butt against the sink, head tilting. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth from the start?”

You shrug, lips flat. “It was instinctive, we hadn’t talked about it yet. After you left that day he freaked out, we fought, we only worked that situation out last night.”

“He said you’d tell people?”

You tilt your head, showing your bottom row of teeth, “Not exactly. More so that we’re more comfortable being in a gray area now, our feelings out on the table, working towards something. We weren’t expecting anyone to call us on it.”

“They’re such assholes for airing out your business,” she pushes herself off the sink, taking two steps toward you to throw her arms over your shoulders, tucking you into a hug. “I’m sorry, you guys will figure it out.”

You let your eyes close, sucking as much comfort as you can from the hug, “I hope so. Thanks, Ji.”

She pulls away to cup your cheeks, “You know you can talk to me, right? Let me in, I can be a shoulder to cry on.”

You nod, fingers wrapping around her wrists, “I will.”

The rest of dinner was damn near silent. Yunho was in your head with apologies, none you answered, you didn’t want to talk to him or hear him out. Mingi answered once or twice, short responses, it was clear the two of you were hurt and needed time to reset your feelings again. You didn’t want to argue, or settle your feelings in the bedroom again, you’d done that already. It clearly didn’t work. Pictures on the beach were swift, yours and Mingi’s were all fake smiles and silence, watching the live photos in your camera roll made your skin crawl. You don’t think you or Mingi said five words between dinner and bedtime, until it was the three of you in your bedroom again. 

Yunho actually had the audacity to pull down the comforter. You stopped him with your palm splayed flat on the right side of the mattress, voice monotonous and bored, but your eyes shot daggers. “You can sleep downstairs.”

His brows raised, “Are you serious?”

You settled deeper beneath the comforter, Mingi still throwing on clothes after his shower. You hold his eye, “It’s weird that you’d try sleeping in our bed.”

His hands fall to his sides, all emotion wiped from his face. “I just said that so they would leave us alone.”

“You could have been honest,” you answer simply. “You could have laughed it off. You could have said anything other than it being weird, Yunho.” 

His face softens, “It wasn’t my intention to–”

“You don’t seem to have any intentions,” you cut him off. “You can sleep downstairs, like you were planning to last night.”

Lips bending, a slow nod, without another word he turns around, grabs a pillow and a blanket, and leaves your bedroom. Mingi, watching from the dresser, finally crawls into bed after Yunho closes the door behind him. 

You open your arms, welcoming him into your chest, fingers immediately scratching into his hair, pressing a kiss to his clean scalp that still smelled like seasalt, “You okay baby?”

“Tired,” he mumbles into your chest, voice deep and heavy. "Don't wanna do it anymore. Too confusing.”

“You wanna be done?” You pause, fingers stalling in his hair. He looks up at you, his eyes big and round, sad. You frown, one hand sliding down to graze his cheek. “We can be done.”

“I don’t want to,” his voice is so small, just barely above a whisper. “But I think it’s obvious we’ll end up being his secret forever. I don’t want to be a secret, I want him to be proud.”

“Me too,” you lean in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’m proud you’re my boyfriend, y’know.”

He smiles, “And I’m proud you’re my girlfriend.”

“That’s all we need,” you kiss him again, parting your lips for him, sinking farther down the mattress until he can roll on top of you, elbows bracketing your head. Throwing your arms around his neck, your legs over his thighs, you break the kiss to say, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he smiles into the kiss, body pressing into yours, and it’s the easy reminder that you’ll always have him, no matter what, that eases weight off your chest. 

It’s easy to pretend everything is okay when you lean into the reminder that Mingi will be by your side forever. It’s stuck with you since seven in the morning, when San abruptly woke up the house cracking a wooden spoon against a pot, screaming activities day over and over. He popped into your room with a wide grin, asked where Yunho was, and left your room as confused as he entered it.

Jet skiing, mini-golf, a barbecue, ending the night at Rêve, a reputable bar in town. San insisted that your last day should be filled with the best things Haos has to offer. Of course he left out the part that jet skiing was at the yacht club he was a member of, and that he owned shares at Rêve, making him part-owner; never humble until he was supposed to be, you wished he told you to be on your best behavior today. 

Not that your group would ever be on their best behavior. Wooyoung was already drinking by the time you went downstairs for breakfast, he made mimosas for everyone, you had two. The first you chugged after Yunho went upstairs immediately after you entered the kitchen, the second you chugged when he came back downstairs, shirtless, swim trunks painted onto his thighs. If you were going to be forced into activities with him all day, you should make it easier for yourself.

White buildings with terracotta roofing, there were too many buildings to count, a winding paved asphalt driveway up to the front where men in suits stood under a white awning, one approaching as San put his Bronco in park parallel to the main doors. It had valet. 

The yacht club was beautiful, massive, every nook and cranny of the main building screamed prestigious. All patrons you encountered were dressed up, some in sports wear for the golf course you could only assume is somewhere on the grounds, in long summer dresses or business-style suits, everyone seemed important. Everyone looked proper. Part of you felt out of place, with your group half-dressed in bathing suits and cover-ups like you were headed to the beach, but it didn’t last long when you got outside to where everything was docked.

Your mouth didn’t close once from the time you walked inside the heavy red doors all the way out to where he kept his jet skis docked, next to his boat, The Kai. Not a far walk, you realized, you assumed meant he was also a very important person here, too, the size of his boat only aided in the confirmation. 

He owned four jet skis, which meant four couples could ride at a time, leaving two couples and a Yunho out. Luckily he had a cooler fully stocked on his boat, one he and Jongin brought out to the dock while the first wave of people went out on the water. On the dock were Mingi, Jihyo, Jongho, and Yunho– of course, naturally. You sipped on a seltzer, sitting between Mingi and Jihyo, your feet dangling over the side, one arm behind you holding you up. 

Yunho sat on the other side of Jongho at the end and as much as you were grateful after you and Mingi threw in your white towels last night, it hurt that he wasn’t even trying. He didn’t even look at you, not once today, you think. At least when you got out on the water you and Mingi were smiling and laughing, he let you drive the jet ski, which he quickly regretted when he realized the watercraft turned you into an adrenaline junkie. 

Mini-golf was ten minutes from the yacht club, half of your group in San’s Bronco, the other half in Jongin’s Jeep. A standalone establishment that had a small course on the outside, an ice cream shop on the inside, and a small kitchen for bar-type food. The alcoholic bar itself was small, connected to the kitchen-half of the indoor space, but it didn’t stop your friend group from ordering a round of shots, cocktails, and beers for all. Even better, the tab at the bar plus admission for minigolf was all paid for by San. His treat, he said, and who were you to argue after seeing The Kai?

There were too many of you for one singular game, but the consensus amongst the group was that you wanted to play together. So instead of splitting your group in half to play two separate games, you played in pairs, and once again you and Mingi were thrown into a triplet, this one you didn’t agree to so easily. One shot down and a cocktail in your palm, no one could feel the tension between the three of you, the energy should be light at mini-golf. You mentally decide you’ll be civil. Maybe you’ll even try being friends. 

Mingi and Yunho both had beers in their hands, neither jumping for joy at the blue club you chose, it wasn’t the longest, and the two men you shared with were a hell of a lot taller than you. You stifled a laugh as Mingi uncomfortably hunched over the club as he lined up his feet, awkwardly swinging the club to hit the blue ball. 

“This game is fucked,” he stands up straight when the ball bounces off the back wall, missing the hole completely. The first hole is the easiest. 

You snort a laugh where you stand, watching his face morph into frustration, his brows knitting and lips parting like he couldn’t believe he missed. “You’ll get it next time,” you encourage, taking a sip of your cocktail. 

Hongjoong goes up next, he makes it in with one swing. Tzuyu goes next, she makes it in with one swing. Sana next, she makes it in with one swing. 

“This is fucking rigged,” Mingi curses, taking another sip from his beer. Yunho laughs under his breath as your arm comes up to rub his back encouragingly. 

“Don’t worry,” you coo. “Yunho and I will win for you.”

“I can play golf,” Mingi argues defensively. “The club is just short. Yunho won’t be able to do it, either.”

Jongho goes next, he makes it in with one swing. Mingi’s brows raise like he’s seconds away from losing his shit. Jongin next, he makes it in with one swing. Mingi’s fuck is loud enough for the children at hole thirteen to hear. 

“Don’t get us kicked out of minigolf, Min,” Wooyoung is still laughing, a hand clutching his belly. “We know you’re competitive, it’s just a kid’s game.”

“I know it’s a kid’s game,” Mingi bites, all in one breath, barely looking at the younger man as he says it. Your face is full of amusement when Wooyoung turns to you, brows raised in surprise. 

“Don’t ask me,” you shake your head. “I’m not his keeper. When it comes to games, he’s on his own.”

It’s your turn again, the blue ball alone on the green. You’ve played enough minigolf in your life for this to be muscle memory– childhood games at arcades, random birthday parties from school friends over the years. But it’s been a long, long time since you were a kid, too long since you’ve come close to a minigolf course. Your first swing, just a foot away from the hole, you miss. The group laughs and you roll your eyes, waving a hand, “I’m just warming up!”

“Oh, I’m sure!” Sana’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and your lips tighten. Feeling hotter now, you line up your feet, the club with the ball, and swing. 

You fucking miss.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you huff. “Someone hand me my drink, I need to be drunker if I’m gonna suck.”

Yunho’s laughing as he hands you your cocktail and you suck down half of it before lining your feet up all over again. You hit the ball this time, but it’s fueled by your rage, it bounces off the brick siding and onto the green of hole four right next door to hole one. You straighten, hand covering your mouth, eyes widening as your ball hits someone else’s ball that was currently playing hole four. 

“I’m sorry!” You call as the young kid, definitely not a day over the age of eight, throws the baby blue ball back onto the faded putting green. It’s as if it was in slow motion, how he threw the ball in a perfect arc for it to land flawlessly in the hole without as much as a singular bounce. You whip around to your friend group, eyes wide, “Does that count? Can that count? Jongin, count it.”

Your friend group sounds like a clan of hyenas, loud cackles, obnoxious laughter breaking out across twelve people because of how ridiculous that unfolded. 

“Are all three of you competitive?” Seonghwa asks, genuine, voice light and kind. 

You shrug as you walk off the green, “I’ve never really played sports, I don’t know.” Skipping over to Jongin who was keeping score, you brush up close to his sculpted arm, tone candy sweet, “So? Are we counting it or what?”

He makes a shh motion, one finger raised, smiling behind the purse of his lips. Your hand forms into a fist and you tuck it into your body with success, “Yes, hole in two, baby.”

Mingi and Yunho are snickering when you return to them, but it’s Yunho who mocks you, “Not competitive, my ass.”

“Hey,” you point a finger at him. “You can’t make fun of me, I’m pissed at you. I said I was gonna make up for Mingi’s shit swing.”

“Yours was even worse!” Mingi’s voice is high-pitched, still defensive. You’re all giggles when you lean into him, pressing a hand to his cheek to pull him down for a kiss. Beer and home, he tastes like half of you. 

You feel Yunho’s eyes, but you don’t stop, you don’t do anything to make him think it’s for him. Even if there’s the evil part of you that hopes he wants to rip his skin off his body, that he’s so enraged he sees red, you hope he doesn’t act on it. You hope he doesn’t act on anything ever again.

At hole two, Yunho surprises you both with how efficiently he makes the ball into the hole with only one swing, yours and Mingi’s jaws falling to the concrete. Yunho exudes everything smug on his return.

Smirk on his lips, rolling his shoulders, he says, “What? Like it’s hard?”

Your laugh is verbal disbelief, Mingi immediately quips, “Do not quote Legally Blonde right now.”

Yunho’s giggle is proud, his grin wide, his shoulders doing a little shake in celebration. So fucking cute you could rip out all your hair, you dig your head into Mingi’s chest to smell him, to rid yourself of feelings towards Yunho. Your forehead meets your boyfriend’s skin with a groan, “I need another drink.”

The third hole goes by quickly, efficiently, Mingi excited he got a hole in one, deservedly so. At hole four, you’re up again after a cocktail and a half, at least you’re at the starting line this time. You stare at the blue ball sitting on the green, eyes squinted, whispering, “Do not embarrass me. Okay?” 

“Are you talking to the ball?” San asks, humor laced in his tone. “I don’t think it’s gonna answer, girl.”

“I’m giving it a pep talk!” You snap your head to respond and then stare at the ball once more. You line up your feet, then the club with the ball, and swing. 

Your fuck is louder than Mingi’s was when you miss. You wave apologetically to the family of four that shoots daggers at you from across the course. 

“I can’t watch this,” Yeosang shakes his head as he approaches you. “You're legitimately killing me.”

Your face heats with embarrassment as he stalks up to you, determination in the crease of his brow. You pull all your hair to one side as he stands behind you, arms wrapping around you, hands dwarfing yours over the handle of the club. “Hold like this,” he explains, then kicks one foot between yours, spreading your legs farther, your knees bending. “Stand like that.”

Yunho, tensing beside Mingi, snaps his head to the side to get Mingi’s attention. “Hello?”

Mingi’s brows furrow when Yunho’s shoulder bumps him, his feet staggering. “What?”

“Look,” Yunho says, like it’s absurd Mingi just asked what. He can see the flex of Yeosang’s arms as he stretches them over your shoulders, the veins swimming along his forearms while his hands clasp over yours. It makes his jaw tick, his heartbeat quicken— you’re not Yeosang’s to touch. 

“He’s showing her how to play,” Mingi says casually, taking another sip of his beer, leaning towards Yunho like he was watching a sitcom instead of his girlfriend getting felt up by another man. 

Yunho’s head tilts, dumbfounded and semi-enraged that Mingi doesn’t feel a shred of the possession he does, his voice a harsh whisper, “Yeosang has had a thing for her since… since forever.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Mingi’s brows raise as he turns to his best friend, a disbelieving chuckle falling from his lips. “No he hasn’t. Tzuyu is right there.”

Yeosang kicks your feet apart and Yunho’s body jerks at the action. His foot inches forward, fingers grasping his beer a little harder like he was ready to pounce. Instead, he grits his teeth, “Have you ever watched Yeosang interact with her? Like ever? He’s basically told you to your face he thinks she’s sexy.”

“She is sexy,” Mingi shrugs, rolling his neck nonchalantly. “If I’m not pissed off then you shouldn’t be either. She’s not yours, she’s mine.”

Yunho’s neck snaps, meeting Mingi’s dead-serious stare. Stunned into silence, he shuts his mouth, drinks his beer, and lets it be. Just when Yunho thought they were getting somewhere, that maybe you wouldn’t be awkward all day, he’s surprised that Mingi’s the one who put him in his place. It’s worse when you return smiling, overflowing with excitement, asking Mingi if he saw your hole-in-one three times before throwing your arms around his neck and kissing him. He feels sick, palms sweating, you weren’t doing this to get a rise out of him, you were leaning on each other because he was the one who fucked up. Again. 

The rest of mini-golf goes by in a blur. He doesn’t speak much, he doesn’t have anything to say, his mind is on a roll, trying to come up with any sort of plan to fix this. He needs to get you two alone, he needs to apologize, he needs to say something to get the two of you to stop looking at him like you don’t care about him because that in itself is so fucking terrifying he can feel his goddamn throat close another inch every time he notices. 

The drive home is quiet, wind in Yunho’s ears, he can’t even hear the soft music playing through the speakers, he didn’t care to. Out of the corner of his eye he watches you sink into Mingi in San’s backseat with the sun laying over your lap like a blanket, your eyes closed beneath your sunglasses like you didn’t have a care in the world. Like nothing was bothering you at all. 

He’s never let himself learn just how terrifying it could be to love someone who didn’t want him. Two people who didn’t fucking want him. 

“Who’s ready to BBQ?” Wooyoung shouts from the passenger seat of Jongin’s Jeep, emphasizing the acronym, basically hanging halfway over the door while grinning wide enough to showcase each and every one of his bone-colored teeth. You’d just pulled into San’s driveway, finally back at home to barbecue, to fill your stomachs with a good, hearty meal before you were back on the streets for Haos’ nightlife. 

Everyone piled out of the cars quickly, heading inside just for the men to immediately split off into the kitchen to start prepping the grill. You watch as they gather around the kitchen island, shouting orders and ideas about cooking of all things until Tzuyu bumps your hip with her own at the base of the staircase, stealing your attention.

Pulling her hair tie from her bun, she lets it fall behind her in loose waves, scratching her fingers through her roots, “I guess the man-grill thing is genetic. Or built-in, like a default setting.” 

“There’s nine of them,” you whisper. “How many does it take to man a grill?” 

“Nope, I’m out!” Hongjoong raises both his palms beside his head in defeat while he retreats from the kitchen. “You’re all insane, I’m showering and napping. Call me when dinner’s ready.”

“Eight,” you correct yourself, a grin growing on your cheeks, and Tzuyu laughs from beside you. 

Jihyo, her bag over her shoulder, enters the living room with Sana at her side, the two approaching you and Tzuyu with grins on their faces. Sana does a little shake of her hips, grin reading excitement, “Who’s ready to fuck up the club?”

“It’s a bar, I think,” Jihyo laughs, “but it’ll be nice for us all to go out and let loose.”

“We’ve done nothing but let loose all weekend,” Tzuyu furrows her brows.

“No.” you shake your head once. “We have not.”

“I brought face masks,” Sana’s fingertips dance together mischievously. “We should pre-game getting ready while they grill and shit.”

Out on the deck, Mingi stood over the grill in front of the railing, a pair of tongs in his hand while he flipped pieces of meat and seafood on the black, steel grates. The speaker inside played music through the screen door, everyone mindlessly humming and singing along while they set the table, chatter and laughter flowing through the chilly summer breeze that ruffled his hair. 

So many years these guys have been his friends, so many years Yunho has been his friend, he can’t believe it’s all gone to complete shit. This was his worst fear coming true, the lingering fear when all of this began, that he’d cross a line and lose Yunho. Yeah, they’d all still be friends, but his friendship with Yunho has always been different. Deeper. He can’t believe he’s losing it, right in front of his eyes.

He felt alive again that first night in Haos, back to normalcy, you three felt closer than before, just for it to be ruined all over again the next day. Each and every time he met Yunho’s eye today, he hated that those three words still sat in the hinge of his jaw, the back of his throat, begging to be spoken. He could tell it was the same for you, where your eyelids sat over your glazed pupils, a certain twinkle to them as you stared up at Yunho even if you tried to hide it. He knows what the words look like forming on your lips, how you tighten your smile to stop them from spilling out, he knows you like the back of his hand. 

He can’t believe you both love him and you can’t have him. 

“Almost done?” Mingi’s head snapped up to Yunho on his right side, his head peeking over Mingi’s shoulder, the heat of Yunho hotter than the grill. Speak of the devil.

Mingi nods, eyes sliding over his face. Big, brown eyes with clean cut brows giving them structure, cheekbones high and sculpted, lips a pretty, pale pink heart. He wishes there was no one else on the deck, he wants nothing more than to lean forward and press his lips to Yunho’s, he hates that his feelings still linger.

Yunho’s head tilts when Mingi lacks a response, amused by Mingi’s eyes locked in on his lips. “What’cha thinking about?” 

“Nothing,” Mingi mumbles, bringing his eyes back to the grill. 

Yunho sighs, “Mingi–”

“Don’t,” Mingi keeps his eyes locked on the burning fire beneath the grates. “I don’t want to hear it, it’s all bullshit.”

It feels like a blow to Yunho’s ribs. “None of what I want to say is bullshit, Mingi. You know me.”

“I thought I knew you,” Mingi mutters, purposely keeping his voice low. “I thought I knew how you felt about us, I thought we were getting somewhere, that even though you’re scared, you wouldn’t pretend you didn’t feel anything.”

Yunho frowns, his head dropping. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, Min.”

“But you did,” Mingi meets his eye. “And you knew you did in the moment. But you didn’t go back on what you said, you didn’t change your answer. You let me sit there looking stupid because I–”

Mingi cuts himself off and Yunho’s brows furrow for a second, “Because you what?”

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” Yunho urges. “Everything you say matters.”

“Not to you,” Mingi turns sideways, his jaw locked, his brows flat. “Don’t apologize, don’t say whatever pretty words you think are gonna make it better. It was embarrassing, Yunho, sitting there while everyone laughed at the idea of us being together because you said it was weird.”

Yunho’s fingers rub at his eyes, exasperated, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it, it was word vomit, I got scared–”

“Yunho,” Mingi’s voice is so clear, so even Yunho stands a little straighter. “I know how you feel already. You’re twenty-eight years old, you’re old enough to know words have meaning. You know how we feel about you. We’re done here.”

Yunho’s throat is so tight he doesn’t think he could take a breath even if he tried. There’s no oxygen in the air, nothing to feed his lungs, Mingi’s words feel so concrete all he can do is turn around and walk away. Inside, toward the bathroom, he’s walking without vision, without a brain, he locks the door behind him and finally heaves a strained, verbal breath. 

We’re done here.

You’re done with him. Mingi’s done with him. His back presses against the door, facing the ceiling, willing his tears to stay below the surface. He’s right. He’s grown enough to know that his fear is childish, that it’s time to settle down, he shouldn’t be afraid of what his friends think, what anyone thinks. He shouldn’t be afraid of commitment with you, he knows you won’t hurt him in his soul, he knows how you feel about him. He feels the same way toward you, if not deeper, he feels so fucking much toward you that it terrifies him. 

He’s running out of time to get over it.

If this was a month ago he’d be seeing this situation as an out, he’d be thinking that this was for the best, but now his heart feels shriveled down to a husk in his chest. Hollow, like the best parts of him were gone, missing the people who made him feel whole, gave him purpose outside of sex. Outside of the role he gave himself. 

When he goes back out onto the deck, the sun’s at its last moments of visibility over the horizon, the girls had made it back down, too. You sat next to Mingi at the corner, Jihyo and Jongho across from you, Tzuyu and Yeosang beside you. Yunho sits beside Hongjoong who’s next to Seonghwa, and the couple look at him with sad eyes. 

Seonghwa leans across Hongjoong, his voice low. “What’d you do?”

Yunho sighs, lips flattening. He doesn’t question how Seonghwa read the situation. “You saw what I did. At dinner yesterday.”

Hongjoong makes a face, one that says you’re fucked. “That was a tough watch.”

“I know,” Yunho answers, tone flat. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t think we’re able to give you advice, this is out of our area of expertise,” Seonghwa looks apologetic, voice soft as he leans across Hongjoong to lay his palm flat over Yunho’s hand, encouraging. “You’ll figure it out if you love them as much as they love you.”

Yunho stares at him for a second and for the first time in thirty minutes he can’t actively hear his own heartbeat. He gives Seonghwa a soft, grateful smile, pulling his hands back in his lap, thinking. 

You’ll figure it out if you love them as much as they love you. 

He lets his eyes graze over the meal, a feast is what it was, far too much food for thirteen people to consume and feel good after digesting, but no one seemed to care. Music flowed from inside, loud yet calming, a backtrack to conversation, banter, laughter, not anything Yunho could hear over the sound of his pounding heart. 

San made a toast to the last night in Haos, a small speech of how happy he was to maintain the friendships that were vital to him. Appreciation for all of you, gratitude for years of friendship, relationships he wouldn’t trade for the world, he even choked up talking about how close he holds everyone to his heart. Not often does he get emotional, but the way the table stood, clapped, clinked their glasses and took turns squeezing him tight, maybe he’ll be more inclined. 

Maybe the three of you weren’t the only ones who are having an emotional weekend. 

By the time dinner was over, all thirteen of you stuffed full, the impending night out seemed more like a chore than anything. Yunho’s stretched out on the couch half-asleep until he hears Wooyoung complain to San that the girls were getting ready in his room, perking his ears enough for him to wake the hell up and trudge up two flights of steps to his room, your room, to see Mingi passed out in the bed. 

A white tee, briefs on his legs, he lays on his side, both hands pressed together beneath one cheek, lips parted as he snores softly. Yunho smiles to himself, staring from the doorway, leaned up against the wooden frame, he looks so peaceful. So pretty, Yunho wanted so badly to crawl onto the bed and press a kiss to his lips, he knows better. Instead he creeps across the hardwood, gathering his things for a shower and leaves. 

The hot water gives him clarity. Maybe it’d be easier to confess tonight with a little liquid confidence, it’d give him an easier flow, he could say everything he needs to say without the stupid fucking wall that’s embedded in him biting his tongue. He loves you, he loves you both so much he feels incomplete, the world feels tilted off its axis without you two by his side. One week without you was hell, one day watching you with each other was like living in purgatory, the in-between, where he can look but can’t touch, he thinks that might be worse. 

Mingi’s still asleep while he starts getting ready, he only wakes up when Yunho’s buttoning up his shirt. He sits up slowly, wiping at his eyes, “What time is it?”

“After nine, I think,” Yunho responds, staring at Mingi through the mirror. His hair looks untouched, eyes half-lidded, he licks his lips three times just to get moisture in his mouth again. Yunho can’t fight his smile. 

“Fuck,” Mingi’s top lip lifts. “You’re dressing up?”

Yunho grins, “I’m only in a button-up and pants.”

“Yeah, but they’re your good pants,” Mingi argues, “the ones that make your ass look good.” His eyes widen after he says it, like his own words woke him up the rest of the way, but he doesn’t correct himself. 

Yunho looks over his shoulder like he’ll be able to see his own ass. “You think my ass looks good in these?”

Mingi stretches, a verbal noise of tightness leaving his chest as his arms go over his head, his shirt lifting at the hem, Yunho’s eyes snap to the exposed bit of skin like a moth to a flame. Mingi lays flat on the bed, arms straight out beside him, legs spread. “You know it does, don’t play coy.”

Yunho laughs a little as he buttons the last one, leaving the top three undone, one silver cross pendant sitting on his chest. He turns slowly, hands planted on the dresser behind him, taking a breath to build confidence since there was zero liquor swimming in his blood, “I regret what I said at dinner yesterday.”

Mingi sits up on his elbows, sleep still evident in his glossy eyes, his tone remains flat, knowing. “Do you?”

Yunho nods, lips scrunching to one side. “I don’t like how we are right now.”

Mingi sits up all the way, “I don’t like it either.”

Yunho’s voice is breathy, a little shaky as he asks, “Can I fix it?”

“Last time we were fixing things it took one day for it to get fucked up again,” Mingi lifts himself off the bed, running a hand through his hair. He stops right before Yunho, facing him, “You’re the only one who needs to figure your shit out, Yunho.”

Yunho watches as Mingi heads for the door, calling behind him. “What if I figured it out already?”

Mingi holds his stare from the door. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Stuck in time, Yunho stares, his tongue caught between his teeth, his heart in his throat. Mingi laughs a little, disappointment clear as he shakes his head. Before heading to the bathroom, he mutters, “Thought so.”

Yunho curses under his breath when he hears the bathroom door close, the shower turning on. He doesn’t wait around for Mingi’s return, he goes back downstairs, most of the guys already showered, dressed, ready to go. He opens a beer with the same tightness in his jaw, frustrated that Mingi just gave him an opportunity to speak and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say a word. 

There’s music playing from the TV in the living room, something pop from a decade ago, he doesn’t have it in him to listen, or to the conversation happening around the kitchen island. San, Jongin, Wooyoung, Jongho, it’s all muted mumbling in his ringing ears, he feels pathetic. 

It’s worse when Mingi comes downstairs and doesn’t even look at him. He joins the conversation seamlessly, the laughter grows, they’re talking louder than the music, it makes Yunho feel not only on the outside of his relationship, but on the outside of everything. Isolated because he can’t speak up, he can’t say how he feels, he’s trapped within his own mind, trapped beneath his feelings. He cracks another beer. 

He doesn’t think it can get any worse until you walk down the stairs. On the couch now, he gets a front-row view of the black dress painted onto your body, tied around your neck, stiletto heels with straps that twist up your calves like vines. Mingi meets you at the base, picking you up off the bottom stair with one arm hooked around your body, lips pressed to yours, when he sets you down carefully he says something in your ear that makes your head fall back with laughter. 

Emotion feels like bile rising in his throat. He’s jealous, but it’s different now; what was once frustrating was now driving, the words sit heavy on his tongue. You two look like you’re matching, dark clothes, hair styled, jewelry silver and offsetting one another, he looks down at his outfit and it’s almost like fate that he’s matching, too.

He looks back up to meet your eye across the room, what was supposed to be a glance lingers.

Yunho gives you the smallest of smiles, You look beautiful.  Your chin tilts upwards ever so slightly, I know, Mingi just told me. Ouch. He leans into the backrest, I can’t tell you, too? The corner of your lips tug upward. Thanks.  He watches as Mingi’s hand slithers around your waist. I need to talk to you.  You sink into Mingi’s hold, your back pressed against his chest, What if I don’t want to hear it? Yunho’s jaw clenches. You do. 

Sana shrieks from the staircase as soon as she sees Mingi’s lips pressed to the skin below your ear, “Do not fuck in that dress, I just bought it!”

You pull your attention away from him and he feels like grieving. You don’t give it to him again until you’ve had tequila poured into your mouth from the bottle, all thirteen of you in the kitchen fully dressed, pouring liquor like it’s water and calling it a pre-game. Outside, splitting two Escalades, rides San ordered for your group to take to Rêve across town, Yunho opted to sit in the back with you and Mingi, you scowled as soon as it left his lips. He smiles, because at least you care enough to frown.

San was immediately greeted upon approaching the upscale bar, stepping out of the Escalade to be met with two men wearing suits like it was regular, casual. Inside it was red everything, from leather booths to velvet barstools to the curtain that hung closed upon the stage; walls full of vintage framed photography, the architecture a brown so deep it appeared burgundy, dimly lit shaded lamps on tables, some traded for candles, the bar was drenched in an amber hue. It was definitely moody, a brand created off of atmosphere, it felt cozy as much as it felt expensive.

It was calmly crowded, plenty of people filling up the tables in the center of the room, a crowd before the stage that had waiters with trays between them. You spotted martini glasses, short glasses of whiskey poured neat, women in daring dresses and doused in jewels, men in suits who blew clouds of swirling smoke in the air from their cigars. All thirteen of you looked appropriate, expensive– but not old money expensive like some of the patrons you observed. You wondered about the history of Haos, about San, how deep his pockets really ran. 

You couldn’t wonder for long, though, with how the group was directed past the stage to a steel door at the back of the building that seemed… insignificant. Like it’d bring you outside or to a storage room, not to a long, dark hallway that hummed louder and louder with each step he took. 

Bass thumped beneath your shoes, the group quietly following the man in black like this was normal, no one questioned anything only because San followed with confidence, chest puffed out, shoulders back. Surprise wasn’t the word for what was behind the twin steel door at the end of the hallway, it opened to flashes of blue and purple, music so loud it made you jump where you stood. 

Women on platforms half-dressed, swaying their hips to the beat of the song, bottle girls with buckets of ice and handles of liquor atop their heads parting through the crowd like it was the Red Sea, patrons in clothing that matched yours exactly. The room was filled with people in your age group dancing to the music at the center of the backdoor club, the walls filled with enclosed sections you assumed were VIP, all by velvet roped attached to silver poles.

“So? Are you guys surprised?” San asks from the head of the group, his smirk turned to a wide, excited grin, which everyone replied with a monotonous, confused yes. San laughed, leaning into Jongin, “We wanted to surprise you, you guys looked so confused at the front, like we were gonna smoke cigars and watch Cabaret.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Jongho shrugs, and most of the group nod their agreement, including you. You didn’t care where you ended up tonight as long as there was liquor for you to guzzle.

“This is better, no?” San raises his brows as he begins walking you toward the back wall, what you assume was your VIP section. “Music we know, people our age, it’s been a long time since we’ve all gone clubbing together.”

Tzuyu, in a red dress painted on her body, adds, “Because all the clubs at home suck.”

“Not the ones here,” San quips like he was waiting for that reply, entering the section backlit by blue lights cool enough to be white. “They love me here.”

“You own it,” Mingi snorts, “they have to love you.”

“I partially own it,” San raises a finger as he steps into the open booth, the table at the center already full of ice and champagne. “There’s a difference.”

Jongin starts pouring champagne into flutes, “Should we make another toast?”

“We don’t need to get all teary-eyed again,” Sana smiles, softly instead of the nasty smirk she usually wore with her rebuttals. This was appreciation. “We have our makeup done, Sannie made us emotional enough back at the house.”

“It’s not every day that you get to tell your friends how much you love them,” San holds the flute between his fingers, brows wiggling. 

Yeosang laughs, “It could be, you just choose not to.”

You can feel the music in your blood, the dance floor calling to you, excitement in the bounce of your knee. You only spend fifteen minutes in your section, finishing a singular cocktail before Tzuyu’s pulling you out to the dance floor, after getting ready together in Sana’s room it was like all four of you had taken a breath of fresh air.

The dance floor was already swarming with sweaty bodies loosened up by liquor. Yours not quite there yet, you’re in a fit of giggles as the girls twirl you into the crowd, you stay on the outside of Jihyo and Sana who fall into rhythm, backs pressed to one another as they sway their hips, laughing as they twist around. You and Tzuyu are watching, smiling, giggling until the two pull you into their circle, forcing your hips into the same rhythm as theirs. 

“I’m out of practice!” You yell over the music, and both Sana and Jihyo shake their heads, like they wouldn’t accept the excuse. 

Jihyo slaps a hand on your shoulder, “You fuck, you know how to use your hips!”

Head tipping back with another laugh, you let her pull you into her, your hips so close they might as well be touching. You follow her rhythm, using a fuck-worthy roll of your hips as you do, bottom lip caught between your teeth while you focus. 

“You’re thinking too much,” Sana’s behind you, hands on your hips. “You need another drink, damn.”

Your lips tighten in a line as you look up at Jihyo again, embarrassed. She laughs in response, “She means you’ll feel looser with a little liquor in you.”

Sana stops the bottle girl holding a tray of shots, her screech for help loud as she tries to balance four between her fingers, the three of you snatch them from her hands like candy. Shooting it back in one swallow, you push a breath through your lips like it’d rid the sting from your throat, your face scrunching up at the taste. Vodka– bitter, painful. 

But it helps, it’s not long until your arms lay over Jihyo’s shoulders, your back pressed to Sana’s as she moves to the same rhythm as you, Tzuyu swaying her body in front of Sana. You can feel the music in your blood now, your body thumping with the bass, bones turning fluid with each shake of your hips. You’re unable to feel the warmth spreading through your skin, your senses already overwhelmed by the atmosphere, you’re too busy watching Jihyo’s half-clothed body grinding herself against you.

Eventually Tzuyu heads to the bar for more drinks, handing you another shot before a glass full of something and tequila, you don’t realize how quickly you’re sipping it while Tzuyu is bent over in front of you, her ass pressed to your crotch. You can hear your obnoxious laughter over the music when Sana lands a few smacks to her ass, Jihyo pulling out her phone to record it, the four of you erupting in a fit of drunken giggles and snorts, bodies light, brains somewhere else entirely, not once did you remember there’s an entire club of people around you.  

It’s been so long. House parties, clubs, bars, your friend group used to be outside on a weekly basis, you missed it. You missed them, dancing with them, completely carefree, like you’re twenty-three again. It was nostalgic in a visceral way, like maybe you were twenty-three again, sharing platonic kisses with your friends on the dance floor, waiting for your boyfriend to come scoop you up and fuck you in the bathroom because neither of you could wait.

You don’t realize you’re drunk until Mingi joins you on the dance floor. When you see his face, structured and beautiful, strands of hair hanging over his glossy eyes, a smile on his plump lips, you feel the rush of warmth from your chest to your toes. His pants cling to his legs like they’re tailored to him, strong thighs filling out the fabric, his unbuttoned shirt is showing enough skin for you to lick down his chest. You want to, the urge sitting at the forefront of your mind, you lick your lips as he approaches. 

“I was wondering where you went,” Mingi’s loud over the music, you could get drunk off the rasp to his voice alone. You throw your hands over his shoulders, swaying your hips to a rhythm he meets you at immediately, his hands on your waist. 

“I’ve been here,” you tilt your head, dazed. “We were dancing, the girls are so funny.”

Mingi snorts, “You’re drunk.”

“Nooo,” you shake your head, the word exaggerated, playful. “Just tipsy. Did I tell you how handsome you look?” Mingi looks amused, brows raising, you don’t wait for his answer. “You look sofuckingsexy.” His belly laugh makes your smile grow. “I’m serious, Min. I want you, like now.”

He leans in to attach your lips, a quick peck, he fights your strength to keep him close. “Now? Like were twenty-three again? Don’t wanna wait until we get home so I can fuck you in our bed?”

A small noise slips through your lips at the thought. “Too far away, we just got here.”

“We got here over an hour ago,” his hands curl around your waist, gripping you harder. “You’ve been out here the whole time, baby.”

It feels like you’ve been dancing for ten minutes. “Whatever,” you whine, pressing your front against his. “Kiss me already.”

He obliges, smiling before he presses his lips to yours, hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling your body flush to his. You gasp into his lips, he tastes like whiskey, bitter but sweet, addicting. Your fingers find his hair as his tongue parts your lips, tasting you, groaning into you, your hands fall from his neck to feel him. 

“Baby,” he says with caution, you swallow the warning, tilting your head to kiss him harder. He squeezes your hips as your hands fall from his hair to his chest, palms splayed over his pecs down to his abdomen, tongue dancing with his. 

“I just wanna kiss,” you mumble into his mouth, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as you take his bottom lip between your teeth, biting softly. He groans, chasing your lips again, his hips pressing into you, he’s so easy it makes your core clench. 

He parts your legs with one of his own, pressing into you, making you gasp a sound too lewd for where you are. Entirely bare beneath your dress, the pressure combined with the texture of his pants makes a breathy moan fall past your lips, one he drinks up with his own. Your fingers curl into his shirt tighter, hips bucking into him, one of his hands sliding up to the side of your neck.

“Can feel her on me,” his voice is deeper, almost a growl as he says the words into your mouth. “Knew you weren’t wearing panties.”

One of your heeled feet leaves the floor to grind against him at a better angle, head falling forward until your forehead lands against his, “Shit, feels good.”

He reaches behind you, fingers finding the hem of your dress, holding it taut over your ass. You moan again as your core drags over his thigh, forehead falling to his shoulder, the rest of the club melting away. He curses under his breath, “Baby, hold on, you gotta–”

You whimper into his shirt, eyes screwing shut, tequila and Mingi was a cocktail for impulsivity. Him, the smell of him in your nose, his body pressed to yours, he made you so fucking cockdrunk without even giving you an inch, without even touching you. The pleasure’s overwhelming, you needed more, pressure building steadily, you didn’t care where you were, who saw. 

Yunho can’t believe what he’s seeing. Curiosity getting the better of him, he should have known not to follow Mingi out to the dance floor to find you. But he was growing antsy at the table, listening to the bullshit conversation everyone was having when all he wanted to do was kiss Mingi across the table. Sitting back against the couch with his knees spread, beer in his hand, lips wet and pink and plump, Yunho was stirring in impatience. He’s hungry, he wants to touch him, to kiss him, wants him on his knees between his legs, he wants to tell him how much he loves him with his lips wrapped around his cock. He stared with his chin in his palm, elbow pressed to his knee, his foot tapping against the floor, the liquor made him restless.

At least he waited a few seconds before following Mingi, just to find the two of you at the center of the dance floor, surrounded by bodies and eyes while you grinded your hips against his fucking thigh like you were the only people out here. Mingi’s holding your dress over your ass, your hands in his shirt, leg hooked around his body, he stared until he understood the rhythm you were moving at, watching how you twitched like you were about to fucking cum.

He was seeing red. In his mind you were both still his, and you were letting all of these random fucking people see you like this? Seeing what’s his? He was moving before he could think about it, pressing himself up against your back, hands on your waist to shield you from everyone who could be watching. His voice comes out rough, harsh, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your hips still like your blood was still victim to his command. Head tilting backward, you stare at him through wet lashes, lips parting, his name leaves your mouth in a soft gasp. Eyes hazy, glossed over, fuck, all his rage dissipates into the humidity of the club, just from one look at you. Disheveled, you didn’t have a frown on your face, your brows weren’t tied together, so fucking beautiful flushed with arousal he can feel it in his chest. 

He looks at Mingi who’s equally as fucked out, cheeks red, eyes glossed over, he stares at Yunho like he wants to devour him, just like Yunho was staring at him in their section. His cock twitches in his pants, his heart twists, it’s been one fucking day and he misses you like he hasn’t had you in months.

He can’t take it anymore. He can’t do this anymore. 

He isn’t thinking when he leans forward, sandwiching you between himself and Mingi as his fingers grab his cheeks, there’s no patience in the way Yunho kisses him, no softness, it’s all hunger and relief and driven by every single thought he’s had today. He says each one with each lick into Mingi’s mouth, he hopes he can feel it, the guilt, the fear, the ease he feels just by tasting the whiskey on his tongue.

“Oh my god,” he hears you whisper, it goes one ear and out the other as Mingi groans into his mouth, it goes straight to his cock. He feels you slip from between them as Mingi’s hands find his hair, his hands slide to Mingi’s neck, their chests pressed together like they couldn’t be close enough.

“I love you,” Yunho breaks the kiss only to say the three words into his mouth and he moans. Between kisses, he holds him close, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I fucking love you.”

“They’re watching,” you’re tugging on his arm, panic ebbed in your tone. “Yun, they’re watching you. They can see you.” 

He pulls away from Mingi to turn to you, your eyes wide with fear, lips parted, eyes bouncing back and forth between Yunho and what he can only assume is all of your friends. He doesn’t care. There’s no shame, there’s no denial, there’s nothing inside him that could stop him from grabbing you by the waist, throwing the other in your hair, and pressing his lips to yours. He breaks it only to murmur, “Let them see.”

You’re stiff for just a second before melting into him, his kisses softer than those with Mingi, more controlled, like kissing Mingi took the edge off his impulse. “I love you,” he whispers into your mouth. “I don’t give a fuck if they see me kissing you, you’re mine.”

You hook your leg over his thigh, palms on his cheeks, relief flooding you. You tilt your head to the side, smirking, “You couldn’t have said that yesterday?” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop speaking,” your fingers tighten in his hair. “Your mouth gets you in trouble. Take us home.”

Your friend group watches Yunho guide you both through the club with wide eyes and parted lips, you don’t spare them a glance as you and Mingi trail behind Yunho like dogs to their owner. The Escalades are still parked out front, a few words from Yunho to the driver and he’s opening the door to the backseat for you and Mingi, ushering you inside. 

You stole Yunho’s mouth the entire drive, Mingi settling for his neck, the skin on his chest, more with every button he ripped apart. You didn’t speak, you didn’t need to, you’d said everything on the dance floor, specifics could come later. The only thing left was consummation, which was the only thing on your mind as you nearly sprinted through the front door, almost tripping on your feet on the climb upstairs. 

“Careful,” Yunho said from behind you when you’d taken two steps at a time, but he couldn’t hold in his laughter, amused at your impatience. You ignored him, forgoing an answer to instead steal his lips once more when you reached the top of the steps. 

His hands found your hips, tongue pushing through your lips, you felt Mingi’s palms a steady wait on top of Yunho’s as he backed you into your room, then closed the door behind you. You broke away to untie your dress behind your neck, just for Mingi to trade places with you, stealing Yunho’s mouth. 

“Bed,” you said into the air, and watched as they tripped over each other, stepping in each other’s line of direction as they backed closer, closer, and closer to the bed. Mingi fell backwards, Yunho’s hands flying for his belt.

You kissed your boyfriend, who hummed when your lips met his. “Tequila.”

“Tastes good, right?” You smile into the kiss, dress riding up your thighs, body bent over completely to keep your mouth on his. 

You can hear Mingi’s pants hit the floor, grabbing your attention. Yunho has his shirt off, Mingi’s briefs discarded. Yunho’s eyes, always cool and collected, are wide, crazed; sparkling with the moonlight that makes a puddle of white at the balcony door, casting the room in a hue of midnight.

Reality settles, and it’s heavy. Drunk you may be, but not drunk enough to not be wondering what’s going through his mind. “Hey,” you offer. His eyes meet yours, charcoal, swirling with moonlight, not quite steady. Your lips curve, “I love you.”

His bare shoulders settle, ease washing over him. He leans over Mingi’s legs, two hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you deeply, speaking into your mouth, “I love you, too.”

“Holy shit,” you mumble into his mouth, making him giggle right back. He giggled. 

He loves you. He fucking loves you. 

Mingi reaches for your legs, pulling one over his chest, you’re absent-minded as Yunho keeps his tongue tangled with yours. He pushes your dress up over your hips, holding it up over your waist, and pulls you down to meet his awaiting tongue.

You gasp out a moan as Mingi groans, bare hips bucking against Yunho who was still leaning over him. Yunho leans back, eyes darkening as he takes in the sight, your hips already rolling against Mingi’s tongue.

“Fuck,” Yunho sighs, grabbing his length through his pants, his grip tight like he was pacing his own pleasure. Like seeing you with Mingi might’ve very well brought him closer than he should have been.

Mingi’s arms hook around your thighs, tongue poking out to let your hips rock against it, allowing you to set your own pace, to use him however you want. You waste no time setting a brutal pace, whimpering as his flexed tongue rolls over your clit, as your hips rock back onto his nose. Fingers curling into your skin, searing where they held you, no doubt leaving oval shapes behind, the sting only makes you grind against him harder.

Yunho’s fingers find his button, his zipper, his eyes zeroed in on the sight before him like he couldn’t rip his eyes away if he tried. Indents of strain dimple the space above his brows, just a slight furrow, his hand finds his length again over his briefs, running his flat palm over his hard cock, a moan tumbling off his tongue. 

Your eyes flare. “G’na cum just like that? Watching?”

Yunho’s lips part. “Could, if I wanted to.”

You find the hem of your dress at your waist, pulling the thin fabric over your head in one quick motion. Still rocking your hips, abdomen flexed, breasts falling at your chest, Yunho groans. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. You hiss when Mingi’s nose catches on your entrance. Yunho’s eyes sink down to where Mingi’s tongue swallows your folds, how it blankets over your core, swiping through, spit sliding down the sides of his mouth. His hand picks up speed over his briefs, hips bucking into his own hand, chest rising and falling heavily, “I might.”

You lean forward, holding Yunho’s eye, moaning as Mingi’s tongue curls inside you. You take Mingi’s length in one hand, the other pressed on his chest, and Mingi’s hips jerk into your hand immediately, a sharp grunt vibrating your thighs. 

Mingi’s knees spread, hips bucking off the bed, feet finding the edge of the bed, legs lifting just to spread wider. You keep your eyes on Yunho, voice a husky whisper, “Join.”

As if you were a siren, his body pulls him forward, his hand leaving his cotton-covered cock just to wrap around Mingi’s, his hand fitting perfectly right above yours. Mingi’s palms wrapped around your thighs keep your hips moving as you and Yunho pump his length, one-handed, your eyes never once leaving each other.

“Fuck him,” you nearly whisper, your voice still husky, coated in arousal. “Push his legs up to his chest and fuck him. I have his mouth.”

Yunho gasps, and it would have been silent if you weren’t so close. His face twinges, a jerk of a reaction, like he wasn’t used to someone giving him orders. But his hands find Mingi’s knees, the underside of them, pushing them upward. He leans toward you, taking your lips in his, and as his tongue pushes into your mouth you know it’s claiming. Steadying. Reminding you who he is, who he is to you. 

Yunho’s hand disappears between Mingi’s legs, earning a shattered moan spat into your core, you smile through the sound that rips from your chest. Rocking your hips again, sitting up straight once more, Mingi’s fingers singe your thighs, each fingertip like iron soaked in fire.

Mingi’s heels find the bed, cock twitching against his abdomen, leaking all over the stretch of skin beneath his belly button. The skin of your thighs gathers between his fingers, but you rock yourself through it, the pain mixed with the pleasure better than any cocktail you’ve had tonight.

Your head tips back as Yunho preps him, listening to Mingi curse into your folds, whining and whimpering but giving your clit the most attention of all. “S’good, Mingi,” you moan out, reaching behind you to run your fingers through his hair, sounding utterly dazed. “Mm, I love you.”

You barely hear him say it back, his voice lagged, muffled by a mouth full of you, head no doubt fuzzy from Yunho knuckle deep in his ass. You bring your eyes back to the older man who’s focused, taking his time opening him up, prepping him for his cock that neither of you can ever really be prepped for.

“Makin’ a mess, Min,” Yunho comments, finally noticing the painting the younger man made on his own skin. Droplets of pre, ropes that dripped down his sides, Mingi moaned in response. Yunho pushes his legs up, you catch them, palms splayed over his knees, holding him spread.

 Beautiful, watching Mingi suck in every single inch. Beautiful, watching Yunho fight every fucking instinct to cum as soon as he bottomed out. It ignited the fire in your gut like you were the one Yunho was splitting open; a harsh moan pushing past your lips, clit throbbing against Mingi’s unmoving tongue. At least he stuck it out, you thought as your hips bucked against him, grinding harshly against the muscle he wanted you to use for your own pleasure.

When Yunho started moving, when Mingi started moaning like nothing has ever felt this good in his life, you could feel it like a phantom limb; brows furrowing, moans growing in pitch, watching your boyfriend fuck your other boyfriend brought you right to the edge.

“Shit… shit,” you moaned, your fingers finding your nipples, pinching, twisting. Hips bucking rapidly, watching Yunho’s abdomen flex as his hips rolled into Mingi’s ass, you neared so close you could taste it. “Gonna cum, Yun, gonna c-cum–”

“Wait,” he ground out, his voice ragged and harsh like he was nearing the brink himself. It made your eyes dart to him, he always lasted, he’s never cum this quickly. Ever. His grin is lazy, his head tipped backward, sweat kissing his moonlight-kissed skin, he utters, “Been waiting– for this, t-to tell you how I feel.” His chin dips, eyes squeezing shut, “Fuck.”

You understood then, that his release was so much more.

“Let me cum,” you urged. “Let me, want to watch you.”

Yunho’s eyes met yours, and agreement shone in the subtle spark of white dancing in charcoal. He leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around your neck, tugging you toward him to crash your lips onto his, shoving his tongue into your mouth, tasting the orgasm that washed over you as soon as you met.

Mingi’s grip rocked you through it, a sob leaving your throat, lips unmoving against Yunho’s. Whispering into your mouth, he uttered, “I love you.”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t do anything but roll off Mingi’s face, the younger man gasping for a breath, reaching his arms upward for Yunho. Yunho’s hips didn’t falter as he leaned down, as he pushed Mingi up the bed, crawling onto it himself. Head in the pillows, utterly dazed, lovesick and spent, you watched Yunho take Mingi for everything he’s worth.

Mingi sobbed, hands in Yunho’s hair, muttering I love you over and over again like he couldn’t believe he could say it. Yunho’s hips snapped against his, responding every fucking time Mingi said it, not missing a single time it passed through his lips. 

And it occurred to you then, that they were yours. Both of them, finally, for real this time, they were completely yours. So beautiful together, their bodies molding perfectly, lips touching, speaking, not kissing; Mingi’s hands in Yunho’s hair, Yunho cradling Mingi’s cheeks.

You didn’t feel the tears on your cheeks until Mingi spilled onto his stomach, blurry eyes darting to where it dribbled down his side. They didn’t notice until after Yunho emptied himself inside Mingi, when the smack of hips became a sound of slick movement, and their heads turned to yours.

Mingi’s face, fucked-out turned to concerned. Brows bent, lips pouting, he scrounged to sit up on his elbows, “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, wiping under your eyes. “I just love you, both of you. That’s all.”

Yunho crawled over to you, a warm smile on his lips as he split your knees, placing a cupped palm on your cheek before he pressed a soft kiss to your lips. Wiping your tears, he murmured, “I’m sorry for all the shit I put you through this weekend.”

You sniffed, “I’m just… still a little drunk, you don’t need to console me. I know you’re sorry.”

After cleaning himself up quickly, Mingi curled up to your other side, pressing his lips into your bicep. The two of them watched you like hawks, taking in every micro-expression on your face.

“I’m fine,” you reiterated with a small laugh. “I swear, I’m just emotional. It was an emotional weekend.”

Yunho’s face drooped with guilt. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get my shit together. I didn’t mean anything I said to you–”

Your palms found his cheeks, guiding him down, cutting him off by pressing your lips against his. “I know,” you whispered, eyes opening to look into his. “I know how you feel, I knew the whole time. I’m proud of you.”

His lips quivered. Your smile grows, “Now why are you getting emotional?”

“Because I’ve been searching for this for so fucking long,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “Searching for you, both of you,” his eyes find Mingi, “in everyone.”

“Search is over,” Mingi rolls on his back, eyes playful, lips pinned up on one side. He looks at Yunho with barely a turn of his head, “Should we throw a party?”

Yunho snorts, pressing another kiss to your lips before throwing your leg over his body, collapsing on your other side. After a moment, he adds, “I’ve never felt more like myself than when I’m with you.”

Both yours and Mingi’s heads turn to him, listening. Yunho’s head angles toward you, but he doesn’t look as he continues, “I think it’s why I’ve never settled down. Nothing ever felt right, not until that first night with you both. I mean, after that, I never really left.”

“You tried,” you add with a grin.

Yunho looks at you just to roll his eyes. “It’s scary knowing the best thing that could ever happen to you is happening to you. I fucked it up before I even had the chance to fuck it up.”

“No you didn’t,” Mingi counters with a shake of his head. “You’re here, we’re here. Everything happened the way it was supposed to.”

Yunho’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you for letting me figure it out. For not abandoning me when I gave you every reason to.”

Before tears have the chance to fill your waterline again, you wrap yourself around him, literally climbing on top of him to attach yourself to him. Whispering into his neck, you say, “That’s what you do when you love someone.”

“And we love you very, very much,” Mingi adds, already cuddled up to Yunho’s side.

Yunho presses his lips to yours, a short, sweet kiss. Then turns to Mingi, pressing another short, sweet kiss to his lips. “And I love you both very, very much, too.”

masterlist 3️⃣

fin 💌

[yestodayys]

✮⋆｡°✩ tonight - yunho x fem!reader x mingi

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 SMUT 18+ MDNI, they’re mean like mean as hell, size kink like ‘tiny’ as a name take it however u want, like a few lines of daddy kink, mxm action but just kissing rly, threesome, wet n’ fuckin’ messy, no more spoilers that’s all u get

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 wc 7.7k

⋆ ˚｡𖦹 a/n this was a commission!! thank u to the lovely yestodayys cult member who let me run with her idea and well. create this! i had SO MUCH FUN and i'm glad u love it and now u all get to read it too <3

The bar has been refurbished since the last time you came here.

The overall layout is still generally the same; during your search for your friends, you’ve looked in the ladies’ room - still to the left of the bar, cramped, only two stalls, line way too long, though it isn’t the hospital powder pink it once was - and in the smoking area, thus far. The latter looks pretty much the same, although you admit they can’t really change that much; beneath your denim jacket, you’re still only wearing a minidress and boots and it’s fucking cold. 

Escaping back inside seems the best idea. Realistically, if they’re not there or in the restroom or here, in the main room with the bar, you may as well just get over it. There’s no signal in this place for you to text them either - there never has been - and you don’t want to leave this early. You can still have a good night. You undoubtedly know some of the people here anyway - hell, maybe you’ll find a man. 

It’s the overall vibe that’s changed more than anything else; you think they must be going for some sort of seventies concept now, while before it was largely unthemed. It seems to bring more customers like this - the place is packed full on a tacky illuminated dancefloor, no one dressed the part, though beneath the flashing lights and disco ball you can't really tell. It’s flashy, somewhat exciting; it’s why you decided to wear your vintage denim jacket, even if no one else was going to play along.

The drink you’ve been nursing is still over half full, so you bypass the bar and go straight to the dancefloor. The music doesn’t match the vibe either, but you’re not bothered, swaying in your spot to the random dance song they have playing and taking a generous gulp of the liquid to ease yourself in.

Okay, it definitely feels like a better time now. Perhaps the rebrand has had some effect. You move your hips, jacket falling down your bare shoulders before catching on the strap of your bag. 

Lost in your own world, you almost miss it as you turn around to look amongst the crowd; but no, clear as day, tall and attractive enough to make your heart stop - two men, one in baggy clothes and an obnoxious fur coat and one in tighter, flared jeans, long sleeve tight across a toned, broad chest, sipping on their drinks, staring at you like a pint of water in the middle of a desert. 

You see them after they see you. You’re not sure how long they’ve been looking at you, these two men, but god they’re fixated and it makes you stop too. They can’t look away, both of their gazes trailing down your body as you move and sway with your drink in your hand, and your breath catches in your throat - not that you’re complaining, though. They’re handsome, though you assume they came together and will be leaving together too, judging by the way they’re glued to each other’s sides. 

The taller one seems to have more of a grip on the situation than the other man, but they’re both intimidating, domineering. He whispers something in the other man’s ear, long fingers brushing at his neck. Their eyes still don't leave you though, and the shorter’s plump lips break into a grin, leering, too satisfied for someone who hasn’t even spoken to you - let alone touched you. He must’ve said something he likes. 

You can’t help yourself. You smile back, and he flicks a few dark blue strands out of his forehead, taking a sip of the liquid he’s got in his glass before he slams it down on the table decisively. He says something else to the other man, something you can’t even try to lip read because he turns his back to you. He gives him a cheeky smile, almost like he’s doing something wrong, and begins to push through the crowd on the dancefloor. You stand dead still.

You wonder about the situation between them. Clearly, they’re more than friends, and it seems like the taller is the one in control, but - what’s this? The shorter man is approaching you, his too-large brown fur coat seeming ridiculous in the heat of the bar, but you see as he gets closer that he’s got nothing but a waistcoat and baggy trousers underneath. He shoots a few amused looks back at the other man, who looks less than pleased at his misbehaving, but it doesn’t sway him - once he’s at you, he pulls you into him so your back is pressed against his front and whispers in your ear just loud enough for you to hear him.

“Wanna dance?”

Do you? Fuck yeah, you do - and with his partner too, if he’s up for grabs. For now though, you suppose one will have to do, because as you smile flirtatiously in response and the DJ changes the music to something else - something sultry, heavy, with a solid beat - the man starts to grind his hips so sensually you forget everything else. He’s good at this, angling you with a firm palm on the plush of your tummy, fingers wrapping in the fabric of your minidress so that your hips grind back against him. 

The fur of his coat is expensive, you can tell just by feeling it when your hands go back to grip on his arms, and his teeth bite into his bottom lip when you grab at him.He lets you balance yourself with your hold, his own hand moving up to your chest, both of you moving in a sinuous movement that has you realising how good he’d be in bed if he dances like this. 

Just before you forget, ring-clad knuckles come to the bottom of your chin and angle your head towards where you were previously looking. He’s still there, the other man, and this time he looks positively engrossed, arms folding over his chest - his eyes don’t leave the two of you, a smirk playing at his lips like he can’t quite believe it. It’s as if you’re performing for him, the two of you, nowhere near in control of the situation; you wonder what it is, this situation, and if it’ll end in you getting fucked by both of them.

The man next to you chuckles before fully humping into the curve of your ass, unashamed; the line of his cock presses against you, half hard, fat and steadily growing like you’re doing a lot more than just grinding on each other in a packed bar. You gasp, muffled by the music but he seems to have heard it despite the noise - he nudges his nose into your neck, impatient.

“We came together, me and him,” he says, tone casual though he has to shout a little to be heard. The words say everything despite being so few, but you don’t falter, hoping that you’re moving against him in a way that’s still inconspicuous enough to be passed off as a dance. “That okay?”

You shrug as casually as you can, skin starting to feel a little heated. This is the jackpot, you think. “I don’t mind taking two.”

“I bet you fuckin’ don’t.” He huffs out a laugh. “Don’t mind putting on a show either, do you? I’m Mingi, by the way.”

“Mm, hi Mingi,” you giggle, and Mingi shakes his head, disbelieving, a smile pulling at his lips. You can’t believe it either, quite frankly, how well the night’s turned out, and your head lolls back against his broad shoulder as you move, fur coat soft under your head, a grounding presence. The other man is still looking, and you find yourself drawn to his eyes, holding eye contact with him as you manage your next question, “what’s your boyfriend’s name?”

A hum, and then plump lips press a gentle kiss to your jaw. A shiver wracks through you, straight down your spine, and he does it again a few times just to watch the effect it has on you. “Yunho,” he breathes, “his name is Yunho. Shake this ass on me, let him see it.”

“He likes to watch, huh?” You say, as if you have any problem with it whatsoever. The song changes, a dance track with an even dirtier beat now and you do as he says - you’re shaking your hips to the rhythm before you can feel embarrassed about it, everyone around you too occupied with their own dancing or flirting. 

“That’s a good fuckin’ girl,” he hums, hand moving from your front to your hips, fingers ghosting over the curve of your asscheeks where your hips get plusher and move into your thighs. Hands dig into flesh, and he groans, rutting against you once, twice, enough to have you squirming, starting to worry someone might notice. “Fuck, look at that. Shit, should we just take you back now? I wanna tear this ass apart.”

You can’t help it - you laugh again, hand coming to Mingi’s jaw to pull him forwards, his cheek pressed against yours. Yunho rolls his neck, tongue poking over his bottom lip before he’s placing his drink down and you think he’s made the decision for all three of you. 

 “And him?” You murmur.

Mingi’s nose brushes against your cheek. “He’ll tear you apart too. Might even be nastier than me.”

“I find that hard to believe.” His hips hit you just right, slow, to the beat, and you breathe heavily when he spins you around to face him like he’s going to kiss you. He’s pretty up close, sharp nose and dark blue hair and plump lips that form a predatory smile. “Fuck, Mingi, take me home.”

“Eager girl.” His head drops down, kissing you chastely square on the lips once, then twice. His lips are buttery soft and you chase them when he pulls away. He doesn’t care that you’re in public, so neither do you - you press yourself against him harder, arms wrapping around his shoulders. “We need to talk to Yunho.”

“No need.” Another voice, and another set of big, big hands that wrap around your waist and pull you back into him. You’re trapped between them now, because despite being unfamiliar with them you know who’s just gripped you and gotten involved. “She’s right, we should take her home. You’re an aching little thing, hm?”

Fingers dip up under the hem of your minidress where it hangs around your thighs, nails scratching against your skin, teasing. You’re not sure who it is this time, but the touch is so close to your panties that you whimper, the sound so broken that Yunho’s head dips into the other crook of your neck with a deep sigh, mirroring where Mingi continues to bite at you the other side. “P-please, I can’t take this anymore, I want you both, can we-”

“Fine,” Yunho breathes, exasperated, and a firm, guiding grip comes to rest on the back of your neck. “Let’s get you home, tiny.”

“On your knees.” A firm hand pushes on your shoulder, forcing you down before you can decide to obey; you drop to your knees in your pretty dress, your legs bare, their carpet scratching against your skin. Like this, they’re looming over you in a different way than before, and all you can see is long, long legs in baggy jeans and firm torsos heaving - they’re waiting, perceiving you, seeing if you’ll do anything else. Yunho’s the first to speak again, grin wide when he turns to his partner, “that’s it. She’s pretty like this, isn’t she? Quiet, so needy she’ll do anything, waiting for us to just say.”

“She’s beautiful,” Mingi says, fingers pulling your hair backwards to force you to look up at them properly. “Slutty, too.”

You whimper, squirming in his grip, though not enough to be told off for it. You wonder if they’re hard already, fat lengths trapped in the confines of their pants, but you don’t have long to think about it - Yunho’s long fingers start working at his belt, and before long the leather is pulled out from the prongs and his button is being pushed open. 

It exposes his black boxers, and you realise you’re not even looking at him anymore. Fixated on his crotch, you wait, mouth open and spit pooling at your bottom lip like a drooling dog. They both sound amused, but they don’t make you wait, Yunho pushing down his boxers and revealing his tan shaft. 

Thick, long and veiny, it springs against his stomach. It curves upwards, tip a darker shade and swollen, but not leaking just yet. The moan leaves your throat before you can help it. If Yunho’s is like this, you can’t imagine the other man - but fingers tighten in your hair and redirect you back before you can even turn to try and get a lot. 

“Mm, no,” Yunho murmurs, and you look back up at him. He looks pleased by how enthralled you are, a smile pulling at his lips, and his hand comes down to slap his shaft against your cheek once, twice. You shiver. “You can show her yours too, Mingi, really get the slut going. She wants two at once, after all, don’t you?”

“I do, I want both.” You nod dumbly, pathetically; Mingi’s resulting groan is delighted, low in his throat. His tongue licks at his teeth as he works at his own belt, and his baggy jeans drop with a rustling noise at his ankles, unashamed. Yunho has tucked his boxers underneath his balls but Mingi’s less reserved, shunning his boxers as quick as he can as Yunho starts slowly stroking half of his shaft inches away from your face.

Fuck.

Mingi’s big too, a little shorter but thicker again and his tip is leaking like a fucking faucet. If he’d left his boxers on a little longer you’d have seen the drops beading upon the fabric but he’s too impatient for that, already stroking his cock quicker than Yunho, moving hip to hip with the other man. 

“You want both?” He smacks his cock against your other cheek, laughing delightedly when you moan, nodding eagerly. “Open your mouth then, there’s a good whore.”

You blink, in a daze. “I- I can’t fit both-”

“Obviously,” Yunho scoffs. “Use your hand for the other. Are you stupid?”

Oh. Something must show on your face, a wordless reaction to his words because Yunho’s grin turns predatory then, and when he grips your hair now it’s harsher, firmer than his boyfriend had done. You scramble to say something to quell this harshness, stammering, “N-not stupid, I’ve just never…”

Yunho bursts out laughing. Your gut clenches and your pussy burns in your panties, so slick and needy that you try to rut down the floor, to no avail. “Never had two cocks at once? We all know that’s a fucking lie, baby. I think you need to stop talking.”

He’s forcing you down on his cock before you can retort.

You still try to splutter something out despite your lips being wrapped taut, barely fitting just half his length into your mouth though he tries to fuck past the resistance of your throat anyway. Your words die in your throat, replaced by a strangled whine; Mingi grabs your hand himself, impatient and wraps your fingers around his cock - putting you to use.

He’s wet from his precum already, soaked and sticky and veiny and it makes a slick noise when you start to move your fingers. It’s hard to concentrate on both but thankfully you don’t have to do much thinking; Yunho fucks himself into your mouth for you, skin salty with his own precum. Unable to do anything more than just be a ragdoll for them, you allow yourself to slump a little, mouth wrapped tight around one and hand around the other, hips just barely squirming where you’re sat. A noise leaves your throat when Yunho fucks into the resistance a few times, a deep groan leaving his own mouth.

“Tight fucking throat, hm? How tight is that cunt gonna be?”

Mingi groans, and his fingertips press at your cheeks, feeling the thickness of Yunho’s cock through your skin. He manages to move you over to him, and his shaft burns when it stretches your lips apart, thicker, wetter - you start to drool with tears biting at your eyes and he chuckles breathlessly at the sight of you.

“You like it mean, huh?” He doesn’t expect a response, voice gravelly as he starts to fuck your mouth. He’s sloppier than Yunho, a little more careless, and the strangled noise you make is embarrassing when he forces his cock all the way down. It hurts your throat but he presses your nose into the tuft of his pubes like he doesn’t really care, grinding his hips against your jaw, fingers pressing at your throat where he now bulges it instead.

When you manage to look up through a glassy gaze, you see them both together. Mingi captures Yunho’s lips with his own, one hand leaving you to cup the other man’s jaw, their tongues intertwining messily between spit-slick lips. They both groan, deep and from their chests like they’ve been waiting for this all night - your whine is louder though, nails scratching at their thighs because you’ve wanted to see it since you saw them together on the dancefloor. It forces saliva to bubble down your occupied lips, dripping over your chin and down to your throat, over Mingi’s rings.

If they’re amused by your reaction, they don’t separate for long enough to show it. Yunho tugs you to him again without even glancing your way, long fingers in your hair, and this time you’re able to get a momentum. Your mouth sinks down on him before he has time to force you there, your other hand coming to grasp Mingi’s slippery length, the saliva giving more than enough lubricant when you start to pump. 

Like this - not being yanked around - you’re able to focus, and you can’t help the noises that spill from your chest; your pussy is wet, drooling and dumb already, and they continue to make out above your head like it’s nothing that should affect you. Your gut burns, wrenching with need and want and something embarrassing because all you’ve done is suck their cocks and you’re this desperate, but it doesn’t stop you trying to get their attention.

Tongue digging into the underside of Yunho’s tip, you pool spit into your mouth and it bubbles over your lips messily, letting you sink back down on him with a wetter, tighter suction. He’s still too big to take too much comfortably but you force your mouth down, jaw be damned, hand occupied with another cock that you think you’re doing a decent rhythm with, and on the upwards stroke you press your tongue into his piss slit and suck hard.

It works. You hear the sharp inhale of breath, and he pulls away sharply from Mingi, lips parting in a louder noise just as the blue haired man moves to messily press open-mouthed kisses against his neck. He doesn’t stop him, one hand going to his head to hold him there.

“Dirty girl, knew you had it in you,” he murmurs, before his jaw goes slack in a groan, head rolling back where Mingi kisses him. Your hand has paused on the other man but if he’s annoyed, he doesn’t show it, shaft bobbing uselessly as he bites at the curvature of Yunho’s neck with his eyes on you, where you’re kneeling below them. “Bet she’s all gooey down there from sucking cock, too. Little hole clenching around nothing, slicking up her thighs, clit all swollen and hard.”

Mingi grunts, a primal noise. “Can’t wait to look. Taste it, too. I know it’s fuckin’ pretty, all soaked and tight and- ah, fuck this, I gotta-”

Two hands underneath your armpits, and you’re thrown chest first onto the comfortable bed by a very strong grip. You have enough space left in your brain for the moment to present yourself, pushing up onto your knees and letting your front lay flat to curve your spine - Mingi groans in appreciation, wasting no time before he’s pulling your dress up to your waist and your panties down to your knees. 

The cold air hits your cunt and you moan, trying to turn your head to the side to have a look at what he’s about to do to you before someone - you’re unsure who - pins it right back down, flat, suffocating. 

“Let me have a look,” Mingi coos, and two thumbs come to pull your sticky folds apart. You’re soaked, you can feel it - it’s smeared up to your asshole from how you’ve pooled in your panties, and though you hope he hasn’t noticed it, hasn’t gotten any ideas, a deeper part of you hopes he ignores your pussy and eats that hole instead. “She’s so fuckin’ messy. Fat little cunt too. When did you start leaking like a virgin, baby? When you were on your knees in front of our cocks, us stood above you like we fuckin’ own you?”

You can’t reply - again, you don’t think he wants you to. Is he even talking to you, or is he talking to her?

It was Yunho that pushed you down, you realise, because it’s the same second pair of hands that slide the straps of your dress down over your shoulders. Nudging the fabric down so that it all bunches at your waist, he scratches his fingernails over your spine on the way down, leaving you bare but feeling quite like something animalistic. 

“Mm, actually…” A nose nudges at your core and then a tongue, fat and steady, is sliding through your folds and humming when he tastes your arousal, smacking his lips messily like he’s eating a good meal. “You’ve been wet even longer, haven’t you? Since we danced in the bar. Oh, that’s something. How pent up are you, sweetheart?”

You whine. There’s no way he could know that, not really, and you know he’s just teasing you but he’s right - you were.

He continues, wet tongue moving to lick circles over your clit as he slurs. “Can’t blame you, ‘m desperate for this too.”

“Stop talking and eat.” Yunho sounds amused. “Poor thing looks like she’s gonna die if she doesn’t get something.”

At least it makes Mingi move, his lips smacking wet over your pussy before his tongue slides through the plush of your folds. The bridge of his nose is sharp when it bumps into your perineum, his tongue tracing your hole before it pushes inside and he savours your arousal from the inside with a deep, gravelly moan, something that ricochets through you and makes you finally beg.

“Yuyu,” You sound broken, too needy to think, and you feel it too - your head spins and you know you haven’t done well verbalising it but Yunho somehow knows what you need, sliding two long fingers past your lips for you to suck on. It doesn’t help, Mingi’s plush lips kissing down to your clit and making a home there, tongue darting underneath the hood to rub over you so intimately that you would never be able to stop the way you buck. Your hips fuck back onto his face but his strong forearm hooks around your tummy to keep you steady, your eyebrows furrowing in a subdued keen.

Yunho smiles, fucking his fingers into your mouth, watching the way you suck earnestly like it’s a cock - can you even tell the difference right now? It’s like you can see the wonder on his face before he speaks, cock half hard against his thigh, “Do you need something inside, honey?”

Your resulting noise is loud, deep from your chest - you’d forgotten that was an option with the way his boyfriend’s lips are working over you, but before you can beg properly the man grunts, lips leaving you for a moment.

“I’m gettin’ her ready for you, babe. She can wait.”

“Mm.” Yunho raises an eyebrow, confused, although his fingers leave your lips and brush over the base of his tummy almost instantly. “You don’t wanna go first? You were desperate a second ago-”

“Are you kidding me?” Mingi grins, all teeth that nip into your thigh as an afterthought, making you squeak. He ignores you, continuing like you can’t hear him, “a pussy like this is even better when it’s been nutted in already. I love me some sloppy seconds.”

Before you can raise any kind of objection to being talked about like that, right over you while he’s between your legs, Mingi’s tongue dives back between your folds. He licks up your arousal and drools onto your heat, pushing further up, where his hands spread your cheeks and expose the smaller hole, the one that makes your face flush and gut wrench in embarrassment. 

“Bet you’d let us fuck this too,” he grumbles, and you nod, squirming in your place, as much as you can with the way his boyfriend’s pushing you down. “How fucking filthy. You just met us and you’d already let us fuck your asshole open. God, you’re amazing, might be fuckin’ made for us.”

Something bubbles in your gut, something so needy that you can’t help the garbled wail you let out. It’s incoherent at first, but Yunho lets your head move just enough to verbalise what you need to, “Want you both, anything, please, please, give me cock-”

“Give me cock,” Yunho giggles, shaking his head in disbelief. “What a bimbo. Fine, I’ll give you cock, honey. Mingi, lemme move her.”

Mingi obeys instantly, pulling away from your slick cunt and thighs, letting you be manhandled again by the taller man onto your side. You know this one, deep in your lust-muddled brain, and you let one leg slide forward to display your core as he slides behind you, chest to your back. He’s fully naked now - you’re not sure when this happened - and the palm he smooths your hair down with grounds you a little, other hand moving secure on your tummy.

“Y’want it?” He murmurs, and you see Mingi moving next to you, naked, muscled, distracting - your mouth waters. His eyes move down your body, over your flushed cheeks, teary eyes and down to your nipples, the curve of your tummy and the swell of your thighs; his hand moves to his cock, and you see his gaze move down Yunho, too, before he finally grips the base and starts to move up the vast length. Yunho’s fingers tighten in your hair a little, bringing your attention back to him. “Don’t get distracted, tiny. Talk to me. Do you want it?”

He moves his cock to the mess between your legs, pushing through arousal to get to your folds and at the resistance of your hole. The weight of it makes you gasp wetly, but he doesn’t let you squirm away when you try, only pulling you back into it. 

“S-So big, Yunho, I want it, please.”

“There you go, good little slut,” He coos, satisfied, and pushes just the first inch in. Your hole clenches tight from the stretch, almost pushing him back out and he groans, using his grip on your thigh to pull you back onto it. “Let me in, baby.”

“C-Can’t help it, ah-“

Something shifts in him then, and the next thrust of his cock is stronger, meaner, something that makes your walls give way to more of him, accompanied by a sharp bite to your neck. It hurts a little but it feels so good; your eyes roll back in your head with a keen, and Mingi huffs out a breath.

“Oh, little bitch is so fuckin’ tight,” he moans, one palm coming to push your leg upwards, against your side, trying to open you up further. It doesn’t help - he’s just far too big, your pussy tightening in protest despite how bad you fucking want it. “Do I have to split your hole open to get inside? Funny, ‘cause it’s fucking drooling around me like it can’t get enough.”

One of his hands comes to rest on your breast, idle but firm, and his thumb swipes over your nipple just to make you gasp. You try to fuck yourself downwards but he really is too big, cockhead already hitting your cervix and it knocks the wind out of you. Mingi’s hand tightens on an upwards stroke of his shaft and he smiles, amused, eyes flicking between you and his boyfriend.

“Let him in, sweetheart. He’ll make it hurt.”

You try your best; squirming and whining in Yunho’s hold you manage to slack your gummy walls enough for him to push more of his cock inside but it makes you squeal, too much all of a sudden, and his fingers move from your chest to your clit. His nails dig into it and you gasp, writhing away before his grip pulls your back to his chest again. 

“What the fuck is this for if I can’t fuck it? Useless little cunt otherwise, hm? Maybe I should just pull out, leave you-”

“No, nonono, please, Yunho,” You babble, moving around enough that it forces more of his length in. This time he seems to push past something that allows him to sink in balls deep, and it’s so far inside, pressing at your cervix and you think you might cum already.

Yunho huffs, placated now that you’ve let him in, yanking you backwards by your ass, letting the plumpness of it rock him into a bounce. It works, and he starts to fuck you steady, slow at first, letting you get used to it - his knuckles graze at your nipple before he pinches meanly, a breathless, chuckle of pleasure leaving him at your jolt.

“Fu-uck, ‘s so- need more, more, please-”

“More?” He asks, like he didn’t know, and you nod dumbly. You’re shocked by Mingi responding, not Yunho; walking on his knees towards you, his fingers come to your clit and roll it between his fingertips. It’s too much all of a sudden, and Yunho starts to speed up, his long, ridged shaft cutting into your gummy walls. Mingi’s ministrations make your pussy easier, more slack, and Yunho’s able to fuck quicker, cock not prohibited by how tight you’re squeezing around him. “That’s it. There you go, Min, cocksleeve’s gushing like a little whore now.”

“Mm, can feel it,” The man in question murmurs, eyes fixated on you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen. Your eyebrows knit in pleasure, lips parting in a squeal when his thumb rubs over your bud firmly, and this time you feel it, the slick, sticky gush of your pussy with every thrust. It leaks over Mingi’s fingers and further down, to your thighs, Yunho’s balls and his own lithe legs. 

You feel dumb with it all, and you’re not even halfway through taking one. 

“Feels nice like that, doesn’t it?” Yunho sounds unaffected, and you whimper, nodding, “I can tell. Dirty cunt gushing like that, I’d swear you came already.”

Mingi leans down on the bed, distracting you momentarily before there’s something wet pressing at your clit. It’s his tongue, you realise, and you can’t control the hand that goes to that dark blue hair - he moans at the feeling of your fingers tightening, tugging, and you force his mouth closer, wet lips mouthing over your pussy until he hits Yunho’s cock. 

“Shit, that’s so-” you gasp, hips bucking, “oh, I- fuck, I’ll cum, please-”

Mingi’s tongue moves over you again, licking over the intrusion of his boyfriend inside of you. It doesn’t stop his movement, his cock still pistoning in and out while you’re forced to take, take, take, and when the shorter man’s lips purse and suck on your bud you writhe away, pleasure all-consuming.

Your orgasm hits you hard, beginning in the base of your tummy and making your thighs shake. One hand holds Mingi steady, and the other moves to Yunho’s side, anchoring you through it, but your pussy clenches dumbly in a rhythm that makes the man inside grunt and bite your neck sharply. Your own noises are abused, loud and too incriminating, but neither men make a move to quiet you.

“Ride it out, c’mon,” Yunho says, voice hoarse, and you find it in your static body to fuck yourself on both men while your legs lock and your toes curl. “Good girl. There you go, that’s it.”

It helps, quelling the strong climax into something steadier, nicer, and Mingi’s tongue flicks over your clit just enough for you to come down from it. 

The kiss the older man gives you is controlled, a little awkward from the angle but it tells you everything you need to know. You’re safe, you’re looked after and it’s exactly what you need after an orgasm that strong - his nose bumps your cheek when he kisses you deeper, giving you a few pecks as he pulls away; it makes you want more, but he’s already moving.

You realise too late that Yunho still hasn’t finished, and he pushes you onto your front, leg still slightly raised from the way he had you. His hips hit your ass as he bottoms out again, and you gasp - it’s so deep, so much that you want him to cum soon, hope he’ll cum soon and fill you up, and you remember you have another one to take after this. The realisation makes your pussy clench as he fucks inside and he lets out a stuttered breath against your shoulder, bumpy nose nudging at your jaw.

“You’re okay,” He soothes you, and you nod, whimper soft. “I’m gonna cum soon, baby. Gonna make you take it, ‘kay? Then Mingi’s gonna fuck it back into you.”

“Y-yeah,” you nod, and when Yunho starts to thrust again, punishing, Mingi seals your lips with his and swallows your noises. He kisses messy, teeth nipping at your bottom lip and he lets you suck on his tongue when you need something in your mouth again, not minding at all that your hands scramble at his broad shoulders for purchase.

You feel Yunho pull backwards, hands on the small of your back to hold you down, and it’s the sight of you and his boyfriend kissing that does him in. He gasps, letting out a shaky breath as he presses his hips tight to the plush of your ass, cockhead fucked so deep that it makes you try to squirm away again; Mingi keeps you still, giving you dirty, open-mouthed kisses and licking over your teeth.

Between your legs, you feel thoroughly used - when Yunho pulls out, cock softening a little, your pussy gushes fresh cum and as if it’s his queue, Mingi’s already moving over.

Yunho slaps your ass as he moves away from you, “Atta girl. She’s ready for you, Min.”

Fingers prod at your swollen hole, messy, creamy rivulets slicking down to Mingi’s rings as he spreads it open and inspects. If you had anything left in you, you’d feel embarrassed at the way he’s looking at you so intimately but well, he’s already done it once and you’re still horny. You shift back on the bed and chase his touch when he moves away, although you don’t have long to be disappointed because the feeling of a blunt cockhead against you makes you push your hips up, front going slack again.

“Look at that. Dumb slut knows how to present for a cock,” Mingi chuckles, although there’s no real bite to his words - his breath is shaky as he shuffles towards you, and seconds later there’s inches of fat cock spearing you open because he can’t wait himself at this point.

“O-oh,” You stutter, head raising and knocking back. You see Yunho, in front of you now, face so close to yours but it’s comforting rather than threatening. “Fuck, it’s-”

“Ssh, just feel it,” Yunho murmurs, stroking your cheek with one, big hand, and your eyes roll back into your head when he starts to thrust. His movements are deep and slow at first, letting you feel all of it, every vein and ridge and you swear you feel him leaking inside, too, when he pushes deep and pulls you flush against him like he isn’t fucking your pussy open in front of his boyfriend.

Mingi whines, sharp, “Tiny little pussy, so small, fuck-” his fingers hook around your shoulders, pulling you back onto him, “how are you still so fucking tight?” Your own hands scramble in the sheets until your fingers hook into them for leverage, and you writhe, moaning so viscerally that Yunho pets your hair to calm you down. Mingi’s thicker than him so despite taking the older man first, the stretch of your hole to accommodate him has your eyes watering, his hips stuttering into the creamy mess of a hole that his boyfriend left. “Can I- fuck, I can’t, I can’t, can’t play anymore-“

“Mingi,” Yunho warns, but it’s softened by the grin curling his lips, fond.

“Can’t, fuck, baby, I love your pussy,” Mingi babbles, and his hands move to your asscheeks, spreading them further, watching where his cock disappears into you. It’s slick when he starts to move, a creamy ring around the base of his cock, wet plaps echoing around the bedroom when his balls begin to hit your clit steadily. “Love- love it, love it everytime- I love you.”

Something dawns on you. You’re not playing anymore, not really, not the elaborate scene Yunho came up with late at night before you headed out to the bar you three met at - and your back bows towards the bed, curling away from your boyfriends, 

“Mmgh- I love you too,” You whimper, scrambling on the sheets for your third, your other boy. Fingers intertwine with yours immediately and he kisses your hairline, your nose, your lips; you cry out, head lolling against his. “Yunho- Yuyu, Yuyu, love you-“

“I love both of you, although you’re both fucking pathetic,” Yunho laughs, smoothing your hair. “Can’t even roleplay properly. Both of you cry like virgins as soon as I let him get inside of you.”

Mingi’s head drops to your shoulder, his weight pinning you down when he collapses atop of you. You’re separated from Yunho but you don’t mind at all when he starts to drill you properly - this is his favourite position, after all, it didn’t matter if it was you or Yunho underneath him. 

His hips don’t stop moving, pistoning into your cunt where you’re flat on the bed, his lips parting in a deep groan, “Pussy’s too good to think. Sorry, Yunho, p-promise it was hot.”

He’s not sorry at all, you all know that. Yunho scoffs. “I know it was. You two acting like sluts on that fuckin’ dancefloor, just like you were all those years ago. Hard, leaking, wet in your pants looking at me. I could see how horny you were.”

“Mmhm,” Mingi nods, delirious. You’re not able to respond, chest clenching in pathetic wails every time he pushes deep, fucking the noises out of you, and his hand moves to your back, soothing over your spine until he slaps your ass hard just for the sake of it. “G-Good little toy, that’s right, don’t have to speak, just take it. Good girl.”

He’s babbling again, nonsensical, praises and degradation into one - he’s always the same, and it always makes you gush easy for him. Yunho slides your hair out of your face, exposing flushed cheeks and spit slick lips, your eyes crossed with pleasure. The sight of you makes them both groan, and the older man plants a gentle slap on your cheek, gripping your jaw when you gasp.

“Fucked dumb,” He muses. “How pretty. Why don’t you cry a little for him, hm? You know he loves that.”

“It’s so much,” you manage, and he nods, cooing at you. It’s that which finally breaks you, and your chest bubbles with a sob, ripped harshly from you. “‘S so much, I can’t- can’t take it, daddy, please!”

They laugh at you again, you hear them, though Mingi’s is a lot more in awe than the other man’s. 

“Who’s your daddy, baby?” Yunho’s asking you, and it’s something he asks you often but it feels like you’re trying to move across clouds to respond to him. Everything’s so soft, comforting but your pussy continues to get rammed, overwhelmed, and you squeal, legs knocking together when you feel his thrusts start to get harsher but staggered. 

“B-both of you.” You slur. “Both- daddy, fill me up too-”

It ignites something in Mingi - he pulls out, gripping himself at the creamy base and flipping you over by your waist again. You’re on your back now, able to see them both, your boys; Yunho has that cheeky glint in his eyes that you love, looming over you with a half-hard cock and tousled, boyish hair - if you didn’t know him, you would trust him. 

Mingi distracts you, crowding into your space with furrowed eyebrows, thick thighs knocking your legs apart again before he sinks back inside. Yunho laughs at his impatience, hand smoothing over the younger man’s back as he starts to fuck you again and you know he’s really gonna cum now, moving so fast and hard that you both get knocked up the mattress a little.

You keen, “Fucking- oh, oh, that’s-“

“Language,” Yunho’s hand moves and pinches your thigh, and you wince, legs locking around Mingi. He pins you back down and then moves his focus to your clit, rolling it between his fingers; it’s so wet that it feels too good too quickly. “Gonna cum, aren’t you, baby?”

Your eyes roll back into your head when his fingers move over you instead, firmer, rubbing circles that make you heave, trying to catch your breath. Unable to answer him again, he hums, displeased.

That’s right, you almost forgot. He lets you get away with some things earlier but you don’t act like that around him, not really, only when you’re pretending like you don’t know them. Now, you know them, and there are rules - that also means you beg to cum, and you thank whatever higher powers there be because you remember before you fall off the edge.

“Please,” You struggle, nails scratching at both of them again, their arms this time, “please, please let me cum. Daddy, daddy, please-“

Mingi growls, fixated, “I’m gonna fuckin’ cum, you better cum with me, tiny.”

“There you go, honey. Your daddy said you can,” Yunho says, almost too sweet for you to believe but no, they did say that, and you’re squealing from it before they can take it back. 

You gush again, fluttering and writhing where you lay and halfway through it, Mingi nudges the dark haired man’s head to press his cheek against yours at an angle and kisses you both. 

Barely knowing what to do in your haze, they hold you still, tongues both messily sliding over yours, over each other - the man inside of you whimpers, thrusting harshly one last time, gasping against your mouths before he fills you with a fresh wave of cum. His cock throbs with it, pumping into you and when he can’t take it anymore he collapses, head on your chest, full weight a little overwhelming. 

Yunho kisses you a few times, fingertips moving to rub soft circles into your shoulders, your upper arms, before moving across your boyfriend’s scalp, massaging him too. He moans gratefully, exhausted, and you feel the same - your limbs are stiff and you groan when Mingi finally rolls off, slumping next to you in the wet sheets.

“I’ll just be cleaning you up, honey.” Yunho’s voice is gentler, and you hum, a smile creeping on your face - there he is, always in control. Mingi mumbles something that you don’t quite catch, arm hooking around your tummy, but your boyfriend hears him, chuckling, “That was referring to you, too.”

You want to laugh. “Don’t tell me he was trying to move.”

Yunho shifts closer, wet towel suddenly soft against your skin, and when you finally open your eyes he’s there, still naked, cock soft against his thigh and you wonder if he came again, sometime during it all. “Like I said, both of you fuck like virgins. Dead afterwards. Perished, even.”

You can’t argue. You’re not planning on moving any time soon; although the sheets are ruined, you’re exhausted after all that. The boys’ roleplay ideas are always crazy but well, there’s some that get a bit out of hand, like recreating the night you all met.

For the second time, Mingi grumbles nonsensically next to you. Yunho kisses the mole on the younger man’s cheek before kissing your hairline again. 

“Speaking of perished,” He murmurs, eyes shifting down to you playfully, putting on a dramatic voice, “I still think the next scene should be me, as Spider-Man, saving you and Min from possible perish-“

“Enough,” You grumble, kicking him softly with your foot. “Go to sleep.”

His laugh is so loud it makes Mingi kick him too, half-asleep, but then he really does settle, towel discarded on the floor. As if he was waiting for his presence to drop off properly, the younger man squirms closer on the mattress and reaches over you to tug Yunho in, pulling you into a pile, legs intertwined and a little sticky. It’s soothing though, naked and cuddling with your men, and Mingi starts to snore almost instantly.

The man plastered to your back sighs, though you know he’s not really bothered. “Sleep? With that?”

You huff, “Then just talk to me, duh.”

“Duh. You can actually just watch me play video games, if you want. Remember, my new monitor came yesterday, it’s curved and sexy and it’ll show you everything in-“

You fall asleep before he’s anywhere near finished.

[minkieater]

⋙ hold it down, DARE.

⪼ quarterback!mingi x fem!reader | PART ONE ~28k ⪼ you can’t fucking stand jung wooyoung, mingi really really wants kim minjeong. when wooyoung and winter end up together, you and mingi have no choice but to figure out how to win winter’s favor, to stab wooyoung in the back. mingi needs a favor, and you want revenge... do you dare? ⪼ fake dating au, college au, slow burn, lowk enemies to lovers, this is my very huge and massive installment for @sungbeam ‘s live alive collab ⋆˙⟡ thank you beamie duckie for putting this together! so happy to be in a collab beside so many other talented writers, be sure to check out the masterlist for other banger college fics :) ⪼ eventual smut minors dni 18+ | LOTS of cursing, insults, toxic til it's not. i don't want to spoil too much but they're in college so they drink and do college kid shit. i hope u enjoy this is my pride and joy in a fic i would eat this mingi as my last meal

“Fuck you.”

Jung Wooyoung has never promised you anything. In your four months of doing whatever the fuck this was, he’s never once lead you believe you’d be anything more than his bed warmer. At least not verbally, and honestly, you had to hand it to him, he’d repeat the same monologue over and over like it was his personal gospel: We’re too young to be in a serious relationship, don’t you think? We should be enjoying our youth, our freedom, doing whatever we want… 

If you ever hear the words serious relationship, youth, or freedom ever again, you might actually fucking vomit. In the beginning, it was easy to believe him; you rarely spoke to him outside of the bedroom, yours, his, that one supply closet on campus, the bathroom of that stupid fucking dive bar he loves so much. When he began sleeping over, kissing you awake, leaving with promises of later just to do it all over again, you started feeling blasphemous. Questioning gospel, his words of wisdom, you started to think there was more than just sweat and saliva to your relationship– maybe he enjoyed spending time with you. Maybe he even likes you. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” leaning against the wall of his foyer, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle over the other, you didn’t even make it inside his apartment. The bare, beige walls seemed to laugh at you even if there were no pictures on them, no paintings, no decor. 

Too good to be true, of course, since you caught him hand-in-hand with her, Kim Minjeong, Winter, that pretty little thing you’re positive you shared a class with at some point in your three years at ATZU. Your immediate reaction was defense, denial, naturally, because why on Earth would he need anyone but you? He’s told you plenty of times you’re not like anyone he’s met before, that your personality was unique, that you’re the best he’s ever had. 

“You’re sorry?!” Your arms were flying around the space, you voice loud, harsh, angry. You didn’t care if his roommate was home, maybe you’d apologize to San if you saw him on campus somewhere. Maybe. Right now, your anger was behind the wheel, driving you to insanity, “Who’s next, Summer? Spring? Fall? You gonna fuck all four seasons, you asshole?” 

He shakes his head, black hair falling around his face, the poster board for nonchalance. You wonder how many times he’s had this conversation, how many girls he’s done this to. Maybe you were the problem for thinking you were different, that he’d alter his Ten Commandments for you. He uncurls his arms, straightens out his legs, and motions for the door, voice frustratingly monotonous, “I think you should go.”

“Yeah, I should,” you bite, already turning towards the dark brown, wooden door, “I hope I never fucking see you again.”

“Should be easy,” he says through a much too casual breath, reaching around you to grab the worn, brassy knob, forcing you to step sideways so he can open it. You take a step through the threshold and he leans his lanky body into the frame, “Make sure you return the Chrome Hearts hoodie I left at your place, though, doll. Paid good money for it.”

Face morphing into sheer disbelief, the audacity, only your head turns to look at him, eye legitimately twitching, “You’ll be lucky if I don’t fucking burn it.”

A corner of his lips tug upward in a smile, “Now that would be a waste, wouldn’t it?”

“Just like the last four months?” Your brows raise, a faux smile creeping onto your lips, “Don’t text me ever again. Hope she fucks you like I do.”

He doesn’t answer– just stares as you stand there, waiting for an argument, for a rebuttal. Your jaw clenches when you realize you aren’t getting one. Turning on your heel, you stomp down his hallway, down the three fucking flights of steps you’ve climbed every other day for the past four months. 

Fuck him. Fuck him. 

Humiliation sinks in as you leave his building, anger crumbling into something small, something sad, pathetic. You should have seen this coming, you aren’t stupid, you’re definitely not naïve. You could blame his pretty smile, his cheekbones so sharp they could be considered blades, his beautiful bronzy skin you’d miss tasting, the way he filled you up so perfectly you wondered how you fucked anyone else. You could blame his touch, the grace he used with your body, how he cared for you after he split you open. 

The only person to blame here is you. And you know it, deep in your gut, in the ache in your back from carrying the entire relationship you made up in your head, you know it’s your fucking fault you’re hurt. Your friends would tell you soon, too, that they knew this was coming, that they told you he’d do this, they advised you to not get involved with him. 

Sighing, looking up at the sky, you squint at the overcast, the blue sky that was now a deep, sad grey. Great, even the fucking sun didn’t want you. 

Song Mingi didn’t care about much outside of football. He didn’t have time to. 

Almost every day, his schedule was the same: wake up at six, eat his breakfast that was the same every single morning: egg white omelet, two slices of whole-wheat toast, a cup of fresh fruit, sometimes he’ll have cranberry juice diluted by water, usually just plain water. 

He’s at the gym by seven, following his training program, by nine he’s in the meeting room in the same building as the gym, he meets his team, his coach, going over the practice schedule, reviewing any changes made for the day or the week. By ten, he’s showered and on his way to class, where he fights to keep his brain turned on until two. 

By three, he’s getting taped, at three-thirty he’s out on the field, practicing. By six, he’s back in the gym, then he’s eating dinner until seven, when he showers, fighting to stay awake for the academics squad that arrives specifically for the football team, helping them with homework, plain old studying, any projects they might be involved in. 

He’s lucky if he’s finished by eight thirty, where he can finally go back home, to the house the entire fucking team lives in. In the beginning of the season, it’s usually quiet by nine, everyone so exhausted by the day they don’t have the energy to be rowdy– but that never lasts long, once everyone is comfortable in their routines, Mingi’s convinced they have endless pits of energy. Music, laughter, conversation, video games, it’s so fucking loud Mingi has to put on noise-cancelling headphones when he reaches his bedroom. 

He doesn’t have the energy for anything outside of his schedule. His days are grid-locked, no room to pencil anything in, no time for partying, for socializing, for anything that would damage his D1-starting-quarterback reputation. He thinks he’s the only person in this whole fucking university that has a reputation, everywhere he goes, people watch. Everyone he speaks to, people listen. When he raises his hand in class, the whole fucking room turns their heads. It doesn’t help that he gets escorted to class. It’s unfortunate that his treatment comes with the gig. 

It’s nauseating, the pressure of football was enough, there’s so much added bullshit that comes with it. On his good days, when his adrenaline is pumping, when he feels restless, when he’s really fucking tired of being Mr. Perfect, he makes time. He goes to the party the LAX house is throwing, he takes shots with his teammates, he even dances a little if Woozi’s mixing– if it’s Vernon DJing, he’s probably standing on the side, bobbing his head to whatever funky shit is playing while the nth girl of the night is in his ear.

The girls, the girls, that’s a whole other issue he tackles daily. Nightly. Literally. The cheerleading team, the dance team, the girls on campus he makes eyes at that quite literally fold. Well, he folds them, on the nights he doesn’t feel like releasing his pent up energy at a party, or when he needs to release his frustrations after an especially bad practice. There’s always girls, there’s an endless supply on a college campus, even more in his DMs, he’d assume half of his forty-three-thousand Instagram followers are women, at least that’s what it seems when he clicks his requests folder. 

Mingi hasn’t really ever been denied in his life, not with women, not with his college applications, he was getting scouted by university after university in high school. Which is why he can’t wrap his mind around what happened to him last week, a typical crazy night at the LAX house, who throws weekly in their off-season, celebrating absolutely nothing but partying like it was everyone’s birthday.

Mingi was in his favorite outfit, short, dark hair slicked back, jewelry on his neck, his wrists, his fingers, he felt good. He felt lucky, even, when he eyed up the dark-haired beauty across the kitchen, standing alone, staring at her phone like she was waiting to be approached by him. He put on his pretty boy smile and crossed the room, running a hand through his hair, and approached her with every ounce of swagger he could conjure. 

Winter. Such a pretty name for such a beautiful girl, Mingi was nearly drooling, her voice sweet like honey, her outfit screamed danger, he needed her. She didn’t smile when she looked at him, didn’t ask for his name, he didn’t think twice, Mingi just assumed she didn’t need to ask, everyone on campus knew his name. 

“Do you know when Wooyoung will get here?”

He thinks his heart might have flatlined. 

Mingi isn’t like his bitchless teammates, who jump at every opportunity to fuck just because they can. Mingi fucks, but it’s with purpose, every woman he approaches, every woman he hits on, it’s because they fit the criteria. 

He coughed a little, brows furrowed, head tilted in confusion. He knew that name, he knew Wooyoung, he’s roommates with San who’s friends with Jongho, one of his teammates, on the starting offensive line. 

“Wooyoung?” He found himself asking, choking on a laugh. “Like, the guy who got some girl pregnant last semester?”

She rolled her eyes, “That was a rumour, he didn’t get anyone pregnant.”

Then her phone lit up, and so did her entire fucking face. That smile, Mingi nearly groaned, she’s perfect, she’d look so good on his arm, flaunting her to the entire campus, to his teammates, his coach. He watched as she walked away, taking all of his hopes and dreams with her. His future, the mother of his unborn children, gone in a flash, off to find that leather-jacket-wearing fucking asshole that didn’t even have a career. Is she kidding? Mingi was on the brink of getting drafted to the fucking NFL, and she wanted Wooyoung? What did he fucking have that Mingi didn’t?

He stood there for at least another two minutes, stunned into silence, fingers slowly gripping his solo cup harder until he could hear the crackling of hard plastic bending in his palm. Then and there, Mingi decided she wasn’t worth it. How could she be worth his time, when she wants him? It showed a lot about her.

Mingi spent the night burying himself into whatever girl he could find that looked closest to her. For the week that followed, his mind was clouded by a dark vignette, the picture of her at the center. Winter. He didn’t even fucking like snow, that’s why he went to school somewhere warm. 

Slowly, day after day, the rejection began to eat away at him, making him look inward, a practice he doesn’t have much experience in. What does Wooyoung have that he doesn’t? He came to the conclusion that there’s nothing. In every which way possible, Mingi’s better than Wooyoung, so why the fuck did she want him so bad when Mingi was standing right in front of her, in his favorite black party shirt, rings on his fingers, Aquaphor freshly applied on his lips?

She wouldn’t leave his mind. He replayed the rejection so many times, involuntarily and voluntarily, Mingi found himself attracted to the bored stare she gave him. Eyebrows straight, lips wet from liquor, shoulders slouched, not even a hint of a smile. She’s beautiful. She doesn’t care about him. She’s perfect for him. 

He has to do something, has to commit some kind of crime, or somehow get Wooyoung kicked out of the school. He sat his teammates down in the dining room days later, the whiteboard they kept for discussing gameplay filled with scribbles and lines in red at the head of the table, in the center was a circled photo of her. His teammates called him crazy, down bad, but Mingi considers himself the next Albert fuckin’ Einstein. 

All he has to do is prove to Winter that he’s better than Wooyoung. Easy. 

“...I’m sorry you feel that way?” Your eyes, so wide they took over the entire upper half of your face as you all but screeched, “doll?!”

Yeosang and Jongho eyed each other from across the table, then redirected their gaze back onto you. The three of you at the most popular coffee shop on campus, Lucent, you didn’t even care to have this conversation somewhere private, all the ears who might listen should take it as a warning. You considered it a service to the ATZU campus. 

Yeosang, green hair messily waved over his cheekbones, sighed, “I can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I know,” you bit back, eyes pointed, already prepared for that response. “But can you wait before saying I told you so and comfort me first?”

Yeosang’s lips thinned, voice softer now, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” you grumbled, “it’s just stupid. She’s not even prettier than me.”

Yeosang and Jongho shared another look, but it’s Jongho who spoke up this time, “I bet she’s not, probably just easy.”

“Exactly!” You screeched again, eyes wide, jumping out of your seat a little. After receiving looks from around the semi-crowded shop, you shrank in your seat again, cheeks heating up. In a quieter, but still sharp voice, you continued, “Because that’s what Wooyoung likes. He’s a no-good piece of shit who just wants to get his dick wet, it doesn’t matter who wets it.”

“I wish someone would have told you that before you jumped in bed with him,” quips Yeosang, a small grin playing on his lips. When you cursed him out with nothing but your eyes, his smile disappeared. 

“Why are we blaming me?” Your fingers curled onto the table as your eyes danced between your two best friends, probably looking insane, but you didn’t care. “I’m the victim here. He played me.”

Jongho runs a hand through his hair, still half-damp from his training this morning, or maybe he actually showered after the gym this time. He sits back in the booth, eyeing you with a bored look, “Wooyoung plays everything. All he does is play, that’s who he is.”

“Well, forgive a girl for wanting to be different.”

Yeosang snorts, and the way your eyes pierce his soul makes his laugh die on his tongue. “What are you laughing at?” You scoff, “You can’t even look your girl in the eye publicly.”

Yeosang gasps, “Do not bring up my situation because you’re pissed about your own.”

“Well?” Your head shakes, arms flailing about in front of you to say What the fuck is the difference?

“Okay!” Jongho intervenes, his arm literally laying over the black table between you to cut the two of you off. “I’m sorry you’re upset, and I’m sorry he hurt you. But he seriously isn’t worth a shred of emotion, you aren’t losing anything by cutting him off.”

You bury your face in your palms, elbows holding you up. Muffled from the edges of your hands over your mouth, you mutter, “He’s so hot, and he’s so good at sex.”

Jongho chuckles, his head shaking, you could see it even with your hands over your eyes. “Is that why all the girls on campus flock to him? Because he’s a good fuck?”

You split four fingers down the middle to peek an eye out, “Yes. And he has this, like, magnetizing aura about him, I don’t know. He’s good at talking, at making you feel special, like wanting him was your idea all along.” 

“Hm,” Yeosang’s head tilts, plopping back into the booth, arms crossed. “So he’s just… a manipulator?” 

You whine, faking an annoying, high-pitched crying noise. “Yes, he’s really good at it.”

“Damn,” Jongho mutters under his breath, “he’s giving the whole campus problems. How long until he runs through everybody, you think?” 

“Not long,” you grumble, “who else is he giving problems?”

“Mingi,” Jongho’s lips scrunch to one side, and a shiver runs down your spine. Mingi. “He wanted to bag this one girl and she dubbed him for Wooyoung. He’s torn up about it.”

“He should be torn up,” you snatch Yeosang’s coffee cup from in front of him and take a long sip. He makes a face like he’s disgusted you’re drinking from his cup, so you make the same one back, mocking him. 

Yeosang turns to Jongho, “Mingi never gets dubbed. What is Wooyoung, like a sex god?”

“He’s the bad boy trope in every shitty coming-of-age movie you’ve ever seen,” you sip again until you hear the rattle of the last bits of liquid between ice cubes. Yeosang makes the same face when you slide the coffee cup back to him. 

“Mingi is genuinely losing his fucking mind,” Jongho laughs a little, shaking his head like he didn’t even believe the words coming out of his mouth. “I don’t think the man has ever been told no in his life.” 

“I wouldn’t tell him no, that’s for sure,” you say with the smallest laugh, and Jongho gives you a long stare, like he’s putting puzzle pieces together. You look on either side of you, then down at your shirt, then back up to him, “Do I have something on my face?”

Jongho shakes his head, eyes widening like he was about to shout eureka, “This could work.”

“What could work?” You ask, and within four seconds of him not responding, you ask again, “Ho, what could work?” 

“Stop calling me Ho,” Jongho’s lip lifts in distaste, “Mingi’s trying to figure out a way to get revenge on Wooyoung, or prove that he’s better than Wooyoung, I guess, so he can steal the girl from him.”

“Just tell him to wait a month and she’ll be free again,” you shrug, “he doesn’t need an elaborate plan.”

Yeosang’s brows raise, bottom lip flipped over, shoulders slightly shrugging as if to say Yeah, true. 

Jongho holds a finger up between you, “What if I set you up with Mingi?”

Your jaw drops, a disgusting sound leaving your lips that you’d die if anyone else heard. “Me? And Mingi? Are you stupid?”

“No, no, no,” he shakes his finger back and forth, “hear me out. Wouldn’t Wooyoung be pissed off if you bounced back with the star QB mere days after he cut you off?”

You, still sitting in anxious disbelief, plant your palms against the black table, shaking your head rapidly. “Even if he is–”

“Hear me out,” Jongho says a little stronger, and your lips smack back together. “Wooyoung will be so enraged that he cuts the girl off and gets back with you, maybe he’ll even be so mad he realizes his feelings for you were stronger than he thought–”

Yeosang cuts him off, “Hold on a second–”

“–Mingi gets the girl, and then you can break Wooyoung’s heart to get back at him.”

You sit back in the booth, arms crossing, face scrunching together in thought because it actually doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Jongho is grinning like he’d just solved one of the seven wonders of the world, and Yeosang is looking back and forth between you like he’s never heard anything so fucking stupid. 

“There’s no way in hell you’re actually considering this,” Yeosang’s voice is shaky, drenched in disbelief, “have you ever watched To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before?” 

“This is different,” you’re quick to answer, “I’m not Lara Jean, there are no letters, there’s just an Wooyoung who needs to learn what it feels like to be on the opposite end of the knife.”

“And Mingi won’t shut up until he sinks his claws into that girl, I think it’s a pretty even exchange,” Jongho adds, both of you two peas in an optimistic pod while Yeosang just stares, dumbfounded. 

He blinks once, twice, before his lips part to speak, sucking in a breath. They close, and his face twists in confusion, “Let me get this straight, you’re suggesting fake dating Song Mingi, like, football player Song Mingi. And you think he’ll agree?” 

You turn to Jongho who just shrugs. “Why not?”

“I don’t know how to say this without insulting you, girl,” Yeosang’s bottom lip is tugged down to expose his bottom row of teeth, a nervous but apologetic look. “But his taste is… refined. Of snotty girls and like, barbie dolls. Plus, you’re opposites.” 

“Fuck you Yeosang, I’m hot!” You immediately bark out, then turn to Jongho, “I’m hot, aren’t I?” 

“Yeah Yeo, she’s hot,” Jongho nodded, saying Yeosang’s name like it was an insult, then immediately cringing because those words feel gross on his tongue, “Mingi will be into it, trust me. And if he’s not, I’ll just remind him of the bigger picture, it’s not like he has to kiss her or anything.” 

You make a face that is nowhere near pleased, lips thinning, brows flattening. “You guys have known me too long, you’re too comfortable insulting me to my face.” 

Yeosang barely gives you a glance, “She doesn’t party anymore, she doesn’t socialize with anyone outside her study group and us. They’re opposites, even if she’s–” he cringes, “–hot.”

“Her study group goes out!” Jongho argues, also not sparing you a glance, “Jia and Riyo are always at the LAX house, she can just tag along with them or with Mingi or whatever. I don’t know, once I get him to agree, it’s out of our hands.” 

Your jaw drops again. “Out of your hands? Hello? I’m right here, first of all, second, this is your idea, Ho.” 

The flex in Jongho’s jaw is his way of saying stop it with the fucking nickname. Deadpanning, he responds, “It’s just an idea, you and Mingi can figure out the details.” 

“Stop acting like he said yes already,” Yeosang argues, amusement in his voice now, “you’ll get her hopes up of fucking a football guy.” 

You can’t react to the response, because fucking Song Mingi would be a dream— not that the football part has anything to do with it. Your face reflects the thought. 

“He’ll say yes,” Jongho nods, “trust me.” 

“Fuck no. Are you stupid?” 

Maybe Jongho should have waited until they got to the gym, or at least until after Mingi had consumed four bites of his breakfast. Maybe waking him up a minute before his alarm went off at a mere six in the morning wasn’t the best idea, but his anxiety wouldn’t leave him alone. 

“Come on,” Jongho whines, legitimately whines, because if Mingi didn’t say yes he’d have to hear about it for weeks to come, and he can’t bear to hear another complaint from the older man’s mouth. “She said yes already, it’s the perfect plan. Girls are jealous like that, they want what they can’t have.” 

Dark hair, a little oily and piecey on his head, shooting out in every which way, he was shirtless under the navy blue comforter, sheets crumpled at the foot of his bed. Jongho can’t remember the last time Mingi used the washing machine in the basement of the football house. 

Mingi sits up a little, yawning, before looking up to Jongho with an uninterested look, “Is she hot?”

Jongho can’t help the face he makes. Head craning back and forth, almost touching each shoulder as a high pitched, unconvincing, “Yeah,” slides from his lips. 

Mingi smacks his lips, laying back in his bed and turning away, pulling the comforter over his shoulders as he utters, “Waking me up before my alarm for some bullshit, Jongho.”

Jongho tries defending himself, “I’ve known her since she was fourteen, she’s like a sister. If you’re talking about, like, conventionally attractive then I guess, yes—”

“I don’t even know what conventionally means,” Mingi huffs, “get out of my room.” 

“Mingi, Wooyoung just broke her heart, she wants revenge, and you want the girl. It's an even exchange, no strings. You have nothing to lose.” 

Mingi’s grumble slowly grows in volume as he turns back over, eyes still closed. “What about my pride? Making some elaborate scheme just to get a girl who I shouldn’t even care about.” 

Jongho’s lips thin— not the pity party, again. He can’t listen to it another time or else he might explode. They’ve already hidden the whiteboard. 

He bends at the knees, arms folding over the empty space at the edge of Mingi’s mattress, “Listen, bro, it’ll stay between me, you and her—” and Yeosang, “—it’s the perfect plan. You don’t even have to learn her last name, just stand next to her for a little while until your dream girl’s interest is piqued. Easy peasy.” 

One of Mingi’s eyes opened, “It’ll work?” 

Jongho nods. 

“And she’s hot?” 

Jongho’s lips thin again, but he nods. 

“Fine,” Mingi huffs, “tell her to come over or something so I can get a good look before I agree to this.” 

If it was any other circumstance, your fingertips would be buzzing at your sides, heart pounding in your chest with having a man so beautiful in front of you. Plump lips, dark hair still a little damp laying over his sculpted cheekbones, strong shoulders on display in his sleeveless tank. He sat sunken into the couch, one leg folded over the other with his ankle kissing his knee, arms crossed over his chest. Gorgeous. His skin looks so soft you want to touch it— maybe lick it. 

But he did not look pleased. On top of ruining the fantasy, you’re disappointed that men like him still exist. 

Standing before him across the living room, a hip popped with your arms crossed, the only thing Jongho said to you before walking inside the football house was that Mingi wanted to meet you. Not that you’d be put on display for him to judge your appearance before he agreed to being your fake fucking boyfriend. 

“This is misogynistic in ways my mind can’t even comprehend right now,” you huffed the words to Jongho, your best friend of nearly a decade, not even looking at Mingi. As far as you’re concerned, he’s not in the room anymore. He no longer fucking exists. 

There was an apology in his deep brown eyes, his features softened, lips tightened. But he didn’t answer. Mingi’s thick eyebrows were furrowed, top lip curled, but his eyes didn’t read distaste even if his body language portrayed it. With the rage simmering within you right now, he should thank whatever god he prayed to that you weren’t at the boiling point yet. 

“I don’t know what that means,” Mingi shakes his head a little, voice lazy, “this will do, though. I guess.” 

“You guess?” Your entire face jerks forward, “You fucking guess? I’m a human, you know. Standing right in front of you.” 

“No shit,” Mingi sighs, head leaning back into the couch cushion, chin tipped up, face reading utter boredom. “You’ll get me the girl, though? You’re sure she’ll want me if I pretend I’m… dating you?” 

He said the words like you casted a fucking curse on him. 

Your eye twitched as you glance at Jongho. Meeting his apprehensive stare you uncurled your arms from your chest, legs moving for the front door, “Fuck no, I’m not doing this. Absolutely not, plan is cancelled.” 

“Wait!” Jongho stands, eyes wide, palms pressing into your shoulders to stop you from walking straight out the front door. “He’s tired, we had a hard practice today. He’s not usually this bad, I swear, I swear.” 

“What do you mean?” Mingi sits up a little, turning halfway to see the two of you, “What do you mean ‘this bad’? I’m being normal.” 

“See?” Your arm flies in his direction, “he’s being normal. You never told me he’s a fucking asshole, Ho.” 

“An asshole!?” Mingi stands up straight, arms at his side, jaw dropped. “I have to tell every single person in my life I’m dating you, and I’m an asshole for wanting to make sure it’s fitting?” 

“What are you so worried about?” You raise your voice, “you’re twenty-one years old, it’s college, it’s not like you have a reputation to uphold, no one cares. You play football, big fuckin’ deal.” 

Mingi gasps, insulted, “Big deal? Big deal? It’s my entire future, thank you very much.” 

“You won’t have a future if you treat women like they’re your little playthings,” you snap, voice bitter, “is the NFL gonna draft a misogynist?” You smack your lips, eyes meeting the floor, regretting the words as soon as you said them. The NFL would in fact draft a misogynist. Plenty of them, actually. 

“Why do you even care? We just have to show face a few times,” Mingi responds, voice bored yet again, “you don’t have to like me, I don’t have to like you. I just want her.” 

Rage bubbles up inside you again as Wooyoung crosses your mind. It would feel really, really good to hurt him after he hurt you. And Mingi’s right, you guess, you don’t have to get to know him, or speak to him ever again after this. You could look past the flaws you were sure ran deep if it was just temporary. Situational. 

You look up, brows flat, mumbling the reiteration, “A few times.”

Jongho is nodding, smile growing as his eyes bounce between you, whispering, “Yes, friendly, this is good, this is good.”

You face Mingi from across the couch, holding up a flat hand, curling a finger into your palm with each rule, “We don’t speak to each other outside of pre-scheduled meetings, we only act like a couple when there’s people watching, and do not fucking touch me.” 

“Don’t touch you?” Mingi pops a brow, “people won’t believe we’re a couple. How am I gonna prove to her I’m boyfriend-worthy if I can’t show off my boyfriend skills?” 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath, looking away, “you’re right. Wooyoung won’t be jealous if you don’t make him jealous.” 

“Exactly,” Mingi’s brows raise, pleased, dimples out to play as his lips thin in a tight smile. “I don’t want to touch you as much as you don’t want to touch me, trust.” 

Your head snaps up to shoot him another pointed stare, grumbling under your breath, “Asshole.” 

Mingi’s smile morphs into a nasty little smirk, “Your asshole now, baby.” You give him an unimpressed, blank stare and his smirk falters as what he said sinks in. Sheepishly, he mumbles, “Sounded better in my head.” 

“Like you actually think before you speak,” you snap, rolling your eyes, bringing your attention back to Jongho who looks like if he breathes wrong his entire plan will go in the shitter. “I’ll figure out where Woo will be next, you can tell Mingi and plan out when we’re meeting and where, whatever. Keeping this very much so in your hands, Ho.” 

“Don’t—” Jongho shakes his head, smile reappearing, “—okay. Sure. Got it.” 

“Good,” you nod, then glance back at Mingi, “don’t embarrass me by saying stupid shit around people, ‘kay?” 

Mingi cocks his head to the side wearing the biggest smile, “Don’t embarrass me by wearing that outfit in public again, ‘kay?” 

FIRST OUTING: SOFT LAUNCH, THE LAX HOUSE. 11:20 PM.

“How the hell did you get Song Mingi to be your boyfriend?” Riyo is on your hip, bright red hair in a single braid down her back, denim booty-shorts hugging her hips, a cropped, tight bandeau top covering her chest. You suppose for where you went to school that was the uniform, something you quickly realized weeks into your freshman year, clothes were optional here. 

You scoff, walking in-step with her, grass from the lawn of the LAX house sneaking around the edges of your flip-flop covered feet. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

She giggles, a step ahead of you as she walks up the front stairs, “It’s weird, you have no correlation to the football team. Where did you even meet him?” 

“On campus,” your voice is high-pitched, certainly not convincing. You clear your throat, “I mean, I applied to be a part of the football team’s academics unit, I just got in, like, a month ago.”

Riyo pauses at the door, a hand on her hip, eyebrows furrowed, “The fuck? And you just didn’t tell me that you,” she counts on her fingers, “applied, got accepted, and started?”

“It’s not a big deal,” you shrug, nervously laughing to cover up the so fucking obvious lie, “I’m just helping them study, Mingi and I.. clicked.”

God, the words feel sour. So unconvincing you could vomit– and he’s inside, waiting for you, you could really fucking empty your guts on the LAX house’s porch. It’s already cluttered with lacrosse sticks, solo cups, backpacks, containers of white balls you can only assume are used in the game, your vomit would probably go unnoticed. Or washed away by beer, maybe your tears by the end of the night. 

You don’t know why you agreed to this, it was a moment of weakness. Of rage. Wanting revenge. Because behind the stained, scratched white door, was the entire lacrosse team, the entire football team, God knows who the fuck else if Riyo’s here. You could hear the music bleeding through the walls, something with heavy bass, something rap, something you might know if you opened the door. 

Jongho texted you yesterday that Mingi asked for you to make your first appearance here, he said it was the perfect spot, that Wooyoung and Winter might even be here. As much as you were regretting your decision, you hoped he was here. You want to see the look on his face when he spots you at Mingi’s side, when word spreads that you’re dating him, you want to watch his face morph into confusion, into regret, hopefully something lustful that you could use to your advantage. 

“That’s gotta go in, like, the top five most insane things to ever happen on this campus,” Riyo wears a supportive smile, yet her head still shakes in disbelief, “I’m happy for you, though. Actually, I think you kinda suit each other.”

You fight the cringe, that was an insult. You smile instead, already hating the words about to come out of your mouth, “Let’s go inside, I wanna see him.”

You’ve been here before, you frequented the LAX house plenty freshman year, a lot less sophomore year after your fling with Kim Mingyu, you haven’t been here once yet this year. It hasn’t changed, medium-sized house, open floor plan, giant kitchen, silver appliances. The furniture was dull, broken in, old, thrifted. It’s nostalgic, being here, these people, you barely see the lacrosse team on campus, you know a few of them from your times here as a freshman, mornings escaping after a night with Mingyu, you don’t know anyone well enough to be considered a friend. 

Riyo is immediately squealing upon walking inside, hugging girls you only know the first names of, you smile in greeting from behind her. Jia, another girl from your study group that you’re close with, approaches with the same squeal Riyo had unleashed on the room, her dark hair styled in waves behind her back, deep, golden-olive skin glowing beneath the barely-there lights in the room. 

Her eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees you, “Hello? Shut the fuck up?”

“Hey baby,” your tongue sneaks out between your teeth and she squeals again, throwing her arms over your shoulders in a tight hug. Swaying you side to side, she’s a giggling mess, sandal-covered feet tapping against the floor. 

“I haven’t seen you here since last year!” She yells, grin spread wide, showing her dazzling white teeth you couldn’t believe shone so bright in a room this dark. 

You shrug, smiling, “I have good reason.”

“She’s seeing her boyfriend,” Riyo teases, nudging you with her shoulder, smiling like a fucking crazy person. Leaning in close to Jia, her voice is still loud, even if she was trying to be secretive, “Song Mingi.”

Jia looks like nothing in the world makes sense, and she’s been transported to another dimension. “I saw you two nights ago, babe, and there was not one mention of a boyfriend, most certainly not a word about Song Mingi.”

“We’re not being, like, super public about it,” you shake your head, cheeks burning, “it’s chill guys, seriously, don’t make a huge deal about it, he’s not a celebrity.”

“Closest we’ll ever get to one, plus, last I heard you were still fucking Wooyoung,” the look on Jia’s face hasn’t left, and God you wish you thought out a better plan with Mingi before you left the football house the other day, you’re scrambling for a story. 

“Ew, why are you talking about him?”

Speak of the fucking devil– a shiver racks down your now rigid spine, you fix your eyes that involuntarily widened. Jia and Riyo watch with dropped jaws as Mingi slides an arm over your shoulder, an easygoing smile on his face, looking at you so fucking fondly it makes your heart skip a beat. Fuck him for being so damn beautiful.

Dark shirt clinging to his torso, showing off every fucking muscle that was etched into his skin beneath it, his hair was styled, purposely messy how it hung over the sides of his head where it was shorter, faded into his skin. Baggy jeans on his legs, low enough to show the Calvins under them, he wore a skinny, silver chain around his neck, one to match on his wrist, with pretty, bulky rings on his fingers. 

This is so fucking unfortunate– he’s beautiful and he sucks, you hate him, his personality, the misogyny he so easily wields as a weapon, it makes you sick. He doesn’t deserve a perfect face and an even more perfect body. Fuck him. 

“We were talking about you,” you force a smile on your lips, turning back to Jia and Riyo as your stiff body leans into Mingi’s huge one, so stiff and broad and muscled you tried to not pay too much attention to it. “Of course you missed it.”

“Start again,” his smile is cheesy, so fucking cheesy you want to slap it off his face. “I wanna hear all the cute things my baby said about me.”

Spit lodges in your throat that constricts around nothing, you choke. Coughing, you pull away from his grip, turning around, smacking your chest with a fist, eyes tearing– he did not just call you baby unironically. 

He leans in close, feigning concern, “Are you okay?”

Your other hand flies up, back still facing him, “Fine– fuck.”

Gathering yourself, you turn back around, plastering a smile onto your face. Bidding a wave to the two girls, through gritted teeth, you ask him in a false, sweet voice, “Don’t you have people to introduce me to?” 

He quirks a brow, but nods, slinging his arm over your shoulder again as he guides you away from your group of friends. Voice low, keeping himself tight to your ear, he asks, “What the fuck was that?”

“Do not ever call me baby again,” you keep your smile, but your voice is venomous, “that was fucking disgusting.”

“You think I enjoyed it?” He whispers back, voice pitched sharply, “It’s kinda part of boyfriendism, no? Pet names and shit?” 

You’re wading through the crowd, Mingi shooting smiles and dapping up tens of people you don’t know, mainly men, all beefy and drunk and eyes dilated like they just railed lines in the kitchen. You shift your shoulders under his heavy ass arm, “Jesus, Mingi, I’m not a fucking ledge for you to put your whole weight on, big ass.”

He grins as he looks down at you, wiggling his brows, “You think my ass is big?” 

You roll your eyes, “I don’t think I’m gonna survive you.”

“You won’t believe how many times I’ve heard that line,” his grin is proud, he’s not even looking at you as he says it, eyes focused on the people in front of him, in the hallway where a large table is set up, holding a messy game of beer pong. Water beneath the table, a shallow film on top of the painted surface, swirls of brown covering your school’s logo shittily lined in black, gross.

You don’t have time to scoff– you know these guys, Jeno, Chris, Kai, Haechan, Soobin, Changbin. All on the football team, all huge, you’re already vibrating, body stiffening under Mingi’s arm that’s so casually thrown over your shoulders, heavy and thick. Suffocating.

You wish you could be meeting them under different circumstances. You’re tainted now, if they even cared about boy-code, which they might not usually, but you wondered if Mingi pulled rank with them, or if girlfriends were off limits compared to casual lays. Your answer is quickly delivered to you on a silver platter as Jeno eyes you from across the table, hip to hip with Chris who does the same, eyes sliding down your body and back up like they were sizing you up, waiting to pounce. 

Your posture changes, subtle, but your arms uncurl from in front of you, back arching slightly, eyes drooping into that pretty, low stare that did Wooyoung in when you first met him. A small smile on your lips, you tilt your head away from Mingi while he introduces you– as his girlfriend. Right. You lock back in, blinking into focus, smiling and nodding to each man that introduces himself like you didn’t already know all of their names and their positions. 

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Changbin has one palm planted on the painted table, clearly he didn’t care about the murky water, one of his hands palms a can of beer close to his chest, “you were crying over what’s-her-face two minutes ago.”

Mingi makes a face, head nodding towards you with his eyebrows raised like he was silently telling Changbin to shut the fuck up, like you weren’t supposed to hear that, as if you didn’t know already. He’s playing it up, smart.

“Nice to meet you,” Chris grins from the other side of the table, his voice warm, smile pretty, it makes you feel fuzzy inside. You can’t wait to fake-break-up with Mingi. “Your boyfriend didn’t get you a drink yet?” 

“Was waiting for one of you to do it for me,” Mingi juts his chin out in Kai’s direction and he nods, eyes wide as he receives the order, and he scrambles. Like, literally scrambles. Nonchalantly you nudge your elbow into Mingi’s ribs, silently telling him to stop being an asshole. 

Hiding his hiss in a forced laugh, he steals his arm back from around your shoulders, hiding his formerly exposed ribs, “You should have one hand-delivered to you, ba– sweetheart.”

God, you can feel the bile churning in your gut. You fix your face before it morphs into full disgust. 

“How did you two meet?” Haechan asks, his voice whiney– you were not expecting that from his bulky build, broad and toned, so hot. His cherry-red hair is a mess of curls atop his head, skin bronzy under the far light dimming the hallway, allowing them to see the game, you presume. 

“The library.”

“On campus.”

You and Mingi respond at the same time, then look at each other, eyes panic-stricken at the fumble. You couldn’t repeat your lie from earlier, they would know you aren't a part of their study team, all you could think was on campus, a generic answer. 

You stutter, “The– The library.”

“The one that’s on campus,” Mingi nods, assured. 

“Why the fuck were you at the library?” Soobin asks, leaned up against the wall of the hallway, dark brows furrowed, two hands around his can of beer. Valid question, your heart picks up speed in your chest, you weren’t expecting them to pry. 

“Studying,” Mingi responds nonchalantly, his voice high, shoulders shrugging. 

“Extra tutoring,” you add, “on top of what you guys have, yeah. One of the girls on your academics team told me Mingi needed extra help and volunteered me because our schedules lined up.”

“Exactly,” Mingi nods, lips pursed in an attempt to be more convincing, “love at first sight type shit.”

You tuck your lips between your teeth to hide your smile, smothering the snort that fights to climb to the surface, redirecting your gaze to the floor beneath you. You can’t wait to make fun of him for that line later.

“Right,” Changbin’s brows are tied together, dark hair sprawled across his forehead, almost hiding his skepticism. He redirects his attention to Jeno, the silver-haired hunk of a man beside him, Chris splitting the three. Tilting his chin up, he asks, “Keep playing?” 

Mingi’s lips tighten, turning to you again, “Should we go find where Kai is?”

“Sure,” you sigh, flipping your hair off your now slightly sticky shoulders, “I could use a drink.” One of his hands slides to your lower back, guiding you away, and you realize then that he doesn’t have a drink– moving in-step towards the kitchen, you ask, “You’re not drinking?”

“No, not tonight,” his voice is monotonous, he doesn’t look down, keeps his eyes ahead. “Need a clear mind if I’m gonna lie to a hundred people.” 

“It’s hot in here,” you complain, face crunching to cringe, it’s humid for November, even for where you live.

“I can tell, you’re sweating all over me, bro,” he responds, voice dripping in boredom, pressing his hand to your back a little harder instead of removing it from your body altogether. “Gross.”

“Then take your hand off me, bro,” you huff, turning the corner, the kitchen coming into view. Surprising high ceilings, white cabinets, silver appliances, marble countertops, probably the nicest room in the whole house, you wondered if there was still a hole in the back door from that one night Hoshi got a little too drunk. You sneer, “You probably smell like a wet dog after practice.”

You spot a few members of the lacrosse team in the corner, standing in front of the back door, a black mesh screen severing the house from the backyard, letting cool air from outside in. Joshua, Wonwoo, Seungkwan, a joint lit in Seungkwan’s mouth, the youngest of the three, a sophomore. Guess they really chilled out during their off-season, no worries about a drug test in their future. Good for them.  

“I smell like a beautiful woman after practice,” Mingi scoffs, guiding you in front of him with his palm, hands gliding up to sit on your shoulders, pushing you through people that parted at the sight of him. You keep a tight-lipped smile on your face, giving a small nod each time you make eye contact with someone new. He leans down into your ear, “You’d probably like it, you’re the gross one. Pheremone-lover.” 

“Keep your androstenone away from me,” you answer with disgust in your voice, without changing your face an inch, “you probably don’t even know what that is.”

“Guilty as charged, smart girl,” he catches Kai’s head of blonde hair over the crowd, the two men probably the tallest in the entire kitchen. “Huening!” Mingi yells, stealing Kai’s attention, he wears a wide, excited grin, holding two cans of beer over his head like he’d discovered the One Piece. 

“I got beer!” He yells across the kitchen, immediately wading through people to get to you and Mingi. A freshman, you think, also on the offensive line, Jongho’s told you about him– a smart kid with great instincts for football, uses his build to his advantage. Innocent, ignorant like a child, a little stupid, he’s cute. Chubby cheeks, a kind smile, your already heated skin rises in temperature as he approaches, opening your can for you. 

You introduce yourself properly, thanking him for the beer, “How’s your first year on the team?”

Mingi’s head snaps down to look at you, brows tied together in surprise. 

Kai grins, blushing immediately, running a hand through his blonde hair, “Great, thanks for asking, the guys are really cool, Coach is terrifying lowkey, but he’s cool, too.”

You giggle, head tilting, “I’ve heard that, he’s famous though, right? Coach Suh?” 

“Yeah, he’s like, renowned in the football world,” Kai babbles on, the two of you erupting into easy conversation, all while Mingi’s head bobs back and forth, watching, listening, his confusion growing with each new word that falls from your lips. 

He can’t help but interject, “Since when do you know so much about the team?”

Your giggle slows to a stop, smile faltering, “What do you mean? I’ve always known, this is a D1 school, silly.” 

Silly is synonymous with stupid fuck, he can feel it in how your pointed eyes stare into him.

“She couldn’t be your girlfriend if she didn’t know football, Song,” Kai adds, so innocent, so easygoing, oh my God you love him. 

Mingi nods like he was the one who reminded himself you were his girlfriend, not Kai, forcing a laugh out, more punched and nervous than anything. “Right, yeah, yeah.”

Your blood runs cold as you catch a head of recognizable black hair around Kai’s ridiculously huge bicep, bronzy skin, a cloud of smoke surrounding him like it was his brand, his aura. Your eyes widen, head swerving around Kai’s arm to get a better look, taking in his leather jacket, the rings on his fingers, the cigarette dangling between his teeth as he smiles, Corona in one of his hands. 

“Nice meeting you, Kai,” you don’t even look at the boy, grabbing onto Mingi’s arm, dragging him sideways, away from Kai’s earshot. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.”

“Who? Who?” 

“Who do you think, dumbass?” You spit, chin pointing in Wooyoung’s direction, “The only man who’s more of an asshole than you.”

“Oh my God, she’s with him,” a hand comes up to cover Mingi’s mouth, his brown eyes wide, excitement gleaming in chocolate, drawing them hazel. Beside Wooyoung is Winter, long, dark hair pinned up halfway, a short, black skirt on her hips, halter top tugging her upper half just right. He lowers his voice, “Fuck, she’s so hot.”

“Pause,” you turn to him as the realization sinks in– he wants Winter? Winter is the girl you’re helping him get? Kim Minjeong? “You want Winter?!”

“Yes,” he groans out, head tilting back, a whine to his voice like he was four years old and you just took away his favorite toy. “She’s perfect, dude. Like, perfection in a human, I love her, I think.”

“What the fuck?” Completely baffled, you shake your head in disbelief at how perfect this is lined up. You don’t know how you didn’t put it together sooner, you didn’t once think about who Mingi wants, who the girl might be. You didn’t really care. “This is good, this works in our favor, this is perfect, actually,” you’re rambling as you turn around, watching Wooyoung and Winter across the room, how Wooyoung introduces her to the lacrosse trio at the backdoor, how he pulls his cigarette from his lips to press them to her cheek in a short kiss. 

“Ew, he’s touching her, that’s my wife,” Mingi props his forearm on your shoulder, you immediately shake yourself out of his grip, eyes never leaving them, laser-focused. He whines, “Comfort me, I’m heartbroken. He’s touching her, bro.”

“They’re together, what do you expect?” You whisper-yell, twisting around to get him out of your personal space. “How can we get their attention? We need them to see us together, being coupled up and shit.”

“I’m boys with Shua and Wonwoo, we can go over there,” Mingi suggests, finally looking at you, and the excited gleam in his eye was now dulled down to desperation, a sadness only caused by yearning. If he wasn’t such an asshole, you might feel bad for him. 

You nod, “Good idea, let’s do it. Let’s go, come on, football boy.”

With his hands on your shoulders again, you guzzle the beer in your hands as you cross the kitchen, eyes screwing shut as the spicy carbonation burns your throat. Beer is so fucking gross, at least it’s cold, it gets the job done– you burp before you approach them, a closed fist covering your mouth in an attempt to hide the noise. 

“Ew!” Mingi gasps from behind you, “Did you just burp? You’re disgusting, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Shut up,” you spit, “I couldn’t help it, and they’ll hear you, go back to boyfriendism and make it believable.”

“You want me to put on a show?” You can hear the amusement in his voice, the wiggle of his stupid thick brows. 

“I do, actually,” you answer with a defeated sigh, “do your worst.”

Approaching the lacrosse trio, Wooyoung and Winter, Mingi throws his arms fully around your front, tucking your back into his chest, his chin sitting on the top of your head. In an obnoxious yell, he makes his presence known, “Hey guys, how we doin’ tonight?”

Ew. One of your hands wraps around his forearm glued to your chest, a wide grin on your cheeks, your head leaned up against one of his biceps that boxes you into his hold, “Hey guys.”

“Song!” Joshua yells, smile widening, lighting up his whole face, “I was hoping you’d show tonight.”

Wooyoung’s smile drops when he sees you, you meet his eyes immediately, your fake grin turning real. Yes, be mad, be so angry you flip the fuck out.

“Of course I’d show,” there’s so much confidence in Mingi’s voice it’s nauseating, “had to introduce my girl to all my people, do you guys know her?” 

With a coy smile, you introduce yourself as Mingi’s girlfriend, head leaning into his chest impossibly further, forcing a stupid, lovestruck look on your face, you prayed it was believable. 

Joshua nods, as does Wonwoo, both recognizing you from all the times you’ve been here, probably also your fling with Mingyu. The two lacrosse boys greet you kindly, where Seungkwan introduces himself, newer to the team, to those who party in their house. 

“I didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” Wonwoo’s brows furrowed, “the campus isn’t burned down, I’m confused.”

You and Mingi both laugh, but Mingi says, “I don’t think word has spread yet, don’t worry, expect the heat soon.”

“It’s hot enough,” you add, rolling your eyes, “your fangirls will be just fine, there won’t be a fire.”

“You have no idea,” Joshua snorts, “I remember one girl having to deactivate her Instagram account because word got out you were sleeping with her, remember that, Min?”

“Let’s not talk about the past in front of my girlfriend,” Mingi’s voice slips into something strict, “it’s disrespectful, Shua.”

You stiffen in his arms, that’s oddly kind, it makes your situation more believable. You briefly wonder how Mingi is with his girlfriends, if there’s any form of chivalry in his cold, chauvinist heart. 

Joshua snorts, shaking his head, “‘m sorry, you’re right, my bad.” His pretty brown eyes fall to meet yours and you melt into Mingi all over again, “Blame the weed, sweetheart, my social awareness has depleted to zero.”

“It’s okay,” you smile softly, liking the word as it falls from Joshua’s plump, wet lips, eyes wandering back over to Wooyoung who’s still staring, lips slightly parted, the cherry on his cigarette so long it’d fall soon. You avert your eyes to it, cocky amusement in your tone, “Planning to start the fire yourself?” 

His eyes find his cigarette and he jumps into action, twisting around to flick it in the ashtray behind him, sitting full on the corner of the kitchen island. Your eyes find Winter who’s eyes are staring up at Mingi, looking at him the same way Wooyoung was looking at you. 

Your smile turns devious– it’s fucking working. You knew it would, but it’s still surprising, how stupid could these two be? Maybe they deserve each other. You remind yourself that Mingi’s stupid, too– maybe they could explore polyamory together. 

“Preseason start yet?” Mingi asks, either unaware of Winter’s eyes or he’s playing his cards right, the three lacrosse boys erupt into conversation, complaining about their coach, their training, the program they go through in the fall season to ensure they’re in shape come Spring. 

Wooyoung leans into Winter, a hand around her waist, pulling her into him to whisper something in her ear. It’s like she’s forced back into reality, how her hand lays over his chest, giggling at whatever he said. Gross. You could probably bet money on what nasty shit he just whispered in her ear, dirty talk so smooth it used to make you go weak in the knees, clinging to him like a moth to a flame, how she arched into him you assumed he probably asked to pull her into the bathroom. A move you’d fallen victim to plenty of times yourself.

Jealousy stems in your gut, anger pushing blood through your veins, you look up to Mingi, batting your lashes. You could do it, too. His eyes meet yours and blink into focus, into realization, you watch as his brows ever so slightly knit together, so slight it could go unnoticed, you’re sure you wouldn’t have if you weren’t so close.

A smirk creeps onto his cheeks, voice velvety and smooth, “I know what you want.” Thank God. “Excuse us,” Mingi winks at the lacrosse boys who start snickering upon the words leaving his mouth, “what the princess wants, she gets.”

You catch Wooyoung’s eye, his head whipping around Winter’s, a flicker of surprise. Winter turns too, eyes on Mingi’s biceps around your head, sinking down his build, you hope she’s thinking about fucking him. You hope Wooyoung’s thinking about all the things you’re about to fake-do to Mingi.

You wave as Mingi turns you around, voice light, “Nice to meet you, Seungkwan.”

A few steps away, his biceps flex around your head to get your attention, “Nice move, smart girl.”

You giggle to yourself in victory, bringing your beer up to your lips, “I do have to pee, though, we have to actually go to the bathroom.”

“There’s one at the end of the hallway,” he pulls his arms from around your head to sink down to your hips, his fingers curling through the loops of your denim shorts, guiding you where to go like you’ve never been here before.

Does he think you’re a LAX house newb? You run a hand through your hair, “And there’s two upstairs, one connected to Mingyu and Cheol’s room, another between Dino and Hoshi’s rooms.”

“Look at you, flexing how many bathrooms you’ve gotten laid in.”

“Only the one connected to Mingyu’s room, he’s huge, you can’t blame me.”

“Disrespectful,” he snickers, smacking his teeth, winking at his teammates he passes by in the hallway, you give them all a feigned, bashful smile. “Telling your boyfriend who you’ve slept with.”

“You don’t want to know who I’ve slept with,” you stop in front of the bathroom door, twisting the knob carefully, and thankfully, it opens. You rush inside and Mingi follows, closing the door behind him, locking it. You stare at him with furrowed brows, “What the hell are you doing?”

“We’re supposed to be fucking, remember?” His brows raise, hands landing on his hips, his face falling into the usual disgust. You didn’t have to pretend in here. 

You groan, head tipping back, “I have to pee.”

“Then pee!” A hand flies out from his side, five fingers pointing to the toilet, “I’m not stopping you, there’s a toilet right there.”

“What are you gonna do, watch?”

“Are you offering?”

“Fuck you, you’re disgusting,” you spit, a revolted chill making you shiver, he laughs like it’s funny. The weight in your bladder is clear, you whine, shoving your beer into his chest, “I can’t pee if you’re in here, I’m pee-shy.”

“Do you want me to sing? Do a little dance for you?” 

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you, “Actually, yeah.”

His amused smile drops, “Deadass?”

“You offered,” you shrug, “turn around, do a lil’ dance for me, football boy.”

His face morphs into regret, but he turns around, facing the shower, he takes a sip of your beer before he clears his throat, spreading his legs for comfort, his other hand finding his front pocket. 

“...Seventeen-thirty-eight… Ay… I’m like hey, whatsup, hello…”

You burst out laughing, hand covering your mouth, the weight in your bladder growing excruciatingly heavy, “Fuck, I’m gonna piss my pants.”

Flipping the lid, you shove your shorts down, squatting over the gross toilet, Mingi keeps fucking singing. You’re laughing as you pee, snorting, holding onto the bathroom counter for dear life until tears cloud your vision, he’s purposely singing badly, sounding insane, he has no shame. You suppose neither do you, peeing in the same room as Song Mingi, for a second you forget who he is. 

Starting quarterback for your university’s football team, he’s a known figure, important. The face of sports for your school, everyone knows his name, everyone wants him– and he’s with you, singing fucking Trap Queen in the LAX house bathroom so you can successfully empty your bladder. 

Wiping, flushing, he turns around as you finish buttoning your shorts again, his voice filled with amusement. “How was that? Should I switch careers, or what?”

“Stick to football,” you mutter, then snort again as you side-step to the sink, turning the water on to wash your hands. “Also, love at first sight? We need to work on your lying skills, and your vocabulary.”

“I thought it was cute!” He defends himself, setting your beer down beside you on the countertop, “People ask too many questions, I wasn’t expecting to make up a full-fledged story every time I opened my mouth tonight.”

“You forget who you are,” you eye him through the mirror, “I wasn’t prepared, either. But enough people know now, word will spread on its own. When can we stop? Like, break up?”

“Damn, one night with me and you already want to break up?” He clutches his heart in hurt, then grins, the tip of his back leaning up against the wall, hips blocking the pole that holds the hand-towels. “Soon, though. Did you see how she was looking at me?”

You turn around, shaking your hands out on either side of you to air-dry since he’s unknowingly hiding the damn towels, clutching the countertop to haul your ass onto it, beside the sink. “Of course I saw, I also saw how you didn’t even spare her a glance.”

He smirks, wiggling his brows, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or whatever the fuck.”

Your face morphs into confusion, “I don’t think you can use that saying here.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs, “you know what I mean. Jongho told me girls want what they can’t have, so I’m trying to make myself look very unavailable. It seemed to be working, right?”

“Yeah, she seemed into it,” you shrug, “you think Wooyoung looked pissed?”

“I don’t think he puffed that disgusting cigarette once,” Mingi gives you an impressed look, “his jaw was too busy mopping the floor.”

You giggle at that, legs swaying back and forth where they hung off the counter. Tilting your head, you wonder out loud, “I think three-ish weeks max should be enough, what do you think? If they’re showing interest now, it shouldn’t take much longer.”

He groans, “I have to endure you for three more weeks?”

“Don’t act like you aren’t having fun,” you bite back, “I’m the one who has to endure you.”

“You weren’t complaining when I was holding onto you, smushing your cheeks with my arms, girls would fight to be in your position. Your back was probably getting my shirt wet, you know, sweaty ass.”

Your jaw drops, offended, “It’s fucking hot!” Throwing yourself off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a smack, your hand flies for the doorknob, “I’ve had enough of you, actually. We’ve done plenty of damage for one night, the rest should fall in place.”

“I got it,” he turns off the bathroom light, closing the door behind him, his hand immediately going for your lower back. 

“There’s no one in the hallway,” you reach back to shove his hand off you, “don’t touch me, pervert.”

“I just fucked you, and now I can’t put my hand on your sweaty ass back?”

“You didn’t even make me cum, so no.”

He laughs, a genuine belly laugh, straight from his gut, “Don’t talk shit when you have no fucking idea the things I can do.”

Under other circumstances, in another life, if he wasn’t Song Mingi, you’d love to find out. You don’t answer, cheeks flaming, ears tipping with heat, you’re forgetting yourself, a few days without consistent sex and now your stomach is dropping from words said by him? Out of all people?

You walk a little faster, aiming for your escape. At the end of the hallway, you turn your head halfway, “I’m leaving.”

He pauses in the archway, brows furrowed, voice clearly disappointed, “So soon?”

Swallowing, you nod, “I have class early tomorrow, I’ll let Jongho know what the next outing is, kay?”

SECOND OUTING: LUCENT, TWO DAYS LATER. 12:24 PM

xxx-xxx-xxxx: come to lucent xxx-xxx-xxxx: they’re here

you: the fuck you: who is this

xxx-xxx-xxxx: arent u the smart one bro xxx-xxx-xxxx: its mingi

you: lose my number

xxx-xxx-xxxx: bruh xxx-xxx-xxxx: wooyoung and winter are here can u come

you: oh you: i get out of class in 15

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i cant be here long xxx-xxx-xxxx: theyll start to ask questions

you: mad ominous. who is they you: ill leave early tho

The air is thick, humidity wrapping around your body like a blanket, so hot you tug your sweatshirt off your body upon leaving the lecture hall, leaving you in a thin-strapped tank, shorts on your legs, backpack slung over one shoulder. Headphones in your ears, the trek to Lucent is quick even if by the time you make it to the glass double-doors you’re sweating like a whore in church. 

It’s air-conditioned, at least, battling the floor to ceiling windows that begged to let the heat inside, bright, white light invading the room, a perpetrator. It helped you find Mingi easy enough, not that you had to search, eight men squished into one booth had you snorting at the entrance. 

Approaching the table, you put on your best girlfriend-smile before you even spotted Mingi. At the edge of the booth, dressed casually, much like how he looked the day you met him, he wore sweatpants and a cut-off tee, dark hair messy and sprawled across his face like he didn’t bother styling it. Heaving a breath from rushing over, you tucked your hair behind your ear, “Hey, sorry I’m late.”

He looked you up and down before meeting your eye, a smile spreading across his cheeks, “Hey, princess.”

Your nostrils flared, lips tightening in a fight to not morph into disgust, you guess that was the nickname that stuck. Searching the rest of the table, you find seven men smiling back at you, Jaemin, Taehyun, Sunghoon, Heeseung, Seungmin, Beomgyu and… Jongho. Your eyes widen, smile dropping, hands falling to your sides, words rushing from your lips, “I didn’t know you were here.”

The others turn to Jongho, who looks scared, eyes wide and lips pursed like he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He forces a smile, a nervous chuckle, “I didn’t know I’d be coming here.” His eyes cross the room, leading you to the back corner of the establishment, where Wooyoung sat on one of the comfy chairs, legs stretched out to rest on the small table in front of him, Winter perched on his lap. 

You swallow, ice prickling at your scalp. You never went anywhere public with him, even at fucking Eonian, his favorite stupid dive bar, the only time you interacted was either in the bathroom, or if he was drunk enough to address you in front of other people. Your jaw clenches for a split second, fists forming at your sides before you remember where you are, who’s watching. 

“Do you want anything to drink?” It’s Mingi who pulls you back up to earth, half your body already in the depths of hell from what you were mentally planning to do to Jung Wooyoung. 

Plastering that same, stupid fake-smile back on your lips, you realize you’re still standing, and the booth is clearly full. The boys are nearly on top of each other, large bodies pressed together by their shoulders and thighs, you refuse his question, instead asking, “Should I pull up a chair?”

Mingi’s lips warp into a small smirk as he leans back in the booth, two hands sliding down his thighs before he slaps them twice, “Here’s your chair.”

Your smile tightens, lips flat, eyes scrunched to hide the twitch. “Of course,” there’s nothing but sarcasm in your tone, enough for Mingi to notice, more than enough for Jongho to notice, but hopefully not the others. 

Pulling your backpack from your shoulder, you set it on the floor beside the booth, resting your headphones and hoodie on top. Carefully, slowly, hesitantly, you slide a leg between Mingi’s body and the table splitting the seats, trying not to cringe as you sit on the edge of his thigh. In the back of his throat he makes a strained, tight noise, one low enough for only you to hear, it makes your head snap to look at him, eyes pointed and lips thinned. 

He’s just smiling, fully amused by your reaction. You wish you could speak telepathically, call him a fucking asshole for pretending you’re heavy when he lifts six days a fucking week. 

His arms wrap around you, settling on your thighs, you’re too aware of the silence at the table as he shifts you farther back, in a more comfortable position– if a comfortable position actually exists on Song Mingi’s lap. 

“Are you guys between classes?” You turn to the table, smile back on your cheeks, hands in your lap, “I never see you here.”

“Why are we here?” Taehyun leaned forward, dark brows that matched his hair furrowed, plump lips scrunched in question. He’s a DB, if your memory serves, on the smaller side but fucking strong.

Heeseung, from across the table, replies simply, “Mingi wanted to come.”

The table’s eyes lead to the six-foot moron behind you. You can feel him shrug, voice casual like he didn’t care that this is clearly weird, “Was feeling coffee.”

“We’ve never been here before,” Jaemin comments, or argues, you think. He sips his water bottle, no coffee on the table before him, lean build with a wide upper body, he’s fucking gorgeous. He catches your eye, flashing you a smile held in his eyes, you have to look down at the table to stop yourself from asking for his number. 

“We come here all the time,” Jongho adds, your head picks up to see something playful in his eyes, lips upcurved slightly, “probably wanted to see your girlfriend’s hangout spot, right, Min?”

It’s then that you realize Jongho arranged this, Jongho knew Wooyoung was here, but why wasn’t Jongho the one to text you? Your eye twitches remembering Mingi now has your number.

He’s having too much fun chuckling from behind you, knees bouncing, making your whole body shift. His voice is coated in rock-hard candy, “Of course I wanted to see the coffee shop my girlfriend loves so much.” 

Your lips tighten again, embarrassed. You’re embarrassed. He’s embarrassing you right now, and it’s on purpose. 

“You’re so sweet,” you turn your head halfway, shoulders lifted into your cheeks, forcing a cheeriness to your voice that makes Jongho snort from across the table, “I’m so lucky.”

It renders Mingi’s face flat, unimpressed, he reaches forward and grabs the half-filled plastic cup filled with what looks like watered down shit, bringing it up to take a sip. Your brow pops, “Are you drinking espresso water?”

The table erupts in laughter and your head turns, brows fully furrowing at the commotion, “What?”

“Have you ever heard of an americano, du–” Mingi stops himself mid-insult, lips snapping shut. 

Your top lip curls, but instead of reacting your head turns to the table again, seven fucking football players staring at you like you’re an alien, “What the fuck is an americano?”

They all laugh again, slapping each other’s chests like it was the funniest thing they’ve ever heard and unfortunately it makes you laugh with them, a nervous-confused combination of a breathy giggle, their laughter too contagious for you to not join. 

Mingi holds the cup up to your mouth, making you flinch as the straw approaches your lips. He smacks his teeth, “It’s espresso diluted by water, try it, it’s good.”

Your eyes flicker up to his, and he’s not laughing, not smiling. His brows are lifted with the offer, lips slightly pouted, he looks genuine. Reluctantly you lean forward, lips wrapping around the straw, taking a sip– and it tastes exactly how it looks. 

Face scrunching up in disgust, you shake your head twice, “This is why god created cream and sugar.”

That makes him laugh, a smile curving his lips, he takes another sip right after you. An indirect kiss, the immature part of your brain realizes, you wonder how many women on your campus would kill to have exactly that with Song Mingi. How many women would die to sit exactly where you sat; to feel the sheer strength of his thighs beneath them, arms brushing his chest with each movement, his biceps stretched out on either side of them. 

The thought is fleeting as you hear the table laugh again, this time it startles you, jumping slightly on Mingi’s lap out of surprise. His other arm wraps around you a little tighter, your movement startling him, you quickly mumble, “My bad.”

“You’re funny,” Seungmin notes from across the booth, as you look at him you realize he’s talking to you. He’s cute, mousy face, maybe more like a hamster, or a puppy– his eyes are soft and his smile is kind, it takes the edge off his attention on you. His eyes slide to Mingi behind you, “How did you guys meet again?”

“We met here,” Mingi responds casually and your lips tighten again, the lie spins once more. He keeps going, completely theatric, “She bought me coffee because she tripped me outside the cafe.”

You gasp, brows furrowing, head twisting behind you to scold him, “That did not happen!”

His eyes are playful, smile menacing, “Oh, yes it did, we cannot have this argument again, princess.”

Your tongue pokes your cheek, following now. Fine, let’s play. Straightening your back, you respond, “It’s not my fault you tripped over your feet, I just happened to be there. You blamed it on me and threatened to call campus security if I didn’t buy you a coffee.”

Mingi shrugs, “It got me a free coffee and a girlfriend, didn’t it? Well-played, if you ask me.”

 Your smile grows, shaking your head in disbelief, at the story he created, how smooth he’s playing it. Fuck him. “You’re such an asshole,” you mutter with a small laugh, “I guess it did.”

Turning to the table, they all seem so locked in you almost forget you told five or six of his other teammates a completely different story. You suppose D1 football players won’t be gossiping about where you and Mingi met. 

Catching Jongho’s eye in your scan, he looks surprised, almost. Maybe disbelief, how he was blinking at the two of you, his jaw dropped, lips slightly curved. You thin your eyes at him, “You know this story Ho, don’t look so surprised.”

His face quickly morphs to irritation as the table sings a chorus of laughter once more, all six of them adding the nickname to their arsenals upon it gracing their ears. You smile, proud of the work you’ve done, Jongho can do nothing but scowl. 

“If any of you call me Ho I’m putting dog shit in the vents of your bedrooms,” he looks around the table, voice threatening, eyes cold. 

The laughter dies down but humor dances in the air, Beomgyu is the only one still verbally giggling with his whole chest, “I don’t even care, that is so fucking funny, I’m calling you that forever.”

Jongho redirects his scowl to you, exasperated, “Look at what you did.”

“And I’d do it again,” you’re giggling too, cocky, feeling big-dicked that Jongho’s teammates find you so funny. 

The feeling of being watched strikes alarm bells in your head, you turn your head to scan the room, landing on where Wooyoung sits, his lap now empty. He eyes you from across the room and you can’t read his expression, mostly boredom, but the more you look, the more the clench in jaw is visible. Elbow on the armrest, forearm bent upward, fist clenching and unclenching, he’s analyzing. 

You sink further into Mingi which he accepts easily, hand lazily thrown over your thigh, you looked like a real, proper couple getting coffee between classes. The smell of cedar beckons your attention, warm and woodsy, a little spicy, it makes it easier to forget who’s beneath you, who’s body you’re so easily and openly and publicly attached to.

Two taps to your thigh grabs your attention, you pull your gaze back to the table, to the dark-headed fuck behind you, “Hm?”

“Park asked you a question, princess,” Mingi tips his chin in Sunghoon’s direction, his voice light but direct, it has your head turning to follow his motion in an instant. 

“Is this your first time dating a D1 athlete?” He asks the question with innocence, expression curious, “It has to be different than dating someone who isn’t an athlete.”

You resist the urge to say first time dating, because you’ve certainly slept with a few. Instead you nod politely, humming your answer, “Definitely my first time dating someone as high-profile as Mingi.”

Sunghoon snorts, body leaning back in the booth, his build leaner than the others, strong all the same. Pretty face, structured, timeless features, you briefly wonder what he’s doing on the football team and not on a stage somewhere. 

“Not gonna lie, we never thought Song would date,” Heeseung leans forward again, eyeing you from the other side of the booth, a smile playing on his lips, but there’s more truth to his words than humor. 

“Not again,” Taehyun quips, “we always assumed he was too focused on his diet and his training program to actually put effort into another human.”

Mingi stiffens beneath you– a slight movement, one you can feel too easily while perched on his lap. There’s still laughter in the air, the comments read light-hearted, but you wonder if it feels that way to Mingi. 

Jaemin cackles, “What the hell do you guys mean? He’s never alone.”

“Did you have him tested before you fucked him?” Seungmin wears a smirk, brows raised in your direction, “Because if you haven’t, I think you both probably should at this point.”

Mingi’s chest leans into your back, his chin popping over your shoulder, “Alright, enough.”

You can feel every single muscle pressed to your back, the plush of his broad pecs against your shoulderblades, his fucking washboard of an abdomen against your spine, you can’t even register the tension consuming the table, how everyone quiets down on Mingi’s command, holy shit. You need to get laid. 

Your eyes find Wooyoung, too aware of his presence, his eyes that are still fucking on you. Dark clothes, boots crossed over one another, he held up his caseless phone like he wanted you to check yours. Blinking into focus, you reach between you and Mingi to your back pocket, pulling out your phone, clicking it on to look at your home screen.

wooyo: can we talk wooyo: outside 

You pick your head up to look at Jongho, heart picking up speed in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the men around you in another conversation. He meets your eye, furrowing his brows for a split second and fuck you wish you could speak out loud.

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom,” you say quietly to Mingi, barely turning your head to see his face. 

His hand lifts from your thigh, “I have to leave soon.”

“That’s fine,” your voice is low, “wait until I get back so I can say goodbye.”

Don’t catch me outside talking to Wooyoung with half of your team in tow.

The restrooms are beside the exit, your escape is easy. On the far side of the building, you ignore how foul your heart feels in your chest, the pounding bass feeling like nerves instead of excitement. 

It’s still putrid, hot, humid, disgusting outside, it only adds to the feeling of wrongness. It feels like an eternity before you hear the scrape of his boots against concrete, the smell of cigarette smoke circling where you stood. 

“Hey,” his voice is low, casual, rough around the edges like that was his umpteenth cigarette of the day. His black tee is fitted, jeans baggy, one of his pantlegs tucked into a boot. He looked like danger personified but his skin still gleamed summer, bronzy and sparkling, pink dusting his cheeks. 

“Why did you want to talk?” Your voice is sharp, no room for it to be taken any other way than rude. 

Wooyoung chuckles a little, lips scrunching to blow smoke up into the air, above your bodies. He leaves room between you, enough for you to feel comfortable, but you’re sure there was a purpose. With him, there’s always a purpose. 

He flicks the butt, ashing on the concrete below, eyes trained on his own movements before they slowly trail up your body to meet your gaze, making a show of checking you out, it makes you sick. Kind of.

“You’re really dating him?” It’s between a statement and a question, two of his fingers bringing the cigarette back up to his lips. 

Your brows furrow, arms crossing tighter over your chest, “Yes?”

“We broke up a week ago, baby,” he chuckles, smoke escaping his mouth with each burst of breath, “that’s a little quick, don’t you think?”

“You’re one to talk,” your jaw clenches, standing straighter, “where’s your arm candy? Or did you cheat on her already?”

“She’s in there,” his voice is too light, so unbothered it genuinely pisses you off how fast your heart is beating. You wished you had a fraction of his nonchalance. “And I didn’t cheat on you, doll, we were never together in the first place.”

“Right,” you blow disbelief through your nose, rolling your eyes, body turning away from him, facing the parking lot that looked deserted even if it was packed with college kids inside. Turning your head only, you ask, “Why are you out here, Wooyoung? What do you want?”

“I still haven’t gotten my hoodie back,” his eyes are low, catching a honey bronze color in the sunlight, you hate how they steal your attention. 

You crack a nasty grin, “I burned that ugly fucking hoodie.”

Inside the cafe, Mingi has caught on easily. He watched Wooyoung stand about forty-five seconds after you left for the bathroom, he doesn’t need to look to understand what’s going on, where you are. For such a shitty plan, he can’t believe it’s working so well, it’s as if Wooyoung and Winter were falling into Mingi’s palms without him having to lift a finger.

He doesn’t mind having you around, it doesn’t feel like work. You’re funny, quick-witted and smart, so smart he wonders what your major is. He wonders a lot about you, your relationship with Jongho, what you do in your free time, what the hell you were doing sleeping with Wooyoung, of all people. In the small amount of time he’s spent with you, he already knows you deserve better than a fucking asshole like him, you deserve someone who will meet you on your level. 

Mingi wonders if there’s anyone on the team he can set you up with after the two of you break up. Looking around the table, there doesn’t seem to be any winners, maybe Seungmin could keep up with your banter, but Mingi thinks you might destroy him. Jaemin’s funny, but he’s stupid, he can't keep up with your smarts, he thinks Jaemin will irritate you before he entertains you. Maybe Chris, he’s smart, he’s a lot like Mingi, but he’s not one to date. 

You don’t need another fuckboy asshole taking advantage of you. 

It doesn’t matter, anyhow, maybe after your talk with Wooyoung the scheme will be cut short and everything will go back to normal. He won’t have to see you ever again, he’ll have Winter at his side and he can forget this ever happened, forget about you fully. Training, academics, practice, games. Playoffs are coming up– he hopes he’ll have Winter by then, cheering for him in the stands, wearing his jersey. 

“Hi.”

Eyes flickering upward to a voice he recognizes, he sits a little straighter when he sees the dark-haired beauty standing at the head of the table, holding two coffee cups, wearing the prettiest, shy smile. 

Winter. He could see his future like it was his past. 

“Hey,” Mingi keeps his voice steady, only letting his lips curve ever so slightly. “You need something?”

She shakes her head, pink kissing her round cheeks, she looks down at her shoes, toes knocking together. “Just wanted to wish you luck with playoffs. I know your conference game is next weekend, you must be stressed.”

Mingi swallows down his giddiness, she knows who he is? She’s standing here, at the table, in front of a quarter of his team, talking to him? Wishing him luck?

“Thanks,” Mingi nods, smile growing, “no stress, we’ve got it in the bag. You’ll be there?”

She nods, “Definitely, wouldn’t miss it.” Finally looking at the rest of the table, her eyes land on each one of his teammates, and he’s loving the way each man looks like they want to devour her. Little do they know, she’s his. Her voice coy and soft, she says, “Good luck to you guys, too.”

She made it clear she was only here for Mingi. 

He’d kiss her right now if he could. 

She winks at Mingi as she walks away, long lashes fluttering as she makes her way back toward where she was sitting with Wooyoung before, setting the plastic coffee cups down on the table. Straight posture, dainty fingers, hair shiny and long, cascading down her back, fuck, she’s perfect. 

“Your luck is crazy, Mingi,” Jaemin comments when she’s out of ear-shot, “Winter approaching when your girl goes to the bathroom? You’re one of God’s favorites.”

“Huh?” Mingi pops a brow before you pop into his mind again. “Oh, yeah,” he chuckles, shaking his head, “I really lucked out.”

“What are you gonna do?” Taehyun asks, “She wants you.”

Mingi scrunches his lips to one side, catching Jongho’s eye from across the table. Playing with the coffee cup on the table, spinning it in a circle between his fingers, he’s reminded who you are to Jongho. He can’t be openly disrespectful. 

Mingi answers plainly, “Nothing, I have a girlfriend.”

They all snort, table erupting in laughter like that was the most stupid thing that could have left his mouth. And Mingi guesses it is, Jongho knows who he is, that this is all a plan, a ploy, for the sole purpose of Mingi dating Winter. It doesn’t matter how it all unfolds. 

You startle him by barreling back to the table, barely sparing Mingi a glance as you grab your hoodie, your backpack, your headphones. Your eyes find Jongho across the table, flaring something panicked before looking back at Mingi, “I have to go.”

You don’t sound happy. Your jaw is clenched, your chest is flushed, your eyes seem glossy, Mingi finds himself concerned, internally questioning what the fuck happened outside.

“You okay?” He asks, body turning sideways, knees poking out from below the table. 

Wooyoung walks by behind you, not even looking as he leisurely strolls past, the smell of cigarette smoke following him like he was purposely leaving a trail behind.

“I’m fine,” you mumble, chest rising and falling in quick succession, “but I gotta go.”

Mingi, apparently out of his fucking mind, stands abruptly, stepping toward you with furrowed brows, “I’ll come.”

“No,” you answer harshly, then lick your lips, mouth tightening like you wished you could reel the word back in. “I’m sorry, I– I’ll text you, ‘kay?”

Your eyes find the table behind Mingi, everyone staring up at you, some with furrowed brows, some acting like they didn’t hear anything at all. You reach up to put your hands on Mingi’s shoulders, standing on your tippy toes to plant a small kiss on his cheek, then whisper, “Bye.”

Mingi’s dumbfounded as you haul ass out of Lucent. Backpack bouncing behind you, you rip the door open and leave the place like an intruder had just told everyone to put their hands up. His fingers find his cheek, though, confused as he is, he turns back to the table, all of his boys already staring up at him. 

“You’re fucked,” Seungmin says plainly, “she definitely saw Winter at the table, she’s pissed.”

Mingi sits back in the booth, eyes sliding to where Winter sits, meeting Wooyoung’s already-there stare. He’s smirking, eyes trained on Mingi while Winter is speaking to him, a hand on his shoulder, it makes Mingi’s top lip lift in distaste, he’s such a fucking asshole it makes him sick.

xxx-xxx-xxxx: next sunday xxx-xxx-xxxx: four highest ranked teams get a first round bye for playoffs

you: so youre planning to be top 4 i assume

xxx-xxx-xxxx: im planning to be top 1 fym

you: hmmmm

xxx-xxx-xxxx: idk how much time ill have between now and then tho xxx-xxx-xxxx: we might not be able to flex our fake relationship as hard

you: absence makes the heart grow fonder you: winter will be at the game tho you: think shell kiss you if you win???

xxx-xxx-xxxx: stop dont make me delusional bro xxx-xxx-xxxx: and dont steal my line

you: acting like you made it up is crazy you: saying been around for decades and here you go you: claiming it as your own

You’re smiling at your phone, not realizing you’re giggling while Jongho and Yeosang stare at you with pointed eyes from across the living room, the two sitting comfortably on Yeosang’s couch, laptops on their laps. You came over to catch up on schoolwork after Jongho left practice, not wanting to do it at your own apartment, plus, you had to catch them up on the newest development in the Wooyoung saga. 

Since you ended things, you haven’t really had time to process what happened. Quickly shoved into the fake dating scheme, you were focused on something shiny and new, you forgot to pay attention to the small part inside you that ached. Four months is a solid chunk of time, especially when most of it was over the summer where most of the campus wasn’t in attendance, the only thing on your agenda was your part-time job and Wooyoung. 

Despite having something shiny and new to focus on, the loss of him still hurts. Sleeping alone, not having anyone to touch, to kiss, to tell your work drama and have them fuck it better, despite being an avoidant asshole, Wooyoung filled a gap for you the entire four months you were ‘together’.

He spoke to you the other day like you meant nothing to him. Which you knew, but to have further confirmation in such a setting, standing outside your favorite coffee shop where the other woman sat just inside, it hurt. By the end of the conversation all your pent-up, repressed feelings rose to the surface, you needed to get the fuck out of there before you sobbed all over Mingi’s americano. 

Mingi. Fuck him, his pretty hair and strong body, fuck him for looking at you like he cared about your feelings. It’s all bullshit and it’s not what you need right now, you should be focused on doubling your pain and passing it straight back to Wooyoung. School should really be top priority, your weekly study group, your shifts on the weekend, your top priority should be your degree and making sure you’re stable. You didn’t think this plan would come with so much added shit. 

“Who are you texting?” Yeosang asks, green and black hair straight, tucked behind his ears, showing his piercings. He wore a dark sweater, ripped at the collar bone, jeans painted onto his legs, his pink bunny socks tucked beneath his body completely ruining the bad boy vibe. 

Yeosang’s never been a bad boy, he doesn’t have it in him. A soft lover boy, one that cares, one that sees what others don’t see, that’s who Yeosang is. 

Mindlessly, eyes still glued to your screen, you mumble, “Mingi.”

Jongho and Yeosang share a look. Jongho, face flat, looks over his laptop screen to you, “I still can’t get over seeing you two together.”

You look up, popping a brow, “Why?”

“You look too comfortable,” a very physical shiver runs through Jongho, ruffling his fitted white tee, gray sweats a contrast to the black couch, “it’s weird.”

“Are they friendly?” Yeosang asks Jongho, the two once again acting like you’re not in the room. You roll your eyes. 

“Very,” Jongho nods, then turns to look at you, “what’d I miss at that party?”

“What do you mean?” Your face morphs into confusion, small shakes of your head enforcing your bewilderment, “It’s weird because we aren’t ripping each other’s faces off? Can’t really do that in front of people who think we’re dating.”

Jongho’s face stays flat, eyes knowing, “How about the fake ass story of where you met? That was bullshit, you were bickering like you’ve known him as long as you’ve known us.”

You giggle again upon remembering, “Wait, that was funny because half his team thinks we met at the library, it’s like an ongoing bit–”

Jongho cuts you off, looking at Yeosang, “Do you see what I mean?”

Yeosang narrows his eyes, “Are you into him?”

“Do you think I’m a moron?”

“Yes,” they answer simultaneously. 

You scoff, “I don’t know why I hang out with you just to get verbally degraded.”

Looking down at your phone, you notice three more messages from the number you still refuse to save. 

xxx-xxx-xxxx: shut up who even are u xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u coming to the game? if shes there wooyoung will be too xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill give u my jersey to wear lmfao

“Do football players do this?” You ask, brows furrowing, showing Jongho and Yeosang your phone screen. Holding it over the coffee table splitting where you sat on the floor and the couch they occupied, you sat up on your knees as they bent over their laptop screens, squinting to read. 

“Give their jerseys out?” Jongho asks, still mid-read. 

You snatch your phone away when he starts to scroll, “Yes, fucker, is that normal?”

“Girl,” Yeosang makes a disappointed face, sitting back on the couch, “that’s standard.”

Your repulsion is physical, “Do you think he washes it?”

“It gets washed for him,” Jongho responds, “I’m surprised the staff doesn’t do all his laundry for him. If it weren’t for them, it wouldn’t get washed.”

“Do the staff really do that much?”

“He doesn’t really have to think,” Jongho continues, “he’s the star, the prized possession, vital to the football team, to the school’s popularity and income. They’d do anything he asked.”

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, processing each word out of his mouth, “there’s really a whole world out there I don’t know shit about.”

The two men laugh, Jongo harder than Yeosang, the younger man’s giggles high-pitched and shameless, “Have you not paid attention my entire football career?”

“No,” your answer is short, plain, “why would I?”

“Because there was a time we both played football and you were glued to us,” Yeosang answers, “there are some things you should probably know already.”

“Neither of you have had a girlfriend during the season!” Your voice is high-pitched, defensive, you bring your attention back to your phone. “You’re riding me for what right now, all of this will be over in like, two weeks, anyway.”

you: whatever football boy you: ya im coming

xxx-xxx-xxxx: cool xxx-xxx-xxxx: are u actually gonna wear my jersey

you: do i have to

xxx-xxx-xxxx: kinda

you: man you: whatever

xxx-xxx-xxxx: wow xxx-xxx-xxxx: i can feel ur excitement through the phone

“Are you bringing him to my gig?” You look up from your phone to see Yeosang already looking at you, “It’s at Eonian, so Wooyoung will definitely be there.”

You groan, throwing your phone to the side, stretching your body out as you lay down on the rug, whining. “Your shows are our time, Yeo.”

Bass player for his band, Yeosang playing shows on and off campus was a frequent event. Always somewhere lowkey, somewhere fun, you always went with Jongho, Jia or Riyo. Bringing a man, especially Mingi, would debase the entire meaning of Yeosang’s shows. You go to support him, not to keep tabs on Wooyoung all night or feel uncomfortable with Mingi attached to your hip.

“All that shit just happened with Wooyoung, though,” Jongho says matter-of-factly, “it’s smart to show up with Mingi on your arm. Where Wooyoung goes, Winter follows.”

You pick only your head up, squinting at him over the table, “Yeosang’s shows are off limits. I need to be able to scream my excitement freely, Mingi’s presence will hinder my enjoyment.”

“Whatever,” Yeosang sings, “it’s just one show, but okay.”

You whine, head banging against the floor beneath the rug as you lay it back down, “He’s busy, anyways. He just told me he won’t have time to hang before the conference game.”

“Yet here I am,” Jongho argues, “and at that show, I will be.”

You mumble a curse, “Whatever.”

Picking up your phone again, a notification from Instagram sticks out on your home screen, a message request. 

blondenbeautiful: Heard you’re dating Song Mingi? blondenbeautiful: Biggest joke i’ve ever heard LMFAO blondenbeautiful: Lying for attention is pathetic, I hope he sues you for defamation 

You sit up abruptly, eyes wide as you stare at the screen, “What the fuck?!”  

Seeing the fear in your eyes, hearing the shock in your voice, Jongho and Yeosang hop up from their spots, throwing their laptops to the side, racing around the coffee table to look at your phone screen. 

“Ew,” Yeosang huffs, “no way this is happening already.”

“What do you mean already?” You look at your green haired friend, shocked and confused.

“Turn off your DM requests,” Jongho adds, “fuck that, dude, fuck no.”

“I’m not turning them off,” you scoff, “that’s pussy shit. Her username is blonde n’ beautiful, Ho.”

You click on her profile, scroll through her feed, watch her story, she lives across the fucking country. You think this is what Yeosang meant when he said Mingi had refined taste; barbie dolls, rich bitch attitude, this was his typical. 

“Who cares about pussy shit?” Jongho’s brows are tied together, his eyes pleading, “That’s not the point. He has a fanbase of Warrior Barbies, have you even looked at his Instagram?”

Scrolling out of your requests and opening up the search bar, your eyes widen upon seeing his profile. You followed him already, probably from your freshman year, but he definitely didn’t have near fifty thousand followers back then, or so many posts professionally photographed. 

For some reason it’s this that opens your eyes, a chill racking down your spine. You knew how detrimental he was to the university, his level of popularity, but you didn’t think it was outside of your campus, too. He was popular, known, and it spread wider than you ever thought was possible for a guy who sings Trap Queen in sports house bathrooms.

Voice shaky, you whisper, “I feel like I’m in a who the fuck did I marry subreddit.”

Yeosang can’t help the laugh that escapes him, head dipping down with an amused breath, he snaps back to deadpanning in a second’s time. “You should turn off your requests before it gets worse.”

“I’m not even dating him for realsies,” you argue, “the insults are empty. None of them are true, so they don’t count.”

Jongho sits beside you, flopping down on the rug from where he was crouched, “I just don’t want them to get to you. The whole Wooyoung thing upset you enough, you don’t need social media harassment to put the cherry on top.”

“I’ll be fine,” you lock your phone, tossing it to the floor beside you, “that shit won’t bother me. I’m strong.”

“Yeah, alright,” sarcasm swims in Yeosang’s voice, “is it a crime to listen to us every once in a while?”

You sneer, “Yes.”

you: btw yeosang is playing a show friday at 10 you: at eonian on 4th ave you: woo and winter will be there

xxx-xxx-xxxx: just told u i dont have time

you: why are you acting like i want you there 

xxx-xxx-xxxx: ill be there

THIRD OUTING: EONIAN, FRIDAY. 9:42 PM

“Did you hire a personal stylist or something?”

You scoff, standing in your doorway, looking down at your own outfit. You supposed it was different for you, more stylish than you’d normally shoot for when going anywhere, let alone the dinky dive bar you’ve gone to a thousand times. The doormen have seen you in sweatpants, chain-smoking cigarettes because you had too much to drink, the bartenders have seen you in stained overalls, making out with a random person in the corner because you had too much to drink, you don’t know why you chose today, of all days, to put in an effort when everyone there has seen you at your worst. 

Looking at Mingi, he seemed to have the same idea. Although he always looked put together in a way, even if he was in sweats and a cutoff tank, it never looked necessarily bad. All black, leather jacket, boots, his hair styled away from his face, messily but purposeful, he looked good. Really good. It pissed you off. 

“Did your staff pick out that outfit for you?” You sneer, “I’m not used to seeing you without sweatpants on.”

“Insulting the man who came all the way here to pick you up,” he nods, bottom lip folded over in the most attitude-stricken look he’s ever given you, “smart.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, heels clicking against the floor as you step through the threshold of your apartment. “Let’s just go.”

Mingi’s car is ridiculous. Ever since seeing his stupid Instagram page, there seems to be a constant reminder everywhere of who he is, what he has. It still smelled new inside, black leather interior, red detail, gear shift looking untouched, pristine. Not a spec of dust on the dash or in the backseat that held only one black duffel bag unzipped, your instincts told you it could hold a lot more. 

“Have you been to Eonian?” You ask, turning your head to face him after he pulled out of your complex’s parking lot. 

Pressure forces you back into your seat as he picks up speed, knees shifting below the steering wheel, palm wrapped around the gearstick, his face goes unchanged. He leans his head toward you but doesn’t turn it, “Maybe once, why?”

“Just wondering,” your voice is pitched, shaky, eyes widened while you swallow down your heart that shot up so high you could taste it. Your fingers curl into your jeans, thanking god seatbelts exist in your head, you turn your head to the window so you could close your eyes in peace without being caught as a wimp. 

You hear him laugh after a second, a small, snarky giggle. The car slows and you can feel it in your chest, body sinking into leather, free to move as you please, your fingers uncurl from your pantlegs, shoulders slouching in relief. 

“My bad, should have warned you.”

“I want to survive,” you don’t let him hear the shakiness in your voice, keeping it laced with clear irritation, “if I died beside you I’d have to resurrect myself just to walk ten feet away and die there instead.”

“You’re really sweet, y’know that?” Sarcasm evident, he continues, “I can’t understand why Wooyoung would cheat on such a nice, kind girl.”

Your neck twists to eye him, gaze harsh enough to cut. What the fuck? “We weren’t even together, he didn’t cheat.” 

“Oh!” His laughter is punched, eyes condescending, lips half surprised and half amused, “Excuse me, he didn’t cheat, right. He didn’t want to date you at all.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” you mumble, head turning to face the window again. It rained earlier, there’s still droplets of water sprinkled on the glass, the gloomy evening looking like the pit in your gut, soggy, heavy, dark. “That’s why Winter rejected you.”

“Well she wants me now,” he adds and you can hear the stupid smirk in his voice.

You snap your head toward him again, “Where did that even come from?” 

“Did I strike a nerve?” 

Your jaw clenches, facing the window again, mumbling, “This isn’t even worth it anymore.”

He turns the music up, letting it fill the cabin of the car, you can barely feel the road beneath you, his car drives so smoothly. You can hear him switch gears, the roar of the engine picking up, the feel of force in your chest as his speed increases, your hair moving when he slows again, it’s torture.

It’s worse when you step out to go inside the bar, the ground bendy beneath you, feet unsteady on pavement. Your stomach feels icky, your chest heavy and weird, and to top it off, the cigarette-smoking-stupid-fucking-asshole is standing right outside the front door, talking to the bouncer, doused in leather and silver. You suck in a deep breath, straightening your back, part of you forgetting Mingi’s there as you start for the door. Maybe you just wish he wasn’t with you at all. 

Mingi calls your name, you don’t stop. A little firmer, a little louder, “Hey.” Jaw clenched, you stop in your tracks, the fur on your jacket whipping as you turn around. Lazily he strolls toward you, holding out a hand, to which you don’t grab. 

“Hold my hand,” he wiggles his palm a little, voice edged with annoyance, “come on.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Is it what I said in the car?” He lowers his palm, head tilting, “I’m sorry if I went too far, I won’t do it again. Now please hold my hand so we can go inside together, they’ll be watching.”

Shooting daggers at him, your hand peeks out from your sleeve, reluctantly reaching forward; he spreads out his fingers with a satisfied grin, tangling them with yours, palms pressed together. There’s a certain intimacy to holding someone’s hand, not something you do often, not something you’ve done in a very long time; yet there’s no warmth that spreads through you at the contact, no electricity that stems in the tip of your spine. Strictly business. 

Taking a step forward, he comments, “Your hand is clammy.”

“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes, “you have calluses, it’s gross, like sandpaper. Or cat tongue.”

Mingi smacks his lips together, walking in-step with you now, his head dipping down to hide how your words made him laugh. “You’re seriously deranged.”

It makes a smile claw at your lips, turning your head away so he can’t see the grin that fights its way to the surface. He squeezes your hand once like he can see through your wall of hair, snickering from beside you, by the time you get to the front door you’re both fighting to crack a smile like a pair of stubborn idiots. 

Tall and buff, a head of light brown, curly hair hidden beneath a snapback, the bouncer eyes you over your ID, then looks at Mingi, deadpanning, “Make sure she doesn’t get near a pack of Marlboro Reds tonight.”

Wooyoung is behind him now, smiling as smoke pours from the corner of his mouth, losing its opacity as it melts into the humid air around him. He’s quiet, but he watches as your face falls, then makes it clear he’s inspecting every article of clothing on your body.

“I’m not even a smoker, Minho.”

“Minho?” Mingi questions, head bobbing in surprise and confusion. He looks at you with a dumbfounded face, “Marlboro Reds?”

“Can we just go inside?” You tug on Mingi’s hand, he takes your ID back from Minho before following you inside Eonian, his brows still furrowed.

“I thought you said you don’t really come here,” Mingi sounds lost as you pull him inside the door, the smell of humid air and alcohol meeting your nose upon entrance.

You do a quick scan of the bar, mindlessly answering, “I’ve been here a few times with Wooyoung.”

“You’re on a first-name basis with the bouncer,” he hisses his argument, standing close to you now, leaning down just enough to whisper-yell it into your ear. 

Spotting Jongho in the far corner, just beside the stage at a table, your grin is finally real and takes over your entire face. “Yeah, well, he fucked my friend,” you pull him in Jongho’s direction, “I found Ho, come on.”

It takes longer than you thought it would to get across the crowded bar, you stopped three different times for Mingi to dap up strangers you’ve maybe seen before, all people who tucked Mingi into a quick hug with grins so bright it was as if they were meeting God. Antagonizing, remembering how many people love him, not that you showed your distaste as Mingi introduced you to every single person as his girlfriend, in which they all drank up your figure and complimented Mingi on how well he did scoring you. 

It almost made up for what happened in the car. Almost. 

Dick two inches bigger, you had more swag in your step as you dragged him to Jongho’s table, where he stood around the high-top wooden surface with two others beside him. Lee Minho, Lee Felix, tight-end, kicker. Felix, bright, blonde and bushy-tailed, stood a little shorter than Minho, who was everything dark and brooding, at least on the outside. Light seemed to return to his eyes when you approached the table, a small smile on your face, already in-character. 

Jongho looked less wary as you approached this time, a pink hue to his cheeks, shoulders slightly slouched, a tall beer on the table before him. It looks appealing, even for a beer, at this point you think you’d take a swig of whiskey just to ease the lingering weight in your chest. 

He notices your eyes lingering on his beer, he tugs it toward him, eyes pointed, “No.”

It makes a small laugh pass through your lips before you greet the table. Felix’s warm brown eyes seem brighter after Mingi introduces you, his freckled cheeks pink at the apples, “I’ve been waiting to meet you.”

“Me?” You’re still smiling, one brow popped, “Why?”

“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho is quick to answer as if that was now a title of sorts. 

Your head tilts, confusion spreading, Mingi’s hand slides to the small of your back, his pinky lining the hem of your jeans. The girl who tamed Song Mingi, your initial reaction is to laugh through the confusion, it comes out staggered, airy, uneasy. 

Felix is beaming, grin spread wide like excitement was oozing from his pores, “The whole team has been talking about you, they say you’re funny, and hot, which is clearly true.”

Now heat is spreading through you, smile shifting to something of a smirk, he’s pretty. Like a girl, in a way, blonde hair straight past his shoulders, you can tell there’s a lean, disciplined body beneath the oversized clothes on his body. Backwards hat, lips plump and rosy like he’d been kissing someone for hours, you wonder how hot he thinks you are. 

“Is your jacket from Anthro? I’ve been looking at it online, waiting for it to go on sale,” his eyes are on the faux fur on your shoulders, the jacket you thrifted ages ago for ten bucks, you have no idea what brand is on the tag. 

Gaydar going off, you ask, “No idea, wanna check?”

His eyes flare brighter, you don’t wait for his answer as you break away from Mingi’s heavy hand, walking around the table. You feel soft fingers moving your hair out of the way as your eyes lead to Jongho, “When does Yeo go on?”

“I think in twenty minutes or so,” he shrugs, bringing his beer up to his lips. 

You shiver when you feel the warmth of Felix’s fingertips at the base of your neck, “They’re late?”

Head down to allow Felix access to your tag, your eyes slide to look at the stage, lights on and empty. You got here right before ten, he should be going on any minute now. 

“Technical difficulties,” Minho comments in a sing-song tone, reminding you he’s also at the table. Taller than you, beefier than Felix, his elbows sit on the table, biceps straining the sleeves of his fitted tee. Dark hair, eyes feline, lips small and pouty, shit, he’s hot, too. 

You hum, storing the info for later, “I hope they play soon.”

“This is Anthro,” Felix gasps, “so cute, I want one.”

“I thrifted it a long time ago, if you ever want to borrow it, ask Mingi for my number,” you offer as you turn around, hands grabbing the hem of it to pull it forward, fixing where it sank backward.

Felix’s head turns to Mingi across the table, feigning a pout, “I like this one, can I keep her?”

In-character, Mingi shakes his head, a smooth, proud chuckle tumbling from his lips. “Sorry to break it to you, Lix, but that one’s mine.”

Mine. 

Hand holding didn’t get a reaction out of you, but a singular word makes your stomach curl. You barely remember the last time you were considered someone’s partner, significant other, girlfriend, you don’t know if you ever have been; you’ve been a fuck-buddy, a situationship, a friends with benefits, everything under the fucking sun besides owned. At least five, maybe six years it’s been since someone used the word mine to describe what you are to them, and back then it was purely adolescent, puppy-love at fifteen that made you feel lovesick instead of violently nauseous. 

“I need a drink,” you blurt, “from the bar.”

Mingi’s brows furrow, “Where else would you get one, princess?”

That fucking nickname. Your nose crinkles with disgust, you don’t even care about forcing a smile on your face or putting on a show, your irritation returns tenfold. Giving him a long, blank stare, you turn and beeline for the bar. 

Deep, shiny oak littered with splotches of wetness, signed receipts soaked, smudged and clinging to the surface, loose, skinny black straws thrown about the bar like some drunk idiot threw a handful in the air, it was a typical Friday night here. Elbows on the bar, you push yourself up by the ledge attached to the base, you keep your chest pressed above your folded arms so the sexy bartender would help you first. 

“What’s wrong?” 

You smack your lips again, but you don’t turn around. Just his voice is getting on your last nerve.

“Tell me what’s wrong, you’re acting bitchier than usual.”

You can feel the words in your spine. You snap your neck to the side, “Is that why it’s so understandable for me to get cheated on? Because I’m bitchy?”

“You’re still mad about that?” Mingi asks, sounding genuine. You hear him sigh before he forces himself between you and the guy standing beside you at the bar, someone shorter than him, smaller. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you say quietly, voice laced with venom, keeping your eyes on the tall bartender juggling bottles like they’re toys, his movements fluid. You attempt to telepathize with him, maybe he’ll hear your calls of his name in his mind.

“I thought we moved past that already,” he sighs, “you’re not even gonna look at me? I’m trying–”

“Why do you give a fuck?” You finally look at him and his brows are upturned, lips pouty, but that arrogance that’s embedded in him is so fucking clear you regret looking. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you. I’m here for Yeosang, you’re here to impress Winter, wherever the fuck she is. You should go find her.”

“Hey, baby,” you turn to find the bartender finally answering your calls, “he bothering you?”

“Yes,” you smile back, giddiness forming in the pit of your stomach. Slit through his eyebrow, buzz-cut bleached a sandy blonde color, he wears a mesh tank that sits loose on his skin, flowing with each movement. “But he’s paying, so I can’t escape him just yet. Wanna do a shot with me on his tab?”

You lean in closer, eyes low, smile playful. He chuckles, eyes sliding to Mingi and then back to you, “A shot with my favorite girl? Of course. Is he doing one too?”

You shrug, “Ask him, not me.”

You both look at Mingi whose brows are in his hairline, lips parted and slightly curled in a small sneer. It takes him a second to process Hyunjin’s staring at him with a question, he shakes his head slightly before reaching into his pocket, muttering, “Nah, I’m good.”

Hyunjin pours you your favorite drink before placing two plastic shot-cups on the bar, messily pouring liquor that spills onto the grated surface below, “Cheers, to Yeosangie.”

“To Yeosangie,” your grin spreads wide, clinking plastic before smacking them on the bar and shooting them back. “Thanks, Jinnie.”

“Anything for my favorite girl,” his voice is warm, almost as warm as his pretty brown eyes when he looks at you, it makes your insides feel fuzzy. He turns to Mingi who passes him his credit card with that same confused-annoyed look, but he stays quiet. Good. 

When Hyunjin walks away, he speaks, and you groan upon the first word leaving his lips. “You’re such a liar, you lied to me.”

“Whatever,” you huff, bringing the straw up to your lips. Fruity, bitter, strong, necessary. “You don’t need to know the truth all the time.”

Mingi’s shaking his head, an annoyed chuckle falling past his lips, “Is there anyone else here you’ve slept with that your boyfriend should know about?”

You shrug as he gets his card back, signing the receipt. You eye it to make sure he left Hyunjin a nice tip, which he does without a word from you. “I’ll let you know if any more show up, if you’re really that curious.”

“I’m sorry for what I said in the car,” he tries again, voice sounding strained, “I’m exhausted, the coaches are working me to the fucking bone with playoffs so close, and I’m here for you.”

Mine.

“You are not here for me,” you bite back, “you meant what you said in the car, don’t go back on it now because it pissed me off. You’re here for Winter and that’s it, Mingi. Like I said earlier, go find her.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No!”

“Fine!” You huff, “Then leave! I didn’t want you here to begin with.”

“You invited me!” He argues back, eyes blowing wide, “I came because you invited me. I picked you up after a three-hour practice. I skipped the second half of studying with exams soon to be here.”

Mine. Your chest constricts.

“You shouldn’t skip studying,” you mutter, “you can’t afford to, moron.”

“Yet I did,” his arms raising on either side of him, defeated. You look at him, really look at him, and you don’t know how you didn’t notice the bags beneath his eyes earlier, he hasn’t had that energetic, snarky-spark since he picked you up. 

The lights dim around the stage, music playing through the speakers silencing, the TouchTunes turned off. Mingi sighs, “Can we just watch the show? Wooyoung saw us, which means Winter's here somewhere. They’ll see us at some point.”

“Sorry for being a bitch,” you mumble, voice small, cheeks burning. 

A smile tugs at his lips, “I’m sorry for being a bitch, too.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, “Come on, it’s time to pretend you like me again.”

There’s a smile on your face when you groan, body falling beneath his arm, he walks you up towards the table again, through the crowd that parts for him as if he’s a celebrity, standing beside Jongho like he knows it’s where you’d be most comfortable. 

He pushes you in front of him as people start closing in, hands sliding down, hooking into your belt loops as Yeosang’s band walks out onstage. Excitement blooming, a grin breaks out across your face, head tipping back with a hand curled around your mouth to release a sharp, pitched whistle. 

Mingi echoes the noise, leaning forward to cheer for Yeosang, the back of your head touching his chest. Your head follows his body as he stands straight again, leaning on him with a smile etched into your skin, holding the plastic cup between your hands as the band takes their positions. 

Yeosang’s eyes scan the crowd, you follow where his gaze gets stuck, in the back corner, sitting at one of the high-top tables. She’s here, your eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight, warmth filling your chest, a semblance of pride. Good. 

“Who’s that?” Mingi leans down to ask in your ear. 

“Yeosang’s kind-of girlfriend,” you tear your eyes away from her to tilt your head up, looking at him. “Their relationship is weird.”

“Hm,” Mingi’s head tilts, “doesn’t look like Yeo’s type.”

“She’s exactly his type,” you giggle, “you should know that.”

A smile forms as he looks down at you, “I guess you’re right, don’t know why I assumed everything changed after he quit playing football.”

“Running-back-gone-stoner still likes his cheerleaders,” you sing, bringing your attention back to the stage, taking a sip from your drink. “He seems happier now that he doesn’t play anymore.”

“This is the most confident I’ve ever seen him and he hasn’t played a single chord yet,” Mingi adds, nodding his agreement. 

“He’s good,” there’s pride in your voice, “you’ll like their music.”

As if they could hear you, Jay strums his guitar, a striking chord that pulls the attention of the entire room. You squeal, turning your head to see Jongho who’s looking at the stage with the same amount of fondness and pride in his eyes that you wore, the same feeling you have every time you see Yeosang on stage. 

Their opening song is one original out of three, the rest covers. You know every word, singing along with Jay, their lead singer and guitarist, head bopping to the beat. 

Mingi doesn’t know where to look. Yeosang, who was once his good friend, onstage, or you, smiling, giggling and dancing between his arms. It’s only the third time you’ve been out in public together, but with all the texting, the updates you send each other throughout the day, the constant banter, there’s a feeling in Mingi’s chest he can’t really explain. 

He’s not into you. But there’s an urge in his consciousness somewhere, to keep you close, to protect you, it makes him fucking cringe every time the thoughts cross his mind. You’re not friends, you won’t stay in contact after your alignment fulfills its purpose, it’s something he reminds himself after he thinks about you for just a little too long.

He’s tired. His bones ache, his eyes feel heavy, there’s a slouch in his shoulders he doesn’t have the strength to straighten. Your energy bleeds into him, he’s found himself going along with you the entire time you’ve been associated, as if he’s a horse you’re leading to water. So he keeps his mindless grin, a hand steady on your hip since you jumped his fingers out of your belt loops, he holds your drink with the other, keeping his palm blanketed over the open top. 

He’s never seen you so happy. 

He’s seen you angry, irritated, maybe he’s made you laugh once or twice now, but it’s nothing compared to the joy on your face now, how your body moves out of excitement. It’s not the liquor, it’s Yeosang onstage, who plays so well and looks so fucking cool Mingi finds himself a little jealous, a feeling he pretends isn’t there as soon as he recognizes it. The way you care for him, for Jongho, it adds to the list of things he keeps learning about you, like layers of a fucking onion. 

You come to Eonian. Often. You know the bouncer, the bartender, Mingi can’t figure out why you lied. He wonders what else you’ve lied about– what more he can learn about you just by sharing space. He wonders about Wooyoung, what he said to you outside of Lucent, what made you so nervous and eager to leave. He wonders why you wanted to fake-date in the first place, if Wooyoung has done worse than cheat, if that’s why you want revenge so deeply. 

The way your eyes wander across the room, finding Wooyoung and Winter, his arms thrown over her shoulders, keeping her close. How they sway together, Winter’s fingers holding onto his forearms, a small smile on her face, cheeks pink. It makes your movements smaller, the bubble of excitement surrounding your being dwindles to a flicker, you turn around and ask Mingi for your drink. 

“No,” Mingi shakes his head.

Your face contorts, “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“You don’t need to drink because you’re upset,” he keeps his voice low, “liquor isn’t going to help.”

“I’m not upset,” you sound defensive, which only confirms what Mingi’s thinking is true. “I’m at a bar watching my best friend kill it onstage, why would I be upset?”

Your brows are furrowed, lips pouty, the gloss you wore faded by now, leaving a pinkish stain behind. There’s heat in your cheeks, a pretty flush, he hates the realization that determination in your features is kind of cute.

“Come here,” Mingi offers, placing your drink on the table behind him before twisting you back around by your hips, throwing his own arms over your shoulders, tucking you into him. 

You squirm, making a whiney noise, shifting your shoulders and looking down to untuck your hair where it got trapped against Mingi’s body. “You’re fucking huge,” you mumble, soft fingers coming up to hook around his forearms, Mingi can’t tell if it’s a compliment, but it’s definitely not an insult. 

“You have no idea,” he smirks to himself. 

You groan, “Stop saying shit like that to me.”

“Why?” Smiling, his tone comes out playful, “Curious?”

Your head tilts back to look up at him, eyes pointed, lips bent in a frown. “No.”

“Liar,” Mingi smacks his teeth, “all you’ve done tonight is lie.”

“Like I said,” you bring your attention back to the stage, “you don’t always need to know the truth.”

“So you admit you’re curious.”

“No!”

Mingi chuckles, squeezing you with his arms clamped around your front. You stay there for the rest of the show, in Mingi’s hold, head pressed to his chest, your eyes don’t wander again. They stay locked on Yeosang onstage, singing along to each song. At one point you and Mingi started swaying together when he recognized one of the covers they performed, singing along with you. 

“You two are so fucking cute,” Felix comments when Yeosang’s band runs off the stage after bowing to the crowd. Mingi finally let you go at that point, where you attached to your iced-down drink like a moth to a flame. 

“Yeah?” Mingi smiles at Felix before jumping into action when you bring the straw to your lips. “Don’t drink that, I didn’t have eyes on it. I’ll get you another.”

You pout, but you let him pull the straw away from your lips, “Boo.”

“What’d you think of the show?” Jongho asks, a little drunk now, Mingi thinks, as he smacks a hand on his shoulder. 

Mingi’s grinning again, nodding his head, “They’re good, Yeosang is really talented.”

You squeal again, stealing his attention, “Isn’t he? He’s so fucking talented, he makes me so jealous. I wish I could play an instrument.”

Cute. He doesn’t think before reaching up to ruffle your hair, “You’re talented at lots of stuff, princess.” He doesn’t know why he said it, he doesn’t even know what you do in your free time. He blames it on it feeling right. He’s tired. 

You quickly fix your hair, mumbling, “Motherfucker.”

It makes Mingi’s grin spread wider. Weird, how your insults are starting to feel like compliments. 

“Are you coming to the conference game?” Minho asks, and your brows perk up at the attention, that smooth smile appearing on your cheeks, the one you use when you look at any one of his teammates. Anyone you find attractive, actually, he’s noticed. 

You nod, “I’ll be there, supporting Jongho.”

“Not your boyfriend?” Minho asks, popping a brow.

“Oh shit, yeah, Mingi too,” you nod, “duh.”

He has to fight his laugh, lips tying together. You meet his eye, the look of him biting back his laugh, and crack a stupid smile at the sight. “You ready to go?” You ask, brows lifted.

Mingi’s neck cranes in confusion, “You don’t wanna wait for Yeo?”

“He has people to see,” you say casually, but Mingi knows who. “Plus, you’re tired, and you need to study before bed.”

Hesitantly, seeing the honesty in your eyes, no disappointment evident, Mingi nods. “You’re right.”

“The girl who tamed Song Mingi,” Minho sing-songs, and Mingi’s neck snaps to glare. He hates that nickname, the way they use it in the house, in practice, how it rolls off his teammates tongues with a sneer. Minho’s smile is devilish, daring; he’s one of Mingi’s only teammates that doesn’t suck-up to him completely. It’s not the right time or place to berate him for it.

You say your goodbyes politely and grab Mingi by his hand, pulling him towards the crowd, in the direction of the exit. Mingi ignores everyone who tries to steal him for a chat, giving small smiles, nods, waves of acknowledgement, but he lets you drag him all the way to the exit, where you give the bouncer, Minho, a small wave goodbye. 

A little colder now, enough to rack a chill down Mingi’s spine, you stop in your tracks when you open the exit door. Winter is pressed against the wall of the building, Wooyoung’s hand over her head, forehead touching hers. He plants his lips against hers once before realizing he has company. 

“Leaving so soon?” He’s smirking as he tucks his arm back into himself, standing straight, turning to face the two of you. “Yeosang played a good show.”

Winter’s eyes locked on Mingi, widened, pupils dilated like she didn’t want to be caught where Mingi had indeed caught her. She swallows, licking her lips, fixing the baggy denim on her legs as she stands straighter, moving slightly behind Wooyoung as if it’d put her out of Mingi’s eyesight. 

“He always does,” your voice is cold, venomous. No warmth at all. 

Wooyoung’s eyes find Mingi, taking a second to look him up and down. “Nice outfit, different for you.”

Mingi pops a brow, “Because I’m not in a jersey?”

“Sure,” Wooyoung nods, then moves his eyes to you. “Same goes for you, doll. Find my hoodie yet?” 

Your fingers flex at your side, fist clenching, “I told you I burned it.” 

Wooyoung chuckles, arm lifting for Winter to tuck herself into his side, it makes Mingi grimace. Gross. He’s slimey, the energy he gives off, Mingi can’t understand what the fuck girls see in him in the first place. 

“Did you see Hyunjin inside?” Wooyoung asks, “He asked me about you, said your little plaything was bothering you.” Wooyoung looks at Mingi again, “I take it that’s you? But you’re her boyfriend, right?” 

Mingi’s brows furrow, but you speak up before he can open his mouth. “Don’t speak to Hyunjin about me or Mingi. The only plaything you have to worry about is the one under your arm.”

Winter straightens, brows furrowing, “I’m the plaything? Me?”

“What do you think he’s gonna do with you when he’s bored?” You laugh a little, eyes so piercing it renders Mingi silent, all he can do is stare. “Toss you to the side, just like he did with me. There’s another one, you know, it’s never just you.” 

Wooyoung tucks her closer, his features devoid of all amusement, back going rigid. “Lying, huh? Just ‘cus you’re butthurt? Always leads to lies, you haven’t changed one bit.” 

“You’ll never change,” you whisper, but the chilly air is quiet enough that it hits its mark. “When she calls, you’ll run back to her, it doesn’t matter who’s occupying your boredom at the time.” Your eyes find Winter, “You’ll see. I feel bad for you.” 

Mingi, confused, watches Winter’s face fall, the slow realization that there’s not a lick of jealousy in your voice, just sheer honesty. His head bobs back and forth between the two of you, but he grabs your wrist when steam starts pouring from your ears. “Time to go, baby. Come on.” 

You pull your wrist away from him, tucking it into your chest, keeping your eyes steady on Wooyoung who doesn’t falter for a moment. A staring contest of sorts, it makes Mingi feel nervous, uncomfortable at the least.

“Time to go,” Mingi reiterates, voice heavier, hands on your waist now. “It’s not worth it. I’ll take you home, c’mon.” 

It takes you a second to turn your head away from Wooyoung as Mingi starts pulling you away, but once you’re out of eyesight, in front of Mingi’s build that engulfs you whole, the shakes begin. Your fingertips, your shoulders, your teeth chatter in your fucking skull. 

“In the car,” he’s whispering, encouraging, ushering you into his passenger seat. “There you go,” he closes it behind you, making sure you’re tucked inside. 

When he’s behind the wheel, engine roaring to life, he takes a second to gather his bearings. He turns to you slowly, only his head, and you’re staring into nothing, body still shaking. It makes him swallow, nerves etching into his vision. 

“Are you okay?” He asks, because it’s the only thing he can think of. He doesn’t know how to comfort you. You hum an agreement, a slight nod of your head, it does nothing to ease the discomfort in his chest. His lips tighten, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “What just happened?”

You shake your head, still staring into space. Voice small, battered and broken, you whisper, “I don’t know.”

Mingi feels something swirling in his gut, something foul. Like before a big game, when he isn’t positive he’s going to win. Voice low, he asks, “What actually happened between you?”

“He didn’t just cheat on me with Winter,” you finally look down at your lap, “there’s another girl. I don’t know who she is, what she looks like, I just know she exists. She’s like, the girl version of him, she made him like that.”

Mingi’s brows furrow, but you keep talking after a deep, shaky breath. “He called me a liar, I am a liar.” You shake your head, staring at your lap. “I lied to everyone when I was with him. I lied to him, I lied to myself, not to mention Jongho and Yeosang.”

“Why?” 

“Because it’s easier that way,” you finally look at Mingi, eyes glassy, pupils dilated, “if I told the truth, I couldn’t be held accountable for my own actions.” When you notice his confusion, you laugh, a short, disbelieving chuckle. “I knew about her the whole fucking time, the nature of their relationship, I even tried competing with her at one point.”

When Mingi asks why again, you sigh. “I think because I knew I’d never win. Him and I would never be real no matter how hard I tried, and that was safety to me, in a way.”

“I don’t understand,” Mingi sinks into his seat, carefully peeling back another layer. 

You shake your head again, silent for a moment. “Have you ever wanted something so bad that it terrifies you?”

“All the time.”

“This is gonna sound self-deprecating, don’t make fun of me or else I’ll fucking kill you,” you start, and Mingi’s lips curve at the corners, but he nods. “That’s how I feel about relationships, or being loved, I guess. I want it, but do I deserve it?”

Mingi’s brows furrow again, “Do you deserve it?” You blink at him, and he shakes his head in confusion, “Who cares? You want it, don’t you?”

Mingi swears your eyes get rounder, your lips plumper. He’s never seen you look so… delicate. Small, vulnerable, like your walls have crumbled away and left what’s at your core bare for him to see. 

“I do,” you whisper, staring at him, into him, he feels just as bare as you. He feels the moonlight pouring into the cabin, he hears the light hum of his idling car, and he realizes he hasn’t been in this position in a long, long time. 

His relationship with women has been strict since… her. Transactional, never more, never less. Give and take. He doesn’t make friends, he doesn’t form bonds, he does nothing more than fuck– when’s the last time he had a real fucking conversation with a woman? When’s the last time his chest has felt so twisted from emotion?

He stares back, eyes dropping to your lips for a millisecond. Glossy, from the spit you swiped over them with your tongue moments prior, plump and opaque with color. This is the longest you’ve gone without arguing since the moment you met. This is the first time he’s looking at you so clearly, seeing you as more than a means to an end. He swears he can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Take what you want,” Mingi whispers back, “who gives a fuck about being worthy of it?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, “That’s easy for you to say, you get whatever you want.”

“Not everything,” he shifts in his seat, sinking down, stretching out his legs as much as he can. “Not even a lot, actually.”

When your brows furrow, he makes a face like he doesn’t want to keep going, but he does anyway. “I don’t have control over anything in my life. What I eat, how I train, how much I sleep, what I do in my free time, that’s all coordinated by someone else. Dating you is the most freedom I’ve had in years.”

“They don’t do whatever you say?”

“I do whatever they say,” he corrects you, lips flattening. “I don’t have to think if I don’t want to, and I fucking hate it. I’m a twenty-one year old man that doesn’t do anything for myself, it’s suffocating. Like I’m a puppet.”

Your lips are tucked between your teeth, swept to the side, head tilted. “I thought it was the other way around. Are they mad you’re… dating me?”

Mingi laughs a little, “More than mad. Consequences-mad.” 

You gasp, leaning forward, palm planted on the center console. “Then why are you still doing it?”

“Because I want to,” he’s looking at you now, “for once, I’m doing something I want, and I’m having fun.”

“You’re having fun with me?” Your smile makes Mingi feel like he’s just handed you a thousand dollars. “For realsies?”

Chuckling, nodding, Mingi nods, “For realsies, princess.”

You sit back in the passenger seat, body deflating dramatically, head sinking to the side, silly smile still on your lips. Looking up at him through your brows, you say, “I’m having fun with you, too.”

Mingi doesn’t understand why the sentence fills his stomach with… butterflies, like you’d just said the words he’s been waiting the whole night to hear. He pushes the feeling down, shifting himself upward, finally plugging his phone into the car’s speaker system. “You ready?”

“Yes,” you nod, sitting up, pulling the seatbelt over your torso. “Drive nicely though, please, or else I might throw up.”

FOURTH OUTING: CONFERENCE GAME, SUNDAY. 7:02 PM.

Bass pumps through the stadium, so deep and booming you can feel it in your heels that touch the concrete beneath you, it vibrates through the navy blue, plastic chair you sat on. Only in a mini-skirt, your thighs sat bare against the cool, hard chair, a relief in contrast to the humid air that rudely asks you to put your hair up. 

In the tenth row, just above the fifty-yard line, your view was immaculate. Just above where the players stood on the field, you could see the field, the players clearer than you ever have, Jongho always gifted you and Yeosang nosebleeds. A routine, up in the stands, guzzling beers because what else was there to do if you couldn’t see? You’d trust the commentator with a tall-boy of Miller and pretend you were enjoying it until you got drunk enough to not care, and to you, that was the true college football experience. 

But here, almost eye-level with Mingi who lines up directly under center to take the snap, this was different. Dark hair covered by his kelly-green helmet, the only reason you knew it was him was because of his last name and the number eighty-eight on his back. 

It mirrored the one on your back, the kelly-green jersey that offset his white one, it hung more than oversized in your body, off one shoulder, tucked into your skirt. You haven’t seen Mingi in a week, and when Yeosang delivered it to you this morning the pang of disappointment in your chest was so uncomfortable you pretended you didn’t feel it.

“Mingi gave it to Jongho who gave it to me to give to you.” 

Yeosang threw the jersey onto your couch, oversized and… green. So green you looked down at the jersey then back up to Yeosang’s head of hair, a smirk crawled onto your cheeks. Yeosang squinted, “Don’t.”

“Oh, you can make fun of me, but I can’t make fun of you?” A hand on your hip, one knee bent, you exuded nothing but attitude. You took a step forward to pick the jersey off your couch, held it up in the air in front of you by the shoulders, “Can dish it out but can’t take it, huh?”

The mini-skirt in your closet you haven’t been able to face since sometime last year popped into your brain, a tall pair of boots you already started mentally picturing with the outfit. It looked good enough in the mirror, his jersey hung off your shoulder, you did a little twirl in the mirror to see how it swayed with your movement. 

A smile was stamped onto your cheeks when you glanced at your back in the mirror, reading a very clear Song written above the number 88. After noticing the grin, you forced your lips flat, arms straightening at your sides. You turned back around, lips tucked in as you ran your palms over the jersey, blowing a sharp breath through curved lips, then left your bedroom once more. 

You kind of missed him, which was a strange pit-in-your-stomach feeling you didn’t let yourself think too much about. You haven’t seen him in a week, not since your explosion on Wooyoung at Eonian, he’s been too busy with this game approaching, strategizing, practicing, training. Not seeing him after sharing something vulnerable with him, something you haven’t even shared with the green-headed-motherfucker in the room just to get something vulnerable in return, you felt strangely closer to him. Like maybe you two could actually be friends. 

Silly thought. Silly you.

He stands crouched on the field, your chest still heaves from cheering when his name was announced throughout the stadium, excitement vibrating through you as much as when bass bled through your skin. The stadium looks bigger from down here, more open, yet there was less air to fill your lungs, to ease the discomfort in your chest. 

There were messages in your DMs, more messages now than when you entered the parking lot to tailgate. You read the first ones upon your first step through the wired, silver gates, not telling Yeosang who was already slurring his words because it didn’t matter. The messages have never grown too personal, nowhere close to a threat, until today. 

Don’t go to the game today. 

His minions, the army assembled of Mingi-lovers who haunted your requests folder, you wonder what they’d think if they knew you weren’t really together. If they knew Mingi only looked at you affectionately in public. You wondered what they’d think if they looked at your text thread, if they saw the slew of insults you threw at each other on a daily basis, between the updates with time stamps because Mingi said it’s proof he’s busy. 

Now, there were more.

Thought we told you not to go We saw you tailgating. Should we expose you for cheating on him? In his jersey too, you must be fucking stupid Drinking beer, so trashy Don’t you think you eat enough?

A tall-boy in the cupholder across from you, a cup of cheese fries split between you and Yeosang, a fucking hotdog in your hand. This was normal, this is what you always did, what you always fucking ate when you came to these games. You looked behind you, the crowd was busy talking to each other, laughing, drinking, eating, there were no eyes on you. You couldn’t figure out who was looking at you. Who was waiting. 

Unsettling isn’t the word for how uncomfortable being seen was, when you didn’t want to be.

The game begins and you attempt to force yourself into focusing. Yeosang, drunk and belligerent beside you, luckily didn’t notice your discomfort, you don’t think he’d notice if you dropped a fucking brick on his head right now. You pull out your phone when focusing proves impossible, rereading your last text thread with Mingi again, the only thing keeping you from grabbing Yeosang by the scruff and dragging him out of the stadium. 

xxx-xxx-xxxx: come down to the field when games over xxx-xxx-xxxx: go down the stairs inside, tell security ur name. they should let u through

you: okay you: play good or else ill cheer for jongho

xxx-xxx-xxxx: come on now xxx-xxx-xxxx: whos name is on ur back

you: some guy you: streets are calling me mrs. song

xxx-xxx-xxxx: wait that has a nice ring to it xxx-xxx-xxxx: if u see winter let her know what her future looks like

you: i hate you you: break a leg

xxx-xxx-xxxx: i dont think u say that for football

you: no like i hope you break your leg

xxx-xxx-xxxx: oh bro fuck u xxx-xxx-xxxx: dont say that before a game xxx-xxx-xxxx: asshole

you: go stretch or something stop texting me

You haven’t seen Winter, you haven’t seen Wooyoung. You didn’t see them in the parking lot, either, where you tailgated with not only Jia and Riyo, but Mingyu, Seokmin, Hoshi, Dino and Seungkwan. Nine of you taking up two parking spots, drinking beside Mingyu’s ninety-six Ford pickup, playing pong with the table he brought in the truck bed, sitting in folding chairs, watching from the roof panel. 

Riyo claims they’re the only people she could convince to tailgate. You think they’re the first and only people she tried convincing, especially since she’s hooking up with Seokmin on the DL, but you’d believe there’s some truth to it just because Mingyu’s the easiest person to convince of anything on the planet. You can remember convincing him chocolate milk comes from brown cows and strawberry milk comes from pink cows– he was elated to find out photoshop-generated pink cows exist in real life. 

Tall, buff, bronzy and handsome, he was the first one to refer to you as Mrs. Song with a slippery smirk and a wiggle of his brows. For the entire two hours you tailgated, you don’t think you heard your name once; like parrots, once one of them says something, the rest follow. 

It was nice to be friendly with him, even if you eyed him up with a smirk of your own two or twenty times, advances only understood by him, and each time you remembered whose name and number was painted on your back and forced your face to fall. 

Boring. 

“That pass was,” Yeosang hiccups, “disgusting.”

You lock your phone, picking your head up, “I missed it, what happened? Disgusting good, or disgusting bad?”

“Good,” Yeosang nods, watching the game with a different, analytical eye, “Mingi’s so fucking good.”

“Do you ever miss playing?” You ask, tucking your phone into your pocket, picking up your beer to take a sip. Cringing, you wish you’d drank more at the tailgate.

“Of course,” he says like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked, “but I don’t regret quitting. Everything is better now.”

You can hear the liquor in his voice, it makes you crack a smile. Taking advantage of the situation, you lean in a little closer, “Do you miss her cheering you on?”

With his feet propped up on the empty chair in front of him, body lazily strewn in his own chair like it was deadweight, it might be, the way he only turns his head to look at you. “You don’t think she cheers for me anywhere else?”

Your top lip curls, leaning backward, putting space between you. “I don’t know if I should take that in a sexual way or not.”

Yeosang snorts loudly, head dipping back like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore, “You saw her at my show last week. She was cheering me on like she didn’t give a fuck who saw, it was awesome.”

“Good,” you nod, turning back to the field, eyes closing in on the pretty cheerleader dressed in little to nothing, green and white pompoms in her hands. Whispering, watching her, you nod again, “Good.”

Checking your phone again, you see more DMs, but you don’t open them. Ignorance is bliss, you tell yourself as you sit rigid up until halftime, where the cheers and boos from the crowd went right over your head the entire time. Twenty minutes to pee, buy another beer and more cheese fries because you should’ve eaten before you fucking came and you didn’t.

On edge, speed-walking through the crowds in the concourse, your eyes worked a mile-a-minute to scan every face you saw, to analyze if anyone was looking at you a certain way. It’s terrifying, knowing someone is watching, not knowing who, or from where. You stared above you, through the cracks in the stall doors while you peed, you kept an eye on your surroundings while you bought another beer, more cheese fries. 

Maybe you should turn off your requests, you think as you sit back down in your seat, Yeosang leaned sideways with his head in his fist, eyes half-open.

“Are you alive?” You ask with a laugh as you sit down, handing him another tall-boy can, “Here, got you another beer.”

He resurrects like the second coming of Jesus, eyes wide and brows lifted like you’d woken him from hibernation. Back straightening, he grabs the can from your hand, sucking in a breath, “You’re my best friend.”

You laugh as you sit back in your seat, tucking your skirt beneath your thighs, the game had already begun again while you were up in the concourse. Peeking up at the scoreboard, seeing nine-zero clear as day, your head snaps to Yeosang, “When the fuck did that happen?”

“Mostly in the first quarter,” his voice is heavy with carbonation, he closes a fist over his mouth in an attempt to silently burp into it, a failed attempt. 

You snicker at the sound, giggling through your words, “Who?”

“Haechan, Jaemin.”

“Jaemin’s a kicker?”

“Him and Felix.”

“Ah,” you nod, taking a sip of your own beer. Turning to him again, you ask, “Haechan’s the whiney one with the red hair?”

“Wide receiver,” Yeosang nods, “and a good one. Mingi’s passes are perfect, though, can’t give Hyuck all the credit.”

“Hyuck?”

“Haechan.”

“Oh,” you mumble, searching the field again. Mingi looks so much bigger with all the padding on, bulkier, you can see his chest heaving despite the layers, his run turning to a slowed drag of his legs as he walks towards the edge of the field. 

Arms flexing as he pulls his helmet off his head, he shakes his hair back, running a gloved hand through the sweaty strands, away from his face. It’s like slow motion, his shoulders pushed back, lips parted, jaw clean and angular, teeth poking out from beneath his top lip. 

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, he looks hot. Fuck him. 

That clean smirk lifting his lips on one side as he shakes hands with another one of his teammates, you don’t care to figure out which one, you can’t take your eyes off him. He tilts his chin up, keeping that same cocky smirk as he says something too far for your ears to catch, his eyebrows twitching upward. Shit. 

Your stomach rumbles something unwelcome, a feeling of interest, sweat prickling at the back of your neck that isn’t from the humidity in the air. You know he’s hot, you knew he was hot before you started fake-dating him, you quickly remind yourself who he is. A narcissistic asshole, a misogynist, a lonely twenty-one year old that doesn’t have the freedom to make decisions for himself. One that likes spending his free time with you, one that laughs at your jokes, one that throws his arm around your shoulders, tucking you into his side like there’s no other place he’d want you. 

Mine. 

You shake your head, turning to Yeosang again, “You know how I said I got those DMs the other day?”

Yeosang blinks in half-focus, “Kinda, why?”

“Nevermind,” you shake your head, sighing. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Can I have a fry?” He asks, giving you puppy eyes, you hand him the cup of cheese fries without looking at him. 

By the grace of God, as if you fucking summoned her with damning thoughts, walking into the row before yours, sitting in the seat directly in front of Yeosang, is Winter.

Where the fuck is Wooyoung?

Yeosang stiffens, a cheese fry halfway in his mouth, he pulls his feet back down to the concrete, mumbling apologies through his already-full mouth. Winter is everything polite, she gives him a warm smile, tucking her skirt beneath her as she sits into the seat. Slowly she drags her hair to one side as she relaxes in the plastic, body not hitting the backrest, giving you a full, front-seat view of Song and 88 on her back. 

Your lips part, eyes widening as you read it, you blink once, twice, six fucking times and the name and number doesn’t change. It’s a jersey bought from the school store, not official like the one on your back, but she’s fucking here, in front of you, with your boyfriend’s name and number on her fucking back. 

“Excuse me,” you lean forward, heart beating out of your chest, brain spewing words onto your tongue and not one of them is nice. 

She turns like she’s surprised, brows lifted, “Hm?”

“Your jersey?” You tilt your chin, what the fuck else would you be asking about?

“Oh,” she grins, cheeks pink, a hand coming up to cover her mouth like she’s fucking bashful. “I’m just a huge fan.”

“Right,” you say slowly, eyes thinned to shoot daggers, nodding like this shit does not add up. 

Yeosang rests a heavy hand on your back, you turn your head to look at him still shooting missiles from your eyes and his face is twisted up to say what the fuck are you doing?!

Your face snaps back into reality, quickly straightening in your seat, pupils shaking beneath your lids and lips pursed hard enough to bruise, an embarrassing heat turns your body to lava. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you feel nothing but the mortifying pulse of your own heartbeat, what are you doing? What the fuck was that? This is the whole point. 

You’re going insane, that’s the only answer, the only reason for what you just did. The DMs, sitting in seats he got you because they’re the best view, having eyes on you somewhere in the crowd, remembering how he looked at you from the driver’s seat of his car, telling you to go get what you want just because you fucking want it. It's all going to your head. 

You need to break up. Now. 

You don’t see the rest of the game. You don’t hear the music, the sirens of triumph, the roars of the crowd, you don’t even process that they won until you’re standing up, clapping, staring out at the field with your face utterly blank. This is fear. This is real, genuine, raw fucking fear. 

“Let’s go,” Yeosang is tugging on your arm and your gaze is elsewhere, confused, your mind somewhere along with it. 

You tug your arm back, “Go where?”

“Down to the field?” Yeosang furrows his brows, “Are you okay?”

“Oh,” you give him a weak smile, “yeah, ‘m fine.”

You’re gliding up the stairs into the concourse, fuzzy finding the staircase to lead you back down, you’re shaking your head, trying to snap yourself out of it before you reach the bottom platform. There’s a man shuffling around like he was waiting for bodies to approach, earpiece connecting to a small black box clipped onto his slacks, a black polo to match, his face reading focus, professionalism. You mumble yours and Yeosang’s names and he lets you through with a stretch of his arm, you heave another breath when the LED lights come into view at the end of the tunnel. 

The field is vast, it’s warmer down here, the air is wet. Bodies seem to cover every inch of sideline, cameras, lights, people with clipboards and hats on their head with your university’s logo, you’re too aware of your fingers at your sides. 

You spot him and he’s smiling, laughing as he talks to an interviewer, already standing before a camera, it makes your heart drop to your asshole. You shuffle closer to Yeosang who’s already on the hunt for Jongho, you’re sure he doesn’t want to be caught down here by his old coach or any of the staff, if they’d even recognize his bright green hair. 

“You’re down here?” Jongho finds you before you find him, brows furrowed, hair sweaty and chest heaving, he wears confused brows and a winded smile. 

Chest puffed from padding, sweat dribbling down his forearms that aren’t covered by nylon, you actually feel a semblance of relief when you see him. “Mingi invited me, I wasn’t coming without Yeo.” 

“Oh,” his smile spreads, “how was it?”

Yeosang claps his hand, throwing another on his shoulder, “You’re a fucking boulder, wish I was down here with you.” 

Jongho looks confused, “Are you drunk?”

Your eyes travel, landing on Mingi, who catches you just as you look over. You see him brighten, smile widening, a sparkle in his eyes that makes your stomach do flips. Fuck. 

You watch him mouth the words excuse me, nodding his head before escaping the press, running over to you with that stupid fucking smile you might have seen in your dream last night. 

“You came!” He yells when he gets close enough to pull you into his chest, acting as if his sweat didn’t soak through his padding. Huge, massive, he swallows you, it makes your knees weak. 

You verbally cringe, muttering a noise of disgust before pulling away, “I was right, you smell like wet dog.” 

“Beautiful woman,” he corrects, face reading amusement, “like you in my jersey, green looks good on you, princess.” 

Your eyes meet the turf beneath your boots, “You don’t have to say that, no one can hear you, Mingi.” 

“Damn, no insulting rebuttal?” The more he looks at you the more his smile falters. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You look up at him through your brows, surprise written on your face as you take in the concern on his. He can tell? You shake your head, plastering a fake smile on your cheeks, “I’m great, I’m fine, I’m good. Did you hear me cheering?” 

“For me?” He’s cheesing, excited like a little kid. 

You laugh a little, tucking your hair behind your ear, “Duh, you told me I had to since I’m wearing your jersey.”

“Let me see,” he pulls his arm from where it laid over your shoulder back to his side, “do a little twirl for me, smart girl.” 

The heat on your cheeks is molten, you roll your eyes as you make a ponytail in your fist, twirling to give him full access of him on your back. 

He cheers, woo-ing loud and shameless, his smile takes over his entire face. “Wow, look at you, like a real-life WAG.” 

“What’s a WAG?” 

He shakes his head, “Means you’re mine.” 

Mine. 

You panic, words spilling from your lips, “Guess who else is in your jersey.” 

His smile falls, body going still with knowing disbelief, “No.” 

You force a tight-lipped smile, nodding, “Yup.” 

“Oh my god!” Yeosang cuts you off, loud and obnoxious. Now he chooses to get rowdy? “I almost forgot, you guys should take pictures.” 

In boyfriend mode again, Mingi’s gloved palm finds the small of your back, coming to your side when you twist around to look at Yeosang, face screaming no. Yeosang giggles, a nasty little smirk on his lips that tells you he’s playing the game, too, maybe better than you are at this point. 

He pulls his phone from his back pocket, “Come on, pose.” 

You look at Mingi, uneasy. He shrugs, unbothered. Hand tighter around your waist, he leans into you, smiling. You try to force light into your eyes, doing your best to grin like a proud girlfriend, not that these pictures would ever see the light of day. 

“Cute,” Yeosang crouches, “move over, the lighting is weird.” 

You huff, but move in the direction Yeosang’s pointed palm is ushering you in, Mingi following, the both of you quiet. Too aware of where you are, eyes, cameras, lights— it’s overstimulating just having his fucking hand on you, his body pressed to yours. 

Yeosang eyes you over the top of his phone screen, flashing something mischievous, “Now kiss.” 

“What?” There’s barely a moment between his order and your reaction. Mingi stiffens beside you, you think you’ve gone cold, you think you might drop dead on the turf. 

“Kiss!” Yeosang nearly whines, “Come on, what are you, children? One kiss for a picture, you’ll thank me for it later.”

Your jaw drops. Blinking at him, stuttering a rebuttal, head shaking and a hand moving to wave in front of you out of denial, Mingi speaks before you do.

“Okay.” 

“Huh?!” You look at him like he’s insane. 

He shoots daggers, eyes bouncing back and forth between you and Yeosang as if to say don’t blow our cover. Little does he know, Yeosang was present when the plan was fucking formed. 

“No,” the shake of your head is final, “absolutely not.” 

“One kiss,” Mingi argues, “it would be a cute picture.” 

You whisper, “Why are you encouraging this?” 

He shrugs, his smile effortlessly stupid, “It’s just one kiss.” 

Your eyes lower to his lips for a split second. Round, plump, pink, wet with spit from his tongue that glides over them seamlessly, there’s an anxious pit in your stomach, your fight or flight kicks in. 

He uses the angle in which you turned, one hand sliding to your waist, the other on your jaw, tilting your head upward. Warm, his touch delicate, you feel your heart in your throat as he leans in, kissing you with a softness no one has ever kissed you with. 

You’ve been someone’s situationship, friends with benefits, fuckbuddy— all things that require a disconnection to function, a wall you were far too good at putting up, keeping stable. You’ve been kissed with haste, with fervor, just to add a touch of romanticism because the rest that followed lacked respect in its purest form. 

This was different. It wasn’t a peck, your lips parted for him, your body melted into him, his hand on your jaw was guiding, grounding, his gloved thumb swiped along your skin like he fucking meant it. He tasted clean, like he just drank a gallon of water, still fresh on his plump lips that tucked yours in like they belonged there. It's not right, it’s not right but it’s working and you’re fucking terrified. 

He pulls away just as softly as he leaned in, a dopey smile stretching his lips wide. Keeping himself close, he hums, “See? Just a kiss.” 

You don’t realize your fingers wrapped around his forearm, or that your spine bent towards him. Breath shaky, grip iron, your eyes flicker upward and even the way he’s looking at you is different. 

You swallow down your discombobulation just enough to utter, “We need to break up. Now.” 

masterlist 🏈 part two

[wooyoungiewritings]

A Spoonful of Trouble - Wooyoung x Reader

Summary: Three years of living with your best friend Wooyoung, and it’s all been chill… until a run-in with your old coworker, who’s dating your ex, forces you to lie. You tell her you’re in a relationship with Wooyoung, and now you both have to fake a relationship at a couples’ dinner. Wooyoung’s plan? Make your ex jealous. What starts as a harmless game soon sparks something you didn’t see coming.

Word count: 17.4K

Genre: Best-friend/Roomie Wooyoung, fake dating, comedy (it’s wooyoung, ofc its fun), friends-to-lovers, oneshot, smut

Warnings: Jealous undertones, Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), dom Wooyoung, he’s a tease, fingering, oral (fem receiving), choking and hair pulling, ass slaps and pussy slaps (lmao sorry) dirtytalk, unprotected sex, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I was requested a Wooyoung fanfic (preferably friends to lovers) and your wish is my command. Also, I haven't read this through, so I excuse if there are any mistakes!

This is all for fun and is not meant to represent Wooyoung in any way.

You didn’t know Wooyoung before you moved in with him.

It wasn’t some childhood-friends-to-roommates situation. It was a Facebook listing, a desperate rent situation, and a quick video call where he grinned and said, “I’m clean, I cook, and I only walk around shirtless on laundry days, deal?”

Your boyfriend had just cheated on you and you were too broke to be picky.

You moved in two weeks later.

That was three years ago.

When you first moved in, things were simple. Polite nods in the hallway, careful division of chores, messages like “Can I use your oat milk?” and “Trash day’s Thursday.” You were strangers learning how to coexist. He was respectful, charming, funny in a careful kind of way.

But that changed. Slowly. Naturally.

There was the night he knocked on your door with two bowls of ramen after hearing you cry through the wall. The time he fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, and you let him stay there. The mornings where he started making two cups of coffee without asking, and the way he never forgot which mug was your favorite.

Little things, at first. But they stacked up.

Now he knows your coffee order and your worst ex’s name. He doesn’t knock anymore when your door is open. And you don’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he drapes himself across the couch you’re already sitting on, like there’s not an entire empty seat next to you. You know his favorite hoodie and the playlist he only listens to when he’s feeling off.

You don’t even remember when it happened. When “roommate” became “friend,” and “friend” slowly became “best friend”.

He’s the first person you turn to when something happens, good or bad. You’ve become so used to him and his playful, flirtatious nature, that it’s just... normal now.

This morning, you wake up to the sound of a pan sizzling.

It’s not unusual. Wooyoung does most of the cooking in the apartment, partly because he’s better at it, mostly because he refuses to eat anything bland. You’ve learned not to interfere when he’s in his element, your only job is to show up and eat.

Still, it’s early, and he’s making a bit too much noise for someone who claims to love you “platonically.”

You shuffle out of your room, hair a mess, socks mismatched. The kitchen smells like garlic and eggs, and you see him standing at the stove, completely in his zone. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand, flipping something with a finesse that makes it obvious he knows he looks good doing it.

“You’re showing off,” you mutter, leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t look away from the pan. “You’re welcome.”

You make a beeline for your favorite mug, the one he always pretends to hate but still washes carefully every time you leave it in the sink.

“I figured you’d sleep in,” he says. “You stayed up late.”

“Yea, because someone wasn’t leaving my room.” you send him a glare.

“I like hanging out with you! and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the story about the geek and the popular girl from my old highschool. That story is cute as hell.” he points the spatula with you like it’s a weapon.

You smirk behind the mug. “Okay, that one was kinda good.”

He grins, plating scrambled eggs and what looks like roasted vegetables. He slides the plate toward your usual spot at the counter like he’s done it a hundred times, because he has.

“How was your date?” you ask, poking your fork into a roasted tomato.

Wooyoung groans. “Disaster.”

“That bad?”

“She asked if I was in love with her halfway through the appetizer.”

“Bold of her,” you say, chewing.

“And when I said no, she looked at me like I kicked her in the face. Then she told me I ‘give off commitment issues.’”

You grin. “You do give off commitment issues.”

He glares playfully. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely loyal.”

“To me.”

“Exactly. My loyalty quota is full. Sorry to the rest of the world.” he shoots you a wink, nothing dramatic, just one of those natural, easy gestures he does without thinking. You don’t blush. Not anymore.

You're used to it. In the beginning, back when you were still adjusting to living with someone who looks like that, who flirts with the air he breathes, who walks around shirtless and steals fries from your plate and calls you “babe” just to watch your reaction, it was different.

But now? Immunity.

Mostly.

It’s easy with him, always has been. Closeness that doesn’t need explanation. No boundaries, because you don’t need them. Not when you’ve seen each other through every version of a day.

He sits beside you at the counter instead of across, thigh brushing yours like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

***

“You know,” you say, pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, “you could just admit you have the taste buds of a hyperactive child.”

Wooyoung gasps, dramatically offended as he holds up a neon box of chocolate puffs. “This is not childish. This is elite. You wouldn’t understand the depth of this flavor profile.”

Grocery shopping with Wooyoung is basically a weekly ritual at this point. Not because you can’t go alone, but because he insists on it. Claims you’d forget half the list and come back with snacks and nothing else. Which, to be fair, is kind of true.

You’re halfway through the cereal aisle, walking behind the cart as Wooyoung wanders a few feet ahead, eyes locked on the shelf like he’s making a life-or-death decision between sugary clusters or chocolate swirls.

He’s in his element, mumbling ingredients under his breath, holding one box up to the light like he’s reading ancient scrolls. You smile to yourself, letting him do his thing as you slow down, scanning your phone for the rest of your shared grocery list.

And then, just your luck, you hear it.

“Oh my god, Y/N?”

You look up too slowly.

Hana.

You turn, putting on the most polite expression you can muster as she approaches, all bright eyes and perfect hair and the same aggressive enthusiasm she used to bring to Monday morning staff meetings.

“Hana,” you say, trying to sound surprised instead of resigned. “Wow. Hi.”

“I thought that was you! Oh my god, it’s been what, like, forever? You look so… Anyways, it’s so good to see you!” She eyes you, then glances down into your cart before you can respond. “Frozen dumplings, instant rice, oh my god I love those snacks, they’re so bad but soooo addictive, right? Wait-, this kimchi brand is the worst. You should try the one from Jihyun’s Market across town. It’s organic.”

You blink. “I... like this one.”

“Sure, sure. I mean, I just think it’s better to be picky with fermented stuff, you know? Especially when you’re eating it alone.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t wait.

“Gosh, how are you? I remember how you were always the chill one at work. So responsible. So put together. Like, you were always the single one! We called you "The Independent Icon" behind your back. Not in a mean way!”

You hadn’t planned on staying single forever. But a few years ago, your boyfriend cheated on you while he was on vacation, called you from the airport like it was no big deal. After that, you decided you were done. No dating for a while, no more risks. It was easier to be alone than to be blindsided again. Eventually, people stopped asking. Then they started assuming.

Your stomach twists. You glance down the aisle. Wooyoung is still several feet away, crouched in front of a lower shelf now, examining cereal boxes like he’s an art critic. Totally out of earshot.

“Oh, I didn’t know people talked about that,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Hana waves a hand. “Only in admiration, really. I mean, you’ve never brought a guy to any of our dinners. I think Minji even thought you were secretly dating a girl for a while, totally cool if you are! No judgment! But I told her, no way. Y/N is just focused. Did I tell you I got married, by the way? I don’t think you ever met my husband. We got married last year, tiny ceremony, super last minute. Here-, he’s gonna kill me for showing this, but look how ridiculous he looks in this suit.”

She pulls out her phone, swipes once, then holds it up to you.

You freeze.

You know that face.

The sharp jawline. The dimple on his left cheek. The same stupid smile he had when he came back from that trip and told you, casually, like it was weather, that he’d slept with someone else. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said, “we were just having a rough patch, right?”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s him,” Hana says proudly. “Total goofball, but he’s the best. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d find someone like him. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone too some day!”

Hana is still talking but her words blur.

You could say nothing. You could just smile, nod, and escape with your overpriced kimchi and frozen dumplings. But you nod slowly, eyes darting to the end of the aisle again. Suddenly, you hear yourself say, voice too quick and too loud:

“Actually, I’m dating someone.”

Hana’s brows lift. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” You point down the aisle.

She turns.

Wooyoung, still crouched, is now reading the back of a cereal box, completely oblivious to your social spiral.

“Oh?” Hana’s eyes are practically sparkling now, thrilled by this newfound information. “Look at you! I know you had it in you!” she says, nudging your arm. “You have to bring him to dinner. We’re doing a little couples night this Friday. Just a few of us from work, old and new. Minji’s coming, and Jihyun, and my husband’s inviting one of his coworkers and their girlfriend. You two should come!”

You hesitate, already internally spiraling. “Oh, I don’t know-”

“Come on! It’ll be fun. I need someone there who doesn’t talk about babies every ten seconds. Please.”

She’s already taking your nod as confirmation before you’ve fully given it. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details, I still have your number. You better show up.”

Just as she’s about to walk away, Wooyoung returns, holding two cereal boxes and strolling up casually.

Hana’s face lights up again. “See you soon!” she says brightly to him, giving you both a final little wave before disappearing around the corner.

Wooyoung blinks after her, then looks at you, eyebrows raised. “...Why do I feel like I just missed something deeply important?”

You stare at him, trying to decide where to begin.

He holds up the cereal boxes, undeterred. “Okay. Fruity Loops or Cinnamon Sugar Swirls. One has slightly fewer chemicals. I won’t say which.”

You inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “So, remember when you left me alone for two minutes?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Well… in those two minutes, I may have… sort of… told someone we’re dating.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Wooyoung blinks. “You what?”

You gesture weakly down the aisle. “That was Hana. Old coworker. She’s always been weirdly obsessed with the fact that I’m single. She was doing her usual thing, and I panicked, and I pointed at you, and now she thinks we’re together, and- surprise! We’re going to a couples dinner on Friday.”

Wooyoung looks at you. Then at the cereal. Then back at you.

And then he grins.

Like really grins.

“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with delight. “This is amazing.”

“Wooyoung.”

“We’re fake dating? We’re doing the thing? Like the romcoms?”

You press a hand to your face. “It gets worse.”

His grin somehow grows. “I’m listening.”

“She’s married to my ex.”

Wooyoung blinks. “The ex?”

You nod. “She showed me a wedding photo. It’s him. The one who cheated on me while he was on vacation. The reason I swore off dating for like, three years.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops, then slowly morphs into something almost unhinged with glee.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “This is so much better than I thought.”

“Why are you happy?”

“Because,” he says, absolutely glowing, “I get to sit across from the guy who cheated on my best friend and pretend to be the hot, attentive boyfriend who’s so in love with her he’d die for her. I’m going to be so annoying. I’m going to feed you food.”

“Wooyoung.”

“I’m going to wipe sauce off your mouth. I’m going to put my arm around your chair. I’m going to call you baby in front of him.”

You groan. “This is going to kill me.”

“This is going to heal you,” he says. “You know what, this counts for both of the cereals. Sweet childhood nostalgia and the one that turns milk radioactive pink.” He throws the cereals into the cart with dramatic flair. “This is the best grocery trip of my life.”

***

Friday morning

He’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, still half-asleep, arms wrapped around yourself. The smell of eggs and butter greets you first.

“Good morning, my beautiful fake girlfriend!” he beams.

You groan. “Please don’t start.”

“Too late,” he sings, doing a dramatic spin with the spatula. “Do you want toast with your lies or just plain guilt?”

You drop your head onto the counter with a sigh. “I’m not built for this level of energy before caffeine.”

He slides a mug your way, your mug, with your preferred coffee, made just right. “I knew you’d be a flight risk this morning.”

You mutter a thank-you and take a long sip. It helps. But not enough.

“I think I’m panicking,” you say into the mug.

He sets your breakfast in front of you and leans on the counter across from where you sit. “Hey. We’ve got this. All we have to do is show up, eat some overpriced cheese cubes, pretend we’re madly in love, make your ex suffer for being the biggest asshole known to man, and leave. Easy.”

“Madly in love,” you echo flatly.

“Yes, madly.” His smile grows. “Madly, stupidly in love. To the point where your ex is going to regret every single life choice he made after cheating on you. And enough to make Hana go, ‘oh wow, they’re so cute, maybe I am a terrible friend for shaming her for being single for the entire time I’ve known her.’”

You blink. “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“I’ve never even met him and I already hope he has the biggest receding hairline I’ve ever seen.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“And besides,” he adds, stealing a bite of your toast, “we got chemistry.”

You make a face.

“We do, though. We’re best friends. We’re comfortable. We finish each other’s-”

“Don’t.”

“-sentences.”

You hurl a piece of toast crust at him. He dodges it with a smirk.

But he’s right. You are comfortable. You already know what shirt he’s going to wear tonight and that he’s going to pretend he didn’t plan it. You know he’s going to be charming and make everyone laugh and completely forget he’s pretending.

And that’s the part that begins to make your stomach twist.

The day goes faster than you anticipated, and before you know it, you’re both getting ready for the dinner.

You’re halfway through checking your bag for the fourth time when he walks out of his room, and everything in you stills.

He’s adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down, casually rolling them up past his elbows. He tucks his phone into his back pocket, grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. He’s talking, saying something about the wine in his hands, but you don’t hear a word.

Because damn. He looks good.

His black hair is styled a little messier than usual, in that perfectly undone way that probably took way too much effort. He’s tucked his shirt into dark slacks that fit just right, and he’s wearing that silver chain he only brings out for “important” nights.

Like fake dates, apparently.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He looks like this is just how he always looks. Like he doesn’t know that he’s the kind of guy women cross sidewalks for just to sneak a better glance.

And you should be used to that. You live with him. You see him fresh out of bed, half-asleep, shirtless and in the same ratty sweats every Sunday. But this is different.

You recover fast, mutter something closer to sounds than actual words and spin on your heel toward the bathroom.

You need a second. Maybe two.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, willing your heart to calm down. It's just Wooyoung. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your fake boyfriend for the night. Nothing to get flustered over.

You run a hand down your dress, fix your lipstick, try not to think about how the curve of his smile made your stomach flutter.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.

He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you through the reflection. “Hey.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second, you forget what you’re doing, because his gaze isn’t neutral.

It drops. Lingers.

Slides down the line of your black dress, the way it hugs your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s not crude, not obvious, but you can feel it. Like a slow drag of heat over your body.

You blink. “You’re not allowed to just come in here.”

“I knocked.”

You glare.

He lifts his hands, innocent. “You just didn’t hear it. Selective hearing, maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move. Just stay there, eyes trailing from your hair to your lips to the way you’re fidgeting with your rings.

“What’s up?” you ask, voice soft.

He tilts his head slightly, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Funny,” he deadpans. Then after a beat, “I was wondering how much of a boyfriend I’m allowed to be tonight.”

Your stomach tightens.

He says it lightly, but there’s something in his voice, something teasing, but slower. More deliberate.

You meet his gaze in the mirror again. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, stepping a little further into the room, “can I hold your hand? Whisper something in your ear if it gets boring? Pull you in when he’s watching?”

You swallow. He’s close now, not too close, but close enough that the air feels warmer.

“Or maybe,” he continues, eyes flicking to your lips just for a second, “kiss your cheek. You know. If it feels natural. Just enough to make him wonder.” There’s something electric in his voice now, light, amused, but edged with something darker. He smiles, wider this time, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually… can I make your ex jealous as fuck? Is that allowed?”

“What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“I mean… if you give me even a little room to play…” He leans in, just slightly, not touching. “I swear I’ll ruin his whole fucking night.”

You’re still staring when he backs away, grin wide, eyes too pleased.

“No pressure," he says, putting both of his hands up, he smiles again, but this time it’s softer. “I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Your mouth is dry.

“Do whatever you want,” you manage. “Just… don’t be weird.”

He grins. “I make no promises”

You’re smiling, even as you turn away to grab your perfume, trying not to let him see how warm your cheeks are.

And as he walks out, he says it over his shoulder.

“You didn’t say no to the kiss.”

***

The knock sounds louder than you expect. You suddenly feel overdressed, underprepared, and painfully aware of the fact that your hand is linked with Wooyoung’s.

You didn’t mean to hold hands.

It just sort of… happened. One second you were adjusting your sleeve, the next his fingers found yours, no hesitation, like they’d done it a thousand times. And now it’s too late to pull away without it being weird.

“Y/N! Oh my god, finally! Come in!” Hana screams as she opens the door. You’re barely stepping inside when she notices the man next to you, her eyes widening. “And this is…?”

“Wooyoung,” he says smoothly, offering the wine bottle with both charm and ease. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana takes it with a delighted hum, already ushering you both inside. You barely get a foot in before her voice lifts again. “Babe, come meet my old co-worker!”

And there he is.

Standing a few steps inside the hallway, one hand curled loosely around a drink. He turns at the sound and freezes. Just for a second, quick enough to pass for nothing, but not to you. You see it. His eyes widen slightly, and something flickers across his face. Confusion. Surprise. Like he wasn’t told. Like he wasn’t ready.

But you smile, smooth and pleasant. Step forward, extend your hand like you’ve never seen him before in your life.

“Hi,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

You smile like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know him. Like he’s just another name you’ll forget by morning. There’s the barest pause before he sets the glass down and shakes your hand. “Yeah,” he says, guarded, eyes flicking to Wooyoung. “You too.”

Before you can say anything, Wooyoung steps forward smoothly, hand outstretched, “Hi,” he says, voice warm and a little too cheerful. “I’m Wooyoung. Her boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. One breath too long. Your ex shifts, not quite hiding the way his eyes flick to your still-joined hands.

“…Right,” he says finally, taking Wooyoung’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana, being the overly-excited host that she is, smiles at the situation. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, we’re just doing drinks and snacks before dinner.”

You glance toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, but not before you feel Wooyoung’s hand press gently against your lower back, guiding you forward.

As if to say: I’ve got you.

But also…

Watch me work.

The house is warm and golden-lit, filled with soft music and the quiet sounds of people mingling. Laughter drifts from the back, layered over the clink of glasses and the sizzle of something on the stove.

The kitchen is full, couples leaning against counters, clustered near the island, perched on stools. Everyone looks up when you enter, and Hana claps her hands once. “Everyone, this is Y/N and her boyfriend, Wooyoung.”

You swear the word echoes for a second. Boyfriend.

Wooyoung just nods with a relaxed smile, greeting the group like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s introduced to a few of the guys first, and within a minute he’s already laughing at something, fully immersed in conversation.

You hang back, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore how good he looks tonight, sleeves rolled, watch glinting, hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try. And then, as if on cue, Hana pipes up from across the room, tossing the words over her shoulder like they’re harmless.

“I still can’t believe Y/N’s in a relationship now,” she says brightly, like it’s a funny little update. “I didn’t believe it at first, Y/N in a relationship? We all thought she was allergic to commitment!”

There’s a few laughs, light, not cruel. The kind of laugh that happens when people think they’re in on something. The moment the words leave Hana’s mouth, your ex looks up. His expression flickers with a hint of surprise.

You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But before you can speak, Wooyoung cuts in. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look particularly bothered. He just glances over at Hana with an easy, almost lazy kind of smile.

“If loving her is a commitment, then it’s the easiest type of commitment I’ve ever made.”

You blink.

Your ex doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a tight line, but his eyes narrow further, jaw clenching slightly as he watches Wooyoung.

But Wooyoung’s gaze never shifts away from you, his hand finding yours again, linking your fingers effortlessly. His smile is small, but there’s a touch of pride behind it. He’s enjoying this.

The women smile. A couple guys glance over like damn. And Hana? She laughs, charmed. “Wow, okay. You’re already winning points.”

You try to smile like your heart didn’t just skip an entire beat.

Hana insists on giving you and Wooyoung a quick tour before dinner. “It’s not huge,” she says, with a laugh that’s anything but modest. “We just really wanted something simple but tasteful. Natural light was a must. You know how it is.”

Wooyoung nods beside you like he deeply, deeply understands the weight of natural light, and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And this-” Hana gestures grandly as she opens a set of double doors. “This is my favorite room. The light in here at golden hour? Unreal. We had the cushions custom made to match the ceiling beams. And the books are mostly for decoration, but it kind of gives the right mood, don’t you think?”

You nod along politely, half-listening, while Wooyoung leans down slightly, his voice warm and low against your ear.

“Do you think if I mention natural light three more times, we unlock a secret level of the tour?”

Your breath hitches with a soft laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. His smile lingers like he’s proud of himself, but there’s something else behind it too, something quieter. The way your face lights up when you laugh, how you don’t pull away. It flickers in his chest and sits there, unexpected.

His hand lingers a little longer at the small of your back as you follow Hana to the next room.

The dinner table is lively, plates are passed around, and glasses are filled as casual conversation flows. Across the table, your ex is quiet. He hasn’t said much all night, just observed. His smile is polite, his presence steady, but you can feel his gaze on you every now and then, especially when Wooyoung leans in to refill your glass or casually touches your wrist while talking.

The group is in a comfortable rhythm, and just as you're about to take a bite of your food, one of the guests leans back in their chair with a curious smile.

“So how did you two meet each other?”

You freeze, your mind racing. And across from you, you swear you see your ex stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit.

Wooyoung notices immediately.

He smiles at you, that teasing, mischievous look in his eyes as he leans forward, taking the cue. He opens his mouth, and suddenly, his voice fills the room. Smooth, charming, and effortlessly natural.

"Oh, this one’s my favorite story," he says, his voice warm and playful, his eyes lighting up as if he's about to tell the most incredible tale.

He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at you, making sure you’re paying attention. You give him a quick nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this.

“It was one of those nights you’re not even supposed to go out, you know? I almost canceled.” He lets out a soft laugh, glancing at you. “But then she walked in.”

Everyone leans in slightly, curious.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there either, actually. Our friend had to convince her. She was tired, had a long week,” He looks at you briefly, as if asking permission with his eyes, but his smile says he already knows you’ll let him go on.

“She came in late, a little out of breath, tucking her hair behind her ear, apologizing even though no one noticed. And I swear-” He leans back, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-the second I saw her, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. Just totally lost it. My friend thought I was choking on my drink.”

Soft laughter bubbles around the table. Your cheeks warm.

“She sat right across from me, and I swear I didn’t hear a single thing anyone else said the whole night. I spent the night trying to make her laugh.”

It’s smooth, too smooth, but his tone is light, playful, like he’s just telling a fond memory, not spinning an elaborate lie. He continues, eyes sparkling.

“I asked for her number before we left, and she said no.”

A small gasp comes from someone at the table, and Wooyoung grins like he’s telling a bedtime story.

“She said I seemed like the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.” More laughter. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Which-, okay, fair. But I wasn't flirting with her… or maybe I was, but I just wanted to keep talking to her. So I said, ‘If she doesn’t want to give it to me, fine, I’ll earn it.’ And I kept showing up whenever our friend invited people out. I'd always make sure to sit next to her. Always brought something small. Coffee, gum, dumb stuff, just to have an excuse to talk.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“And eventually… she let me walk her home.”

Someone lets out a little aww.

“I didn’t try anything,” he adds. “I just wanted to stretch out the moment as long as I could. I think we stood outside her door for half an hour just talking. I memorized the color of her front light. The chipped tile on her step. Her laugh.”

The table is completely silent.

“And the next time?” His smile curves wider. “She kissed me first. Which I will never let her forget.”

The table is enchanted.

For a moment after Wooyoung finishes, there’s a soft, stunned silence, like everyone’s holding their breath without realizing it. Then:

“Oh my God,” someone breathes.

The woman across from you nudges her partner. “You never chased me like that.”

“You didn’t run,” he deadpans.

“So you’re telling me you saw her once and just knew?” another friend adds, reaching for more wine.

“I told our mutual friend to introduce us, and he said ‘don’t bother.’” He stretches his arm along the back of your chair, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “So obviously I did the exact opposite.”

The table erupts with laughter. Real, full, warm.

“God, that sounds so like you,” Hana laughs, sending you a playful glance.

Laughter bubbles around the table, easy and entertained.

But not from everyone.

Across the table, your ex’s grip on his fork tightens, just for a moment. Not dramatic, not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he shifts back in his chair like he needs space to breathe.

Wooyoung leans in slightly, hand still resting lightly behind your neck now, fingers brushing just enough to make it look natural. Intimate.

“And when she finally said yes,” he adds, voice lower now, more deliberate, “I knew I wasn’t gonna let her go.”

Your chest tightens.

The air feels heavier.

Meanwhile, you’re frozen in place, staring at your wine glass, heart racing as if you lived every second of that made-up story. You catch someone across the table watching you with a knowing smile, clearly convinced you're the luckiest girl alive.

And for a second, just one, you almost believe it too.

The rest of the dinner unfolds like a well-rehearsed play. Light laughter, wine refills, soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation drifts easily between the couples, like they’ve all known each other forever, even if some only met tonight. And somehow, you and Wooyoung fall into it without trying.

After the dinner, the buzz of conversation in the living room fades as you step quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. You need a second to breathe, just a minute alone after everything that’s happened tonight.

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Wooyoung’s charming story about how you met still lingers in your mind, and the way everyone seemed so enchanted by him... it felt like something out of a movie. It had been easy to get swept up in it all, even though it was completely fabricated.

After a few moments, you open the bathroom door and nearly jump out of your skin.

Wooyoung is standing right there in the hallway, hands in his pockets like he’s just been casually waiting. His gaze flicks up to meet yours immediately, and a slow, knowing smile pulls at his lips.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms now crossed, like he’s settling in.

You swallow hard. “You scared me.”

“Did I?” His voice is low, soft. Like a secret passed between friends. “Sorry. You just disappeared.”

“I needed a second. Too many couples,” you say, attempting a light laugh that comes out a bit thin. “Too much… love.”

“So?” he murmurs beside you. “How am I doing?”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised.

“The fake boyfriend thing,” he adds with a sly grin. “Convincing enough for you?”

You shrug, but your smile gives you away. “I’ve seen worse performances.”

“Cold,” he mutters, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Here I am, carrying the entire romance on my back.”

You laugh quietly, then shake your head, your voice dropping again. “Honestly, I think everyone at the table wants to date you now.”

“Jealous?” he says, all teeth and sparkle, but his voice is soft, teasing rather than cocky.

You roll your eyes, even as your stomach flips. “Please.”

Then he tilts his head, studying you. His tone shifts, still playful, but quieter. “You know, you’re still a little pink.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your cheeks,” he says, nodding toward them. “Blushing. Again.”

You cross your arms instinctively, heart picking up pace. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he whispers. He leans a little closer. “It’s kinda cute.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

The moment hangs, just a little too long. You’re standing in the dim hallway, lights soft, voices muffled behind walls, and he’s looking at you like this is his favorite part of the night.

You clear your throat, trying to reset something in the air. “We should go back.”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening slowly. “Before someone thinks we’re sneaking off to make out.”

Wooyoung straightens just a little, the moment sliding away like water off skin. He gives you one last glance, a wink for good measure, then turns and walks toward the others. That leaves you standing in the hallway, heart racing, wondering why his lazy confidence always makes it hard to tell when he’s joking and when he isn’t.

You follow behind, still feeling the blush he called out.

You offer to help Hana out in the kitchen. Wooyoung is busy winning everybody’s hearts with his charm, so you aren’t concerned about him.

You rinse off a plate, hands moving on autopilot as you stack it neatly on the drying rack. Hana leans against the counter beside you, sipping the last of her wine, her smile still painted on from dinner. “Seriously though,” she says, nudging your hip with hers, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with someone like that.”

You huff a laugh. “Like what?”

“Like… funny. Hot. Charismatic. The way he talks about you?” She raises a brow. “Unreal.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Yeah. He’s something.”

“I mean…” She grins. “You glow around him. It’s wild. Like, he looks at you like he’s already picking out your wedding venue.”

You laugh, quiet, awkward. “He’s just… sweet.”

Hana raises her brows. “He’s obsessed. In a good way.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go grab the wine opener. Don’t let me forget it again. Be back in a sec.”

The back door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles again. It’s nice for a moment, just you, the clink of cutlery, the steam from the sink. You keep washing dishes, grateful for the moment alone.

But it doesn’t last.

You hear movement behind you. Slow. Hesitant.

You turn your head and freeze.

It’s him.

Your ex.

He stands just past the threshold, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. He steps in without saying anything at first. Just lingers a little too close to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

You dry your hands on a towel, steadying yourself. “Clearly.”

He takes a step in. Not too close, but enough to unsettle you.

His eyes flick around the room, then land back on you. “You look good.”

You sigh quietly, turning back to the sink. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just saying.”

Another beat.

You hear him shift again, leaning slightly against the island behind you. You can feel his eyes on your back.

“That guy,” he says finally. “The one who came with you. Wooyoung.”

You don’t look at him. “What about him?”

He hesitates. Then, carefully: “Are you two… serious?”

You pause, then shrug. “That’s none of your business.”

He lets out a low breath. “So that’s a yes.”

You turn slowly, facing him now. “Why are you here, really?”

“In my own house?”

“No,” you say. “Why are you in this kitchen, right now?”

He stares at you. Silent.

“I fucked up,” he blurts, “Okay? I know I did. I’ve been thinking about it since-”

“Don’t,” you snap, but still keeping your voice down so the rest of the party won't hear. “You don’t get to come here, pretend we’re still something, and then act surprised that I moved on. You’re married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks at you like you’ve just hit him.

“You moved on?” he repeats, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “With him?”

You step back. “You don’t know him.”

He scoffs. “I might not, but I can still see how insufferable he is.”

You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He takes another step forward, eyes sharper now. “I just don’t get it. After everything-”

“No,” you say firmly, holding your hand up. “You don’t get anything. You lost the right to have an opinion the second you slept with someone else.”

There’s a beat of silence. Your heart pounds in your ears.

And then…

“Everything okay in here?” Wooyoung’s voice is cold. Threatening almost.

You don’t need to look. You feel it, the air shifting, the way the atmosphere bends around his presence. But you still turn your head. And it steadies you instantly.

He’s leaning in the doorway. One hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging loose at his side. His posture is relaxed. His expression? Somewhere between nonchalance and interest.

But his eyes?

They’re fixed on your ex.

And they could kill.

Your ex straightens, caught off guard. “Uh-, yeah. We were just-”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room like he’s walking through water, unconcerned by the tension that’s thick enough to drown in. He nods once, a polite gesture with razor edges, then glances at you.

His voice lowers. Smooth, velvety. Unmistakably his.

“You okay, baby?”

The pet name slips out effortlessly. Like it belongs there. Like you belong to him. Then he closes the space between you and him, his hand brushing the small of your back with casual ownership.

Your breath stutters. “I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers on your ex, sharp enough to make the air hum.

“Then I’ll ask one more time,” he murmurs, voice dipped in steel, eyes locked on your ex. “Is there a problem?”

Your ex lets out a quiet scoff, trying to play it cool. “No problem at all.”

Wooyoung breathes in once, slow.

“Then I’ll make this simple,” he says, softly now. Dangerous soft. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” He tilts his head, the barest shift of muscle. His smile is slight, almost gentle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If not…” His jaw tightens just once. “Walk away before you make me repeat myself.”

Your ex doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t look at you. Just leaves.

And Wooyoung watches every step. Tracks him with the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch. It says everything he hasn’t:

Try it again. I dare you.

When it’s just the two of you again, Wooyoung’s fingers trace your spine once, barely there. A silent check-in.

Then, slowly, his focus shifts. Back to you.

His voice drops. Low. Controlled.

“You okay?”

You nod once, but it’s tight. Too tight. And he sees it.

His brows pinch just slightly. “Did he say something?”

“No,” you whisper, and it’s true, mostly. “He was just… being him.”

Wooyoung exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Like he’s trying not to say something that would ruin the whole night. But then he looks at you, really looks at you, and something in him softens. Just a little.

His hand slides from your back to your waist, anchoring you close. He studies your face for a moment, like he’s not fully convinced, but then he exhales and gives a small nod back.

“I didn’t want to step in too early,” he says, voice soft now. “You looked like you had it under control. You did.”

There’s something warm in your chest at that, that he trusted you to hold your own.

You meet his eyes.

He’s not angry.

He’s present.

“I know you don’t need anyone to defend you,” he says, quieter now. “But I’m here. If you ever want me to.”

That part lingers. A gentle offering.

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping like he doesn’t want to be overheard, even by the walls, and something wicked flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make it clearer you’re taken.”

Your heart skips a beat.

His hand gives your waist the faintest squeeze, not possessive, just sure. Then he straightens up, tone lighter, a glint in his eye as he teases, “You ready to go back out there, or should we hide out in here a little longer?”

You smile. “Let’s go.”

Wooyoung laces his fingers with yours as you step out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say much. Just keeps his hand on you, sometimes at your back, sometimes curled around your fingers, like he doesn’t trust the room not to try and touch you.

The energy around him simmers low. Controlled. Patient.

But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long when you make eye contact The way his thumb brushes your skin when you pass your ex. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

The evening moves on. Laughter. Drinks. Music humming low in the background. But that energy never leaves him.

Then, after another drink, his palm slides against your waist as he leans in, murmuring just low enough for only you to hear. “Come outside with me for a sec?”

You glance up, surprised by the quiet invitation, but nod. “Yeah. Okay."

He takes your hand and leads you through the back door, into the cool hush of the backyard. String lights sway gently above. A few scattered chairs dot the patio, mostly empty.

He pulls you just far enough into the yard that you’re framed under the golden light, a sight impossible to miss. Then he stops just enough to pull you in close, his hands resting firmly on your waist. His breath brushes your neck as he leans in, voice low and a little teasing.

“Do you trust me?”

You meet his gaze, smiling without hesitation, but a little confused. “Of course.”

But before you can say anything more, he leans in, no warning, no hesitation, and his mouth finds your neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Unapologetically possessive.

His grip on your waist tightens, firm and grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you, or maybe keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Your fingers twitch, aching to clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. But he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps moving, tongue flicking, lips parting as he sucks softly at the spot just above your collarbone, lazy, indulgent, filthy in how intimate it feels.

You gasp, hips tilting forward instinctively, heat already pooling low and heavy in your belly. He doesn’t miss it, he hums against your throat like he felt it happen.

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to murmur, voice thick and close to your ear, “You weren’t expecting that, huh?”

His tone is teasing, pleased, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Then he leans back in, grazing your neck again, his nose brushing over the same spot he just kissed.

“Fake boyfriend of the year, right?” he adds, a low smirk in his voice.

It pulls a laugh from you, too real, too soft, and he chuckles under his breath like he lives for the sound.

And then he looks up.

Over your shoulder.

Still smiling.

You don’t turn. You don’t even realize why his gaze has sharpened. But Wooyoung knows. He’s known from the moment he stepped outside.

“Oh, hey,” he says, just loud enough, like the thought only now occurred to him. “Didn’t see you there.”

You blink, startled, then turn.

And there he is.

Your ex is sitting in the far corner of the backyard, posture stiff, one hand loosely holding a glass of something amber that he’s no longer drinking. He’s been watching, long enough, clearly. His eyes flick from your face to where Wooyoung’s hand rests against your hip like it was made to be there. His mouth is drawn in a line so tight it might split.

He’d been watching.

Wooyoung's arm wraps a little tighter around your waist. Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just… secure. Like he has every right to hold you like this. Like he dares anyone to question it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wooyoung says, cool and lazy.

Your ex stares, jaw tight.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait. His posture is casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that betrays him, too amused, too at-ease.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” he adds, like it’s nothing. “Stars out. Music inside. My girl tastes like sangria. Hard to complain.”

You stiffen slightly, but Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. He’s still smiling faintly, watching you with that unbothered, pretty-boy charm that somehow makes everything worse.

Your ex lifts his drink and mutters, “Some of us came out here to be alone.”

Wooyoung cocks his head. “Oh, totally fair. Should’ve said something.”

There’s a beat of silence, sharp enough to cut through. But he doesn’t move. He stays planted right there beside you, hand still snug on your waist like it belongs there.

Then he blinks, as if struck by a thought.

“Oh-, wait,” he says, voice still sweet. “You want us back inside?” He huffs a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. “Damn. That’s on me.”

Your ex sets his glass down with a soft clink on the stone railing. “You always this annoying?”

Wooyoung grins. “Only when I’m in a good mood.”

“Y/N! Wooyoung!”

Hana bursts out, loud and glowing, wine glass in one hand, joy practically spilling out of her. Her eyes land on you both and she lights up like the fourth of July.

“Oh my God, there you are!” she grins. “I was about to come get you, everyone keeps asking where the hot couple went!”

You see your ex stiffen. Wooyoung’s smile stretches.

“Hot couple,” he echoes, biting back a laugh.

Hana gasps dramatically. “Don’t act shy now! You two are disgusting. I love it.”

“I'm not mad about it. She’s got great taste,” Wooyoung teases with a little shrug, for a second glancing over at your ex. “Eventually.”

Your ex’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might speak.

But Wooyoung leans in one last time, whispering low into your ear, voice soft enough to make your skin spark:

"Success, baby"

He smirks before sliding his hand into yours, pulling you gently toward the house where Hana is waiting, oblivious to the tension left behind.

The night has mellowed. The lights are dim, the wine is flowing, and laughter has started to echo easier around the table. Someone’s passed around dessert, tiramisu in glass jars, and Wooyoung’s excused himself to the bathroom with that lazy, effortless vibe only he can pull off without trying. You’d felt his hand brush your shoulder as he left, and it still lingers there somehow, phantom-warm.

Hana’s had just enough wine to get bold. She sits across from you, grinning over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she says, loudly enough to cut across the overlapping chatter. “New question for the couples.”

The table quiets, interest piqued.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight. “What’s your favorite physical thing about your partner?”

A few groans. Someone throws a napkin in her direction.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” she warns, laughing. “And no safe answers either. I don’t want to hear about how they ‘have a nice smile’ or ‘beautiful eyes’, everyone says that. I want the thing. The detail. The part of them that does it for you when you’re not even trying to look. The one that makes your brain short-circuit a little.”

You laugh, swallowing a little too quickly. The wine burns, and suddenly the air feels too warm.

“I’ll go last,” Hana says, clearly loving this. “Y/N, go.”

You freeze. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Her smile is practically villainous. “He’s not even here. You can be honest.”

Everyone chuckles. The pressure thickens.

You hesitate, lips parting, unsure. Your eyes flick toward the hallway where Wooyoung disappeared. As if he might walk in just in time to save you.

But he doesn’t.

You clear your throat and say, maybe a little too honestly, “His hands.”

“Ooh,” someone says. “That’s a good one.”

You glance down at the table, fingers curling around your wine glass. “They’re just… nice,” you say, not looking up. “He moves them a lot when he talks. And they’re always doing something. Tapping, pulling at a sleeve, playing with his rings or-, whatever. Just always… moving.”

Your voice quiets as the room listens. You feel exposed, like you said something too intimate.

You don’t realize the room has fallen silent. Until it hits you that no one’s said anything back.

And then...

“I should leave more often if this is what I get to come back to.”

And Wooyoung is standing just behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in interest.

Your breath halts.

There’s laughter again around the table, but your throat goes dry. Hana’s grinning at the perfect timing. “There he is,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Right on cue. We’re playing favorites.”

Wooyoung raises a brow. “Favorites?”

“Favorite physical thing about each other,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “And no cop-outs like smile or eyes. We’re talking the thing. The detail that ruins you. Your turn”

He chuckles under his breath, clearly amused. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Her neck.”

A beat of silence. His voice is smooth but deliberate, like the words were waiting in his mouth.

You feel your body go still.

Then he moves, slowly, stepping closer behind your chair, his hand brushing your shoulder as he comes to a stop. You’re suddenly very aware of how exposed your skin is where your top dips to your collarbone, of how warm the air feels even though he hasn’t touched you.

“She’s got this curve,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting everyone else fade out. “Right here," His fingers trace the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, so lightly it barely counts as a touch. “Right where her hair rests.”

Then his tone shifts, warmer, quieter. Real.

“In the mornings,” he says, like he’s letting the rest of the room fall away, “when she’s still half-asleep and pulls her hair up without thinking. Stretching, yawning, no makeup, nothing, this part’s just exposed. The light hits it, and I swear to God-” He cuts himself off with a low exhale, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “It makes it really hard to be on time for anything.”

The silence that follows is a different kind of hush. Not teasing. Not performative.

It’s weighted. Personal.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t making any of that up. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls back, barely.

“Plus,” he adds, a lazy grin playing on his lips, “it’s really unfair that you smell the way you do.”

“Okay, damn,” someone says from across the table, but you can’t even register who.

Wooyoung finally moves, slipping back into the seat beside you. But he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t settle into comfort like before. He sits just a little closer than he needs to. His thigh brushes yours. Warm. Steady. You don’t move.

The game rolls on, Hana gesturing to the couple across from you with a flourish, their answer met with giggles and teasing. But the background fades, soft, foggy, because you feel it. The weight of Wooyoung’s stare.

When you finally turn your head, you find him already watching you.

And everything in his face is different.

Gone is the cocky smile, the playful glint in his eye. He’s quiet now. Studying you, like he’s not sure where the line is anymore. Like maybe he doesn’t want to know.

And then, another gaze.

You catch it from the corner of your eye: your ex, sitting stiff at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He’s watching Wooyoung like a hawk, jaw tight, mouth set in a firm line.

Wooyoung senses it. You can feel the shift in him, the small breath he takes. The flicker of heat in his chest, like he might respond, say something, smirk just to provoke.

But he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about him anymore.

After a few more rounds of the game, you step into the hallway and let your back hit the wall with a quiet sigh. The noise from the living room still hums faintly behind you, laughter, the clink of glasses, someone shuffling a deck of cards. It’s warm in there, but your skin feels too tight. You just need a minute.

You close your eyes.

Footsteps approach, soft, familiar.

Wooyoung slips into the hallway like he’s done it a hundred times, like he always knows when you need the space. He falls in beside you, close but not crowding, his shoulder hovering just shy of yours as he leans against the wall.

“You always vanish when it gets too loud,” he says, his voice low.

You keep your eyes forward, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t vanish. I relocate.”

He hums. “Right. Into hallways. Or kitchen corners. Or that one time it was behind the couch.”

“That was one time.”

“It was still dramatic,” he teases, nudging your arm lightly. Your breath catches, just a little. It’s playful. It’s Wooyoung. But something about the way he talks makes your stomach flip.

“You look really pretty tonight.”

The words land like a spark, and your breath catches before you can help it. You blink up at him, startled.

“I-, what?”

He grins, slow and lopsided. “Just saying. I don’t think I told you earlier.”

You feel your face flush, warmth blooming across your cheeks, down your neck. You look away instantly, trying to mask it with a half-laugh.

“I’m honest,” he counters, still looking at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers. “I mean, you always look good, but tonight…” His voice dips, softer now. “It’s kind of unfair.”

You glance away, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning just slightly toward you. “Is it that hard to believe? Do I need to be faking a relationship for you to believe it?”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can. Your heart’s already too loud in your ears.

He nudges your arm gently. “You know, for someone who lives with me, you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”

You try to play it off. “Maybe you just give too many.”

“Mm,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to compliment.”

You let out a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, tucking your chin down in embarrassment. “Can you not?”

You finally glance at him, and he’s already watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable look, somewhere between playful and serious. Like he’s holding back.

He doesn’t say anything else for a second. He just looks at you.

And somehow, that says more than the rest.

You try not to smile. You fail.

Wooyoung pushes himself off the wall with a lazy stretch, then turns his body to face you, effectively placing his back toward the living room.

“Come back in when you’re ready,” he says softly, his voice carrying that usual teasing warmth. “You don’t have to rush. But I’ll be on my seat, being distractingly attractive… in case that helps.”

You almost laugh, but then your eyes drift past him.

Your stomach dips.

Your ex is standing just inside the living room, half-shadowed but unmistakably watching. His expression is unreadable, his eyes sharp and fixed directly on you.

“Wait,” you breathe, reaching out without thinking.

You grab Wooyoung’s shirt and pull him a little closer. He stumbles forward a step, surprised but not resisting. His brows furrow slightly in confusion as he looks down at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask now, your voice quieter now. There’s a tremor in it, not fear, but urgency. Purpose.

Wooyoung’s expression shifts, softening. “Yes,” he says, instantly. “Of course.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move quickly, one sliding up to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Firm and deliberate. Lips meeting his in a way that leaves no room for questions. His mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

When you break the kiss just slightly, you don’t step back. You stay close, close enough that your lips graze his as you whisper, “He’s watchi-,”

You don’t get to finish. Wooyoung’s lips are on yours again before you even register, like they need to be. Like he doesn’t care about why you kissed him, or for who, but because he can’t stop now that you’ve let it happen.

This time it’s deeper. Hungrier.

You can’t help but deepen the kiss when he slides his tongue slightly into your mouth, and one of his hands slips down to your lower back, guiding you closer. The other lifts to your jaw, gentle but sure. l

You feel your back press lightly into the wall behind you as he moves with you, not rough, but insistent. The kind of kiss that drowns everything else out, conversation, footsteps, your ex’s presence across the room.

His lips part yours, his breath hot and heavy against your cheek between kisses. His grip tightens at your waist, grounding you. You respond instinctively, hands curling into his shirt, lips moving with his, matching every shift and tilt of his head.

It’s a performance. That’s how it started.

But it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

It feels like heat, like want, like a spark that caught fire the second you gave it permission. And he’s kissing you like he’s not planning to stop anytime soon.

And for just a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.

But then… it passes.

The air changes again.

You blink and glance over to the living room. Your ex is gone. Vanished back into the room. Wooyoung slows, then stops. His hands remain on you, his breath still a little uneven.

You pull back first, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you. There’s something different there now, an emotion you haven’t seen from him before. Not just playfulness, not just comfort. Something heavier. Hungrier.

You force a small, awkward smile and drop your hands from his neck, stepping back just slightly. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think that worked.”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. He just studies you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. Then he nods, slow and unreadable, and finally, he smiles. But it’s not quite the same. Something about it is quieter. Almost reverent.

At the end of the night, shoes shuffle at the door. Coats rustle. The air is heavy with the kind of tired that follows too much wine and too much pretending.

“Get home safe, okay?” Hana says warmly, stepping toward you both as you’re about to leave. Her smile is soft, a little teasing. “You two are seriously adorable. Like… sickening. I love it.”

You laugh, a bit breathlessly, already halfway into your coat. But before you can say anything, Wooyoung’s arm snakes naturally around your waist, casual, confident. You feel his fingers press into your side, warm through the fabric.

“Thanks, Hana,” he says, flashing her a grin. “She keeps me in line.”

You roll your eyes and glance up at him, but the smile tugging at your lips is real, too real. “Barely,” you murmur, playing along.

His eyes flick to yours for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Hana grins and gives you both a quick hug before stepping back into the house. “Bye, lovebirds.”

The door closes behind you.

The air outside bites cold against your skin.

And just like that, his arm drops from your waist. The performance ends.

Neither of you says a word as you walk to the curb. You don’t know if it’s the silence or the absence of his touch that makes the air feel heavier now, but it’s different.

The cab pulls up with a soft screech. He opens the door for you like always, waits for you to slide in, then follows without a word. The car is warm, too warm, and too quiet.

You're both staring straight ahead.

The streetlights flicker past, painting gold across his face. In the confined space, the silence between you buzzes, thick with something unspoken, something ignited hours ago that neither of you has dared to acknowledge.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a softness that feels far too loud in the quiet.

Coats are hung. Shoes are kicked off. The scent of his usual candle lingers in the air, citrus and something darker underneath. Normally comforting. Now it just makes your heart beat faster.

Wooyoung heads to the kitchen without a word. His shoulders are relaxed, but there’s something taut underneath it all. You hesitate in the hallway, watching him open the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins still prominent down his forearms from earlier, and you hate how you notice.

You drift into the kitchen slowly, lingering by the edge of the counter.

“So,” you offer, light and a little too bright, “that was fun, right? Peak acting performance. Someone give us Oscars.”

No answer. He fills the glass with water from the tap, moves with that same quiet ease, but doesn’t glance at you once.

You try again, a bit more playful. “Think we fooled them? I mean, your story about how we met really sold it. Ten out of ten commitment.”

He finally looks at you, just looks. And it’s a look that completely steals the breath from your chest. Calm, dark, unreadable. His eyes are locked on yours like he's waiting for you to crack first. And suddenly you're hyperaware of everything. How hot your cheeks feel, how your voice might've sounded too eager, how the silence seems to wrap around your body like a second skin.

You clear yours softly. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna-, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”

Still nothing from him.

You nod quickly. “Night.”

You turn, heart hammering now, and you’ve only made it a step or two down the hall when his voice floats to you, quiet, even.

“If you ever need a fake boyfriend again…”

You stop. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“…you know where to find me.”

You turn back toward him slowly. He’s still in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand, eyes unreadable, but fixed on you like he’s daring you to say something. To ask him what he means. To call him out.

You don’t.

You meet his gaze, and it’s only for a second, but something heavy passes between you, something weighty and unspoken that neither of you wants to name.

Then you nod.

Not a joking nod. Not one meant to brush things off. Just… quiet acknowledgement. You walk off with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And for a long time, you just stand there in the silence of your room, pulse racing, breath held, trying to figure out what exactly that was.

You don’t even remember walking to your vanity. You’ve just been standing here, fingers curled loosely along the edge, eyes locked on your reflection like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is the echo of him. His words. His gaze. His lips on yours. The way your body reacted like it knew something you didn’t.

There’s a knock.

A soft one.

You straighten up fast, like you’re guilty of something. “Come in.”

The door creaks open behind you.

You meet his gaze through the mirror as he strolls in, easy and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, in your space, late at night.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.

You manage a breath. “Not tired?”

His shoulders lift in the faintest shrug. “Not really.”

Then silence again.

But it’s not awkward, it’s thick. Charged.

“I was thinking about something,” he finally says, his voice smooth, a little playful.

You glance at him in the mirror, trying not to let your pulse jump. “Yeah? About what?”

Wooyoung pushes off the frame, making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “You’re better at this whole fake relationship thing than you give yourself credit for.”

You attempt a shrug. “Just playing along.”

A soft laugh leaves him. “Mm. Sure.”

He walks further into the room. Not quickly. Not even directly toward you. He slows as he passes by your bed, eyes roaming lazily over the space like he’s trying to memorize it. But you know that’s not what this is.

He’s letting the silence stretch.

He’s letting you squirm.

You glance at him through the mirror, just as he finally makes his way behind you.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He stops right behind you, not touching, but close. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere now. In your space. In your breath.

“And the things you said tonight,” he says, voice soft but pointed. “Those were part of the act too?”

You try to keep your tone even. “What things?”

He tilts his head. “The part where you said you like my hands. That you stare at them when I’m not looking.”

You freeze just slightly.

"I-, uhm... I dont-..." You glance down instinctively, suddenly very aware of your own hands fidgeting.

“Funny,” he says softly, “You think I haven’t noticed? When I’m cooking. When I’m fixing something around the apartment. You always get quiet.”

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. You shiver as he lowers his voice again.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says. “I do love your neck.”

You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to.

“In the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re in the kitchen, still half asleep, standing by the window. Your head tilts just a little. That soft little spot here,” he gestures near your collarbone, but still doesn’t touch. “barely covered.”

You’re not breathing properly now.

“And I try,” he continues, “I really try to keep it together, but you standing there like that…? That does something to me.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

His fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck, not quite touching skin yet, but enough to make you lean into it. He steps in fully now, his hands finding your waist, and you instinctively lean back into him.

And then, finally, his mouth brushes your neck. Gentle. Slow. A teasing press that turns into something deeper. You feel the smile against your skin as he kisses again, and again, lower this time, until your knees threaten to give.

You gasp, just a little, and he smiles against your throat.

“You know,” he starts, voice casual, “if this wasn’t fake…”

Your breath hitches.

“…I would’ve done a lot of things differently tonight.”

You swallow hard. “Like what?”

He trails one finger along your side, feather-light, just enough to make you squirm.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he begins, like it’s casual, like he’s not setting you on fire, “I wouldn’t have let you leave my side once tonight. I would’ve had my hand on you the whole dinner, your thigh, your back, the curve of your hip, just to remind you who you belong to.”

Your stomach tightens.

He brushes his fingers lightly along your sides, not quite ticklish, just maddeningly slow.

“I’d bring you home,” he continues, lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, “take your hand, lead you to your room like I’ve been waiting to all night. And I wouldn’t rush it. No pretending, no performance. Just you. Me. And the dress I’ve been dying to take off you.”

He trails his knuckles lightly down your side, slow and reverent.

“I’d unzip it real slow…”

You hear the faintest shift of fabric.

“Let it slip off your shoulders while I kissed right here…” he presses a single, feather-light kiss to the side of your neck, “and here…” another just below your ear, “until you were shivering.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and he watches your reflection like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers just below your ear.

You’re at a loss for words but you’re hungry for more. You shake your head as you swallow, but realise how dry your mouth is. His hands slide up your sides, warm, sure, with a smile on his face.

“If it hadn't been fake, I’d press you against this vanity,” he goes on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you watch as I touched every inch of your skin.”

You can’t look away from the mirror, from the image of his hands exploring you, slow and confident, like he’s known this body forever.

“I’d hold your hips right here.” His hands grip you firmly, positioning your body with ease. “And I’d make sure the only thing you remembered from tonight was how I made you feel.”

"Yeah?" you manage to say, too invested in everything he's saying.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he murmurs, his hands still on you, tracing the curve of your body as if he owns it. “I’d make you see stars. I’d fuck you right here, make you forget you were ever pretending.”

You let out a light gasp, feeling your heart in your throat.

He presses against you, his hand finding its way to your neck, just enough to make you tilt your head back, exposing more of that sensitive skin. He breathes softly against it.

“You’d be mine. I’d make sure you knew it, every fucking inch of you.”

You’re a breath away from crumbling, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you realize how much you want him, how easily you’re giving into the fantasy.

His lips are still close to your ear, breath warm, voice impossibly soft.

“But then again…” he murmurs, the barest smile in his tone, “this is all fake… isn’t it?”

You stiffen.

He lets out a low chuckle, his nose skimming the line of your jaw as he continues, casually cruel in the way only he can be. “None of this would actually happen. I mean, why would it?”

"Why not?" you barely let out a whisper.

His fingers drag slowly down your sides, feather-light, torturously teasing. He’s pretending to think, pretending to be thoughtful, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You and me, coming home after a night like that, all dressed up, all tense and wired… and me just…” His hand glides over your hips. “Peeling you out of this dress and fucking you over your vanity?”

He hums, tilting his head. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

You inhale sharply, your body practically trembling from restraint.

He leans in again, lips just at your neck now. “You haven’t said much,” he whispers, his hand brushing lower, just enough to make you flinch. “Should I stop?” His fingers press gently into your thighs now, possessive even in their softness. “Because we’re faking it, right?” He lets out a slow, amused breath. “And I’d hate to make things confusing.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your skin flushed everywhere.

“Unless you want me to keep going,” he murmurs, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, darker now, heavy with intent. “But you’d have to say it, sweetheart.”

His fingers trail between your legs, light as a threat.

You grip the edge of the vanity with white knuckles, heart pounding in your throat. “Wooyoung…”

His hand slides up, over your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat, never squeezing, just there. Possessive. Protective. His lips trail along your shoulder, just above the strap of your dress, while the other hand finally finds the zipper.

“I’d take you like this,” he says lowly, kissing the back of your neck. “Make you look at yourself while I ruin you, slow… deep… mine.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He presses forward just a little more, breath ragged now against your skin. “But maybe we should stop.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and shake your head.

“No, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like the last wall crumbling. "Don't stop."

His hands freeze for just a moment, then he smirks, low and satisfied.

“There she is.”

His smirk deepens, wicked, triumphant. He doesn’t say a word.

Then, with deliberate force, he turns you.

Your back meets the cool edge of the vanity. Before you can fully catch your breath, his veiny hand is already on your throat, firm but careful, guiding your head back just enough to look up at him.

You gasp from the way it makes your knees go weak, the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

His gaze drops to your lips. Then slowly, almost torturously, he leans in, breath brushing your mouth, letting you feel the heat of it before he claims you.

The kiss is devastating. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, tongue, teeth, everything. He takes and takes, groaning low in his throat the moment you moan against him. That tiny, helpless sound makes his fingers tighten slightly on your neck, his other hand sliding possessively down your side to your hip.

“God, you sound so pretty when you do that,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked.

You melt under him, into him, letting him press you back against the vanity like he wants to fuse you to it. He breaks the kiss with a growl, breath hot against your lips, then suddenly, he spins you again.

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel his hands on your hips, feel the way his body aligns with yours so perfectly it’s almost cruel.

“Still pretending?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or can I finally touch you like I’ve wanted to all fucking night?”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence. "Yes-, yes please," you whimper, hips tilting back into his, head tipping to give him more of your neck.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Thought so.”

You don’t have a chance to respond before his hands are on you again, more urgent this time. His fingers find the zipper of your dress, and he pulls it down, letting you feel every inch of his focus on you.

The dress slides off your body, pooling at your feet, and he’s quick to step back just enough to take you in. His eyes rake over you like he’s starving. You stand there, vulnerable, under his gaze, and you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. The heat between your legs intensifies, the ache in your chest growing stronger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you from behind. “You’re a goddamn dream.”

You gasp as he presses you into the vanity, your body trapped between the cool wood and the heat of him. His hands slide down to your thighs, pulling them apart slowly, giving him access, making sure you feel every moment of it. His voice drops to a velvet growl. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby. Right here.” His lips press behind your ear again, “Tell me you want it,” he demands.

And you can’t hold back anymore. The tension in your body snaps, and you nod, your breath quickening. “I want it.”

He smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His hand presses firmly between your thighs, rubbing you through the soaked fabric with just enough pressure to make your legs weaken beneath you.

He chuckles against your skin when he feels you tremble. “Already this wet for me, baby?”

You nod helplessly, and his free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose more of your neck.

His teeth graze your pulse point, and you moan again, louder this time. "Look in the mirror as I touch you."

Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as your gaze locks on the reflection. “Fuck, Wooyoung…” you whisper, already unsteady, your thighs trembling under his stare alone.

Then, with no warning, he hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them fall. Cool air brushes against your wetness, and your whole body jolts in response.

“Jesus-” you exhale, shivering.

His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make you twitch. You moan, sharp and helpless, eyes fluttering closed for a second until he tuts softly beside your ear.

“Eyes open, sweetheart. I said look.”

You obey, forcing your eyes to the mirror again, and the sight of you, glowing, needy, lips parted, legs trembling, draws a sound from deep in your throat.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, he pushes in, just one finger at first, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He presses in knuckle by knuckle, watching your face in the mirror as your lips part and your back arches. The way your body welcomes him makes his cock twitch under the fabrics.

“There we go,” he whispers, dark and pleased. “So fucking tight.”

He gives you a moment to adjust, curling that single finger just right, then pulls back, almost all the way, before pushing in again, deeper this time. You whimper, soft and broken.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You let me in so easily.”

When he slides in a second finger, your knees nearly give out, but he catches you, pressing his chest to your back and flattening his palm over your belly.

You cry out, raw and desperate, body jerking in his arms.

“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, right there-, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”

His lips trace your jaw, voice molten.

“Good girl,” he whispers, moving his fingers just the way you need. “Let me hear you.”

And you do.

Loud, unfiltered, desperate for more.

Your hands grip the edge of the vanity. He watches in the mirror as your face twists in pleasure, breath shuddering every time he pumps into you. He doesn’t relent. His fingers are steady, coaxing, relentless, fucking you precisely, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands softly.

“So good,” you breathe. “It’s-, god, Wooyoung-”

“That’s right,” he cuts in, curling his fingers deeper. “Say my name like that.”

He shifts just slightly, just enough to hit the spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes, and keeps that rhythm. Over and over.

“Come on,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You nod, desperately, eyes fluttering shut.

But he doesn’t let you. His free hand curls around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, guiding you back to the mirror.

“No. Look,” he growls, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to see how good I make you feel. How pretty you look falling apart just for me.”

You force your eyes open, lips parted, eye makeup already smudged, breath shaking, and what you see unravels you: his body pressed to yours, his hand moving between your legs like he owns you, his gaze fixed entirely on your reflection.

The sight of it, the feeling of him everywhere, inside and around you, tips you over the edge.

You cry out, helpless and raw, as your body clenches hard around his fingers. He doesn’t slow. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good girl. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

Your hips jerk, grinding into his palm as your orgasm pulses through you, long and overwhelming. When the waves finally ease, your body limp and trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers, slick and shining.

You shiver, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his hips against you, the thick hardness of him pressing against your thighs.

He suddenly guides you forward, one hand on your back, he presses you down firmly, bending you over.

“Stay just like that,” he commands, stepping back slightly to admire the view, your ass pushed out, your eyes wide in the mirror, lips already parted. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then you feel it, his hands on your thighs, spreading them, dragging his fingers slowly along your skin. His shirt hangs open, wrinkled and useless now, clinging to one shoulder, exposing his toned chest, flushed and rising with every harsh breath. His palm presses to the center of your back, bending you over the vanity with a firm, unyielding push.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “I want you spread out. Pretty. Obedient.”

You obey without thinking, chest against the cool surface. Then, with excruciating slowness, he undoes his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch. He keeps his eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushes his pants down just enough and frees himself, fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been aching for this.

And when you see him… you go still.

He’s thick, long, flushed and heavy in his hand, already glistening at the tip.

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it.

“Oh?” he smirks, stroking himself lazily, intentionally, letting your eyes drink in every inch. “Surprised?”

You hear the sound of him spitting in his hand, stroking himself once, twice, and then that thick, hard length is sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

His hand slides into your hair, not rough, but controlling, guiding your eyes back to the mirror.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he commands, hand fisting your hair just enough to lift your gaze. “You’re gonna watch what it looks like when your best friend finally fucks you.”

Then, with one slow, devastating thrust, he sinks into you.

Deep.

Possessive.

Claiming.

He groans behind you, head falling forward, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“God-, fuck, you’re big,” you gasp, hands scrambling to grip the edge of the vanity.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, hard enough to make the vanity rattle.

You gasp, fingers scrambling for the edge, and he laughs behind you, breathless.

“More,” you cry, pushing back into him, shaking. “Don’t stop-, fuck, please don’t stop.”

“You want more?” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head up so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at this mess. Look what I’m doing to you.”

He slams into you harder. Filthy. Relentless. His palm lands on your ass, then rubs over the sting like he owns every inch of your body.

Then he snaps, hips continually slamming into you with a rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Over and over again. The sound of skin against skin echoes, obscene and raw, as he pounds into you like he’s lost all restraint. He leans over you suddenly, chest pressing to your back. His breath fans hot across your skin as his lips find your shoulder.

He kisses it once. Then again, slower.

“You gonna come like this?” he demands, voice thick and breathless. “Bent over, ass red, stuffed full of me?”

“Yes-,”

But he doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Just when your body tenses, right on the edge, he pulls out halfway and stills.

You let out a sob, raw and desperate, collapsing onto your elbows against the vanity.

“No…” you whimper, voice trembling. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I said so,” he growls behind you, breathing hard. “And if you’re mine now… you come when I let you.”

A sharp slap lands on your ass, the heat blooming instantly, making you cry out and he grins at the way your thighs twitch, how your body tries to grind back into him without thinking.

“Oh, you like that,” he mutters, dragging his palm over the curve of your ass, then gripping both cheeks hard, spreading you open as he groans. “Look at this view. Fucking perfect. So pretty and messy for me.”

His hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upright, spinning you to face him. His mouth crashes into yours in a messy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless need. You barely have time to cling to him before he’s walking you backward toward the bed.

“You think I was gonna finish you over a vanity?” he growls against your lips. “Not a fucking chance.”

You fall back onto the mattress with a gasp, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, body already trembling from the way he’s used you, and he just stands there for a second, looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Spread your legs wider.”

You do, instantly.

His shirt is half off, a desperate tug of fabric, and as he pulls his pants fully down, he’s not wasting any time to let you get a full look at him. His cock stands heavy, dripping with need, leaking as he strokes himself with a low growl.

You open your mouth, but the words die as he moves closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. His hand wraps around your ankle and drags you toward him, his grip firm, claiming. He leans over you, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly along your inner thigh.

“Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Did it turn you on? Knowing he saw you with me? Knowing he saw how badly I wanted to rip that dress off you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, breath hitching.

Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but just as possessive. His hand wraps behind your neck, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, savoring your reactions, feeding off every moan that escapes you.

“Look at this,” he mutters, gaze locked between your legs. “So swollen. So wet. All for me.”

His hand drags slowly down your stomach, the heat of his palm branding every inch of skin it touches. It’s not hurried, no, it’s maddeningly slow, his fingers grazing along the dip below your navel, making your muscles jump with anticipation.

Then his fingers reach your folds, gliding through your slickness, deliberately lazy. You twitch under his touch, hips tilting up instinctively.

And then-

He slaps your pussy. Open palm. Quick.

The sound cracks through the room, sharp and obscene. The sting hits you a second later, blooming heat across your center, and your whole body jolts, legs trembling.

“Fuck-!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Wooyoung-,”

He smirks down at you, all dark satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he says, eyes heavy with lust. “You liked that.”

Before you can catch your breath, he does it again. A second slap, just as sharp. The impact makes your thighs jerk apart, a cry tearing from your throat.

He moans, actually moans at the sight of you coming undone. “God, you’re so fucking hot when you take it like that.”

Your body is pulsing, burning, begging.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot as he leans closer, dragging two fingers through your folds again. “Dripping. You get this wet from just my hand?”

He rubs your clit in tight, quick circles, pressure unforgiving but just right, sending sparks up your spine. The contrast of pain and pleasure makes your head spin.

Your hands grip the sheets hard enough to cramp. “Fuck, Wooyoung-, don’t stop-”

He chuckles low and hungry. “Didn’t plan on it.”

With one smooth motion, he shifts, settling between your thighs. His cock, thick, flushed, already leaking, presses against your entrance, the tip catching on your slick folds. He rubs himself through your arousal, slow and teasing, just enough to make your hips chase him.

You try to lift your hips, to take him in, but he pins you back down, eyes wild.

“No. I get to fuck you when I say so,” he growls, mouth crashing down onto yours, kissing you hard, deep, messy, like he’s starving. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s ever tasted good.

When he finally thrusts in, it’s a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt and knocking the air right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,-” you gasp, eyes rolling back.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you again, the force of it leaving you breathless.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, body caging you in like a predator. His mouth finds yours, kissing you like he’s drowning, messy and hot and desperate. Teeth, tongue, breathless moans between every clashing movement.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls against your lips. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

So you do.

His pupils are blown, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, mouth parted. But it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that makes your heart slam against your ribs.

You’re gasping, crying out, and he swallows every sound, his kiss never softening, only growing more frenzied as his hips pound into you.

“You feel that?” he pants into your mouth. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thigh, throw your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, angle harsher. His grip is punishing, like he needs to hold you down to keep from losing his mind.

“Shit-,” you sob, clinging to him now. “You’re so deep-, I can’t-,”

“You can,” he growls. “Oh, fuck, baby-, that’s it,” he smirks, sweat dripping down from his neck. “You feel so good-, so fucking tight, so wet, I could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

He drops his head to your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin, marking you as his hands move constantly, palming your breast, gripping your hip, dragging across your thigh, he can’t stop touching you.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me make you feel so fucking good.”

You clench around him and he nearly loses it, thrusts getting sloppier, harder, messier. He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to his.

“Please-, Wooyoung, I’m close-”

“Yeah? Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

And it hits you, fast and deep, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you like a wave you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

Wooyoung watches it take you, and it wrecks him.

“God, baby,” he growls, suddenly losing all rhythm, all control. “You feel so-, fuck, I’m not gonna last-,”

You reach up, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you just like he did to you. “Don’t stop. Give it to me.”

That does it.

With a strangled moan of your name, he buries himself in you with a final, desperate thrust. His whole body tenses as he gives in, letting himself fall apart.

You can’t help but look at his face as that wave of pleasure overtakes him. His mouth is parted, lips trembling with the sounds he can’t hold back, brows drawn together in a tight knot like he’s fighting to stay grounded. The muscles in his jaw twitch, veins standing out along his neck and arms, his whole body straining as he spills everything into you.

When he finally exhales, it’s a ragged, shaky breath, and his body slowly relaxes, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to come back down. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his weight over you gently, careful not to crush you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

You can still feel the warmth of him inside you, the lingering tension of release pulsing between your bodies.

Then he lifts his head, just barely, and looks down at you, really looks. His gaze roams over your flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, the way you’re still dazed and boneless beneath him.

And then he grins. Slow, smug, wicked.

“God,” he says, voice low and pleased.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing everything. The mess he’s made of you. The way you still haven’t caught your breath.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, but it lands heavy in your chest. “Like… stupid beautiful.”

Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively turn your head, trying to hide the way your lips curl, the way you can’t even look at him right now.

But that just makes him laugh, low and breathless.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, fingers catching your chin, turning your face back to his. “don’t get all shy on me now. Not after the things I just did to you.”

“Wooyoung-“ you try to protest, flustered, but it’s useless.

He shifts suddenly, his hand pinning your wrist to the bed as he leans in, eyes blazing. “Nope,” he growls playfully.

When his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not sweet or teasing, it’s intense. Deep and all-consuming, like he’s starving for you. His tongue claims yours, every movement deliberate, dominant.

When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his lips are swollen and his voice is wrecked.

“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Never.”

***

You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping into the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. His arm is still draped over you, his breath steady and calm. You shift gently, trying not to wake him, but you can’t help but linger for a moment, watching his peaceful expression. He looks so content, so relaxed, last night still feels like a dream.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist and slip out of bed. As you stand, you glance back at him. His face is soft, his black hair a little messy, and the sight of him, even in his sleep, makes your heart flutter. You try to suppress the smile that tugs at your lips, but you can’t help it.

Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen. The cool air of the morning greets you as you open the cabinet and pull out his cereal box.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, bare legs dangling, quietly munching on a bowl of Wooyoung’s ridiculous neon-colored cereal. The box sits beside you, obnoxiously bright. You’d teased him for years about how awful it looked, and secretly craved it every time.

You hear the soft shuffle of feet before you see him.

Wooyoung emerges from the hallway, shirtless, his hair a messy halo of waves, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks like a dream and somehow worse for your heart in the morning light. A familiar ache stirs in your chest. This is your best friend. Your roommate. The same guy who left his laundry in the hallway and screamed at horror games.

The same guy who had his hands all over you last night and made you come like no one else.

“Morning, roomie,” he mutters, voice low and rough, smirking when his eyes catch yours. They linger. “Is that my cereal?”

You nod, trying not to choke on it now that your mouth’s gone dry. “It was calling to me.”

He walks right up to you, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Only now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he crowds your space.

You glance down, gripping the bowl a little tighter. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant. “You, uh… want some?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just takes the spoon from your hand, still warm from your touch, and scoops up a bite like it’s nothing. His other hand settles on your thigh, casual but firm. You forget how to breathe.

He hums like it’s gourmet. “God, I love this shit.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s weak. He’s too close. Too warm. Too real.

And then, without warning, he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.

“Good morning, beautiful,”

Before you can say anything else, before your heart can fully flip in your chest, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then it deepens, and the world around you fades. There’s no rush, no frantic need, just the slow, steady push and pull of lips, the quiet hum of connection between you two, something that’s always been there but is only now being acknowledged.

His lips linger just long enough to make your stomach twist in the best way before he pulls back, barely.

You stare at him, still a little dazed. He smirks.

“What?” he says, all fake innocence. “You gonna yell at me for stealing your cereal or for kissing you?”

You eye him, lips twitching. “Still weighing my options.”

He shrugs, hands still warm where they’re resting on your thighs. “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”

“You’re literally the most impatient person I know,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he hums, brushing his thumb just under the hem of your shorts, right where it makes your breath catch. “Not when it comes to you. I like watching you squirm too much.”

You exhale a laugh, trying not to give him the satisfaction. He just grins wider, enjoying seeing you like this.

It’s completely unfair, the way he looks so relaxed. Like this, you and him and whatever happened last night, isn’t a big deal. Like waking up tangled together, touching each other like that, was just the natural next step.

And maybe… maybe it was.

“You know,” he adds after a beat, glancing at your bowl again, “I thought about that last night.”

“What, the cereal?” you ask, trying to level your voice.

He nods, all faux-innocent. “Had this whole internal debate. Go finish the box or save you some.”

You squint at him. “You didn’t even eat any.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Fell asleep. Dreamt about it. Woke up, and there you were. Stealing the first bowl like some greedy little gremlin.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

“And hungry,” he adds, stealing your spoon without looking. He takes another bite, still watching you, chewing like he’s thinking about sin. “Might be craving something a little messier, though.”

You scoff, but your thighs tense around his hips, pulling him in closer. He feels it. Of course he does.

You think that’s the end of it, but then he tilts his head a little, voice dropping. “Also, you were real cute sneaking around out here like I couldn’t hear you. Hair all messy. Wearing nothing but your-”

“Stop,” you cut in, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

He just laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying. Round two almost happened right then and there.”

You shoot him a look. “I was literally getting cereal.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek again before he murmurs, “Yeah, and you still looked hot.”

You go quiet, too aware of his mouth near yours and the fact that he’s still standing between your knees like he belongs there.

You open your mouth, no idea what you’re even going to say, but he’s already leaning in.

And then he kisses you again, easy, unhurried, like it’s just what he does now. Like kissing you is second nature.

And god, maybe it is.

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[binniebbrecs]

read this a while back when san was still my bias, and then i read this—

now i’m a woo girl 😩 best friends to lovers, fake dating, SMUT, fluff, a little jealousy…what’s not to love?

[pale-skin-n-sarcasm]

I think about this fic so often 😫😫

[w00yngie]

title: lovin' you’s a game, boy

pairing: gamer!yunho x f!reader

genre: slice of life, a little bit of angst w/comfort, established relationship, nonidol!au, other ateez members cameo!

word count: 8.4k

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

warnings: no use of y/n, valorant mentioned/described (sry it felt appropriate to warn you guys about that), graphic sexual scenes (mdni!!), explicit language, make up sex, oral (f!rec), multiple o's, switching from protected to unprotected sex (RAW! next question), fingering, creampie, lots of praising, body worship (yunho is so so down bad), cute aftercare!! / lmk if i missed any

author's note: do we fw the new layout?? i finally figured out how to do the gradient thingy, ty to the glorious @tonycries for linking a W tutorial. when i saw yunho play val last year i was like wtf my worlds are colliding?! so i definitely portrayed yunho as guys i know personally that play v*lorant and iykyk. hopefully i did eboy yunho some justice but i hope you guys enjoy this fic!

You kick off your heels at the door, groaning as your stockinged feet finally meet the cool hardwood floor of your apartment. The day has dragged on endlessly. Client complaints, your boss’s impossible demands, the printer jamming right before a deadline—but through it all, a single thought has sustained you: that tonight you and Yunho would finally be at home together for once. Your work schedules and day offs rarely line up so you will take any advantage to spend time with your boyfriend. Granted that he doesn’t rot behind his pc. 

Everyone has an outlet to destress, for some it’s crocheting and others it’s baking. For Yunho, it was playing video games. You like to tell yourself that you don’t mind but sometimes it does get to you. It’s alright though, you’re just a girl at the end of the day and he’s just a boy that loves to play his silly video games.

Your tote bag slips from your shoulder, landing with a soft ‘thud’ beside the shoe rack. The apartment smells faintly of the jasmine air freshener you and Yunho bought last weekend at the farmers market. In your shared bedroom, you shed your work clothes like a snake shedding its skin, each discarded item feeling like a weight lifted. The soft cotton of your bathrobe embraces you as you wrap it around yourself.  Your reflection in the mirror gradually transforms from a professional façade to a vulnerable reality. The dark circles under your eyes tell the story of three consecutive late nights working with egotistical clients that think they know better than you. 

When you emerge feeling more human, you make your way to the kitchen. The kettle hums as it heats water for your tea—chamomile with a touch of honey, the way you always make it on hard days. 

“Yunnie?” you call out, voice lifting with expectation.

“In here!” comes the distant reply from the direction of his office turned gaming room.

Cup in hand, you venture toward the rapid clicking and occasional muttered curses. The door to Yunho’s gaming room stands half-open. You nudge it wider with your hip; the steam from your tea momentarily fogs your vision.

He’s hunched at his pc, headset clamped over his ears, fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced precision, his other hand gripped on the mouse as it glides on his mousepad. The blue light from his dual monitors casts an otherworldly glow across his features. His dark hair falls across his forehead as he leans forward, intense concentration etched into every line of his face.

“Hi,” you say softly, hovering in the doorway.

He holds up one finger, eyes never leaving the screen. “One sec—shit! Mingi bro, the Jett's flanking you,” His voice rises as his character on screen guns an enemy down that frankly means nothing to you. 

You hear Mingi through Yunho’s headset cursing the game and the entire enemy team's bloodline because he died. You sip your tea and wait, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches. You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. His passion for everything and anything is one of the things you love about him, even when it’s directed at pixels on a screen. After what feels like several minutes (but is probably only thirty seconds), his character dies leaving his team in a 2v1.

“Damn it,” he mutters, then swivels slightly in his chair. “Hey, you’re home.” His smile is warm but distracted, his eyes already back on the screen. “How was work?”

“Pretty bad,” you admit, stepping further into the room. “Are you free—”

“Sorry baby, let's chat after this game,” he says to you before speaking into his microphone. “Let’s play A retake this time, I’ll lurk B.”

Your words evaporate into the air between you. The game resumes, and with it, his complete attention shifts away from you. You perch on the small loveseat he keeps in the room, tucking your bare legs beneath you and cradling your mug between both hands. The warmth seeps into your palms, a poor substitute for the embrace you’d anticipated all day. 

Fifteen minutes stretch into thirty as you watch him play, occasionally commenting on an impressive kill or asking a question that yields a one-word answer. The ache in your chest grows with each passing moment. You really don’t want to be that girlfriend—the one who demands attention, who can’t let her boyfriend enjoy his hobby—but the weight of your awful day presses down, making you crave connection more than usual. 

“You think we can order some food?,” you finally say during a break between matches.

“Yeah, we can,” Yunho says, eyes still on the screen as he opens the buy menu. “Just let me finish this ranked game.”

“How much longer will that take?” you ask, voice deliberately light.

He shrugs, the gesture sending a small ripple through your already fragile composure. “Not sure. A few games, maybe? An hour or two? You can watch if you want.”

The suggestion puts a sinking feeling into your stomach. The idea of watching him play a game you don’t understand for hours will somehow fulfil his promise feels like a tiny needle under your skin. Not painful enough to cry out, but impossible to ignore. 

“No thanks, it’s fine. I’ll just go,” you say quietly in defeat.

You stand up from the loveseat, tea now lukewarm in your mug, and pause in the doorway. Part of you wants to remind him of his promise, to express your disappointment. Another part, the part conditioned by years of accommodating others, hesitates. He looks so content, so absorbed in his element. 

Who are you to disrupt that?

As you turn to leave, his voice calls after you, unguarded as he speaks to his friends rather than to you: “No, I’m good to play all night.” 

You can faintly hear one of his friends ask about you and if you were okay that he’d be out for so long, “S’alright, she can wait a bit we gotta grind to–”

You freeze in the doorway, your shoulders tensing. Heaven forbid you just wanted to unwind and spend some quality time with your boyfriend that you barely get to hang out with. The mug trembles slightly in your hand. The words fucking sting more than they should. Surely he means well, right? 

You retreat to the kitchen, chucking your mug in the sink and a loud ‘CLANK’ as it echoes through the empty kitchen.  In the refrigerator light, you stare at containers of leftover food that suddenly hold no appeal. Behind you, the muffled sounds of Yunho’s gaming fill the apartment like an uninvited guest that has overstayed its welcome. You close the refrigerator door and lean against it, eyes closed, breathing deeply. You weren’t in the mood to make anything extravagant for dinner, so you opted out for a simple sandwich. 

You assemble a sandwich with mechanical precision—bread, mayo, turkey, cheese, lettuce—the ingredients coming together without thought or enjoyment. The knife scrapes across the ceramic plate as you cut it diagonally, the sound harsh in the quiet kitchen. Your stomach growls, reminding you that lunch was a granola bar eaten between meetings, but the sandwich holds little appeal. You carry your plate to the living room. The television remains dark as you eat in silence, the sandwich tasteless despite your hunger. Your apartment, usually a haven, feels suddenly too small, too empty despite his presence just rooms away. 

You just couldn’t understand why he couldn’t just forfeit his game to come hang out with his girlfriend. You’ve talked about this issue with your other friends before, all of them agreeing that your boyfriend being too obsessive with his status in the games he plays puts not only a strain on you but a heavier strain on your relationship. 

Three years you’ve been together. Three years of building a life: finding this apartment with morning light streaming through the bedroom window; adopting temperamental houseplants that thrive under his care; learning each other’s rhythms and needs. You understand his passion for gaming; it’s his way of unwinding, of connecting with friends scattered across the country. Most days, you welcome it as part of who he is. But tonight you need him. Not just his physical presence in the next room, but his attention, his comfort, the way he listens when you talk about your day, nodding at all you have to rant about and offering commentary that makes even the worst work situations seem manageable.

The plate sits empty in your lap. You check your phone: 9:45 PM. Yunho’s voice occasionally carries through the apartment—exclamations, strategic directives, laughter. The sounds deepen your solitude.

You carry your plate to the sink, rinsing it methodically, and place it in the dishwasher. The routine of tidying the kitchen provides hollow comfort, each task a distraction from the ache beneath your ribs. When there’s nothing left to clean, you move to the bathroom. The shower’s hot water beats against your skin, washing away the day’s physical remnants if not its emotional toll. You wrap yourself in a towel, droplets dancing down your legs onto the bathmat. Your reflection stares at you from the steam-covered mirror—a blurry outline, edges softened and indistinct. You wipe a clear patch in the condensation with your palm, revealing eyes red-rimmed from more than just shampoo.

“Stop it,” you sniffle. “It’s just one night.”

It never really is just one night though, is it?  

Before you reach your bedroom, you take one last look into Yunho’s room. You debate on whether or not you should interrupt again but you’re exhausted from waiting for the chance for your boyfriend to pay attention to you for once. Something within you just snaps, you’ve had enough. You deserve so much better. You walk back into his room, you watch as the furrow between his brows deepen as he leans closer to the monitor, fingers moving in complex patterns. The headset has left a slight indentation in his hair; in any other circumstance, you might have found it endearing.

“Hey, can we talk?” you hate the note of hope creeping into your voice.

“Yeah, sure,” he says without looking away. “Just after this–.”

“No, I want to talk now.”

Yunho swivels in his chair, half of his headset pulled away. “Huh?”

“You promised.” The words feel childish as they leave your mouth. “After that last game we would hang out, remember?”

“I know, but I swear I’m almost–”

You scoff, “Almost done? You said that about three games ago.”

“Oh so we’re keeping tabs on me now? Real mature of you.” he snaps back. 

Your jaw drops, never in your entire relationship has he ever talked to you like this. You were fucking livid.

“God, how hard is it to just ask my boyfriend to spend some time with me? Like—fuck sake—we barely spend time together as it is.” you ranted, your fists at your sides as your fingernails dig into the palm of your hands. There’s no universe that you are standing here arguing with your boyfriend over a fucking video game.

His eyes flick between you and the screen where his character stands idle. “I am spending time with you. You’re right here.”

“That’s not—“ You gesture at the space between you. “This isn’t hanging out. I’m so sick and tired of always waiting until you finish your stupid fucking game for us to be together.”

You cringe at the loud “ooh’s” and “oh no’s” from his headset. 

“Fuck off guys, hold on,” he says into his mic before turning to face you. “Can we please just talk later? I’m busy and I promised the guys that–”

“You’re always ‘too busy’ for me but never too busy for the guys? Maybe you should just go be with them instead.” You laugh bitterly, Yunho takes his headset off and throws it somewhere on his desk. 

“Are you serious? Do you even hear yourself right now?” he huffed out in annoyance.

“Do you?”

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you felt the hot sting of tears threatening to spill over. The pressure behind your eyes built as your throat tightened painfully. You blinked rapidly, trying desperately to maintain what little composure you had left.

“I don’t have the energy to argue with you,” you said, your voice suddenly small and wavering. “I just had such a shit day at work and—“ The words caught in your throat as your eyes welled up despite your best efforts. You turned away, unable to bear looking at him while falling apart.

“Whatever, fucking forget it,” you choked out, wrapping your arms around yourself.

Yunho’s expression shifted instantly, the annoyance melting away as he registered your tears. He stood up from his chair, abandoning his game without a second thought.

“Hey, wait,” he called after you as you moved toward the door. “Baby, hold on.”

But you were already halfway down the hallway, trying to escape before the dam broke completely. You heard the scrape of his chair against the floor, followed by his footsteps behind you.

“Please just leave me alone,” you managed, your voice thick with emotion. “Go back to your game. Your friends are waiting.”

You made it to the bedroom and closed the door, not quite slamming it but shutting it firmly enough to make your point. The tears came freely now, hot trails down your cheeks as you sank onto the edge of the bed. Your shoulders shook with silent sobs as you pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes. You reached for the tissue box on the nightstand, pulling out several and pressing them against your face to catch the tears. The cotton sheets felt cool against your legs as you curled them under you, trying to make yourself smaller. Part of you wished Yunho would knock on the door, that he’d come. He never did.

You slip into your comfy sleep clothes—soft shorts and one of his old t-shirts that hangs loose on your frame. The bed, when you crawl into it, feels vast and cold. You pull the comforter up to your chin, cocooning yourself on your side. Your phone’s glow illuminates the darkness as you scroll mindlessly through various social media apps. A notification from your friend asking about your evening with Yunho appears. You sigh as you close the app without responding.

The wall clock ticks steadily, each moment that passes you slowly feel a piece of your heart breaking. Your eyelids grow heavy, but sleep remains elusive, held at bay by the empty feeling in your chest. A tear slips from the corner of your eye, trailing across the bridge of your nose to dampen the pillowcase. Then another. You don’t bother wiping them away, letting them fall in silent testament to your disappointment. Tired of fighting to stay awake and waiting for your boyfriend, you succumb to slumber as you drift off into sleep. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Yunho stared at the closed bedroom door, his hand frozen mid-air, unable to bring himself to knock. He walked back to his room as the game continued in his headset, abandoned on his desk—distant shouting and gunfire that suddenly seemed utterly meaningless.

“Yo, Yunho? You there, man?” Mingi’s voice came faintly from the headset.

“What the hell, man?” San’s voice crackled through not long after.

He returned to his desk in a daze and slipped the headset back on. “Yeah, I...fuck, I gotta go.”

“No shit you gotta go, are you fucking dumb dude?” Hongjoong’s voice was light, teasing but everyone knew he was serious.

“Man, that did not sound good,” Wooyoung chimed in. 

Yunho winced, he knew that his friend was right. “Yeah, I said I’ll catch you guys later.”

“No, wait—“ Seonghwa’s tone shifted to something more serious. “Did you seriously just blow her off for a fucking Valorant match? After she said she had a shit day?”

The guilt that had been forming in Yunho’s chest crystallized, sharp and heavy. “I didn’t know—“

“You didn’t ask her, Yun,” Jongho cut in. “You kept cutting her off—we heard the whole thing, bro. You fucked up so bad.”

“Yeah, man,” Yeosang added, his usual playful tone gone. “If the love of my life ever talked to me like that when I was upset, I’d be out the door without question.”

“I didn’t mean to—“ Yunho started, but the excuses died in his throat. What could he say? That he’d been so caught up in a game that he’d ignored his girlfriend’s obvious distress? That he’d snapped at her for wanting his attention?

“Look,” Mingi said, his voice gentler now, “We love you, but you were being a dick. Get off the game and go fix your fuck up.”

Yunho pulled off the headset and tossed it back onto the desk, he reached over to his pc tower and turned everything off with a click. The familiar burn of anger flared in his chest—at himself, at his friends for calling him out, at the whole situation. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm brewing inside him. Getting angry at himself wouldn’t solve anything. It never did.

He’d fucked up. Plain and simple. The walk to the bedroom felt longer than usual, each step weighted with the knowledge of his mistake. 

He knocked gently. “Baby?” he called, his voice carefully controlled. “Can I come in?”

When you didn’t answer, he pressed his forehead against the cool wood of the door. “Please? I want to talk.”

Don’t be defensive. Don’t make excuses. Just apologize, he coached himself, tamping down the reflexive urge to justify his behavior. He gently knocks a second time. Still silent. No response. 

Leaving him with no other choice, he opened the bedroom door. He stands at the threshold, silhouetted in the dim light. He steps closer to your side of the bed, noticing the dried tear tracks on your cheek, the darker patch on your pillow where they pooled. His heart clenches. He hates it when you cry but knowing that he made you cry, he’s so disappointed with himself. 

“My love,” Yunho whispers, settling on the edge of the bed. His hand hovers for a moment before resting lightly on your shoulder. “Please wake up.”

You stir, disoriented, blinking up at him through the dark. “Hm? What time is it?” you murmur, voice thick with sleep. “It’s late,” he replies, his thumb tracing small circles along your shoulder. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Fragments of exhaustion cloud your mind as you push yourself up against the headboard. The ache of earlier disappointment seeps back in—why you went to bed alone. You rub your eyes, heavy with fatigue. “Did you win your games?” you ask, though you don’t truly care.

“That’s not important,” he says softly, voice tight. He turns to face you fully. “I need to talk to you.”

“The game was so important to you earlier,” you scoff, voice weary.

Yunho looks away, shame darkening his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it. “Can’t we wait until tomorrow to talk, Yunho?” you ask, voice dropping with exhaustion. He winces at you using his government name, not yunnie, yuyu or baby. Just Yunho.

“No,” he says firmly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “It can’t wait. Because tonight I let you down—but not just tonight. I’ve let you down before, and I’m sorry for every time I put a stupid game ahead of you.”

You sit up, drawing your knees to your chest. The oversized T-shirt slips off one shoulder, skin bare in the dim light. He respects your distance, keeping his hands to himself. “You promised,” you sniffle, the words light but heavy with meaning.

His shoulders slump. “I know. I got caught up in the game—again and again. It was selfish, and I broke my promise more times than I can count. I’m so sorry for making you feel alone, for missing the moments you needed me most.” He reaches for your hand, relief flooding his expression when you offer yours. “You needed me tonight. You needed me every time before. And I wasn’t there.”

You squeeze his hand, like it was a silent acknowledgement of his apology. “I had a horrible day—my presentation was a disaster and my new boss tore me apart. I came home wanting comfort, wanting you. I just wanted to feel like I had someone on my side”

“I am on your side,” he insists, squeezing your hand gently. “Always. I let my own needs overshadow yours, and that’s not excusable. You deserve better—my love, attention, and respect. Not just tonight, but every day.” You lift your gaze and find only earnest remorse in his eyes. “I didn’t want to nag you about gaming. I know it means a lot to you.” He shakes his head, lifting your chin with one tender finger. “Not as much as you, baby. Never as much as you. Don’t ever think you’re nagging when you ask me to keep a promise I made— that I meant to keep. I saw how much it hurt you tonight when I didn't follow through. I can’t imagine the other nights I ignored you.” His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a fresh tear. “I’m sorry I made you cry. I’m sorry for anytime I didn’t make you my number one priority. I promise to love you better and to be a better man.”

His voice, so soft and sincere, breaks something open inside you. You lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.

“I missed you so much, Yuyu,” you admit, voice trembling.

“I’m here now,” he whispers, brushing his forehead to yours. “Let me make it up to you—to this night and to the rest of our lives. You mean more to me than anything in the world.”

Your fingertips graze the warm plane of his forearm, and you feel a spark—prickling electricity crackling across your skin from the dry midnight air. He watches you, pupils widening until his irises fade to shadow. He closes the last inches between you in one slow, deliberate step. His mouth finds yours, the kiss feather-soft at first, petals brushing, then deepening with a raw, urgent hunger. His palm slides from your cheek down to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in the fine strands there, tugging you closer. You pause, your pulse hammering, but the ache between your thighs drowns any hesitation. When his tongue teases the seam of your lips, you part them willingly, drinking in the coppery taste of him.

“I fucked up,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with regret and need. One hand drifts beneath the hem of your t-shirt, fingertips grazing the tender hollow of your waist.  “I should’ve been taking care of my girl.”

His thumb presses at the curve of your hip. Heat trails behind his touch, each fingertip a burning brand as he traces upward along your ribs. When he skims the underside of your breast, your breath bursts out in a sharp gasp, and your back arches instinctively, nipples tightening under his ministrations.

Yunho pulls back just enough to see your face, his eyes searching yours. “Let me show you how sorry I am,” he says, voice dropping to that low register that makes you shiver. 

At your nod, he claims your lips again, fiercer this time. His hands dive under your shirt, peeling it up over your head in one swift motion. Cool air ghosts across your bare skin before his palms reclaim that warmth, cupping your tits, thumbs tracing slow circles around your peaked nipples until every nerve fires. You shiver, spine arching, chest pressing forward to meet him.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, mouth sliding from your lips to graze your jaw, then down the gentle slope of your throat, teeth grazing lightly above your collarbone. “Always so perfect and good to me.”

You reach for him, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He helps you out and peels the fabric off of his body. You couldn’t help but stare, your boyfriend was hand sculpted by the gods. It was hard keeping your hands to yourself. Yunho guides you backward onto the mattress, his body covering yours in a familiar weight that grounds you. His lips close over your nipple, tongue swirling in languid circles around the sensitive bud. Pleasure pulses from your tits straight to the core of you. Your fingers thread into his hair, tugging as his tongue dips lower. He takes his time, lavishing attention on each breast until you’re squirming beneath him, hips lifting in silent cries. Only then does his hand slide lower, fingers playing at the waistband of your sleep shorts.

“These need to go,” he murmurs against your heated skin, and you lift your hips to help him slide both shorts and underwear down your legs.

You hiss when you feel the cold air hit your hot and soaked cunt. Naked beneath him now, you feel vulnerable, but the way he looks at you—like you’re precious, something that needs to be worshipped—chases away any insecurity. His hand traces up your inner thigh, touch feather-light as it approaches where you need him most.

“C’mon baby, talk to Yuyu,” he breathes, lips grazing your ear. “Tell me how to make it right.”

You tremble, voice barely a whisper. “Please touch me.”

His index finger slides along your wet folds, collecting a bead of your slick, then returns to tease your entrance with a gentle, circular stroke. You gasp, arching your hips. Finally, he eases that finger inside, the tip bending and pressing against your sensitive walls. A second finger follows, stretching you in the most delicious way. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles that send stars bursting behind your eyes.

“Like this, baby?” he murmurs, voice husky.

You nod wildly, breath hitching. He withdraws his fingers then, only to replace them with an even hungrier mouth. The flick of his tongue against your swollen clit draws a guttural moan from you. You grind your hips, desperate for friction, hands gripping his shoulders as he savours you, tongue and lips working overtime. Waves of pleasure ripple through you, each tongue-stroke priming you closer to the edge. 

“Yunnie—!,” you mewl, hips rising to meet each deliberate thrust of his hand.

He captures your moan with his mouth, kissing you deeply as his fingers work their magic. Your hands claw at his back, nails digging into his skin. When he breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down your body, you whimper at the momentary loss of his fingers. But then his hands grip your thighs, spreading you oh so wide as his mouth reclaims its rightful spot on your sweet cunt. The stroke of his tongue against your core has you arching off the bed, a strangled cry escaping your lips. He holds your hips firmly, keeping you in place as he devours you, tongue alternating between circling your clit and dipping into your entrance.

“Oh god,” you gasp, one hand fisting in the sheets while the other tangles in his hair. “Don’t stop, ah fuck– please don’t stop.”

You suddenly feel fuller as he works his index and middle finger back up into your cunt in sync with his mouth. Heat coils tighter in your stomach, thighs clamping around his head as his fingers dig into your hips, holding you down while he enjoys you sloppy and relentless. 

“C’mon baby, let me hear you,” he hums against you.

When he curls his fingers just right, pressing against that sensitive spot, you shatter, release washing over you in waves as you cry out his name.

“Y-yes, feels so good—m’ cumming fuck—!” 

He works you through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks subside until you tug at his hair, too sensitive for more. 

“Fuck baby, you taste so sweet.” licking his lips, looking down at you with dark, hungry eyes. 

You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging insistently. “Mm, off.”

He obeyed instantly, urgency and reverence in the movement as he shucked off his sweatpants and boxer briefs in a single, practiced motion. His cock was already flushed and thick, standing out from his body, his bulbous tip already leaking with pre-cum. Desire bloomed in your stomach again, a fresh ache that eclipsed the aftershocks of your first orgasm, making you greedy for more. You watched, breath coming quick and shallow, as he reached for the nightstand drawer, retrieving a foil packet with the same fluid grace that defined his every movement. He tore it open with his teeth, rolled the condom down his length with a practiced hand, then knelt on the bed and braced himself above you, muscles flexing in his arms and thighs as he hovered like a promise, his cock bobbing at the apex of his arousal.

Yunho’s eyes flicked over your naked body, lingering on the slick heat between your legs, the rise and fall of your chest, the flush of your nipples. He drank you in, gaze almost pained with adoration and want, and hovered there, waiting for your cue. The pause thrummed between you—a moment of pure potential. You reached for him, wrapping your hand around the thick length of him and giving a gentle, possessive squeeze. He hissed through his teeth and bowed his head, his breath hot on your cheek as he nuzzled at your temple. You wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer until the tip of him presses against your entrance. 

His groan was deep and guttural, almost animalistic, it vibrated through both your bodies as he continued to press forward. You stretched exquisitely to accommodate his girth, slow and almost suspenseful—he held himself in check, nudging in a little, then out, then in again, gentling the way for you inch by inch. Even though your body craved him, trembled for him, Yunho refused to rush, setting a deliberate pace that was all about savouring rather than conquering. The hangover of hurt from before was still present, but now the ache shifted, softened by the way he worshipped you with every shuddered breath and whispered apology.

When he finally bottomed out, hips flush to yours and cock buried to the hilt, you both froze, raw at the point of connection. Around you, the room seemed to contract and expand, the air gone syrupy-thick. The only thing that felt real, that felt true, was the intense pulse between your bodies—and the way Yunho’s arms shook as he braced himself above you, like he might break apart if he let go.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat beading at his brow, and his voice was a tremulous hush: “I’m sorry.” The words ghosted across your lips, so close you’d swear you swallowed them. “I never want to make you feel unimportant.”

“S’okay, I know,” you whispered and when you clenched around him for emphasis, the sound he made was rapture and despair rolled into one.

Yunho obliged, withdrawing almost entirely before driving back in, a steady, deep rhythm that immediately threatened to undo you. He didn’t tease or play games—each thrust was purposeful, devotion made tactile, and yet he didn’t try to own you with vengeance. He moved so you felt full of him, the press of his pelvis grinding against your clit with each pass. 

“Fuck— m’ sorry for being a terrible boyfriend,” he chokes out suddenly, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. “shouldn’t have let you walk out—and be upset, I promise— shit— baby I'm sorry.”

“S’o-okay fuck—,” 

You were slick and swollen, your nerve endings set alight; every time he rocked forward, your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him in, greedy for the friction and the fullness.

He peppered the moment with breathless confessions, his voice breaking on every thrust: "So fucking good—god, you're so tight, baby." 

His hands roamed your body with desperate hunger, palms trailing down your sweat-slicked sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, kneading your plush thighs, cupping the weight of your tits. Anywhere he could anchor himself in the reality of your body yielding to his. Each time your bodies collided, the impact sent the headboard slamming against the wall—thud, thud, thud— a primal rhythm punctuating your high-pitched whimpers and his whiny groans.

"Please," you whimpered, arching your back as he hit that perfect sweet spot deep inside you. "Right there—ohshit, don't stop—oh my god, Yunho!"

"Atta girl,” he purred against your ear, voice ragged with need. "You love it when I fuck you so deep, huh?"

"S-so much," you whined, legs quivering around his waist. "I need you deeper—harder—!"

Within minutes, you were spiralling, overwhelmed by the slick friction where your bodies joined, the heady scent of sex filling your nostrils, the way Yunho's dark eyes, pupils blown wide with lust, never left yours. He held your gaze as he drove into you, the raw intimacy making tears spring to your eyes. This wasn't angry rutting—this was his desperate plea for forgiveness, his cock speaking apologies his mouth couldn't form. He mouthed filthy promises against your feverish skin—your name, broken endearments, breathless apologies—his tongue tracing paths down your chest, lapping at the salt of your throat, claiming your parted lips.

“M’ close—again—ngh fuck," your pretty whines start slurring together as his cock perfectly hits your sweet spot.

When he sensed you teetering on the edge, Yunho's rhythm faltered, and he pulled you flush against him, his hot breath dampening your neck. 

"Give it to me," he begged, voice cracking. "I want—ah, fuck—please."

The filthy words were gasoline, igniting every nerve ending. His calloused thumb found your swollen clit, circling with devastating precision in perfect tandem with his thrusts, and the pressure coiled so fast it stole your breath. Your nails carved crescents into his back, drawing angry red welts down the rippling muscles of his shoulders, but Yunho only worked you harder, more insistent, his hips snapping against yours.

"That's it cum f’me, baby.”

The orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave, tearing a scream from your throat and arching your spine as your inner walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing length. 

He held you through it, his body rigid and trembling as your climax milked him, and with a broken cry of your name, he followed, hips stuttering in erratic thrusts. A loud groan escaped his lips as he pulled out to finish inside of the flimsy condom. The room filled with the sound of your mingled panting, a symphony of satisfaction that slowly gave way to soft, intimate laughter. Yunho’s forehead pressed against yours, his eyes still dark with the afterglow of pleasure as he brushed his lips against your cheek. 

“Are you okay?” he murmured, his breath warm and sweet against your skin.

You nod, feeling the silken sheets beneath you stick to your perspiration-slicked back. “More than okay.” As his lips found yours again, the kiss rekindling the embers of your passion, you felt your body responding once more. His hands began to wander, skimming down your body, reigniting the fire he’d just extinguished. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that promised more to come.

When his hardness pressed against your thigh, evidence of his renewed arousal, a thought crystallized in your mind—a wish you’d kept secret even from yourself.

“Yuyu, I wanna try going raw,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“Please,” you added, your voice barely hanging onto the end of a moan. “I want to feel you so bad.”

Yunho pulled back slightly, his eyes widening as he searched your face. “Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough with desire but tinged with concern. “We’ve never—“

“I’m sure, I trust you,” you assured him, hands framing his face. 

His pupils dilated, darkening his gaze as he processed your request. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to feel you like that,” he confessed, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “To feel you clench around me—fuck.”

The raw honesty in his admission sent a fresh wave of arousal through you. You shifted beneath him, legs parting in invitation. 

“What are you waiting for then?,” you challenged, nipping at his bottom lip.

Yunho’s hands trembled slightly as he reached between your bodies. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as his fingers found the base of the condom. 

“Let me just...” he murmured, pinching the latex and sliding it off with one fluid motion.

He gave himself a few slow strokes, coating his length with his previous release. Something primal stirred in your stomach at the knowledge that nothing would separate you now, that you’d feel every vein, every pulse, every drop of him.

“C’mere,” you whispered, reaching for him.

A growl rumbled in his chest as he positioned himself between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock teasing your entrance. 

“You’re still so wet for me,” he murmured appreciatively, dragging his cock head up and down, gathering your slickness to ease his way.

You sigh as he pushes forward, the sensation somehow more intense than before. Whether it was the psychological thrill of what was to come or simply your heightened sensitivity, you couldn’t tell—but every nerve ending seemed to spark as he filled you inch by inch.

“God, you feel incredible,” he groaned, burying himself to the hilt. He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against yours, breathing ragged. “S-shit you’re even tighter than before.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him deeper. “M-move baby,” you pleaded, fingers digging into his shoulders. 

He began a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust measured and deep. His eyes never left yours, maintaining a connection that transcended the physical. This wasn’t just sex anymore—this was something more profound, a new level of intimacy neither of you had experienced before. 

“I can feel every part of you,” you whine, arching to meet his thrusts. 

Every drag of his cock is unrelenting, grinding deep, pressing into the softest parts of you like he’s trying to carve his shape into your body.

“I can feel you clenching around me,” he rasps, voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. “So hot, Fuck–! M’ not going to last.”

His pace increased gradually, hips snapping more forcefully against yours. Plap, plap, plap! The sound of skin against skin filled the room, punctuated by your breathless moans and his deeper groans. One of his hands slid between your bodies, finding your swollen clit and circling it with figure 8’s.

“Yun—s’too much—,”

“Gonna fuck you so full, you’ll feel me leaking out of you for days,” he groaned, his breath hot against your ear.

His words sent a jolt of pure lust through you, pushing you closer to the edge. Your nails raked down his forearms as the pressure built inside you, coiling tighter with each perfect thrust. When he shifted the angle slightly, hitting that spot deep inside, your vision blurring as you cried out his name.

“You were made for this cock weren’t you, baby?” he quips, movements growing more erratic as his own release approaches. “Let go for me, I’ve got you.”

The combination of his words, his touch, and the knowledge of what was to come pushed you over the precipice. Your orgasm hit you hard, more intense than the first, tearing a scream from your throat as your inner walls clamped down on him in rhythmic pulses.

Yunho’s rhythm faltered as your body gripped him tighter. “Fuck,” his voice breaking. “I’m going to—“

“Yes,” you lock your ankles behind his back to keep him deep inside. “Fill me up, Yunnie. I need it.”

With a primal groan that reverberated through your joined bodies, he buried himself as deep as possible and let go. The hot pulse of his release inside you was unlike anything you’d ever felt—intimate in a way that transcended physical pleasure. Each throb of his cock sent aftershocks through your sensitive core, drawing out your own climax until you were both trembling and breathless.

After a moment, Yunho carefully withdrew from you, both of you wincing at the sensation. He casts his gaze down as he watches his cum slowly leak out of you, he silently swears that’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He rolled to your side, propping himself up on one elbow to gaze down at you with an expression so tender it made your chest ache. The hurt from earlier had dissolved, replaced by a bone-deep satisfaction that made your limbs feel heavy and your mind blissfully quiet.

"I don’t expect you to forgive me right now, but I really do apologise for being a dick" he whispered, tracing patterns on your stomach with his fingertips. "Not just about tonight. About every time I've made you feel second to anything."

You reached up to touch his cheek, thumb brushing across his lower lip. "I know baby, it’s okay."

He caught your thumb between his teeth, giving it a gentle bite before releasing it. "I don't think I'm done properly apologizing just yet."

Before you could question his meaning, he was moving down your body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your collarbones, the valley between your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. Each touch of his lips felt like a separate apology, a promise written in the language of skin against skin.

"Huh? What are you—" Your question cut off with a gasp as he settled between your thighs, strong hands gently spreading your legs wider.

"One last time, please?" he murmured, his breath teasing your sensitive flesh. 

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him with wide eyes. "You don't have to—"

"I want to—no, I need to," he interrupted, holding your gaze as he lowered his mouth to your inner thigh, placing a reverent kiss there. 

The first swipe of his tongue made you jerk, oversensitive from your previous orgasms. He shushed you gently, hands stroking your thighs in soothing circles. "Relax for me, baby. Let me take care of you."

His tongue was gentle this time, exploratory rather than demanding. He lapped softly at your entrance, tasting the evidence of his own release mixed with your arousal. The intimacy of it made you shudder, a fresh wave of desire washing through you despite your exhaustion.

"You taste like us," he murmured against your flesh, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. "So fucking good."

His thumbs spread you open, exposing your most sensitive parts to his hungry gaze. Yunho took his time, alternating between broad, flat licks that covered your entire sex and precise, pointed flicks of his tongue against your clit. He seemed determined to memorize every fold, every texture, learning the geography of your pleasure with devoted attention.

One thick finger slid inside you—then two making your thighs squeeze around him harder. You were dripping down his chin, he didn’t care. He just kept eating like your pussy was the only thing on Earth that could satisfy him. You squirm and turn to get away from the overstimulating pleasure but your boyfriend wasn’t having it.

Yunho pulled back long enough for you to see his drenched, swollen lips, “Baby, you gotta stay still f’me.”

You physically can’t. All you want to do is run away. It’s almost like your body isn’t listening to you. He slows the pace slightly, you look down to see how your cunt takes in his fingers—you moan at the sight. Yunho smirks and resumes his original pace as your cream covers his fingers. Your dripping cunt meets his mouth in a dirty French kiss. The dual sensation was overwhelming, building a pressure that felt impossible after you'd already come twice.

Your hands found his hair, gripping the soft strands as your hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against his face. He groaned in approval, doubling his efforts, his tongue moving faster, his fingers pressing harder against that spot inside you that made your vision blur. The orgasm built slowly this time, a gradual tightening rather than a sudden rush. Your thighs began to tremble, inner walls fluttering around his fingers as your climax approached. Yunho sensed it, his free hand reaching up to find yours, fingers interlacing as he anchored you through the rising pleasure.

"Yun— shit!," you cry out, his name came as a warning. "I can't—feels too good,"

"You can do it," he encouraged, lips closing around your clit and sucking gently. "Cum on my tongue, baby."

The orgasm washed over you in gentle waves rather than a violent crash, spreading warmth through your limbs like honey. You shuddered against his mouth, back arching off the bed as he worked you through it, his touch gentling as your sensitivity peaked. Only when you weakly pushed at his shoulder did he relent, placing one final kiss to your inner thigh before crawling up your body. His chin and lips glistened with evidence of his devotion, and when he kissed you, you tasted yourself on his tongue.

Yunho pulls away from the kiss, his eyes full of tenderness as he brushes your hair back from your forehead. Your body feels boneless, pleasantly exhausted in a way that makes even lifting your head seem like an impossible task.

"Don't move, baby," he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. "I’ll be right back."

He slipped from the bed, and you heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. The loss of his warmth made you shiver, your body suddenly aware of the cooling sweat and the evidence of your shared pleasure drying on your thighs. You felt deliciously used but above all, you felt so thoroughly loved. 

Yunho returned moments later with a warm washcloth in one hand and a small towel in the other. The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, his expression so gentle it made your chest ache.

"Spread your legs for me," he said softly, and when you hesitated, a blush creeping up your cheeks, he added, "I made this mess. Let me clean it up."

You complied, letting your knees fall open. The warm cloth felt heavenly against your sensitive skin as he carefully wiped away the remnants of your lovemaking.

"Does that feel okay?" he asked, eyes flicking up to yours, searching for any sign of discomfort.

"Perfect," you murmured, touched by his attentiveness.

He paid special attention to the insides of your thighs, the cloth soothing against skin that would likely bear marks tomorrow—evidence of his passion. When he was satisfied with his work, he folded the cloth and set it aside, then used the towel to gently pat you dry.

"Roll over for me?" he requested, and you turned onto your stomach, sighing as he ran the cloth down your back, cleaning away the sweat that had gathered there. His free hand followed the path of the cloth, massaging lightly at the tension points in your shoulders.

"You're so beautiful," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Every inch of you."

When he's satisfied you're clean, he disappears again, returning with a fresh washcloth and a glass of water. He sets the water on your nightstand before cleaning himself with quick, efficient movements.

"Drink," he encourages, helping you sit up against the headboard. 

You take obedient sips, watching as he moves around the bedroom, picking up discarded clothing and tossing it into the hamper. He pulls on fresh boxers before retrieving your favourite sleep shirt from the drawer—the soft blue one with the worn collar that feels like a cloud against your skin.

"Arms up baby," he instructs, and you comply, letting him dress you. The fabric settles around you, smelling of laundry detergent and home.

He disappears one more time, returning with a small bottle of lotion. "Scoot forward," he says, and when you do, he settles behind you, legs bracketing yours.

His hands, warm and covered with lotion, begin massaging your shoulders, working out knots you didn't even know were there. You moan softly as his thumbs press into a particularly tight spot.

"Your muscles are so tense," he murmurs, working methodically down your back. 

You let your head fall forward, surrendering to his touch. "Just been a long day."

"Made longer by my thoughtlessness," he adds, voice tight with regret. His hands never stop their gentle work, kneading and soothing your tired body. 

When he's finished with your back, he guides you to lie down, pulling the covers up to your chin. The sheets are cool and fresh against your skin, and you sink into them with a contented sigh.

Yunho turns off the lamp before sliding in beside you. In the darkness, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his chest. His lips press against the nape of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin.

"I love you so much," he whispers, the words vibrating through your connected bodies. "How did I get so lucky with you?"

You giggle as you nestle back against him, fitting your body to his like puzzle pieces clicking into place. "I love you too."

His hand finds yours beneath the covers, fingers interlacing. "Tomorrow, I'm all yours. The whole day. We can do whatever you want. No games, no distractions."

You smile into the darkness, already feeling sleep pulling at the edges of your consciousness. "Sounds perfect, I look forward to it."

Just before you drift off, you feel him press another kiss to your hair, his voice a quiet promise in the darkness: "Sleep well, baby. I'll be right here when you wake up."

For the first time all day, you feel completely at peace, wrapped in his arms and his promise. A promise you know, this time, he'll keep.

When morning came, sunlight streaming through the blinds you'd forgotten to close, you found him already awake, watching you with warm eyes and a gentle smile. True to his word, he spent the entire day focused solely on you—making breakfast together, holding your hand as you walked through the park and listening attentively as you finally told him about your disastrous presentation.

And that night, when you curled up on the couch to watch the show he'd promised, his pc remained untouched, his phone on silent. His arm around you felt like safety, like home. A promise kept and a lesson learned.

Some apologies are spoken. 

Others are lived. 

Yunho's was both.

© w00yngie 2026 | do not steal, plagiarise, translate or feed my work to ai.

taglist: @norixseaweed @f3mboienjoyer @liightlizard @minguxxs + if you want to be added to my taglist permanently, let me know!

[tobiosbbyghorl]

accidentally booked! 🔞

- Two best friends go on a budget trip to Japan, only to accidentally book a love hotel for their entire stay. What starts as laughter and harmless fun slowly turns into lingering touches, stolen glances, and undeniable tension—until one night changes everything, and they’re forced to confront feelings they’ve been hiding for far too long.

tags: explicit sexual content, consensual sex, multiple rounds, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), filming with consent, mirror sex, semi-public setting, overstimulation, light possessiveness, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, breast fixation, shower/jacuzzi sex

wc: 11,900

rie's note: this was from last year>< so expect errors ahead! enjoy the ride! like,reblogs, and FEEDBACKS 👉🏻🥹👈🏻are highly appreciated :3 added more scenes hence the lil different writing style heh

You were halfway through your iced americano when Park Sunghoon slid into the seat across from you with the kind of urgency only someone who forgot to buy concert tickets would have.

“I did it,” he said, slightly breathless. “I found the cheapest possible hotel in Tokyo for five nights. I’m talking dirt-cheap.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And by ‘cheapest’ you mean we’ll be sharing a closet with a raccoon family or—?”

“No, no. This place looks fine. Clean. Themed. Cute. I think the rooms are based on trains or something.”

You blinked at him. “Trains?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged, like that explained everything. “It’s called ‘Fantasy Express.’ Kind of a vibe, right?”

“…Doesn’t that sound like a porn parody of the Shinkansen?”

Sunghoon gave you a blank look. “You said budget. I delivered. Be grateful.”

You snorted and took a sip of your drink. “Right. This better not end with me cuddling you for warmth in a windowless shoebox.”

He grinned. “Is that a threat or a promise, bestie?”

You flipped him off, laughing. But deep down, you were buzzing with excitement — not just because of the trip, but because it had been years since you and Sunghoon got away together.

After college, everything changed. Jobs, time zones, relationships that fizzled out before they even began. But Sunghoon was constant. He was the one person who could make you laugh even when you were crying into your broken laptop at 2 a.m. He was the voice note at midnight, the “I made too much ramen, come over,” the comfort in chaos.

So when the two of you finally managed to book this long-overdue trip to Japan, it felt like pressing pause on real life. No deadlines. No drama. Just the two of you, trains, street food, and maybe — if the stars aligned — a little karaoke.

You’d been talking about it since your second year in college. A pinky promise made over shared takoyaki from a food stall on your campus lawn.

“One day, we’ll go. Just you and me. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. A no-plan plan.”

You remembered that promise because Sunghoon never broke his.

Which is why you didn’t question it when he said he’d handle the hotel. And flights. And a few “must-see” locations, because even though you called it a “no-plan plan,” you both knew you were the chaotic one.

The night before your flight, Sunghoon came over to help you pack. In reality, he just sat on your bed, eating your snacks and judging your underwear choices.

“Why do you need seven pairs for five days?” he asked, mouth full of chips.

“In case I fall into a river. Or sweat. Or get possessed and pee myself. I don’t know, leave me alone.”

He laughed and reached over to zip your suitcase, fingers brushing yours for a second too long.

Neither of you mentioned it.

The flight was smooth. You watched a rom-com, he watched anime. You fell asleep on his shoulder. He didn’t move.

When you landed in Tokyo, everything felt surreal — the bright signs, the clean air, the sense that something new was about to happen.

The train ride to the hotel was quiet. You scrolled through Instagram while Sunghoon triple-checked the hotel address on Google Maps.

“We’re almost there,” he said, pointing to a small tucked-away building near the corner of a quiet street.

It looked decent. Small. Cozy. A glowing pink sign above the entrance read:

“Welcome to FANTASY EXPRESS — All Aboard the Love Line!”

You stared at it. Then at him.

“Hoon.”

“Yeah?”

“…Did you just book us into a love hotel?”

Sunghoon blinked. Looked back up at the sign. Back at you. “…No?” he tried, voice cracking halfway through. You deadpanned. “This is literally vibrating with sex energy.”

“I thought it was themed!”

“It is. The theme is fucking.”

He dropped his suitcase. “I swear on everything holy, I didn’t know. I just thought it was quirky. It said ‘train carriage rooms’ and had cute colors!”

You stared at him, unblinking. “You booked us into a love hotel. For five nights.”

A silence.

And then, slowly, the two of you burst into uncontrollable laughter — loud, ugly, bent-over laughter as passersby gave you weird looks.

Sunghoon wiped a tear from his eye. “Guess we’re really going on a ride.”

You shoved his shoulder, still laughing. “Idiot.”

The door slid open with a hiss, revealing the room Sunghoon had confidently reserved for five full nights.

You took one look inside and immediately stopped.

“…You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Sunghoon said in a flat voice, already sounding like he regretted every choice he’d ever made.

There were train handles hanging from the ceiling.

The walls had digital screens showing looped footage of Japanese countryside rolling past at high speed.

A faux train announcement played in the background every few minutes: “Next stop… pleasure.”

You turned slowly toward him. “Sunghoon.”

“Okay, wait—just hear me out.”

You stepped in and did a slow, horrified turn.

There was a chrome pole right in the middle of the room.

The bed looked like it was upholstered with actual train seats, complete with seat belts and tray tables. And worst of all, the mirrored ceiling had a blinking LED banner that read:

🚨 “ALL ABOARD — NONSTOP EXPRESS” 🚨

You gaped. “So its really is a love hotel.”

“No it’s not! …Okay maybe. Technically. But—look, I didn’t know! I thought it was just themed!”

“You thought this was a railway-themed budget capsule, and not a sex train hotel?!”

“I didn’t read that far down the listing, okay?! It was cheap and looked… clean! Plus the review said ‘lots of amenities!’”

“Sunghoon. There’s a vending machine for underwear's and condoms next to the door.”

He paused. Looked. “…Okay, I’ll give you that one. You sighed, dragging your suitcase in anyway. “We are going to get diseases just by existing here.”

Sunghoon followed behind sheepishly, dragging his bag. “You know, in a different light, this place is kind of hilarious.”

You turned to him and blinked. “We’re literally sleeping in a porn set.” “A very affordable porn set.”

You flopped dramatically onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling mirror.

He was right. It was funny. And the more you looked at the blinking lights, the mood lighting, and the suggestively placed towel basket beside the bed, the harder it was to stop laughing.

You both ended up bent over, wheezing from laughter as the fake train announcement repeated:

“Passengers, please hold on… for your own safety.”

Ten Minutes Later

“…Wait,” you muttered from the bathroom doorway. “Is that a jacuzzi?”

Sunghoon looked up from his phone. “A what?”

You pointed. “There’s a jacuzzi in here. And… no way. Is that a sauna?” He came over and peeked in. Sure enough, tucked behind the ridiculously clean glass partition was a legit two-person jacuzzi tub with sleek jets, LED lighting, and a discreet shelf of complimentary scented oils. And beside it? A cramped but actual mini sauna, already set to a cozy 45°C.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “They really want people to… marinate before they—”

“Okay! I’m not letting this place win,” Sunghoon cut in. “We are taking full advantage. This shit is expensive in normal hotels.”

You looked at him in disbelief. “You want to use the sex jacuzzi?”

He shrugged. “It’s just a tub. The jets don’t know what’s going on. You want to spend the night pouting, or do you want a hot bath with free tea tree oil?”

You groaned. “I hate that you’re making sense.”

Twenty Minutes Later

You were in the tub first — submerged in warm water, hair tied up, sighing as the jets eased the travel ache out of your spine.

“I feel gross about how good this is,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon was sitting just outside the sauna, half-wrapped in a towel, drinking water. “Don’t get used to it. This is our peak. We’re about to suffer in a train-themed sex chamber for five nights.”

“You say that like it’s not your fault.”

He raised his hands in surrender. “Fair.” You watched as steam curled off his shoulders, his skin flushed slightly pink from the sauna. He looked good. A little too good.

You quickly looked away and sank deeper into the water. Nope. Not thinking that.

You were best friends. The kind who shared hoodies and bitched about exes and had matching pajamas from a failed couples Halloween sale. You weren’t supposed to be noticing how broad his chest was, or how low his towel sat on his hips.

He caught you looking. You snapped your head the other way.

A pause. “You okay?” he asked, voice lower.

“Yup,” you replied, too fast. “Just tired.”

You heard him chuckle under his breath. “You’re a terrible liar.”

You splashed water at him. “Go back to your sauna.”

But the heat in your chest had nothing to do with steam.

You both climbed into the ridiculous velvet-upholstered bed and laid side by side, limbs awkwardly angled to avoid touching too much.

The train screen looped soft countryside visuals.

The LED sign above the mirror blinked softly:

“Don’t miss your stop…”

You stared at the ceiling. “Why does this feel like the foreplay part of a drama?”

Sunghoon’s voice was low. “Because everything here is designed for people to fuck.”

You both went quiet. Too quiet.

Then he added, a little too casually. “If you get cold tonight, just say something.”

You turned your head slightly. His profile glowed in the soft red light. “I won’t.”

“I know.” But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You woke up to the smell of grilled fish and miso soup.

Blinking groggily, you turned your head to find Sunghoon already sitting up in bed, hair messy, skin flushed from sleep, and a gleam of childlike wonder in his eyes.

“Room service,” he said simply, holding up a laminated card with neat checkboxes. “And it’s actually good. Like. Too good for this place.”

You sat up, blinking blearily at the silver-domed trays on the fold-out tray table. “Wait—this place has room service?”

“Apparently. I checked last night before sleeping. They serve breakfast to the room for ‘maximum comfort and pleasure.’” He did finger quotes around that last part. “Very suggestive. But also… delicious.”

He peeled the lid off one tray, and the smell immediately hit you: steaming rice, grilled salmon, soft tamagoyaki, pickled vegetables, and even a little matcha jelly cube for dessert.

Your stomach growled audibly.

“Oh my god,” you mumbled, crawling across the bed like a zombie. “I’m never leaving.”

He passed you chopsticks. “See? You talk a big game, but deep down, you’re just here for the perks.”

You dug in. “Mmf—if you booked this place on purpose for this breakfast alone, I forgive you.”

“I’ll take that as my official pardon,” he said, chewing on a piece of miso-glazed eggplant.

For a moment, the room was quiet — just soft clinks of chopsticks, muffled chewing, and the fake train sounds looping in the background.

And then, as always, came the banter.

“So,” you said, mid-bite, “you gonna keep walking around in that towel all morning or…?”

Sunghoon glanced down at himself — still shirtless, his towel hanging loose around his hips as if he were starring in a shampoo commercial. He smirked. “Jealous?”

You scoffed. “Of what? Your man boobs?”

“First of all,” he said, popping a grape into his mouth, “these are pecs. Try not to cry when you see me in real lighting.”

“I’ve seen you in fluorescent kitchen lights eating ramen at 2 a.m. I’ve survived worse.”

“I’ve also seen you drunk with a sheet mask on and mismatched socks, so don’t act superior.”

“Those socks were a fashion statement.”

He snorted. “A cry for help.”

After breakfast and a little too much matcha jelly, the two of you finally started getting dressed.

Or trying to, anyway.

You were standing at the small mirror near the door, brushing your teeth and fussing with your hair when you heard Sunghoon behind you, grunting in frustration.

“What’s your problem?” you asked, spitting out toothpaste.

“Where the hell is the other sock I packed?”

You glanced over and nearly choked — he was half-dressed, hair still wet from the shower, towel hanging on the rack, shirt hanging off one shoulder like a K-drama lead in distress.

You raised a brow. “Check your suitcase. Or maybe the laundry bag?”

He groaned dramatically and flopped onto the bed. “Why does this always happen to me?”

“Because your packing skills are trash.”

“You packed seven pairs of underwear for five nights!”

“Prepared. Not chaotic.”

“Psychotic.”

You tossed a sock at his face. “Shut up and wear this.”

He caught it, looked at the pattern — pastel pink with tiny peaches on them — and grinned.

“Wait… these are your socks.”

“They’re clean. Be grateful.”

He gave you a playful look. “If my feet feel too soft and feminine later, it’s your fault.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could use a little softness.” There was a beat of quiet as you both finished dressing.

And then, almost too casually, Sunghoon asked, “You good with the plan today? Shibuya, food, maybe teamLab Planets?”

You smiled. “Hell yeah. Let’s go get blinded by LED art and overpay for strawberry mochi.”

You grabbed your tote bag, he slung his camera over his shoulder, and together you stepped out into the Tokyo sunlight — blinking against the sudden warmth, the city buzzing with life all around you.

The love hotel’s sliding door closed behind you with a soft mechanical hiss.

“God, being outside feels illegal after that room,” you muttered, stretching.

Sunghoon yawned beside you. “We need to get out as much as possible. If we spend too long in there…”

“…we’ll end up using that pole, and not ironically.”

You said it jokingly, but the second it left your lips, you realized you were both thinking it.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

You both looked away.

Sunghoon cleared his throat and started walking. “Right. Food. Vibes. Let’s pretend we’re not staying in horny train hell.”

You followed, heart doing weird things.

By 10:30 a.m., you were already on your second iced drink and your fifth photo taken by Sunghoon.

"This one’s blurry,” you said, looking over his shoulder as he flipped through the camera roll.

“You moved,” he replied, flicking to the next one.

“I was mid-chew.”

“Exactly. Candid.”

“You got my molar in HD.”

He laughed, slinging the camera back over his shoulder. “You’re welcome. That’s raw content.”

You stuck your tongue out at him and tugged him toward the next street corner, where a little taiyaki cart was steaming golden fish-shaped cakes onto paper trays.

He bought one with custard and one with sweet potato, handing you the first without asking — he always remembered your favorite.

The day passed in a colorful, unfiltered blur.

From Asakusa’s temple streets to Ueno Park’s shaded paths, you strolled through the buzzing city under soft summer clouds, sharing bites of grilled yakitori, stopping at claw machines, and laughing until your stomach hurt every time Sunghoon got scammed by a vending machine.

“Bro,” he groaned as his Pocari Sweat got stuck halfway. “I just wanted electrolytes.”

“That’s what you get for bullying me about my socks.”

“They are ridiculous.”

“And now they’re your lucky socks, so shut up and suffer.”

He grinned, defeated, as you shook the machine for him until the drink finally dropped.

He brought the good camera — the one he only took out during special trips or when he really wanted to remember something.

At first, it was just the usual:

Colorful alleyways, Vintage signs, Cats in front of bookstores and Neon billboards starting to glow as dusk rolled in

But then the lens kept shifting toward you.

He’d tilt the viewfinder just slightly to the left whenever you were sipping your drink, or smiling up at a paper lantern, or holding up a peace sign in front of a giant tanuki statue.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

He never did.

Just snapped quietly, a small smile on his face, pretending to be adjusting settings every time you caught him in the act.

“Stop taking pictures of me looking ugly,” you said as you leaned against a vending machine at golden hour.

“You never look ugly,” he replied without thinking.

You blinked. He clicked his shutter.

You smacked his arm. “Flattery gets you nowhere, Park.”

“I was talking about the vending machine, actually.”

“Oh, screw you—”

By late afternoon, the two of you were barefoot, wading through glowing water and walking across mirrored floors.

The floating flowers, the endless lights, the reflection of stars above and below you — it all felt surreal.

Sunghoon was quiet most of the time, too busy adjusting focus, waiting for the exact second a projection shifted, or the water stilled, or your silhouette lined up against the light.

“Stay right there,” he murmured, crouching low.

You stood still, bathed in blue and purple.

A single glowing lily floated past your ankles.

Click.

When he finally looked up from the lens, his expression was soft, like he’d forgotten where you were — like the whole room was quiet just for a second.

You waved your arms. “Earth to perv?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, standing up and brushing dust off his knees. “Just… this lighting’s good.”

“Mm-hmm. You’re not slick.”

Dinner was ramen from a tiny shop hidden in an alley where no one spoke English and the broth was so rich it felt illegal.

You walked off the food through quiet backstreets, with neon signs humming above your heads and laundry flapping on upper balconies.

Sunghoon carried your bag without saying anything.

You bought him an ice cream without asking.

It was so easy. The kind of night you wanted to fold up and keep in your pocket forever.

At one point, you stopped to take a photo of your own — just a snapshot of him in the warm city light, licking ice cream and grinning.

“Got you,” you said, triumphant.

He raised a brow. “You finally captured my beauty?”

“No. I finally got proof you like vanilla.”

“You said you wouldn’t judge.”

“Too late.”

The fake train ambiance greeted you again as you entered the room — soft station chimes, muffled track sounds looping on the hidden speakers. You kicked off your shoes with a groan and threw your bag down like it betrayed you.

Sunghoon collapsed face-first on the bed. “We’ve walked 23,000 steps. I checked.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“My knees are 47 years old now.”

You laughed as you peeled off your socks. “Okay, Grandpa. Want me to book us an onsen for tomorrow?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he lifted his head slowly, eyes narrowing at the frosted-glass door in the corner.

“…wait. We still haven’t used the sauna together.”

You followed his gaze.

The in-room sauna and jacuzzi setup was tucked into the corner like an afterthought — sleek, surprisingly clean, and wildly over-the-top for the price. You hadn’t dared touch it yet.

You raised a brow. “You serious?”

He was already standing.

“I’m not walking like a gremlin tomorrow. Sauna it is.”

The small wooden sauna heated up quickly — enough for the two of you to sit side by side, towels wrapped around your waists, foreheads already glistening.

It smelled like cedar and something citrusy.

“I feel like we’re in a rich person’s armpit,” you muttered.

Sunghoon cracked up, head tilted back, eyes closed. “I feel like we’re about to get a motivational TED Talk from a man named Daisuke about financial freedom.”

You snorted. “We are literally boiling ourselves in a love hotel sauna. What freedom?”

There was a pause.

Then—

“This is nice though,” he admitted. “Like… surprisingly.”

You hummed, wiping sweat from your brow. “We deserve it. That yakitori hunt was a whole workout.”

A beat passed.

“Also, you were sweating this much at the gacha machine, so I feel like this is just your brand.”

“Don’t come for my capsule toys. They bring me joy.”

“Your suitcase is full of tiny plastic sushi. Let that sink in.”

After the sauna, you both flopped into the jacuzzi — towels still on, bubbles swirling lazily, the overhead lighting dimmed to a soft purple glow.

You leaned back against the edge and sighed so dramatically that Sunghoon mimicked it seconds later.

“Haaaaa~”

“Haaaaa.”

“…Why do you sound like a dying anime girl?”

“Why do you sound like a wounded elk?”

You flicked a handful of bubbles at him, and he retaliated by splashing water into your face.

By the time you both settled down, your cheeks hurt from laughing.

He nudged your foot underwater. “Hey. For real.”

You looked over.

“This whole day was perfect. Thanks for not letting me book some sad capsule hotel instead.”

You smiled softly. “Thanks for accidentally giving us the weirdest five days of our lives.”

A pause.

You both sank a little deeper into the water, the bubbles rising quietly between you.

Nothing else needed to be said.

Not yet.

After the sauna and jacuzzi, everything felt heavier — your limbs loose, your muscles relaxed, your brain pleasantly fuzzy in the best way.

Sunghoon handed you your toothbrush like always. Same side of the sink. Same rhythm. You brushed shoulder to shoulder, bumping elbows whenever one of you leaned over to spit.

You wore your oversized shirt — the one with faded cartoon prints and sleeves too long for your arms.

He wore a black tank top and gray sweats, his hair still damp and curling a bit at the nape.

It looked domestic.

Dangerously so.

You didn’t comment on it.

The sheets were still warm when you both flopped down again — you on your side of the bed, Sunghoon sprawled diagonally, legs halfway off the edge like a kid after a sugar crash.

"What do we watch?” you mumbled, tugging the blanket over your legs.

“I found a channel earlier that only plays weird food documentaries,” he said. “One of them was about a guy in Osaka who makes noodles with his feet.”

You blinked.

“That sounds unappetizing.”

“And yet I couldn’t look away.”

He flipped on the TV, and soon enough, soft narration in Japanese filled the room. Onscreen, a slow montage showed close-ups of dough, broth, and a man lovingly caressing noodles like they were his own children.

You both stared.

Then:

“His foot game’s strong,” Sunghoon muttered.

You snorted, smacking his arm. “Stop.”

A second later, he tilted the screen toward you and snapped a photo of your mid-laugh face.

“Delete it,” you said.

“Nope.”

“Sunghoon—”

“That’s a top-tier smile. Archive-worthy.”

You reached for the camera.

He held it just out of reach, laughing as you tried to climb over him, only to lose your balance and flop onto his side of the bed.

He oofed softly as your elbow landed against his stomach.

And then…

You didn’t move.

Neither did he.

You were both breathing, barely, quiet again except for the soft murmur of the food show and the faint rumble of train sounds from the wall speaker — still looping, still somehow comforting.

Your head rested near his shoulder. His arm lay beside you, palm up.

You didn’t think about how easy it would be to lace your fingers through it.

Because that wasn’t the point.

Not tonight.

Eventually, you mumbled, “I’ll fall asleep right here.”

“Good.”

“Then you’ll complain that I drool.”

“I always do. Doesn’t stop you.”

“…True.”

A beat passed.

Then Sunghoon shifted slightly, pulled the blanket over you too, and said, soft as a sigh:

“Night, dummy.”

You smiled into the pillow.

“Night, Hoon.”

You both woke up later than planned.

To no one’s surprise, the blackout curtains plus the post-sauna coma plus the gentle train track sounds had knocked you both out cold.

When you opened your eyes, Sunghoon was already awake beside you, scrolling on his phone with bedhead and one eye squinting at the light.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted without looking.

You groaned and threw the blanket over your face. “Why are you always so chipper in the morning?”

“I already ordered breakfast. It’ll be here in ten.”

That made you peek out

“Pretty good options. Surprisingly tasty too.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you ate already?”

“I may have had a mini croissant. For science.”

The tray rolled in like a hotel drama — miso soup, boiled eggs, tamagoyaki, rice, fruit, juice, and coffee, all neatly arranged in little porcelain dishes.

“This is way too fancy for a place with a pole in the corner,” you whispered.

Sunghoon burst out laughing. “We should eat on the pole.”

“Try it. Break your back.”

You sat cross-legged on the bed, carefully pouring soy sauce into the tiny saucer while Sunghoon buttered his toast like an old man at a countryside inn.

It was… cozy. Stupidly cozy.

He took a photo of the spread — and then one of you holding a strawberry between your lips.

“You’re so annoying,” you said.

“Smile,” he replied.

And you did.

You both dressed quickly — jeans and sneakers, matching windbreakers by accident (he insisted you copied him), camera packed again.

The plan today was Shimokitazawa, the artsy thrift-store-filled neighborhood that smelled like espresso, vinyl records, and dreams of quitting your job.

You wandered between secondhand shops and cafés, trying on sunglasses, picking up ugly mugs, posing in front of graffiti.

Sunghoon’s camera was out the entire time — and even though he pretended he was just testing settings, you saw how he always pointed it at you when you weren’t looking.

You caught him once.

He didn’t deny it.

“I like how you look when you’re not trying.”

You blinked.

He looked away, adjusting the lens. “Lighting’s better.”

“…Right.”

It was small.

You reached for a cold canned drink at the exact same moment.

Your fingers brushed his. Barely. Briefly.

But it lingered — just a half-second too long.

You felt it. So did he.

Neither of you said a thing.

You were sitting on a bench outside a vintage bookstore, sipping soda while he reviewed the photos on his camera.

“What are you deleting?”

“Blurry ones.”

“Let me see.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“Because some are mine.”

“…Some?”

He paused.

Then smiled a little — not in a teasing way this time.

“Some are just for me.”

You didn’t ask what that meant.

You just let it sit there between you.

Warm. Quiet. Weightless.

But not really.

You returned to the hotel a little earlier than Day 1, shoes dusty, legs tired, hands full of little finds — enamel pins, a thrifted shirt, a random keychain he insisted matched your vibe.

In the jacuzzi again. This time quieter. You both leaned back and let the water do the talking.

Later, you brushed your teeth side by side again, yawning into your sleeves, shoulders bumping gently.

You climbed into bed first. This time, when he laid beside you, you noticed how close your hands were on the blanket.

Not touching.

Just… close enough. You didn’t pull away.

Neither did he. It started small.

Just a joke, really. After another long day out — this time at the Shibuya Sky deck and walking through Harajuku — you’d peeled off your jacket and complained about how sweaty you were.

“You’re melting,” Sunghoon commented, flopping dramatically onto the bed while you stood near the mirror, tying your hair up.

“You’d melt too if you had boobs trapping heat.”

He snorted. “Do you want me to confirm that or—” You threw a pillow at him.

“Okay, but real talk,” Sunghoon said as the door hissed shut behind him. “This sauna is saving my life. I’m starting a petition to install one back home.”

You chuckled, stepping inside after him in your towel, feeling the warm steam immediately cling to your skin.

Tonight felt hotter somehow — and not just because of the temperature.

Maybe it was how Sunghoon looked right now. Hair swept back slightly damp, skin already glowing, the soft edge of his collarbone visible. His towel was secure but low, and he sat with one arm resting over the wooden bench behind you, casual, almost… cocky.

“So,” he started, turning slightly toward you. “You gonna keep avoiding the fact that you made a noise when you sat down yesterday?”

“I did not.”

"You groaned like you were starring in a drama.”

You blinked at him. “Are you being flirty right now?”

He smirked. “Would it work?”

You gave him a look.

He laughed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Relax. I flirt with everyone.”

“…No, you don’t.”

He looked at you again, slower this time.

You felt it — that shift.

The quiet drawl in his tone when he said, “Right. I don’t.”

Ten minutes in, the steam got thicker.

You leaned forward to reach for your water bottle, not realizing your towel had come a little… loose.

You tugged it quickly and pressed it tighter to your chest, but the damage was done.

Sunghoon’s eyes had flicked down.

And then—back up.

He cleared his throat and smirked. “…Nice catch.”

You threw him a glare, cheeks hot, but not from the heat.

“Don’t be gross.”

“I’m not being gross,” he said, tilting his head lazily. “I’m just observant. It’s part of my charm.”

“Your charm is a menace.”

“Yeah?” he said, voice dropping just enough to make your skin prickle. “Still keeping me around, though.”

Later, while drying off, you were both laughing over a dumb quiz show playing on the love hotel TV, towels replaced with your usual comfy clothes. But the air still hadn’t gone back to normal.

You sat on the bed, brushing your hair.

He sat behind you, watching something on his phone, absently letting his fingers toy with the end of your shirt hem.

You didn’t realize he was doing it until he stilled.

Then—

“You always wear this one,” he said softly. “It’s got a little hole in the back.”

You turned to look at him.

“You’re really paying attention, huh?”

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I always do.”

There was no laugh this time. No grin. Just the warm glow from the room lamp and the way his eyes dropped for a second — from your face, to your lips, to your collarbone — before he looked back up.

You swallowed.

He looked way too close all of a sudden.

And yet, not close enough.

You stood up.

Quickly. Casually.

“I’m brushing my teeth.”

“Okay,” he said behind you, quiet… amused. “Run away, then.”The night settled in earlier than usual — maybe because you both agreed your legs needed a break, maybe because the city lights felt better admired from the bed with snacks and cold drinks.

You kicked your feet up, pulling the blanket over your lap while Sunghoon scrolled through the hotel TV’s library.

"We’re not watching something sad,” you warned.

“Why not?”

“Because every time we do, you start doing that emotional whisper voice after.”

He raised a brow, amused. “‘If I die, tell my cat I loved her’ isn’t emotional. It’s factual.”

You snorted and popped a grape into your mouth.

He settled on a coming-of-age romance film — something soft, slow, with golden lighting and friends-to-lovers tension that hit a little too close.

You didn’t comment.

Thirty minutes in, the movie faded into the background. You were half-focused, shoulder-to-shoulder with Sunghoon beneath the same blanket, a bowl of chips between you.

He reached over to grab one, and his fingers brushed yours again.

This time, you didn’t move away.

Neither did he.

You felt him glance at you — not a quick flick, but a lingering stare.

“…What?” you asked, not looking at him.

"Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m admiring.”

Your heart thudded once.

“…What?”

He smiled slowly, eyes dropping to your mouth. “I said nothing.”

Somewhere between the third snack break and the movie credits, Sunghoon nudged your leg.

“Truth or dare?”

You looked at him sideways. “What are we, twelve?”

“Pick.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Truth.”

He leaned back against the headboard, one arm behind his head.

“Have you ever thought about kissing me?”

Your breath caught

He didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t smirk.

He just watched you — calm, unreadable.

You stared at him, pulse ticking louder.

“…Is that a real question?”

His voice dropped lower. “You chose ‘truth.’”

The silence stretched. You felt it thick in your throat, in the space between your knees touching beneath the blanket.

Then, softly—

“Once or twice,” you admitted.

His lips curved, slow and smug.

You shoved his shoulder, embarrassed. “Okay, your turn.”

“Dare,” he said immediately.

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to lie.”

You stared at him.

“…Fine. I dare you to—”

“Kiss me.”

Your breath stalled.

“What?”

“I dare you to kiss me.”

He said it casually, but you saw the way his hand gripped the blanket — the slight twitch in his jaw, the sharp inhale he tried to hide.

You licked your lips slowly.

“Sunghoon—”

"It’s just a game, right?” he said, voice velvet-soft.

You looked at him.

At his eyes. His mouth. His flushed cheeks and the way he was so close but not making a move.

Like he was giving you control.

And that scared you more than anything.

Because suddenly, the game didn’t feel like a game anymore.

You leaned in.

Just a little.

Just enough that he felt your breath.

But before your lips touched, you pulled back and whispered, “Next round.”

He exhaled sharply, a chuckle slipping out — part relief, part frustration.

“You’re evil.”

You smiled.

“Just playing the game.”

“I’m sleepy,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

The tension from the game still clung to your skin, warm and heavy. Your heart was doing too much—pounding like you just ran up a hill instead of almost-kissing your best friend.

You tugged the blanket up and turned on your side, facing away from him.

Or so you thought.

Because as you lay back on the pillows, eyes half-lidded and breath evening out, your gaze landed somewhere else.

Above you.

The mirror on the ceiling.

You blinked.

It was such a stupid, love-hotel thing to have, and you hadn’t even paid attention to it since the first day. But now?

Now you saw everything.

You.

Sunghoon.

Lying side by side, under the same blanket, bodies close enough to share heat.

His head tilted toward you slightly, lips parted like he was going to say something—but didn’t.

Your breath caught.

The image in the mirror wasn’t what friends looked like.

It wasn’t casual. It was intimate.

Too much.

Not enough.

You shifted, just barely.

And in the reflection, you watched Sunghoon do the same.

His hand moved above the blanket.

Closer.

Not touching you—but hovering near your waist.

You felt his knuckles brush the hem of your shirt, barely there.

Goosebumps rose instantly.

Your eyes flicked up again—to the mirror.

He was watching it too.

Watching you.

“…Sunghoon,” you said, barely audible.

He didn’t move his hand. Didn’t blink.

“I know,” he said softly, like he already knew what was in your chest. “You’re sleepy.”

But he still didn’t pull away.

Instead, he let his fingers rest lightly against your side—just enough pressure to make you feel it.

His voice dropped, rougher now.

“But if you weren’t…”

Your stomach twisted.

“If I wasn’t?” you asked.

He met your eyes in the mirror.

“I’d kiss you,” he murmured. “And this time, you wouldn’t stop me.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

The air between you was thick. You felt the heat from his body, the blanket suddenly too warm. His words echoed, burning a hole into your chest.

Still, you didn’t move.

Not away.

Not toward him.

Just… there. Caught.

Heart racing.

Eyes locked in the reflection.

And then—

He pulled his hand away slowly.

A soft breath left your lips.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes.

But you didn’t sleep for a long, long time.

Not with his voice still in your ear.

Not with his hand still ghosting your skin.

And not with that mirror burning above you, showing you something you couldn’t unsee.

“C’mon,” Sunghoon said, tugging your wrist gently as you both stepped out of the taxi and into the Tokyo night. “We’re not leaving Japan without at least one club night. Live a little.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one who googled ‘clubs that don’t have a cover fee’ and filtered by ‘low noise.’”

“Exactly,” he grinned. “I’m a responsible party animal.”

You snorted, but let him guide you in.

The club was tucked away under a neon sign and a set of stairs, with a cozy, crowded feel—dark corners, glowing drinks, and music that thudded deep in your chest.

He ordered you both something sweet and sparkling. The kind of drink that made your lips sticky and your smile looser.

It was supposed to be harmless.

Just a night out.

You wore a black dress—Sunghoon’s pick, actually, from earlier that day.

“I’m not letting you pack a bunch of oversized hoodies for a night out,” he said back in the hotel. “Show some skin. It’s Japan. Everyone’s hot.”

So you did.

And now?

Now you were paying for it.

Two drinks in, you danced near the edge of the floor, swaying with the beat, laughing with Sunghoon beside you. His hand hovered low on your back—not touching, but close enough to be there if you stumbled.

Until he stepped away for a second to use the bathroom.

And they showed up.

Two guys—tall, confident, clearly a little tipsy.

“Hey, you alone?” one of them asked, smiling too much, eyes dipping low.

You smiled politely, shaking your head. “I’m with someone.”

“Oh?” The second guy grinned. “Boyfriend?”

Before you could answer, you felt it—a hand on your waist. Warm. Familiar.

Sunghoon.

“No,” he said smoothly, his voice sharp behind you. “She’s with me.”

You blinked, surprised by the edge in his tone.

Sunghoon wasn’t the jealous type. Or at least, he’d never acted like it before. Not when guys checked you out. Not when they flirted harmlessly.

But tonight?

He wasn’t joking.

One look at his face and you knew.

The guys backed off, muttering something in Japanese you didn’t catch. But you didn’t care. Not when Sunghoon’s fingers stayed on your hip even after they were gone.

You turned to him.

“…You okay?”

He stared at you for a second.

Then he laughed—short, breathless.

“You have any idea how you look tonight?”

You blinked. “Sunghoon—”

“No,” he said, pulling you gently toward a quieter corner of the club. “I let you out in that dress and thought, yeah, sure, I’ll be normal about it. But then I see guys eyeing you like they have a shot and suddenly I’m—”

He cut himself off.

You stared.

“Suddenly you’re what?”

He looked at you. Really looked.

And for the first time tonight, there was no filter.

“I’m not normal about you,” he said simply. “Haven’t been for a long time.”

Your heart stuttered.

The music faded into nothing.

“…Sunghoon.”

“I know,” he said, eyes flicking to your lips. “We’re best friends. This whole trip’s been fun. Flirty. Safe. But tonight?”

He leaned in.

“Tonight, I want to make it clear.”

Your back hit the wall, gently.

Not rough.

Not rushed.

Just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You’re with me,” he whispered, lips barely brushing your jaw.

And you didn’t move.

Not away.

Not at all.

The cab ride back to the hotel was dead silent.

Not because there was nothing to say.

Because everything had already been said — in the way Sunghoon looked at you when those guys tried flirting at the club, in the way his hand gripped your waist like it belonged there.

And in the way he whispered, low and rough:

“You’re with me.”

The words looped in your head the whole ride. And when you stepped into your room — the one with the ridiculous train-themed decor, mood lighting, and giant mirror above the bed — it was over.

The second the door clicked shut—

He kissed you.

Not like a friend.

Not like someone testing the waters.

Like he knew what you tasted like.

Like he needed it.

His hands were everywhere — cupping your face, sliding down your waist, pressing into your lower back until your bodies were flush. You were barely able to keep up with his mouth — all tongue, teeth, urgency.

You gasped when his lips left yours to nip your jaw.

“Sunghoon—”

“I told you,” he growled, voice wrecked. “I’m not waiting anymore.”

He walked you backward toward the bed, kissing you between every step.

You fell onto the mattress, breathless, heart racing. The mirror above showed your reflection — the two of you tangled in shadows and heat, your thighs parting instinctively as Sunghoon leaned over you.

“You don’t know,” he whispered, nose brushing yours, “how many nights I’ve watched you sleep in this bed.”

His hand slid under your dress, fingertips grazing your thighs.

“Thinking about this.”

You gasped when he squeezed your leg, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re soaked through,” he murmured.

“I’ve been—thinking about it too,” you admitted, cheeks warm.

That was all he needed.

Sunghoon yanked off his shirt, revealing the hard lines of his chest, the trail of muscle down his abs — you stared shamelessly.

He noticed.

“Like what you see?”

You nodded.

“Use your words, baby.”

“I like it,” you whispered, eyes blown wide. “I want all of you.”

He groaned. “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

Then he was kissing down your neck, tugging your dress off slowly, his mouth dragging over every new inch of skin.

“No bra?” he murmured against your chest.

“You told me to wear something easy to take off,” you whispered.

His eyes burned.

“I was joking,” he growled, “but fuck, that’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”

His tongue circled your nipple before sucking hard, making your hips buck.

“Sunghoon—”

“Be patient,” he said, sliding your panties off. “I’m going to make you cum on my tongue first.”

Then he was kneeling at the edge of the bed, pulling your legs over his shoulders, and diving in.

You cried out.

He licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’d just tasted heaven.

Then again. Slower.

His fingers gripped your thighs, keeping you open as he licked you deep — tongue teasing your folds, swirling around your clit, then flattening with just enough pressure to make your legs shake.

You tangled your fingers in his hair. “Sunghoon, please—please—”

He paused, pulled back just enough to speak.

“Say it again.”

You moaned. “Please, Sunghoon—make me cum—please—”

“Good girl.”

He dove back in, and you were gone.

Your orgasm ripped through you, thighs clenching around his head as you came with a broken moan of his name.

He didn’t stop — he kept licking, slow and lazy now, lapping up everything you gave him until you were panting, trembling.

He crawled back up your body and kissed you — letting you taste yourself on his lips.

Then you felt him.

Hard. Heavy. Pressing against your thigh.

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder with a groan.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “If you touch me like that, I’m gonna lose it.”

You smirked, kissing his jaw. “Then lose it.”

He laughed — low and rough — then pulled back to line himself up.

You were still soaked. Still twitching from your first orgasm.

He met your eyes, voice hoarse.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He slid in with one deep thrust.

His hips rolled into you, slow and deep.

One thrust — thick, stretching, deliberate.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders as he filled you to the hilt.

“Fuck, Sunghoon—”

“I know,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. “You’re perfect like this.”

He stilled inside you, chest heaving. You could feel how hard he was — how much restraint he was using just to not lose control.

Then he pulled back.

And pushed in again.

Deeper.

Your breath hitched.

Above you, the mirror reflected everything — the way your body arched into him, how your mouth parted when he bottomed out, the tension in his jaw as he watched you take him like you were made for it.

You whimpered.

“Look up,” he said softly.

You did.

And your entire body shivered.

The sight was unreal.

His body between your legs.

The way your back curved.

The way your nails pressed into his skin.

Sunghoon leaned in close, lips dragging across your jaw.

“Now imagine if you could see this again.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He reached for his phone.

Tossed a look toward the dresser, a sly smirk playing on his lips.

“I brought the tripod.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You’re joking—”

“Nope.” He was already sliding the legs out, adjusting the angle toward the bed. “Consent. One hundred percent. Just for us. Just for tonight. I want to remember everything.”

Your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist.

He placed the phone on the stand, hit record, and returned to you.

Settled between your legs again.

Caged you in with his arms.

Kissed you like it would never be enough.

“This okay?” he whispered against your lips.

You nodded, eyes wide, chest rising.

“Say it, baby.”

You swallowed. “Yes. I want it. I want you.”

He groaned — guttural, raw.

Then he started moving.

Long, slow strokes at first.

His hips grinding into yours, dragging over every sensitive spot with maddening precision.

His hand slid under your lower back, lifting your hips slightly — angling you better, deeper — until you were gasping his name.

“God—Hoon—”

“You hear that?” he rasped, breathless. “That sound you make when I hit here—”

Thrust.

You cried out.

“—that’s going to ruin me.”

His thumb brushed your clit in tight circles while he fucked you, rhythm getting messier — your thighs slick, sheets twisted, the air thick with skin and heat and moans.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at how fucking pretty you are when I’m inside you.”

You forced yourself to glance up at the mirror again—

And it was filthy.

Your eyes glassy.

Your body bouncing gently with every stroke.

Sunghoon — hair messy, jaw clenched, sweat slicking his chest — completely lost in you.

His thrusts got faster.

Your fingers clawed at his back.

You were getting close again. Too close.

“Sunghoon—Hoon—I’m—”

“Let go,” he growled. “I want to see it. Want to see you cum all over me.”

His hand gripped your thigh tighter, holding you in place as he slammed into you, dragging your orgasm out until you were moaning shamelessly, your body shaking under him.

You came hard.

Eyes rolling.

Toes curling.

He groaned loudly, head dropping to your shoulder.

Then he pulled out suddenly — tugged his cock in his fist once, twice—

“Where?” he panted.

“Stomach,” you gasped. “Please—”

And he spilled with a sharp grunt, hot ropes across your skin, your belly, his hips still twitching from the force.

The room was silent except for your panting.

You both stared at the mirror.

Then each other.

Sunghoon let out a soft, broken laugh.

“...We’re fucked.”

The room was still warm.

The soft buzz of fake train sounds from the speaker had long since faded into the background, replaced by only your uneven breathing and the low whirr of the air conditioner above the bed.

Your body was still tingling.

Muscles relaxed, core aching in the best way, thighs sticky with the aftermath of everything you just shared.

Sunghoon was lying beside you — one arm tucked under his head, the other draped lazily across your bare stomach. His fingers traced little, absent-minded shapes there, gliding through the mess he’d left on your skin like he couldn’t bear not to touch you.

He looked wrecked. Hair messy. Eyes soft. Lips red from kissing too hard.

But the way he was looking at you now?

Completely different.

Like the teasing and jokes were stripped away.

Like he was finally seeing you.

And maybe for the first time—you were really letting him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

His voice was soft, a little hoarse.

You turned your head slowly, looking at him. “Yeah. More than okay.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Good.”

Then, quieter, “Because that... wasn’t just for fun.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I mean—” he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, looking up at the ceiling. “I know we’ve been friends forever. I know this trip was supposed to be, like, low-budget ramen and chaotic sightseeing and those vending machines you’re obsessed with, and I definitely didn’t mean to—book a fucking love hotel—but—”

You cut him off with a quiet laugh, rolling over to face him. “Hoon.”

He looked at you, eyes wide.

Your fingers reached up, brushing his hair from his forehead.

“I know it wasn’t just for fun.”

You paused.

“...Did you really mean everything you said tonight? At the club? Back here?”

His gaze didn’t flinch.

“Every word.”

Your breath caught.

“You’ve... thought about this?” you asked, almost shy. “Us?”

He nodded slowly, like he was afraid he’d scare you off. “For longer than I should have.”

You swallowed, heart thudding.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He smiled, soft and bittersweet. “Because I didn’t think I had a chance. You’re...you. You flirt with ramen vending machines.”

You laughed, burying your face in the pillow. “I do not.”

“You do,” he teased. “You called that one in Shibuya a good boy.”

You giggled.

Then his fingers stilled on your stomach.

“But the second I saw that guy at the club looking at you like you weren’t the most precious thing in the room... I snapped. I couldn’t keep pretending.”

You looked up at him. “And now?”

He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours.

“Now I want to be the only one who gets to touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“I want to take you on real dates. Hold your hand in public. Make you breakfast. Wake up beside you without wondering if I crossed a line the night before.”

Your chest ached — in the best way.

You wrapped your arm around his neck, pulling him closer.

“Then let’s do that.”

His brows lifted slightly.

“Yeah?” You nodded. “You idiot. I’ve wanted this too.”

He smiled — slow and real, the kind that reached his eyes.

And then? He kissed you again.

Gentle this time. Lingering. No rush.

Just the start of something real.

When you finally broke apart, curled in the sheets, your limbs tangled—

Sunghoon rested his cheek on your chest, humming softly.

“We’re kind of gross,” he mumbled sleepily.

You blinked. “What?”

He pointed up lazily.

You looked. And laughed. The mirror.

Still foggy. Still showing your bodies — flushed and messy and completely tangled up in each other.

“Let’s clean up,” you whispered.

Sunghoon groaned dramatically. “Can’t move. Dead. Died from your pussy.”

You smacked his arm with a pillow. “Romantic.”

He grinned.

Then he sat up—still shirtless, still glowing—and stretched.

As you slipped off the bed to grab your robe, something caught your eye.

That little panel near the bathroom. The one that looked just a little too clean. Too new.

You padded over, curiosity tugging.

Pushed it open— And found the train.

“Sunghoon…”

Your voice was breathless, laced with awe and disbelief as you stared into the hidden room tucked behind the bathroom mirror.

He came up behind you, still shirtless, eyes scanning the strange, atmospheric glow pouring out of the secret space.

“…What the hell?” he murmured, stepping in beside you. The small room looked exactly like the interior of a luxury train car.

Gold-trimmed velvet seats lined both sides.

The projected windows showed nighttime scenery rushing past, as if the whole place were actually moving.

And above it all? Mirrors. Full-length. Perfect angles.

“Did you book this on purpose?” you whispered.

Sunghoon laughed quietly, slipping his arm around your waist. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

You turned to look at him, still flushed, still warm and full from earlier.

He stared back at you—his gaze darker now, hungrier.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “we can’t just find a secret room like this and not do something stupid.”

You shivered.

“Define stupid.” His lips ghosted your neck.

“Take off your robe,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Here?”

“Here,” he said, nodding toward one of the seats. “There.”

Then he tilted your chin toward the mirror above.

“So you can watch.” Your stomach flipped.

He pulled you inside gently, guiding you toward the plush velvet seat like it was a throne.

“Sit,” he said, voice deeper now. “Right here. Legs open.”

You did. Robe sliding down your arms, bare underneath.

The second you sat, the coolness of the velvet against your thighs made you gasp.

Sunghoon dropped to his knees between your legs, spreading them wider, mouth just hovering over your center.

He looked up at you once—dark eyes, flushed cheeks, messy hair. Yours.

“I didn’t get enough of you earlier,” he murmured. “Wanna taste you right. Wanna take my time.”

You whimpered.

Then his tongue was on you. Sunghoon devoured you.

Tongue slow and firm, licking up every drop, nose pressed into your folds, mouth working you open until your head fell back and your hips jerked against his mouth.

You glanced up, dazed—and moaned when you caught the mirror reflection.

Everything. Your legs trembling. Your hands gripping the seat. His messy hair buried between your thighs.

He glanced up mid-lick, locking eyes with you through the mirror.

“Keep looking,” he said, mouth shiny. “I want you to see what you do to me.”

He sucked your clit into his mouth then—hard. You gasped, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“Oh my god—Sunghoon—!”

“You gonna cum again, baby?” he whispered, licking slow circles again. “Right here, in this fucked-up train fantasy room?”

You moaned—loud, desperate.

“Say it.”

“Yes—please—yes, I’m gonna—fuck—”

He flicked his tongue in a perfect rhythm, and when his fingers slid inside you—two, slow, deep—you shattered.

You came on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, crying out as he licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him.

When you finally stopped shaking, he kissed the inside of your thighs, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up.

Still on his knees. Still hard.

But now? Smiling. Smug. Possessive.

“Still alive?” he teased. You gave a breathless laugh. “Barely.”

“Good,” he said, standing. “Because I’m not done with you.” He pulled you up to your feet and spun you to face the mirror.

Your reflection was glowing—lips parted, chest heaving, legs weak.

Sunghoon pressed up behind you, cock dragging along your ass as he leaned in to whisper:

“Bend over the seat.”

You obeyed—bare hands gripping the backrest, legs shaking as he kicked your feet further apart.

He stroked himself behind you, tip brushing your folds.

“Look how ready you are,” he murmured. “Already dripping again.”

He slid in with one thrust. You both moaned. You watched in the mirror as he grabbed your hips and began to move—slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch inside.

Then harder. Faster. Filthy.

The sound of skin slapping, your breathy moans, his rough grunts—it was insane. His hand slid around to grip your throat gently, tipping your face toward the mirror again.

“Watch, baby. Watch me fuck you.” You did.

And it was the most erotic thing you’d ever seen.You—bent over, mouth open in shock. Him—behind you, wrecked, hips snapping, muscles straining.

And you couldn’t last. You were already so full. So overstimulated. So his. “I’m—gonna—again—”

“Do it,” he panted. “Cum for me. Make a mess. I’m right behind you.” You came again—harder this time, louder, a cry ripped from your throat as your body clenched around him.

And with a final groan—“Fuck, yes”—he came too, spilling deep inside you, his hips twitching, hands gripping your waist tight as he gave you everything. You collapsed onto the velvet seat, breathless, shaking.

Sunghoon leaned over you, arms wrapped around your waist from behind.

You both stared into the mirror. Sweaty. Marked. Ruined.

“…Best love hotel ever,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon laughed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“Welcome to the last stops, baby.”

The water steamed around you, warm and humming, tiny waves lapping at your sides as you sank back into the love hotel’s private jacuzzi.

The bathroom light was dim, glowing low and amber, reflecting off the tiled walls like candlelight.

You barely had time to close your eyes before a pair of arms slipped around your waist from behind.

“Round three,” Sunghoon murmured into your shoulder.

“Already?” you whispered, dazed. “You’re serious?”

“You’re mine now,” he said simply. “I’m never gonna be done.”

You moaned as he pulled you back into his chest, your legs floating around his hips, his hands sliding across your stomach beneath the water.

Then higher.

Until he had your breasts cupped in both palms.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I’m obsessed.”

You bit your lip, gasping as he started to play with them — thumbs brushing your nipples, squeezing gently like he’d been waiting to get his hands on them all night.

“I always noticed,” he confessed, pressing kisses to the back of your neck. “Every time you stretched in front of me, every time your shirt clung to them when it rained—"

“Sunghoon—”

“—and now they’re mine,” he said, voice rough with need. “So I’m gonna touch them whenever I want.”

His mouth trailed down your neck, then he reached around, shifting you to straddle his lap in the water.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he muttered, lowering his mouth to your chest.

Then he kissed your breasts—slow, wet kisses, tongue flicking across your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

You let out a soft moan, your hands burying in his wet hair. He groaned into your skin, pulling your body even closer until your tits were pressed to his face. His voice was muffled. “I could live right here.” You giggled breathlessly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m obsessed,” he corrected, licking again. “Let me worship you.” You felt his cock harden again beneath you, hot and heavy in the water.

“Sunghoon…”

“I’ll be gentle,” he whispered, mouth brushing your chest. “One more. Just one more.”

He reached under the water, lining himself up, and slowly eased you down onto him — warm water swirling around your waists as you sank onto his cock, inch by thick inch.

You both groaned. It felt so full like this. So warm. Slippery. Intimate. His forehead pressed to yours, hands gripping your waist.

“Move for me, baby,” he whispered. “Nice and slow.”

You rolled your hips, riding him gently in the water, the movement easy and fluid with the water supporting your weight. And he couldn’t stop watching your chest.

“Fuck,” he moaned. “Bounce for me, just like that. Look at them—"

Your tits bounced with every movement, droplets clinging to your nipples, glistening under the soft light. His hands returned to them again and again — massaging, squeezing, sucking one into his mouth as you moved on him.

You whined. “You’re too into this—”

“I warned you,” he growled. “They’re mine now.”

Then he grabbed your hips, took over the pace, thrusting up into you as the water splashed gently around you. Slow, deep strokes. His cock dragging against your sensitive walls, your body already so used to him but still twitching at the stretch. You clung to him, lips brushing his. “You feel so good.”

“I want you to cum on my cock like this,” he breathed. “Wanna feel you clench around me again.”

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb brushing over your clit under the water — slow, tight circles until you were gasping again.

“Cum for me, baby,” he whispered against your lips. “While I’m buried inside you. I want to feel it.”

You did. With a broken gasp, body trembling in the bubbling heat, your walls tightened around him, clenching so hard he swore under his breath—

“Fuck—yes—fuck, you’re perfect—”

And then he came too, moaning into your mouth as he spilled inside you again, his arms tightening around you as if he couldn’t let you go. You stayed there, clinging to him, your body spent and warm, water lapping gently against your skin.

He kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then your boob. Again.

“Seriously?” “What?” he said innocently. “They’re the love of my life now.”

The water steamed around you, warm bubbles churning against your skin as Sunghoon's hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you flush against his hard body. His lips trailed hot kisses down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to send shivers racing through you despite the heat. "Mine" he growled low, voice rough with need, his cock already throbbing against your thigh, slick with the jacuzzi's warmth and his own arousal.

You arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders as he lifted you slightly, the water sloshing around your waists. His mouth captured yours in a fierce kiss, tongue plunging deep, claiming every inch while one hand slid between your legs. Fingers parted your folds, stroking your clit with firm circles that made you gasp into his mouth. He didn't tease for long—Sunghoon never did when possession burned this hot. Two fingers pushed inside you, curling to hit that spot that had your walls clenching around him.

"Fuck, you're still so wet for me," he murmured against your lips, pumping his fingers faster, thumb grinding your clit. The water made everything slicker, hotter, your body responding with desperate bucks against his hand. But he wasn't done worshipping yet. Withdrawing his fingers, he brought them to your mouth, pressing them past your lips. "Taste yourself. Taste how much you want this." You sucked eagerly, tongue swirling around his digits, eyes locked on his darkened gaze.

Satisfaction flashed in his eyes as he pulled his hand away, replacing it with the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance. But instead of thrusting in right there, he stood fully, water cascading off his toned chest and abs, muscles flexing as he hauled you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, the jacuzzi's edge pressing into your back for leverage. "Not like this," he said, voice husky. "I want to fuck you standing, feel every inch of you gripping me while I hold you open."

He shifted, one arm banding around your back to support you, the other guiding his cock. The tip breached you slowly at first, stretching your pussy with that delicious burn as he sank in inch by inch. You moaned, head falling back, the steam-filled air thick with the scent of sex and chlorine. Water lapped at your joined bodies, but it was nothing compared to the heat building where he filled you completely, balls pressing against your ass.

Sunghoon groaned, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that buried him to the hilt. "God, yes—tight like this, just for me." He started a rhythm, powerful and unrelenting, each drive lifting you slightly against him, your breasts bouncing with the force. His free hand roamed, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out, then soothing it with his mouth, sucking the peak between his teeth. You clung to him, nails raking down his back, urging him deeper.

The standing position let him angle just right, his cock dragging along your inner walls, hitting your g-spot with every plunge. Water splashed around you as he fucked harder, possessive grunts escaping him. "No one else gets this. No one else fucks you like I do." His pace quickened, hips pistoning, the slap of wet skin echoing in the steamy enclosure. Your pussy fluttered around him, building toward that edge, clit grinding against his pelvis with each thrust.

He sensed it, shifting his hold to free a hand, fingers finding your clit again. He rubbed in tight, fast circles, matching his brutal rhythm. "Cum for me. Milk my cock while I fill you up." The command pushed you over, orgasm crashing through you like a wave, walls spasming as you screamed his name. Sunghoon followed seconds later, thrusting deep one last time, hot cum flooding your pussy in thick spurts. He held you there, both panting, his forehead pressed to yours as the aftershocks rippled through.

But even spent, his grip didn't loosen. "We're not done" he whispered, already hardening inside you again. "I want more".

Sunghoon's cock twitched inside your still-pulsing pussy, the mix of his cum and your juices leaking down your thighs into the bubbling water. He didn't pull out yet, instead rocking his hips in slow, deliberate grinds that kept the friction alive, his mouth crashing back onto yours. The kiss was messy, tongues tangling with renewed hunger, his teeth nipping at your lower lip as he swallowed your whimpers. "You feel that?" he rasped between breaths, one hand cupping your ass to tilt you higher on his shaft. "I'm gonna fuck you until you're ruined for anyone else."

He thrust up again, harder this time, the water churning wildly as he bounced you on his length. Your oversensitive walls clenched around him, every slide sending sparks of pleasure-pain through your core. You gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss to beg, but he silenced you with another deep plunge, his free hand tangling in your wet hair to yank your head back. His lips attacked your throat, sucking marks into the skin—dark bruises that would linger as proof of his claim.

The rhythm built fast, his hips snapping with possessive force, cock stretching you wide with each entry. Your clit rubbed against his base, the pressure coiling tight despite the fresh ache from your first climax. "That's it, take it all," he growled, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise. You shattered again sooner than expected, body trembling as another orgasm ripped through you, but he didn't stop. Sunghoon kept pounding, chasing his own release while your pussy fluttered helplessly around him, overstimulated nerves firing wildly.

"Fuck, yes—squeeze me like that," he grunted, finally spilling inside you with a guttural moan, hot ropes of cum painting your walls anew. He held you impaled, panting against your shoulder, but his cock stayed buried deep, semi-hard and insistent. Slowly, he lowered you both back into the jacuzzi, the warm jets massaging your joined bodies as he pulled you onto his lap facing him.

His hands roamed your back, tracing the scratches you'd left earlier, before cupping your face for a slower makeout. Lips brushed softly at first, then deeper, his tongue exploring lazily while his hips shifted beneath you. You felt him thickening again, the third round stirring as he broke the kiss to murmur, "On your knees. Show me how much you need my cock."

You slid down eagerly, the water lapping at your chest as you positioned yourself between his spread thighs. His erection stood proud, veined and glistening with your combined fluids. Wrapping your hand around the base, you leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, tasting the salty mix of cum and arousal. Sunghoon's fingers threaded through your hair, guiding you gently at first. "Suck it. Take me deep."

Your lips parted, sliding over the head, hollowing your cheeks as you bobbed down, taking more with each pass. The jacuzzi's bubbles tickled your skin, adding to the sensory overload as you worked him with your mouth—tongue swirling along the underside, hand stroking what you couldn't fit. He groaned, hips bucking slightly, fucking your face with controlled thrusts. "God, your mouth... so fucking good. Look at me while you do it."

Eyes locked on his, darkened with lust, you hummed around his length, the vibration drawing a hiss from him. Saliva dripped down your chin, mixing with the water, as you deepthroated him, throat relaxing to accommodate his girth. His grip tightened, possessive, holding you there for a moment before letting you pull back for air. "Enough." he said hoarsely, hauling you up for another searing kiss, tasting himself on your tongue.

He spun you around then, pressing your back to his chest, legs draped over his as he positioned you. One arm locked around your waist, the other parting your thighs wide. "Spread for me," he commanded, fingers dipping into your soaked pussy, scooping out some of his cum before rubbing it over your clit. You moaned too cock drunk to speak, arching into his touch, but he was already lining up his cock, slamming home in one fluid motion.

This angle let him go deeper, the head of his dick battering your cervix with every upward thrust. Water splashed over the jacuzzi's edge as he fucked you relentlessly, his mouth on your neck, biting and licking. "You're mine to use"he whispered hotly, fingers returning to your clit, pinching and rolling it until you were sobbing with overstimulation. Your body betrayed you, hips grinding back despite the intensity, chasing the building pressure. "Yours only-fuck— yours." You managed to replied back.

He didn't let up, pace brutal, cock dragging against your g-spot with precision. The coil snapped violently—your pussy gushed around him, squirting in forceful arcs that mixed with the jacuzzi water, soaking his thighs. "Fuck, yes—squirt for me, baby," he praised, thrusting through it, prolonging the waves until you were a trembling mess.

Sunghoon came with a roar, flooding you once more, his body shuddering against yours. He held you close through the aftershocks, kisses turning tender, lips brushing your temple, your jaw. "All mine,"he murmured, finally softening and slipping out, cum trickling from your abused pussy.

Exhausted, he lifted you effortlessly, wrapping you in a towel before carrying you to the nearby lounge chair. The steam still hung in the air as he settled beside you, pulling you into his chest. His arms encircled you possessively, one hand stroking your hair as your eyelids grew heavy. "Sleep now" he whispered, voice soft and kissing the top of your head. You drifted off to the rhythm of his heartbeat, safe and claimed in his embrace.

The scent of miso soup and freshly baked melonpan woke you before sunlight did.

You blinked against the soft morning glow spilling in through the patterned blinds.

The mirror above the bed was foggy now from the jacuzzi steam the night before — a quiet, ghostly reminder of everything you’d done in this ridiculous love hotel.

The sheets were wrapped around you like a cocoon, and when you turned over, the space beside you was empty. But only for a second. Because then Sunghoon walked in, shirtless, hair a mess, tray in hand. Room service.

“Good morning, superstar,” he grinned. You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “You ordered food?”

“I ordered everything.”

He plopped the tray down on the bed — steaming rice bowls, tamagoyaki, cut fruit in flower shapes, and melonpan fresh enough that you could smell the butter. Two iced coffees sat sweating in the corner. You blinked. “You remembered melonpan?”

“You moaned about it in your sleep,” he teased, climbing back into bed. You slapped his chest lightly. “You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” he grinned. “Maybe I just like hearing you moan.”

You groaned, flopping face-first into a pillow. “Stop talking.”

He chuckled. “That’s rich, coming from someone who begged me in a fake train room last night.”

You threw the other pillow at him.

He caught it mid-air. “I’m keeping this one. Smells like your shampoo.”

You peeked out from under the sheets, still flushed.

“Are you… always like this in the morning?”

“Only when I wake up with my favorite person naked beside me.”

He leaned over to kiss your cheek.

Then your shoulder. Then your chest.

You shoved him back with a laugh. “Eat your breakfast.” “I’m trying, but my meal’s hiding under all those blankets—ow, okay, I’m done—!”

He handed you a cup of coffee like it was the holy grail. You drank. Grateful. Warm in more ways than one. After a moment of silence, your voice dropped.

“So… this isn’t just a one-time thing, right?”

Sunghoon didn’t hesitate.

“Babe. I came like a dozen times and cried into your neck. You’re not getting rid of me.” You snorted into your cup. He reached across the tray, brushing your fingers with his.

“I mean it. I want you. All the time. After we go home. Even when you’re being annoying.”

You narrowed your eyes. “When am I annoying?”

“Specially when your annoying,” he smiled. He reached for his phone and, without asking, snapped a picture of you wrapped in blankets, coffee cup in hand, cheeks flushed from laughter.

You groaned. “No—delete that—!”

“Nope,” he grinned, adding it to an album. “This is my favorite version of you. Hair messy, barely alive, and mine.”

You went still. Then softly, “Yours?”

He looked up. “Of course.” Then quieter.

“...Always hoped you’d be.” You leaned in and kissed him slow. Sleepy. Full of a new kind of sweetness.

“Okay,” you whispered. “So what now?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the headboard, arm around you.

“We’ll finish the trip,” he said. “Take more pictures. Eat ridiculous food.”

Then, with a cheeky grin:

“See if the other rooms here have different themes. Maybe one with clouds? A plane? Hospital bed—?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Okay, but hear me out—”

You shoved a piece of fruit into his mouth.

He chewed, smug.

Then he laced his fingers through yours.

“I want to do this every year,” he said seriously. “Travel. Get lost. End up somewhere weird.”

“With me?” you whispered.

“With you,” he said. “Always.”

@ tobiosbbyghorl 2026

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[yuyusbabygirl26]

Loving you twice — J.Yunho

Husband!Yunho x Wife!Reader

•Summary: After a devastating accident, you wake up with no memory of the last few years of your life—including your husband, Jeong Yunho. While he remembers every little detail about you, to you he’s just a stranger. But as he patiently stays by your side, helping you rediscover your life piece by piece, your heart begins to fall for him all over again… even if your memories never return.

•Genre: Angst, Romance, Slow burn, Fluff

•Warnings: None

•Word count: 10.7k

The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the sound. A slow, steady beeping filled the quiet room, rhythmic and mechanical, echoing in the back of my head like a distant metronome. My body felt heavy, as if I were sinking into the mattress beneath me. Even lifting my fingers felt like too much effort. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, making my stomach twist with unease.

My eyelids fluttered open slowly, and the bright white lights above me stung my eyes. Everything felt blurry, as though I were underwater trying to see through rippling glass. Then, a voice cut through the haze—soft, hopeful, and strangely terrified. I turned my head toward it, wincing as a dull ache spread across my skull. Shapes gradually came into focus: machines, pale walls, and a chair pulled close beside the bed. And a man.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, leaning forward like he’d been sitting there for hours. His dark hair was slightly messy, and his eyes—wide and shining—locked onto me with an intensity that made my chest tighten. Relief washed over his face the moment he saw my eyes open. “You’re awake,” he breathed. The raw emotion in his voice was overwhelming, like he had been holding his breath for days.

I blinked at him slowly, trying to place the strange stir of familiarity in my chest. He looked… familiar, but not in a way I could put into words. My heart seemed to know him even if my mind didn’t. He stood quickly, the chair scraping against the floor. “Wait—don’t move,” he said gently. “The doctor said you might be disoriented.” His voice was steady, warm, but there was a trembling underneath it I could sense.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “What… happened?” I asked.

“You were in an accident,” he said quietly. “A car accident. But you’re okay now. The doctors said you’re going to recover.” The word “accident” echoed in my head. Pieces of nothing filled my mind—blank spaces where memories should have been. I noticed the bandage wrapped around my arm and the IV in my hand, and my unease grew.

The man kept his gaze on me, careful and intense, like he was afraid I might vanish if he looked away. “You scared us,” he said softly. Us. My stomach twisted. I studied him more closely now: his soft features, his kind eyes, the faint lines of worry etched into his face. Something deep inside me should have clicked. Instead, I drew a blank. “…Do I know you?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

For a moment, he froze. The room felt suddenly silent, the machines beeping a little louder in the stillness. His expression shifted slowly to confusion, disbelief, and then something painfully close to heartbreak. “You…” he began, his voice trembling. My chest tightened as dread seeped into me. “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I just—my head feels weird, and I can’t—”

The door burst open, and my mother rushed in, followed by a doctor. “(Y/N)!” she gasped, hurrying to my side. Relief softened her features as she gently took my hand. “Oh, thank goodness you’re awake. How are you feeling?” “Confused,” I admitted, my voice small. The doctor stepped closer, shining a small light into my eyes. “That’s normal,” he said. “You experienced a head injury. Some disorientation is expected.”

I looked back at the tall man. He hadn’t moved, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, knuckles pale. He stared at me like he was trying to memorize my face all over again. I looked between him and my mother. “…Who is he?” My mother hesitated. Just for a second, but it felt like an eternity. Then she glanced at him with sympathy before looking back at me. “(Y/N),” she said gently, brushing a strand of hair from my face, “that’s your husband.”

The word hit me like a shockwave. Husband. My heart skipped, and my eyes widened as I looked at him. The man I was supposed to know, the one who loved me, smiled softly. But it wasn’t a happy smile. It was fragile, like it could shatter at any moment. “Hi,” he said quietly. Then, almost as if to anchor himself in the moment, he added, “I’m Jeong Yunho.”

And somehow… the way he said my name earlier echoed in my chest, tugging at something I couldn’t name. Like it had once meant everything. But now—now, I didn’t remember him at all.

The next morning, I woke to the faint smell of coffee and toast drifting through the room. Sunlight spilled across the hospital bed, warm and golden, but the familiar comfort it should have brought was absent. My body still ached, every movement reminding me of the accident, but it was the man in the corner of the room who made my chest tighten. Yunho. My husband. Someone I was supposed to know… but didn’t.

He smiled at me as I stirred. “Good morning,” he said softly. There was an awkward hesitation in his tone, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to speak, or maybe if I’d remember who he was. I wanted to ask him why he looked so familiar, but my tongue felt thick, my mind foggy.

“I… good morning,” I answered cautiously.

He stepped closer, carefully placing a small tray on the bedside table. There was coffee. And toast cut into neat triangles. The little details—the way he had arranged the plate, the way he poured the coffee just the way I liked it—made something inside me twist. Something that felt like warmth, like recognition without memory.

“I know this might feel strange,” Yunho said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I… I’m going to take it slow. I won’t rush you to remember anything. I just… I want to be here.”

His voice had a softness to it that made my chest ache. There was an intensity too, an unspoken emotion that lingered beneath his words. Even though I didn’t remember him, I felt the pull. My body wanted to trust him, to lean into him, even as my mind screamed that he was a stranger.

We spent hours talking that afternoon, though it barely felt like time had passed at all. Yunho had a way of making the room feel warmer, like the sun had found a permanent spot beside us. He told me things about myself—small, intimate details I didn’t remember but that somehow made me feel known.

“There’s this cute little scrunch thing that you do with your nose when someone irritates you,” he said softly, his lips quirking into a fond smile. I froze for a second, realizing he was right—I had done that since I was little, a quirk I hadn’t thought anyone ever noticed.

“And that one time when you cried from reading a romance novel,” he added, voice soft and loving, a little teasing under his tone. I couldn’t help but smile, the memory absent but the feeling of it blooming faintly in my chest.

He talked about the little things he loved about me, the ones no one else would notice. How I would hum softly while cooking, how I always ran my fingers along the edge of a book before opening it, how I had a thing for tiny, delicate flowers. Each word he spoke was like a thread, weaving me back into the picture of who I was before—and slowly into the man sitting beside me.

And the way he smiled as he talked, eyes shining with love and reverence, made my heart melt in a way I hadn’t expected. Even though I couldn’t remember him, he remembered everything about me—the quirks, the habits, the little things that made me, me. And somehow, that made me start to feel something new. Something like… falling for him all over again.

I wanted to reach out, to grab his hand, to anchor myself to the warmth and certainty in his gaze. And when I finally did, hesitantly, he held it gently, as if he’d been waiting for that moment his entire life. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. I didn’t remember why, but my chest tightened, and my heart responded, answering him even before my mind could catch up. For a moment neither of us spoke. His hand was warm around mine, larger, steady, careful like he was afraid I might pull away at any second. But I didn’t. Instead, I found myself holding on just a little tighter.

Something about him felt right.

Not familiar exactly—because my mind still held nothing when I searched for memories of him—but safe. Comforting. Like a place my heart recognized even if my thoughts didn’t. Yunho seemed to notice the way my fingers curled around his because his breath caught slightly. His eyes flickered down to our hands, then back to my face, almost as if he was afraid this small moment might disappear if he acknowledged it too much.

“You used to do that,” he said softly. I tilted my head slightly. “Do what?”

“Hold my hand like that,” he replied with a small smile. “Whenever you were nervous… or when you were thinking too hard about something.” My cheeks warmed faintly. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. “I guess some things don’t change,” I murmured.

His smile grew a little, but there was still a quiet sadness behind it. Like he was happy for the moment, but grieving everything I couldn’t remember. “I’m glad,” he said quietly. Silence settled between us again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Outside the window, the late afternoon sun painted the hospital room in soft golden light. I watched the way it caught in his hair, the way his shoulders relaxed slightly now that we were talking. “You must be really patient,” I said after a moment.

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because if my wife didn’t remember me…” I hesitated, trying to find the right words. “I think I’d be a lot more frustrated than you are.” A quiet laugh escaped him. It was warm and soft, the kind of laugh that made my chest flutter for no reason I could explain. “Oh, trust me,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m definitely frustrated.”

My eyes widened slightly.

“But not at you,” he added quickly. “Never at you.” The seriousness in his voice made my heart skip. “I’m just…” He exhaled slowly, searching for the right words. “I miss you.”

The words settled heavily in the quiet room.

I miss you.

For a moment, I didn’t know how to respond. The way he said it wasn’t dramatic or desperate. It was soft, honest—like he had been holding those words inside for days and they had finally slipped out. My chest tightened as I watched him, trying to understand the depth of the emotion behind his eyes. I studied his face more carefully now. The faint dark circles under his eyes. The way his shoulders slumped slightly, like exhaustion had finally caught up to him. It looked like he hadn’t been sleeping much. Had he really been here the whole time? Sitting beside me, waiting for me to wake up?

“I’m still here,” I said quietly.

The moment the words left my mouth, something flickered across his expression—hope, relief, and something painful all tangled together. He looked at me like the simple statement meant more than I could understand. “I know,” Yunho murmured gently, but the way he said it made it clear he didn’t mean the same thing I did. I was here physically, sitting in front of him, holding his hand. But the version of me he loved—the one who shared memories with him, inside jokes, quiet nights, and whispered promises—that version of me was gone. At least for now.

His thumb brushed lightly over the back of my hand, a slow, absentminded motion that felt strangely natural. Like it was something he had done a thousand times before. The small touch sent a quiet warmth through me, and for a moment I forgot that I didn’t remember him at all. “Can I tell you something?” he asked softly after a moment.

I nodded.

“You used to hate hospitals,” he said with a small smile. “The smell, the lights… everything. You said they felt too cold.” I wrinkled my nose instinctively. “They do smell weird,” I admitted.

His smile widened just a little, and something warm spread through my chest seeing it. It felt good making him smile, even if I didn’t know why. “You also used to make me promise something,” he continued. “What was that?” His eyes softened as he looked at me, and for a second it felt like the entire room went quiet.

“That if anything ever happened to you… I’d stay.”

My stomach twisted at his words. I could hear the meaning behind them, the weight of that promise.

“And did you?” I asked quietly.

Yunho squeezed my hand gently, his grip warm and steady.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Something about the way he said it made my throat tighten. Even without my memories, I could tell one thing with absolute certainty—he meant it.

“I guess so,” I said quietly, my fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the ring on his finger. For a moment, Yunho just watched my hand, the small movement making something soft flicker across his face. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something.

“Can I show you something?” he asked, his voice suddenly a little nervous as he fidgeted in his pocket.

I looked up at him and nodded. “Of course.”

He took a slow breath before pulling something out of his pocket. Resting in his palm was a beautiful ring with a small diamond. It wasn’t flashy or extravagant—just simple and elegant in a way that immediately caught my attention.

He held it out quietly in the center of his palm, letting me see it.

“Can I hold it?” I asked cautiously, half preparing myself for him to say no.

“Definitely,” he said without hesitation.

I carefully took the ring from his hand and turned it between my fingers, studying the way the diamond caught the soft light spilling through the window. It was delicate, almost understated, but there was something incredibly beautiful about it. “This is beautiful,” I murmured.

Yunho smiled softly, watching me examine it.

“There’s actually a story behind that ring,” he said.

I glanced up from it, curiosity flickering in my chest. “Really?”

He nodded.

“Before I started my career, this is all I could really afford,” he explained. “So of course I was nervous when I proposed to you because it was a small diamond.” His voice held a quiet vulnerability as he spoke, like the memory still made his heart race even now. “But to my surprise,” he continued with a gentle laugh, “you loved it so much that you guarded it with your life.”

I looked down at the ring again, a small smile forming on my lips as I imagined it. “That’s when I knew you were the one,” he finished softly. Something warm spread through my chest at his words. Even though I couldn’t remember that moment, I could almost picture it through the way he described it.

I turned the ring slowly between my fingers before looking back at him.

“Can I try it?” I asked.

For a second, Yunho froze. His heart visibly swelled in his chest, the question clearly catching him off guard.

Then he gently took the ring from my fingers.

“Of course,” he murmured.

Carefully, almost reverently, he slid the ring onto my finger.

It fit perfectly.

I lifted my hand slightly, watching the diamond shimmer as the golden rays of the sun streamed through the window. The light caught the stone, making it sparkle softly.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

I stared at the ring resting on my finger, my heart beating a little faster for reasons I couldn’t explain. The ring felt warm around my finger, the metal resting against my skin like it had always belonged there. I turned my hand slightly, watching the small diamond catch the sunlight, but my attention kept drifting somewhere else.

My palms were suddenly sweaty.

I wasn’t sure why.

A strange nervousness settled in my chest, the kind that made my heartbeat pick up just a little faster. It didn’t make sense. All I was doing was sitting here, looking at a ring.

Yet every time my eyes drifted toward Yunho, butterflies stirred in my stomach.

I glanced up at him again without meaning to.

He was watching me carefully, his expression soft and patient, like he was trying to read every tiny reaction on my face. The moment our eyes met, my heart skipped in my chest and I quickly looked back down at my hand.

Why was I so nervous around him?

It wasn’t fear. I knew that much. If anything, it was the complete opposite.

Being near him made me feel warm, safe… and strangely aware of everything. The quiet room. The sunlight on the floor. The gentle way he stood beside the bed like he didn’t want to crowd me but also didn’t want to be too far away.

And every time I even remotely looked at him, the butterflies in my stomach only grew stronger.

A few days later, the doctor finally said the words I had been waiting for.

“You’re well enough to leave.”

The hospital room that had once felt suffocating suddenly seemed lighter. Part of me felt relieved to finally get out of the sterile space, but another part of me felt nervous. Leaving meant returning to a life I didn’t remember.

Yunho stood beside the bed while I gathered the few things I had brought with me. He stayed close, like he always did, but not so close that it felt overwhelming. I had started noticing that about him—the way he gave me space while still making sure I knew he was there.

“Ready?” he asked softly.

I looked up at him, my fingers instinctively brushing the ring resting on my finger. The small diamond caught the light, sending a tiny shimmer across the room.

I nodded slowly. “Yeah… I think so.”

The ride was quiet.

Not awkward, just thoughtful. I spent most of the time staring out the window as the city passed by in a blur of buildings and streetlights. Every now and then I found myself glancing over at Yunho in the driver’s seat. His hands rested comfortably on the steering wheel, his focus steady on the road ahead.

He looked used to this.

Like he had driven this route countless times before.

Eventually the car slowed and pulled into a parking spot in front of a tall apartment building. Yunho turned off the engine but didn’t move right away.

“We’re here,” he said gently.

My stomach fluttered.

“This is…?”

“Our place,” he finished quietly.

For a moment, I just stared at the building. The word *our* echoed softly in my mind.

Our home.

I followed him inside, my steps slow as we walked down the hallway and stopped in front of a door. Yunho pulled a key from his pocket, but before unlocking it, he paused.

“You don’t have to rush anything,” he said quietly. “If you feel uncomfortable, we can leave anytime.”

His words made my chest tighten.

“Okay,” I whispered.

The door opened with a soft click.

The first thing I noticed when I stepped inside was the warmth. The apartment didn’t feel cold or unfamiliar the way I had expected. Instead, it felt lived in—comfortable in a way that immediately made my shoulders relax.

Then my eyes drifted to the wall.

Photos.

My breath caught.

Dozens of pictures filled the space, scattered across the wall in mismatched frames. I slowly stepped closer, my heart beating faster as I looked at them.

Every photo was of Yunho and me.

Some were silly, the two of us making ridiculous faces at the camera. Others were softer moments—sitting close together at a restaurant, wrapped up in blankets on the couch, standing under city lights somewhere at night.

In every single picture, we looked happy.

Really happy.

I moved closer, studying one picture where Yunho had his arm around my shoulders while I leaned into him, laughing at something outside the frame.

In another, I was wearing one of his oversized hoodies, my hair messy while he kissed the side of my head.

I didn’t remember any of it.

But the way we looked at each other…

That was real.

“You put those up,” Yunho said quietly behind me.

I turned slightly, surprised. “I did?”

He nodded, a small smile forming on his face.

“You said it made the apartment feel more like home.”

My fingers hovered near one of the frames but stopped just short of touching it. I stared at the girl in the photo—the version of me who looked so comfortable standing beside him.

“She looks really happy,” I murmured.

Yunho’s voice softened behind me. “She was.”

Something in my chest twisted gently. I looked at the photos again before turning back to him.

“You must really love her,” I said quietly.

For a moment, Yunho didn’t answer. Then he stepped a little closer.

“I do,” he said softly.

His eyes met mine, warm and steady.

“And I still do.” I smiled softly.

The room grew quiet as I continued staring at the photos on the wall. Each one showed a moment of a life I couldn’t remember, yet somehow it still felt like it belonged to me. My eyes moved slowly from frame to frame, taking in every detail.

“Is it okay if I look around?” I asked softly.

Yunho nodded immediately. “Of course.”

I moved carefully through the apartment, taking small steps as if I were exploring somewhere sacred. The space felt warm and lived in, like it had been filled with laughter and quiet moments for a long time. Eventually, I stopped in front of a partially open door.

Curiosity pulled me forward.

I gently pushed it open and stepped inside.

The room was simple but cozy. A large bed sat in the center, soft blankets folded neatly across it. A television was mounted on the wall, and more photos of Yunho and me were scattered around the room in small frames.

My chest tightened slightly.

This room felt… more personal.

I noticed the dresser against the wall and walked over to it. Several perfume bottles sat neatly on top, their glass catching the soft light from the window. Next to them were small pieces of jewelry and hair ties.

Then my eyes drifted to the closets.

One side held women’s clothes—dresses, sweaters, and shirts hanging neatly. The other held men’s clothing.

My stomach fluttered as the realization settled in.

“Is this…?” I started quietly.

“Our room,” Yunho finished from behind me.

His voice was gentle, almost careful.

I turned back toward the dresser, studying the perfume bottles again. Each one looked familiar in a strange way, like something I should recognize but couldn’t quite reach in my mind.

“This one is your favorite,” Yunho said softly.

He stepped forward and picked up one of the bottles before holding it out to me.

I took it carefully from his hand and brought it closer, spraying a small amount onto my wrist before smelling it.

The scent was soft and floral, warm in a way that immediately made me relax.

“It smells pretty,” I said quietly.

For a moment, Yunho didn’t respond.

When I looked up, he was watching me again with that same soft expression—like every small reaction I had meant more to him than he could say.

“You used to wear it almost every day,” he said gently. “Especially when we went out together.” I looked down at the bottle again, rubbing my wrist lightly where the scent lingered. Even though I couldn’t remember those moments… the smell felt strangely comforting.

And standing there in the room we once shared, surrounded by pieces of the life we had built together, I felt something inside me shift.

“Are you okay?” Yunho asked softly, his voice pulling me out of my thoughts.

I blinked and looked up at him, realizing I had been staring at the dresser for longer than I meant to. I quickly nodded. “I’m fine.” Right as the words left my mouth, my stomach growled loudly, completely betraying me.

Yunho’s lips curved into a small smile.

“Someone’s hungry,” he said, his voice carrying a light teasing tone. Heat rushed to my face and I let out an embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Okay… maybe a little.” He chuckled softly, the sound warm and relaxed. “We can go out to eat,” he offered. “Or I can cook for you.”

I fidgeted with my hands for a moment, thinking about it. The idea of sitting in a crowded restaurant suddenly felt overwhelming. But cooking… that felt different.

“I think we should cook together,” I suggested slowly. “I think that would be fun.”

Yunho hummed thoughtfully, considering it. His eyes softened slightly as he watched me, like he was quietly happy that I was starting to feel comfortable here again.

“Alright,” he said with a small nod. “What do you want to make?”

“Tteokbokki,” I said almost immediately, my mouth watering just thinking about it.

A hint of amusement crossed his face.

“Then let’s drive to the store and grab the ingredients.”

I shook my head lightly. “Why drive when we can walk?” I said, glancing toward the window. “I need the fresh air.”

For a moment Yunho just looked at me.

His chest felt strangely full watching me move around the apartment so naturally, suggesting things like we had done it a hundred times before. Even without your memories, pieces of the old you were still there.

“Yeah,” he said softly, grabbing his jacket. “A walk sounds nice.”

And as the two of us headed toward the door together, Yunho couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at his lips. For the first time since the accident, it almost felt normal again.

We walked down to the lobby of the apartment building together and stepped out through the glass doors. The evening air was cool and fresh, a gentle breeze brushing past my face. After spending so many days inside the hospital, the simple feeling of being outside felt almost refreshing.

As we started down the sidewalk, Yunho glanced over at me before slowly offering his hand.

I hesitated for a second.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to take it. If anything, the thought made my heart beat a little faster. But holding hands felt… intimate, and part of me wondered if I had the right to do that when I still couldn’t remember our life together.

Still, something inside me pushed past the hesitation. I slipped my hand into his and intertwined our fingers. Yunho immediately stiffened slightly beside me.

When I looked over, his ears had turned bright red.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, almost awkwardly.

I blinked at him. “Sorry for what?”

“For—” he glanced down at our hands before rubbing the back of his neck with his free one. “I just didn’t expect you to…”

“Don’t be,” I said gently.

Butterflies fluttered wildly in my stomach as a rush of unfamiliar yet strangely comforting feelings washed over me. The warmth of his hand around mine felt natural—like something I had done countless times before.

The feeling was confusing but comforting all at once.

It almost felt like a first date.

Even though deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

We continued walking down the street, the city slowly coming alive around us with the glow of evening lights. As we passed a small flower stand on the corner, Yunho suddenly stopped.

“Wait here for a second,” he said.

Before I could ask why, he stepped over to the stand and quietly spoke with the vendor. A moment later, he paid and walked back toward me holding a single flower.

He handed it to me.

My eyes widened slightly when I saw what it was.

It was my favorite flower.

A soft smile spread across my face as I took it from him.

“You remembered,” I said quietly.

“Of course I did,” Yunho replied with a small smile.

We continued walking after that, and the small flower felt warm in my hand as I held it carefully. A few minutes later, something caught my eye across the sidewalk.

A photo booth.

Without thinking, I grabbed Yunho’s arm and gently pulled him toward it.

“Wait,” I said excitedly. “I think we should take photos together.”

He looked surprised but followed anyway. “Photos?”

“To remember this day,” I explained with a small smile.

Inside the booth, we sat close together on the small bench. The camera light blinked, signaling the countdown.

For the first picture, we both smiled awkwardly. The second one, Yunho made a goofy face that made me laugh. The third picture, we leaned closer together, our shoulders brushing as we tried to fit into the frame.

Then the final flash went off.

Without really thinking, I leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to Yunho’s cheek.

The camera flashed.

When I pulled back, Yunho looked completely shocked.

His eyes were wide, and his face had turned red all over again. My own hand quickly flew up to cover my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I blurted. “I think I got carried away.”

For a moment he just stared at me.

Then his expression softened.

“No,” he said gently. “Don’t be sorry.”

He hesitated for a second before leaning closer and pressing a soft kiss against my cheek.

“It just caught me off guard,” he added with a shy smile.

He helped me out of the photo booth, gently holding the curtain aside so I wouldn’t trip on the small step. The strip of photos slid out of the machine a moment later, still warm from printing. I carefully tucked them into my pocket, feeling a strange sense of happiness knowing we had captured that moment together.

We continued walking until we reached the small grocery store down the street.

Inside, the warm lights and quiet chatter of other shoppers made the place feel cozy. Yunho grabbed a small basket and started walking through the aisles while I followed beside him.

He moved with an easy familiarity, stopping here and there to grab ingredients for the tteokbokki. Rice cakes. Fish cakes. Gochujang. Each time he picked something up, he would pause to read the label carefully before placing it into the basket.

I found myself watching him more than the shelves.

There was a little crease between his eyebrows as he focused, and he did this cute squinting thing whenever he was trying to read something closely.

It was subtle, but once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop looking.

I tilted my head slightly, studying him.

Is this how he feels when I scrunch my nose while irritated?

The thought made a small smile tug at my lips.

He suddenly glanced up and caught me staring.

“What?” he asked, a little amused.

I quickly looked away, pretending to study a nearby shelf. “Nothing.” But the smile on my face didn’t disappear.

Yunho watched me for a second longer before chuckling softly and returning to reading the package in his hand, completely unaware that the little things he did like that tiny squint were slowly making my heart feel warmer every minute we spent together.

Before we left the store, the soft patter of rain began tapping against the windows. I glanced outside and saw the sky had darkened, droplets quickly turning into a steady drizzle.

“Oh,” I murmured.

Yunho followed my gaze and chuckled softly. “Looks like we’re not walking back dry.”

Before we headed out, he grabbed a simple tan umbrella from a small rack near the register and paid for it. As soon as we stepped outside, he quickly opened it above us, the soft whoosh of the fabric spreading overhead. The rain fell steadily around us, tapping gently against the umbrella.

We walked close together down the sidewalk, Yunho holding the grocery bag in one hand while the other held the umbrella above us. The space underneath was small, so our shoulders brushed occasionally as we walked.

Each time it happened, my heart fluttered a little.

The cool air smelled fresh after the rain, and the quiet sound of our footsteps mixed with the soft rhythm of water hitting the pavement. For a moment, everything felt peaceful. By the time we reached the apartment building, the rain had picked up slightly. We hurried inside, shaking off the water as we stepped into the warm lobby. Once we got upstairs and into the apartment, we both slipped off our jackets and hung them by the door.

I ran my fingers through my slightly damp hair while Yunho carried the grocery bag into the kitchen.

He set it down on the counter and began pulling out the ingredients one by one, lining them up neatly.

The rice cakes. The sauce. The fish cakes.

Watching him move around the kitchen so comfortably made something warm settle in my chest again. It felt natural like this was something we had done together many times before.

I leaned lightly against the counter, watching him as he worked.

“Chef Yunho,” I teased softly. “What’s my job?” He glanced up at me with a small smile, clearly amused.

“Your job?” he repeated thoughtfully. Then he grabbed a cutting board and gently slid it toward me across the counter. “You can start by cutting these,” he said, handing me a package of fish cakes. He paused for a moment before adding with a playful grin, “Let’s see if you still remember how.”

I picked up the knife slowly, turning it in my hand as I looked down at the cutting board. For a moment, doubt crept into my mind. What if I didn’t remember how to do something as simple as this?

Yunho must have noticed the hesitation because his voice softened. “Hey… there’s no pressure. We can figure it out together.” I nodded and carefully unwrapped the fish cakes. My fingers moved slowly at first, lining them up neatly on the board. Then I began cutting them into strips.

After the first few slices, something shifted.

My hands started moving more naturally, the knife gliding through the soft texture like my body already knew what to do. Yunho leaned lightly against the counter across from me, watching quietly.

A small smile spread across his face.

“You used to do it exactly like that,” he said softly.

I paused and looked up at him. “Really?” He nodded. “You always cut them into long pieces because you said they tasted better that way.”

I glanced back down at the cutting board, surprised. “I don’t remember deciding that.”

“You might not remember,” he said gently, “but some things stay.” His words settled warmly in my chest.

Soon the kitchen filled with the soft sounds of cooking. Yunho moved beside me, heating the pan while I finished preparing the ingredients. When he mixed the sauce, the smell of garlic and spicy gochujang slowly filled the apartment.

My stomach growled again.

“That smells amazing,” I said with a small laugh.

Yunho chuckled quietly. “You say that every time.”

I leaned against the counter beside him, watching as he added the rice cakes and fish cakes into the bubbling red sauce. The mixture began to simmer, thick and glossy, filling the whole kitchen with warmth.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the gentle bubbling from the pan.

Then Yunho reached up to a cabinet and grabbed two bowls. As he set them down on the counter, his elbow accidentally brushed a small jar sitting near the edge.

The jar tipped.

Before either of us could react, it fell to the floor with a loud crack.

I flinched slightly as glass scattered across the tile.

“I’m so sorry,” Yunho said quickly, crouching down. “I didn’t see it there.”

But as I stared at the broken pieces on the floor, something strange happened.

A sudden flash crossed my mind.

A kitchen.

The same counter.

Yunho laughing while flour covered his hands.

And me—standing right here beside him.

The memory disappeared as quickly as it came. My breath caught, and I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself.

“(Y/N)?” Yunho’s voice was instantly worried as he stood up. “What’s wrong?”

My heart was racing.

“I… I think I just remembered something.”

Yunho helped me over to the couch, guiding me carefully as I sat down. My head still felt a little light from the sudden rush of memories, but the warmth of his hand around mine kept me grounded.

He knelt slightly in front of me, his eyes searching my face with quiet concern.

“Do you know what you remembered?” he asked softly.

I nodded slowly, trying to piece the moment together. “We were laughing in the kitchen,” I said. “You had flour all over your hands… and then everything got fuzzy.”

For a moment Yunho just stared at me.

Then recognition lit up his face. “The cookie competition,” he said.

I blinked in confusion. “A cookie competition?”

He nodded, a small laugh escaping him as the memory clearly replayed in his mind. “You entered us in one at a local festival. I had no idea what I was doing, but you were determined we were going to win.”

I smiled faintly, trying to imagine it.

“We were making the dough,” he continued, his voice warm with nostalgia. “I kept throwing flour on the counter so it wouldn’t stick. At one point I accidentally touched my face with flour-covered hands.”

He gestured toward his cheek, laughing a little at the memory.

I couldn’t help but laugh softly too. “I see we have a history of cooking together,” I said.

Yunho’s smile softened. “We’ve always done it,” he replied gently. “You used to say a family that cooks together stays together.”

Without really thinking, I began fidgeting with his hand where it rested near mine.

“That’s what my mom always told me,” I said quietly.

For a moment Yunho went completely still.

His heart fluttered at my words, and something hopeful flickered in his eyes—like a small light finally turning on after days of darkness.

Before either of us could say anything else, a sudden smell drifted through the room.

Both of our heads turned toward the kitchen.

“The food!” Yunho suddenly shouted.

He jumped to his feet and rushed toward the kitchen so quickly that he nearly slipped on the tile floor.

“Whoa—!”

“Are you okay?” I called out, half concerned and half laughing.

“I’m fine!” he replied quickly, steadying himself against the counter. “I do that all the time.”

I giggled quietly as I watched him casually walk the rest of the way into the kitchen like nothing had happened.

And somehow, seeing him like that—clumsy, warm, and completely himself—made my chest feel lighter than it had in days.

Dinner turned out better than I expected. The tteokbokki was warm, spicy, and comforting, and honestly it was some of the most delicious tteokbokki I had ever tasted. I sat across from Yunho at the table, laughing as he shared story after story about us—little moments from our life together that I couldn’t remember but somehow still felt familiar.

“There was one time,” he said, barely holding back his laughter, “when you tried to surprise me with breakfast in bed.”

“That sounds sweet,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.

“It would have been,” he continued, “if you hadn’t tripped on the blanket and dropped pancakes all over me.”

I gasped. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did,” he laughed. “Syrup everywhere.”

I couldn’t help but laugh with him, even if I couldn’t picture it myself. The way he told the stories made them feel real, like pieces of a life slowly being returned to me.

After dinner we cleaned up together, rinsing plates and stacking dishes into the rack. Yunho turned on some music while we worked, and the soft sound filled the apartment as we wiped the counters and put away the ingredients.

It felt… normal.

Comfortable.

Like we had done this together a thousand times before.

I was drying my hands when a slower song began playing through the speakers. Yunho suddenly paused, listening to the familiar melody.

He looked at me for a moment before stepping closer and offering me his hand.

“This was our wedding song,” he said softly.

My heart skipped.

I looked down at his hand for a moment before placing mine in it. He gently pulled me closer, one hand resting carefully at my waist as we began to sway slowly in the middle of the kitchen.

I smiled softly, letting myself relax into the moment.

The room felt warm, the lights soft above us as the music wrapped around the quiet space. My eyes slowly lifted to meet his, and the moment our gazes locked, my heart began racing again.

There was something about the way Yunho looked at me.

So full of love.

Like he had been waiting his whole life just to stand here with me.

“I vaguely remember now,” I whispered.

Yunho’s movement stilled slightly.

Another memory flickered through my mind—soft and warm.

White lights. Soft music. Me in a flowing dress.

Yunho standing in front of me in a suit, his eyes looking exactly the way they did right now.

We were dancing. Just like this.

Then the memory slipped away again.

But this time, instead of frustration, I felt something warm settle in my chest.

I smiled quietly to myself. “I had another one,” I said softly. Yunho looked down at me immediately, his eyes searching mine with hope. “What did you see?”

I squeezed his hand gently.

“We were both dressed up,” I said slowly. “Wedding attire.” My voice softened as the image replayed faintly in my mind.

“We were slowly dancing to this song.”

Yunho froze for a moment after I said it.

His hands were still resting gently at my waist, but I felt the slight tremor in them. He looked at me like he was afraid to move, like if he did the moment might disappear.

“You remember that?” he asked quietly.

“Just a little,” I admitted. “It’s blurry… like looking through fog. But I remember how it felt.”

I paused before meeting his eyes again.

“I remember being happy.”

Something in Yunho’s expression softened immediately. Relief, warmth, and disbelief flickered across his face all at once.

“You were,” he said gently. “You were smiling the whole time.”

The song continued playing softly in the background as we kept swaying in the middle of the kitchen. This time Yunho pulled me a little closer, slowly and carefully, like he was checking to make sure it was okay.

I didn’t pull away. If anything, I stepped closer myself.

My head rested lightly against his chest, and I could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear. For a moment, everything felt peaceful.

“You cried during the vows,” Yunho said suddenly, his voice quiet above me.

I tilted my head up to look at him. “I did?”

He laughed softly. “You tried really hard not to. But the second I started reading mine, you lost it.” I groaned quietly. “That’s embarrassing.”

“No,” he said immediately. “It was my favorite part.”

I blinked in surprise. “Why?”

“Because it meant you really loved me,” he said simply.

My chest tightened slightly at his words.

For a moment we just looked at each other, standing close together in the soft light of the kitchen. The music was still playing, but it had faded into the background.

Then something unexpected happened.

Another tiny flash of memory.

Not a full scene this time—just a feeling.

Standing across from him.

Holding his hands. Promising something.

My breath caught.

“Yunho…” I whispered.

His eyes widened instantly. “Another one?”

I nodded slowly, trying to hold onto the fading moment. “I think… we were saying our vows.” His expression softened again, hope filling his gaze. “You told me something,” I continued, concentrating. “You said… you’d fall in love with me in every lifetime.”

Yunho’s breath caught.

For a moment he couldn’t speak.

Then he smiled softly, the kind of smile that carried years of love inside it.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

For a moment neither of us spoke.

We were still standing in the middle of the kitchen, the music playing softly around us as we swayed slowly together. Yunho’s arms remained around me, gentle but secure.

My heart was still racing from the memory.

It wasn’t clear, and it didn’t last long, but it was real.

Morning light slowly filtered through the curtains, casting soft golden streaks across the room. I lay still for a few quiet moments, listening to the faint sounds of the city waking up outside.

Then I noticed something else.

The steady sound of breathing beside me.

My eyes opened fully and I turned my head slightly. Yunho was asleep on top of the covers, sitting up against the headboard. His head was tilted to the side, one arm loosely folded across his chest while the other rested near the edge of the bed, like he had been trying to stay awake but eventually lost the fight.

My heart squeezed a little at the sight. He must have stayed there all night.

Carefully, I pushed myself up against the pillows, trying not to wake him. His hair was slightly messy, falling across his forehead, and the soft morning light made him look peaceful.

I studied him quietly. There were faint shadows under his eyes, like he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. Even now, though, his expression looked calm. I wondered how many nights he had spent worrying about me. Without really thinking, I reached over and gently brushed a strand of hair away from his face. The moment my fingers touched him, his eyes fluttered open.

For a split second he looked confused. Then he saw me.

“You’re awake,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. “I think I’ve been awake for a while,” I admitted softly. He straightened slightly and ran a hand through his hair, clearly a little embarrassed. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep like that. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You slept sitting up all night?” I asked. He shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “I’ve done worse.” I couldn’t help smiling faintly.

“You know there’s plenty of room on the bed, right?” Yunho froze for a moment. A faint blush crept up his neck as he rubbed the back of it awkwardly. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” he said quietly.

Something warm spread through my chest.

Even now, even after everything, he was still being careful with me.

I glanced down at the blanket in my lap before looking back up at him. “You wouldn’t have,” I said gently.

The room grew silent and my stomach growled loudly.

Yunho blinked before laughing softly. “Well,” he said, pushing himself off the bed, “I guess that means breakfast.” I laughed too as I slid out from under the covers. “Please tell me we’re not having tteokbokki again.” He looked over his shoulder with a playful grin.

“No promises.”

And for the first time since waking up in the hospital, the morning didn’t feel heavy or confusing… It felt hopeful.

We walked into the kitchen together, the soft morning light spilling in through the windows. The apartment felt calm and quiet, the kind of peaceful start that made the whole place feel warm. “I think I’m in the mood for pancakes, bacon, and fruit,” I said as I leaned lightly against the counter.

Yunho smiled immediately. “That’s always been your favorite breakfast,” he said.

Something about the way he said it made my chest feel warm again. Even if I couldn’t remember it myself, he knew these little things about me so easily. He started pulling ingredients out of the cabinets and refrigerator, setting everything neatly on the counter. Flour, eggs, milk, a bowl, and a pan. “Alright,” he said, glancing over at me. “Teamwork again.”

“What’s my job?” I asked.

He grabbed a cutting board and set a small bowl of fruit in front of me. “You’re on fruit duty,” he said. “I’ll handle the pancakes and bacon.” I nodded confidently and started washing and cutting the fruit. It only took a moment before everything was sliced neatly into the bowl. “Done,” I announced proudly.

Yunho looked over at the bowl and then back at me with raised eyebrows. “You’re fast.” I laughed softly. “I had a very difficult task.” He shook his head with a quiet chuckle before turning back to the counter. I watched as he cracked eggs into the bowl and added the rest of the ingredients for the pancakes. His movements were smooth and practiced as he whisked everything together.

Without thinking, I leaned my elbows on the counter and watched him.

He had that same little squint again while he focused on measuring things, his eyebrows pulling together slightly in concentration.

It made me smile.

“You’re staring again,” he said suddenly, not even looking up.

My eyes widened. “I am not.” He glanced at me with a knowing smile.

“You do that when you’re thinking.”

“Oh really?” I said, folding my arms. “Yeah,” he replied casually while pouring batter into the pan. “You’ve done it since the day we met.”

The soft sizzling sound filled the kitchen as the pancakes began cooking. I watched him flip one carefully before asking quietly, “What was it like?” He paused slightly. “When we met?” I nodded.

Yunho smiled faintly, like the memory was one of his favorites. “You spilled coffee on me,” he said.

My jaw dropped. “I did not.” He laughed.

“You absolutely did.” I groaned, covering my face with my hands. “Please tell me I at least apologized.”

“Oh you did,” he said, flipping another pancake. “About twenty times.” I peeked at him through my fingers.

“And somehow you still married me?” He glanced over at me with that soft, warm smile again. “Best accident that ever happened to me.” I laughed, a little embarrassed as I leaned against the counter. “So… did I work at a diner or something?” Yunho nodded while carefully flipping another pancake in the pan. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”

The smell of pancakes and bacon slowly filled the kitchen, making my stomach rumble again. I watched him for a moment before another question popped into my head. “And what were you doing there?” I asked. “Were you with your friends or something?” He nodded again. “Yeah. A few of us stopped in after practice.” I tilted my head, curiosity growing. “So wait… now that we’re on the subject,” I said, crossing my arms slightly, “what’s your job like?” Yunho glanced up at me briefly before looking back at the pancakes.

“Well,” he said casually, “I’m part of a boy group.” I blinked.

“A boy group?”

“Yeah,” he continued. “Our name is Ateez.” My eyes widened instantly. “Wait— I know Ateez!” I said quickly. “I used to be a huge fan.” Yunho tried to stay calm, but I noticed the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he flipped another pancake. “I even remember crushing hard on one of them,” I continued, thinking out loud.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding confidently. “It was Yunho.” Then I froze. My brain slowly caught up with my words.

“…Wait a damn minute.” Yunho burst out laughing.

I pointed at him dramatically, my mouth falling open as the realization hit me. “YOU!” He could barely hold the spatula from laughing. “You had a crush on me?” he teased.

I covered my face with my hands in pure embarrassment. “Oh my god.” He leaned against the counter, still laughing. “So technically,” he added playfully, “you married your celebrity crush.” I groaned loudly.

“Please tell me I didn’t fangirl when we met.” Yunho smirked. “Oh, you definitely did.”

“So wait,” I said, still trying to wrap my head around everything. “How did we start dating? I mean… I can imagine your schedule was busy all the time with fans, signings, and concerts.”

Yunho shrugged lightly, flipping another pancake onto the plate. “The diner kind of became my favorite restaurant after I met you.” I blinked at him. “Wait,” I said slowly, starting to smile. “So you came to the diner just to see me?” He nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world.“Every chance I got.” Heat rushed to my face immediately and I turned away slightly, embarrassed by the thought.

“You’re kidding,” I mumbled, trying to hide my blush.

“Nope,” he said casually, placing another pancake on the stack. “At first I told the members it was because the food was good.” I raised an eyebrow.

“And was it?” He looked at me with a teasing smile. “It was. But that wasn’t the real reason.” My cheeks burned even more. “So what happened next?” I asked quietly. “Well,” Yunho said, leaning against the counter. “Eventually you started recognizing me.” I groaned softly. “Oh no.”

“But you were surprisingly normal about it,” he continued. “You didn’t treat me like a celebrity. You just treated me like… a guy who ordered pancakes too often.” I laughed a little at that. “So we kept talking,” he said. “Every time I came in.”

“Which was apparently a lot,” I added.

He smiled.

“A lot.”

The bacon sizzled softly in the pan as he continued. “Then one day I asked if you wanted to come to a concert.” My eyes widened slightly. “I did?”

“You did,” he said with a small nod. “You were nervous the whole time.”

“I can imagine,” I muttered. “But after that,” he continued, “you started coming to more shows.” I leaned against the counter again, listening closely. “You supported me through everything,” he said softly. “Comebacks, tours, late nights at the studio.”

Something warm settled in my chest hearing that.

“And eventually,” he added, “when we got married and moved in together, we agreed you didn’t have to work at the diner anymore.” I blinked in surprise. “Really?” He nodded. “You worked hard for years,” he said gently. “I wanted you to be able to do what made you happy.” I looked down at the counter, trying to imagine the life he was describing. “You really loved me, didn’t you?” I said quietly.

Yunho didn’t hesitate.

“Still do.” The kitchen slowly fell quiet.

The smell of pancakes and bacon still lingered in the air, but the lighthearted mood from earlier had faded. I leaned against the counter, my fingers tracing the edge of the bowl of fruit as a question sat heavily in my chest. “I do have one more question,” I said softly.

Yunho looked up from the stove.

“What is it?” I hesitated for a moment before asking the thing that had been bothering me since I woke up in the hospital. “What happened before the accident?” The moment the words left my mouth, I saw his expression change. His shoulders stiffened slightly, and the small smile on his face disappeared. For the first time that morning, he looked nervous.

The silence stretched for a moment.

“Well…” he began quietly.

He turned the stove off before resting his hands on the counter, staring down at it as if the answer was written there.

“We had gotten into an argument.” I felt my chest tighten slightly. “About what?”

“My schedule,” he said. “About how much I was gone.” His voice was calm, but there was a heaviness in it now. “You said you were tired of always being alone. That you wanted a normal life… one where your husband was actually home.” I swallowed.

“And you were right,” he added quietly. “But in the moment I wasn’t listening.” His fingers tightened slightly against the counter. “I was being selfish. I kept saying the group needed me and that you knew what you were signing up for when you married me.” The kitchen suddenly felt much smaller. “We both said things we didn’t mean,” he continued.

His voice started to shake.

“I remember you getting really upset… and you said you hated me.” My heart dropped.

Yunho let out a shaky breath as he ran a hand over his face.

“You grabbed your keys and left.” His voice cracked slightly. “And then…”

Tears slipped down his cheeks before he could stop them.

“I just wish I had stopped you,” he said quietly. “I wish I would’ve told you not to go.”

His shoulders slumped as the guilt he had clearly been carrying poured out.

“I should’ve protected you more.”

The words hung heavy in the air between us.

“Yunho…” I whispered, my chest tightening as I saw the tears still streaming down his face. A wave of guilt washed over me. Even though I couldn’t fully remember that moment, the thought of saying something like that to him made my stomach twist painfully. I stepped closer and gently reached up, wiping the tears from his cheeks with my thumb. “Don’t blame yourself for what happened,” I said softly.

My own eyes began to fill with tears as the emotion of everything finally caught up with me. “I’m sorry for saying that to you,” I continued quietly. “I know my words won’t take back what I said.” My voice trembled slightly as I looked up at him. “But I want to show you.” Yunho’s eyes searched mine, still glassy with tears. “I’m falling in love with you more and more every day,” I said.

The kitchen felt completely silent now except for our breathing.

“I want to spend every moment with you,” I continued. “I know I can’t remember the past and how we were… but I want to look forward to the future.” His expression softened slowly as he listened. “The memories we make from now on,” I added gently.

My hand slipped into his, squeezing it softly.

“You give me so many reasons to live for,” I whispered. “And I’m so lucky to have you.” For a moment Yunho just stared at me.

Then he pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly against his chest like he never wanted to let go.

“I love you,” I said softly, looking up at him. The words felt natural leaving my lips, like they had been sitting in my heart for a long time just waiting to be spoken again.

Yunho’s breath caught slightly.

I reached up and gently caressed the side of his face, my fingers brushing along his cheek. His skin was warm beneath my touch, and the way he looked at me made my heart race all over again.

Slowly, he leaned down.

Our faces were close now—so close that I could feel his breath against my lips. My eyes flickered down to his mouth for a moment before meeting his gaze again.

The moment stretched, quiet and fragile.

Then—

A sharp sizzle filled the kitchen.

The smell of burning bacon suddenly hit the air.

Yunho’s eyes widened.

“The bacon!” he shouted.

He spun around quickly and rushed back to the stove, grabbing the pan just in time. A thin trail of smoke curled up toward the ceiling as he hurriedly turned off the burner.

I couldn’t help it.

I burst out laughing.

Yunho glanced over his shoulder at me, looking slightly flustered as he waved the smoke away. “Well,” he said, trying to salvage the moment, “romantic timing isn’t exactly our strength.” I leaned against the counter, still laughing. “Apparently not.” He looked down at the pan and sighed dramatically. “On the bright side,” he added, “the pancakes survived.” I walked over beside him and peeked into the pan.

The bacon, however, was a different story.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Define ‘survived.’”

Yunho scratched the back of his neck sheepishly.

“…crispy?”

We laughed over the burnt bacon, teasing each other about our “romantic timing fail,” but honestly, it didn’t matter. The pancakes were fluffy, the fruit was fresh, and the simple act of eating together made the breakfast feel perfect. To me, it didn’t matter that a little bacon had sacrificed itself—it was the moment that counted.

After clearing the dishes and tidying up the kitchen, we got ourselves ready for the day. I chose something comfortable, and Yunho went with casual as well, though he still looked effortlessly put together. There was a quiet excitement between us, a shared understanding that today didn’t need to be anything extraordinary.

Once we stepped outside, the afternoon air greeted us softly. It was crisp, fresh, and just a little cool, with the sun casting gentle warmth on our faces. We walked side by side, fingers brushing occasionally, and I found myself smiling more than I had in days.

Yunho kept stealing glances at me, his expression soft and content, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. I felt it too—the comfort, the familiarity, even if my memory hadn’t caught up yet. Every step felt like a new memory waiting to be made, and somehow, walking beside him in the quiet afternoon, it felt like home.

The evening sky was soft and golden as Yunho and I returned to the apartment, our fingers intertwined like they had always belonged together. The city hummed quietly outside, but inside, it felt like our own little world. Every step, every touch, every glance reminded me of the connection that had never truly gone away, even when my memory had.

Once inside, we settled on the couch, still holding hands. The apartment smelled faintly of the pancakes and bacon we had burned this morning, a reminder of the imperfect, yet perfect, day we had shared. Yunho’s arm came around me naturally, and I rested my head against his shoulder, letting the warmth of him seep into me.

“I’m glad I get to fall in love with you all over again,” I whispered, feeling the words settle in my chest like sunlight.

Yunho smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “And I’m glad I get to hold your hand through it every step of the way,” he replied, his voice gentle, full of everything I needed to hear.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. There was no rush, no need to fill the quiet with words. Instead, we let the evening stretch around us, a soft cocoon of warmth, love, and new memories waiting to be made.

I tilted my head up slightly to meet his gaze. “I know I can’t remember everything,” I said softly, “but being with you… it feels right. Like it’s always been this way.”

Yunho leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. “It always has been,” he murmured. “And it always will be.”

I smiled, feeling a flutter in my chest that was both familiar and new. The past didn’t matter anymore—not the argument, not the accident, not even the lost memories. What mattered was here, now, in this moment.

We stayed like that for a long while, holding each other, letting the world fade around us. Every laugh, every touch, every heartbeat reminded me that some love doesn’t need to be remembered to be real. It just needs to be felt.

And as the evening turned into night, with the city lights twinkling like tiny stars outside our window, I knew one thing for certain: no matter what tomorrow brought, we would face it together. Choosing each other, every single day, was enough.

Because love like ours wasn’t just about memories. It was about moments. And this right here, right now was ours.

[chimivx]

You're in love with your coworker Hongjoong. Sort of. Not really. But, you like him, and your friends, San, Jongho, and Yunho, they hate him. They really hate him. He lives in a constant repetitive pursuit of stringing you along just to drop you all over again. When a company gala is announced, you're certain he'll ask you... Until you catch him with another girl. Again. Summer in the city, your friends form a plan, a fake boyfriend plan to make Hongjoong jealous, leaving you and Yunho to trudge around Manhattan under the sun to make it believable. Unspoken boundaries set in place six years ago get tested. Are you making it out of this with your best friend?

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ yunho x fem!reader - {30.8k words} don't read the warnings if you don't want spoilers! fake dating, idiots friends to lovers, enormous sweet tooth rotting plot, explicit sexual content, alcohol consumption, cigarette smoking, cussing, dirty talk, some of these guys are kind of mean at work, yunho's a sweetie, san and jongho are funny, smut warnings; p in v, oral if you squint, biting, spit if you squint, dom!jyh, cum inside, nip play, accidental exhibitionism, unprotected (do not do!)

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ happy valentines day mon! ✿ it's me, your secret valentine fic giver! i had so much fun writing this piece, and i had so much fun secretly learning about you (totally not creepy). you inspire originality, and i hope i conveyed a tiny bit of what you inspire others to invoke within themselves. you're so cool! (you'll get this after you read hehe). i'm so grateful to have become moots, friends, and to experience your art, your writing. you're truly an artist, and you bring so much joy here to the tumble community, i hope you never forget how loved and wanted you are here! hugs & kisses cool kid ✿ @03jyh23 thank you @everyonewooeverywhere for putting this event together ✿ ✿ this is also a love letter to my favorite series created by my best friend @minkieater ✿ the city holds a very special place in my heart for a plethora of reasons i'll take up too much text space trying to explain. some of her characters pop up here, please go check out their story! i highly recommend it and all of it's mini spin off shotties. ily, t.

yun: JUST CAME ON.. I think the lady next to me on the subway can hear it ‘cause I turned it up all the way and she gave me this crazy look.. This music though.. Maybe it’ll help you feel better about your meeting.. Good luck……… See you at Dante’s later

*yun sent a song*

[ I Melt with You - Modern English ]

Finishing your hair in the foot long mirror above your bathroom sink, you tapped on the song with your pinky and tucked one more pin into the bun on your head. Whimsey filled the quiet where the only sound to be heard was the lullaby of the city outside of the cracked bathroom window. Open barely three inches, as far as it allowed, fresh summer air blew in with the pop of a siren, a car horn, people chattering below on the streets, above on their balcony.

Wiping your fingers under your eyes, settling on light makeup for the work day, your hips rocked to the beat, a poppy type song dipped in something angsty, teenage rebellion. You’ve heard this before, in some movie, you think, the two of you probably watched at some point which is how it came to circle through his music library.

A song for every mood, a song for every occasion, a song no matter the cause- Yunho had one for everything. You could see him now, headphones covering his ears, wrapping over his head, the wire tangling with his leather bag that hung over his shoulder and sat on his lap, a bag too frail and too old, but one he won’t rid of because it’s from the seventies.

Listen, Shug, you don’t get it…

He worked downtown at a record store part time when he wasn’t on the clock and running errands for his big named producer boss, Jag, the coolest, the raddest, most amazing Jag. After sorting records and analyzing set lists for local bands big and small, Yunho answered Jag’s calls, his messages, his damn pages, and disappeared for a few hours, returning with insane lore drops on the latest albums close to release, and who he caught kissing who in the lounge of Republic Records.

Capping the mascara tube, twisting it shut, you blinked at yourself in the mirror just as old as Yunho’s bag and groaned. Pursing your lips, longing to paint on a fun color, one the company you worked for wouldn’t allow, you took a deep breath and blew a raspberry.

Yunho could wear whatever he wanted. Yunho could dress like himself, he could wear the patterned sweaters you thrifted together, the crappy sneakers he’s certain John Lennon owned, ripped denim, silky slacks, he could wear it all and accessorize the crap out of himself. Earrings, layered necklaces, leather or braided bracelets, unique glasses changing each day, a hat or two somewhere in the rotation.

Trudging into your bedroom, not even two feet from the bathroom door, you reached into your shoebox of a closet and pulled out a grey pantsuit, one that hugged you in all the right places but killed the part of you that longed to wrap yourself in color.

Bopping your head to the song that repeated from the edge of the bathroom sink, you hummed along to the lyrics you half knew while you dressed yourself, ignoring the belts hanging around the bed post, or the funky sunglasses you bought several pairs of from a street festival last summer with Yunho and San. 

Grey corduroy slacks, a white button down, and a grey vest concealing your chest. Fastening each button, securing the details in place, not that there were many, you twisted side to side in the full-length mirror you found on the street leaning against a mailbox, one San hung up for you, and loosed a breath.

“You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time,” you sang to yourself, quietly, not wanting your neighbor to bang on his wall again, and picked up your phone. 

Tapping out a message, letting your knees bounce to the music, a smile pricked onto your bare lips.

you: I know this song??? How am I singing this right now???

yun: It was in Valley Girl

Giving yourself a look in the mirror, you rolled your eyes and typed back.

you: That movie sucked, Yunho

He answered quick.

yun: ‘Cause you don’t have taste, Shug

you: I know the song!!!!!!

yun: Doesn’t count, you hate Valley Girl, grow a pair and watch it again, this time we’ll drink, then you’ll love it..

Pocketing your phone, the clock up in the corner taunting you as it ticked down to the minute you had to part with your sanctuary, you slipped into black heels two inches tall and slung your work appropriate purse over your shoulder, one that matched the olive of another suit you could’ve worn, the only color they’ve allowed you to toy with.

“There’s nothing you and I won’t do,” you sang, pulling a lip gloss from the pocket on the side, slicking it on while you bounced a bit more. Capping it, feeling your phone vibrate, you exchanged the lip gloss for your cell.

yun: Did it help.. The song..

Your smile grew.

you: Yes… it did, thank you

yun: :) :) :) :) :) :) the future’s open wide

A giggle escaped you, reading the lyrics he sent just as they came out of your phone. Swiping out of open apps, you silenced your phone and popped it back into your pocket. Sucking in a deep breath, the slightest bit of nerves making themselves known in your stomach, you hummed to yourself, the song he’d sent, the one you just shut off. 

Every morning song he’s sent you, you’ve had to turn it off before leaving the apartment, to not disturb your neighbors, to not be a nuisance on the street though every corner came with at least three. You tucked him into your pocket, with your cell phone, with the song, and you became someone else entirely, someone he didn’t know, someone he didn’t get to see. A girl who wouldn’t listen to the songs he sent, and certainly not a girl who would enjoy them.

You became one he’d look at. One that he’d shoot subtle smirks at when the boss tripped over a word or two. A girl that laughed at every joke he told, even if it fell flat with whoever else stood around you. Hongjoong, he worked in the office beside yours, an assistant to a manager who worked beside a manager you assisted. Too often, since starting, the two of you had been assigned the same task at the same time. A coffee run, a folder to file, an exchange of documents for the others’ boss to look over.

From day one, Hongjoong in black, his slicked back hair, his perfectly pristine suits ironed and hung daily… You liked him. With his shoulders rolled backward, his posture uptight, he oozed charisma, a confidence that would certainly skyrocket him forward in no time. Graduating from NYU, pursuing post-grad degrees, some you didn’t understand, he walked and talked with a gust incomparable to most. A boss. A leader. The type of guy to lower his brows, soften his eyes, give you a reassuring smile and shake of the shoulder, and suddenly you’d feel as though you could take on the world as well. 

Career wise, you knew it’d be best to keep him on your side, however…

With the mess of time and endless hours you spent together, you didn’t account that falling for the guy would ever become a possibility.

Yet here you were, wearing pantsuits you had to take a loan out to afford, and pinning your hair back in ways you’ve only seen older women in movies pull off. Another corporate daisy in the garden that was the office he frolicked about, dancing his fingers over the edges, the petals of each one, appeasing them all with that god damned wicked smile that came out with a wink. 

Accidentally. Sometimes. You think. You hoped.

He drank champagne at corporate parties. A pocket watch hung from his slacks, and he’d sling his jacket over his shoulder to reveal what he’d been wearing was a tailored three piece he copped from Rodeo on vacation with his sister and her car company owning husband. With a pinky in the air he laughed in singular syllables as the department heads cracked their jokes you didn’t understand, most likely a guy thing, and he made sure to compliment every woman that breezed past him.

The kind of girls that had legs miles long, hair blown out and bouncing at their shoulders or below, low cut dresses front and back, diamonds dripping in the plunges front and back. They’d give a tight lipped smile, one you’ve practiced in the mirror before feeling utterly ridiculous, and he’d end up coercing one into the back of a car with a driver provided by the company. A car you arrived in together. A car you’ve never been the girl to go home in after the party was over.

You’d catch a cab, tipsy and groveling, and meet up with Yunho and San at Dante NYC, your favorite bar on MacDougal, the street of all things food and drinks. The owner knew the three of you, you’ve frequented Dante’s since your days at Columbia, escaping back down to the Village once the classes in Harlem were through.

Small, as places in the city were, Dante’s had a vibe none other could replicate. Tiny plates of just enough food to each order on your own and pass around to share, bartenders on shift before they scurried off to audition for a Broadway show that worked and lived for tips, offering heavy pours if you offered up your cash, an old Italian energy, a type of culture that Manhattan yearned to hold onto. It’s where you were off to tonight, Yunho and San in attendance, along with Jongho, another co-worker of yours, if you could convince him. 

One of the last times he ended up at Dante’s with you three he drank his body weight in whiskey and sang a Celine Dion duet with the bartender, stripping down to his undershirt beneath his button down. San has the videos to prove it, and he isn’t afraid to use them if Jongho is acting snippy in the groupchat. 

You’d be there in mere hours, drinking and singing along to the music Yunho would be in charge of, ordering plate after plate of whatever the chef felt like cooking up, hanging off of San’s broad shoulders and groaning about your boss with Jongho. You just had to make it through this mandatory meeting your entire branch was required to attend.

Slipping into a cab headed uptown, city sights whizzing by the window in the blink of an eye, you’re dropped off in front of a skyscraper, one unlabeled, but drilling into the fluffy summer clouds. Swiping your card, bidding your driver a good day, you stepped onto the concrete and smoothed out your shirt. Just as you were headed to grab the golden door handle that stretched across half the glass, a beefy bicep hooked into your elbow and yanked you backward.

“Ladies should never open the door for themselves,” his melodic voice tickled your skin.

Shooting him a tight smile, a slight roll of your eyes, you met his milk chocolate gaze and said, “Jongho, you are much too kind.”

Pulling the door open for you, he leaned down to mutter, “Just showing you how a gentleman should act towards a lady.” Guiding you inside, he ushered you through the lobby, throwing an inconspicuous wave toward the receptionist you’re pretty sure he’s slept with. “Holding doors, never letting them navigate uncharted territory on their own.”

“Pretty sure I’ve worked here for two and a half years,” you giggled, nodding toward a group of employees chatting by the elevators. 

Heels clicking on the tiled floor, the sound echoing up into the tall ceilings carved with marble and painted like the sistine chapel, you took in everyone's appearance, them having done pretty much the same as you, taking themselves a bit more seriously this morning.

“This meeting is uncharted territory,” you mumbled, meeting eyes with a few colleagues plagued with tunnel vision. Jongho sighed, glancing about the room.

“I haven’t seen anyone this paranoid since- Ah! Mr. Song,” he cut himself off as the two of you turned a corner, running into a man in a tuxedo fit for a royal wedding. Bending in half some, a bow of sorts, you panicked and copied him, having no idea how to act in front of the man who traveled across the country to speak with your company.

Mr. Song gave you both a light smile, acknowledging the way Jongho held onto you, the way he escorted you through the building. Giving him a short look, one with a bit of pride, he said, “Good morning. I’ll see you soon.”

Jongho beamed. “Prompt as usual, Mr. Song.”

The older man flickered his gaze toward you, his eyes glazing over your body, ending on your hair. His smile had somewhat faded, and he didn’t give you as much as a sigh before he turned to continue his pursuit over the tile.

Scoffing to yourself, so Jongho could hear you, you shot him a glare as he slipped his arm out of yours. “Did you know he was going to be down here?” He nibbled the insides of his cheeks. “You asshole, you used me.” Situating your purse over your shoulder, you shoved him like a child and bounded ahead of him, straight for the stairs.

“Hey,” he spat, hurrying after you. Long strides brought you far, but he was quicker, catching onto the strap of your purse with the curl of a finger. “Hey, Shug,” he teased, pulling you to a complete stop.

Whirling around, you narrowed your eyes. “You can’t call me that.”

He smiled. “What’s it even mean? I’ve listened to him call you that for a year.”

Shrugging, you jiggled your head around. “Shug, like sugar, I dunno, you know him, it’s vintage,” you drug out in a deep voice to mimic Yunho’s.

Jongho eyed you curiously, how you fidgeted with your bag, how you glanced around like you were sharing a secret. “Okay,” he said softly with the smallest nod, gesturing toward the stairwell, “After you, y/n.”

“And after these are filed, we have to get those into his mailbox, and then Seonghwa has to sign these for you, I’ll get Wooyoung to sign these for me, and then we’re set,” Hongjoong flashed a dazzling smile your way, buckling your knees. He oozed charisma. He smelled of something musky and dark, something you yearned to taste on his smooth skin adorned with silver jewelry hanging off of him.

Taking the folder from his nimble fingers he wore rings on, you smirked. “And then we have to sit through that meeting.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes and leaned forward on the counter, dipping his shoulder toward you to nudge you. “Did you get a look at Mr. Song? I don't know whether or not to expect anything good from this.”

Inching closer to him, you narrowed your eyes. “You think we’re all fired? Forever?”

Matching your energy, a wickedness flashed in his eyes. “We’re gonna have to work the corners, he’ll rip everything away from us.”

“In that suit, with that attitude, he will,” you said, and he laughed.

He tapped you with a fist, sliding over more papers across the counter before reaching for two coffee cups. “We’re gonna be fine,” he mumbled, shaking his head as his smile softened, “I have an in.” Wiggling his brows, he flashed you a wink.

Gulping, keeping the heat that longed to rise to your cheeks at bay, you tilted your head. “Of course you do, Joong, I expected nothing less.”

He laughed again, filling up the cups in front of him. “It’s gonna be good, I was just messing with you.” Raising his gaze, intense and disarming, he winked again. “Hope you’ve got a dress that drips off of you like those pants, y/n.”

Jaw popping open, blinking entirely flustered, you took the coffee cup he held out for you as he passed by, and didn’t say much else aside from, “I-I do,” and you watched him strut away wearing that goddamn smirk. I do?

You thought to yourself, tearing through your closet in your brain. Dresses you owned, sure, but nothing compared to what you wore today– bland, grey, itchy fabric. A dress? You were going to need a dress? After today's meeting?

“Shit,” you whispered, collecting yourself, bounding for your boss’s office.

For hours you worked beside Seonghwa, Mr. Park, a tall man with broad yet slender shoulders and clean cut black hair pushed backward off of his forehead. In a sleek black suit, his jacket hanging on the back of his door, he wore the top two buttons of his shirt undone, giving you a peek of the chain that hung beneath the collar. Utterly stunning, but too old for you, you adored watching him subdue clients that sat in the chairs in front of his desk, both women and men falling under his spell, dazed by his beauty.

He treated you fairly, like anyone else in the office. Though you were his assistant, and you answered to his commands, you were his equal in a sense, and you felt nothing but comfortable in his presence. 

Wooyoung on the other hand, Hongjoong's boss, he’s one to watch out for. Handsy after a glass of whiskey, married for what seems like a billion years, his wandering eyes have caught you in quiet hallways on the way back from the restroom more than once.

“Tell me, y/n,” Seonghwa sang from his chair, sitting back against the leather, tapping his hundred dollar pen on his desk, “What keeps you at this company?”

You puttered about his office, straightening books, organizing filing cabinets. Glancing at him over your shoulder, his gaze locked in on yours, curious, you hummed and brushed your hands against your pants. Itchy fabric.

“Pay is good,” you said, and he let out a loose laugh. Stepping toward his desk, you leaned over the back of one of the two chairs facing him. Eyes drawing over the nameplate in front of him, you smiled. “The people are fun.”

Seonghwa lowered his brows. “Are they?”

“Why do you ask?” Twisting your fingers together, you copied his face.

He sucked in a breath and let out a guttural sigh, surprising you. Standing to his feet, you stood up straight as well. “I’ve been thinking some thoughts.”

“As one does,” you joked, watching him pace along the back part of his office, staring out the floor length windows.

Turning to you, he sat down on the edge of a cabinet and flicked the pen between his fingers. “You don’t think some of them are too egotistical?” Pressing your hands to the front of your hips, your lips parted with a thought you weren’t sure you should say. Seonghwa noticed, dropping his chin. “You can tell me. Your secret is safe with me, they always are.”

Wooyoung popped into your head. The nights spent at company parties watching Hongjoong act like Mr. Big Dick popped in right next to him. Passing by Mr. Song on the first floor, the way he looked at you, looked down at you, popped next to him.

Seonghwa’s lips curled into a smile. “I can see it,” he sang, pointing at you with his pen, “You’re thinking it.”

“I am,” you whispered, scrunching your face up. “Am I going to get fired?”

He chuckled and walked around his desk, pushing off of the cabinet with his foot. “I’d never fire you, you’re much too good at what you do, and you don’t act like these… assholes.”

Your gasp made him snicker. “Mr. Park,” you teased.

“Please,” he shot you a look, “What do I say about that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest and lowered your chin. “Mr. Park, what do I say about that?”

Rolling his eyes, he walked by you to the other side of his office. In a silly voice, he mocked, “It’s not professional.”

“It’s not,” you said, tone stern, “Now sit down and think about what you’ve done.”

Seonghwa whirled himself around with a smile and listened to you. Plopping back into his chair after his circle around his space, he pulled himself under his desk and placed his elbows on it.

“After today's meeting,” he said quietly like the walls could talk, “We need to talk.”

Nerves struck through you. “Do you know what it’s about?”

Perking a brow, he shook his head.

“Hongjoong said he knows,” you said, and Seonghwa rolled his eyes more dramatically than before.

Splaying backward in his chair, he exclaimed, “Of course he does– see, this is what I mean!” Jolting forward with a wave of his hand, he groaned. “What did he tell you?”

Glancing at your feet, your cheeks flushed. Setting aside how your heart stuttered at the thought of his words, you mumbled, “That I’ll need a dress, or something.”

Seonghwa paused. Resting his hands over the wood of his desk, he cocked his head aside. “You still have a crush on him?”

“Seonghwa!” Heat blasted through your cheeks, the hot and cold too much to handle.

Your boss smiled. “Just checking. Is that why you won’t agree with me, that they’re assholes?”

Admitting it made it true, and you didn’t want it to be true. 

Under his gaze, Hongjoong’s, you’ve never felt more valuable, like the work you did here mattered, like the punishing of yourself daily while you readied yourself in the morning was worth something. One day you’d be the girl climbing into the back of the car with him. One day he’d place his hand on the small of your back instead, he’d waltz you around hotel lobby’s, through ballrooms, he’d introduce you to men with big names you can’t pronounce…

“Y/n,” Seonghwa cooed.

You blinked. “Sorry, I just…”

He drug his tongue over his teeth, taking a deep breath. “What have I told you before?”

Your fingers curled under the vest you wore. Dropping your eyes to his desk, you muttered, “That good guys don’t work here.”

Seonghwa followed your eyes and dropped his to the desk. Tapping his pen a few times, he clicked his tongue and said, “Why don’t you break until we have to go sit in that room full of testosterone?”

Perking up a bit, you breathed, “Really?”

He huffed a laugh, gesturing to your purse hanging up on the wall. “Please. Go get a drink before we have to subject ourselves to nonsense.”

Taking yourself across his office, you slung your bag over your shoulder and rifled around in it for your cell phone. Giving him a crazy look, you said, “No drinking on the clock, it’s-”

“Unprofessional,” he said at the same time as you, bobbing his head. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

you: And then he said, do i own a dress that drips off of me like the pants i’m wearing

sannie: bro wants you, what the hell

yun: Gross.. objectifying you per usual, i’m not surprised in the slightest

you: not objectifying, thats wooyoung, hongjoong has never put his hands on me

sannie: but you want him toooooooooooooo

you: I do, god, he’s so smiley today too……….

yun: Are we still going to Dante’s or what..

you: Yes and Jongho is coming, he just doesn’t know it yet

sannie: FUCK YES

sannie: tonight we get him to sing whitney houston

you: ANNNND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

sannie: EEEE-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII WILL ALLLLWAYS

you: LOOOOVE YOUUUUUU-WHOOOOOOOO

yun: Classic

“Typing a mile a minute,” his voice struck your skin like he doused you like ice cold water, “What’s so funny?” A flick of a lighter. A sharp inhale and long exhale. Cigarette smoke washed over you where you sat on the concrete bench of the corner park across the street from the company.

Dropping your phone face down in your lap, you folded your arms over yourself and shot him a look. “None-ya.”

Hongjoong grinned, sitting on the edge of the bench beside you. “Oh really,” he teased with a wiggle of his brow. “Texting your little boyfriend?”

Now ice cold water did wash over you. Sitting up a little straighter, you shook your head in a convincing way that hid the fact that you were desperate for him to know that you were very much single. “Not my boyfriend,” you moaned, “My friends.” Putting emphasis on the S, you reached for his cigarette.

Giving it up, he eyed your lips as they wrapped around the tip. “Insane.”

Blowing out the smoke, handing it back over to him, you crunched your brows in question.

He rolled the cigarette between his fingers and gave you half of a shrug. “That you’re single, that’s all.”

You wanted to squirm with how his eyes fell over you. You wanted to wriggle around, get a little friction between your legs by the seam of your pants, and then straddle him and get a public indecency charge. It sucked he could read it all over your body.

With a smirk, he took a drag of his smoke and met your eyes. “You got a dress or what?”

“I do,” you said.

You don’t, but you will.

“Good,” he crooned, sucking down another hit of his cigarette. “You ever been to a company gala before?”

Company gala. A Gala. Excitement bubbled within you. Asking you if you had a dress, asking you if you’ve ever attended a company gala…

“We started around the same time, Joong, do you think I ever have?” Teasing him, you snatched the cigarette from him and finished it, jabbing it into the concrete of the bench before flicking it into a nearby garbage can. “You’ve been to plenty, Mr. Mayor, okay?”

He laughed. Apparently you were funny today.

Crossing his legs, bouncing his foot, he shook his head as his smile grew. “I just know how to work them, sweetheart,” he crooned, and your insides did a cartwheel, “You could too if you’d just give it up.”

Your phone vibrated on your lap. Picking it up, you opened the message and smiled at it. “Give it up?” you asked, half paying attention. Typing back to Yunho, you giggled to yourself and pressed send.

Hongjoong, quicker than you, reached for your phone and pulled it from your hands before you had the chance to lock it.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, scooting toward him, scrambling for it, “Give that back.” Fighting you off with his elbow in your gut, he skimmed the message and laughed. This time instead of him laughing with you, you could feel it in your gut, he laughed at you.

“What the hell is a Shoog,” he curled his lip up, reading the text aloud. “Shoog, I don’t know about you but that song is stuck in my head, we can get Jongho to sing that one later instead, that’d be really funny.”

“It’s Shug,” you huffed, pushing at him, trying to reach for the cell he gripped, “It means sugar.”

Leaning into you, almost onto your chest entirely, his smile rested in a way you’ve never seen. Devious, but a little enticing. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”

“He’s not,” you almost shouted, catching your phone as he tossed it into your lap. Hongjoong used his body weight to rock onto his feet, brushing off his thighs from the concrete. “You have a problem if he is?”

Pursing his lips, cinching his brow, he scoffed. “The fuck you take me for, sweetheart? I don’t care who’s in your pants and who’s not.” Pointing at your phone, he jerked his head. “Loverboy has a nicer suit than me?”

Exclaiming aloud, shock evident on your face, you pressed your fingers between your brows. “What is going on?” Dropping your hands, you shot him a glare, one he returned with a sultry smirk. “Joong, what are you getting at here?”

He straightened his suit jacket, cocking his chin. “Nothing,” he said simply, nodding toward the building across the street. “I’ll see you inside. Meetings in ten.”

Without a response from you he left, strutting across the street and over the steps into the lobby. Sighing roughly, letting the sound regulate your nervous system from whatever that was, you picked up your phone.

yun: Shug I don’t know about you but that song is STUCK in my head.. We can get Jongho to sing that one later instead.. That’d be really funny..

A smile graced your lips.

you: I'd love that, I have been singing it all day… About to go into the meeting… wish me luck

yun: The store is dead.. You should skip it and come hang out with me..

yun: Kidding, good luck corporate candy, don’t let them eat you..

Men flooded the room. Whenever the company filed into the conference like this, bodies upon bodies, the realization that with more than one company across the country that there were more men just like this to crowd rooms…

The women were far and few between, in tight black dresses and high heels, with their hair on their heads like crowns. Make up done to the nines, their jewelry glittering underneath the harsh overhead lighting, they clung to their supervisors, the men they assisted, some of them arm in arm, waltzing through the conference room doors with their sharp jaws and pointed noses turned up.

You waddled beside Seonghwa, like a little duck, following the man that stood six foot tall around the room, smiling politely as he shook hands and introduced you to men who spared you a glance for no more than three seconds. After each round Seonghwa leaned down to murmur in your ear, “Assholes.”

He says your name properly, he doesn’t introduce you as his assistant, he introduces you as his colleague, his second, his right hand, a partner in crime of sorts, though most of the men didn’t find that one too funny. But, it made you laugh. And, to Seonghwa, that’s what he cared about.

He prefaced this meeting letting you know that he knows how it feels to be a little fish in a corporate ocean, let alone be a woman in a predominantly male field, to which he told you he doesn’t know, but he takes the time to understand. He had your back, he always has and he always will, which is why he favored your opinion on where to sit.

There were open seats beside higher ups visiting for the day, the ones that weren’t onstage. Some were beside the charismatic mouths that most tried to steal the attention of, beside Wooyoung and Hongjoong who laughed louder than all the mouths you could try to count. 

Jongho sat toward the back, his chin tipped down, focused on his phone. On his own, his keeper elsewhere, he pressed his phone to his ear and babbled a mile a minute, letting his eyes scan the crowd. Meeting yours, he lit up, and his hand shot in the air. Giving him a meek wave, keeping your cool in front of your office's CEO that Seonghwa discussed matters with, you waited for him to finish, and then just as Mister Boss turned his back, you pointed at Jongho.

“Seats,” you offered.

Seonghwa gave you his soft smile, lifting his eyes to Jongho flinging his arm about. A gentle laugh pushed through his lips. “Sure.”

He would’ve sprawled across the chairs next to him if you didn’t hightail it over there. Weaving through men in suits, some side eyeing you but shaking Seonghwa’s hand, your smile grew as you got closer to Jongho.

“No, I gotta go,” he said into his phone, standing up to throw an arm around your back like the two of you didn’t bump into one another that morning, “I gotta go! San, she’s here, let me go.”

Gasping, you tore his phone out of his hand and pressed it to your ear. “Saaannie,” you sang, heart warming at the giggle that answered you, “Why are you not wooorking?”

Seonghwa shook Jongho's hand and slipped behind you into the seats, leaving one open in the middle for you. He greeted the man on the other side of him and fell into conversation.

San’s warm voice melted through the phone, “I’m on my way to go see Yuuunho.”

“Lucky, we just got into our meeting,” you huffed, plopping down next to Jongho who slung an arm around the back of your chair. “It’s full of men. Old men.” Seonghwa whipped his head of black hair around to give you a look. “Sorry,” you smiled, and laughed as his lip curled.

“Seonghwa’s there?” San sighed, “He’s so hot- Love your jacket! …No, you! …No, you!”

Crossing your legs, you sat backward against the seat cushion and Jongho’s arm. Sharing a glance with him, you muttered, “He’s making friends again.”

Jongho rolled his eyes, flicking his bangs from his forehead. “When is he not?”

You moved the phone between your ears, Jongho leaning in to have a listen. “It’s a store on Broadway… Broadway and 12th… By Ribalta… The Italian place! You’ve never been? …You have to go!”

“San,” Jongho said.

The men took their place onstage, squabbling with one another about who gets to sit where and who will speak first. Mr. Song, Mingi, the man who looked down on you this morning, with his chin held high he waltzed about the stage, like a celebrity, waving to those who were worthy.

“It’s really good, I swear… Ugh, I know, it’s like sometimes they try too hard to be authentic, trust me, babe, this one is worth it…”

“San,” you said.

Seonghwa and the man beside him focused forward as the room began to fall quiet.

“...It’s right next to it… The store… Yeah, but they’re limited to what they carry, so they might not have it in season right now–”

You and Jongho both sneered, “San!” 

“What!” 

“We have to go,” you breathed, wanting to laugh, but the pressure of the men above you literally and physically ate you alive. Putting the phone back in Jongho’s possession, you sucked in a breath and settled in your seat. 

Jongho whispered into his phone, “Yes, yes, I’ll see you later… Dante’s? No, she didn’t tell me, but I’ll be there… Okay, okay… I will not sleepover… I don’t care what happened last time, I’m not– Goodbye!”

Mingi tapped on the mic connected to the podium, stepping up with a grin and thunderous applause. Your hands stayed folded on your lap. As did Jongho’s. As did Seonghwa’s.

You glanced at Jongho with a perked brow. “Last time?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “Let it go.”

“You owe me for this morning,” you narrowed your eyes, and he copied you. “No, no, tell me, Mr. Misogyny.”

“Not Mr. Misogyny, fine,” he groaned, shifting in his seat to face you a bit more. The applause died down as he leaned into you, whispering, “The last time we went to Dante’s and I got shit faced, San was supposed to take me home.”

Furrowing your brow, not listening to Mingi’s opening greeting, you whispered, “Did he not take you home?”

Jongho’s eyes widened. “Oh, he took me home. And he stayed.”

Gasping internally, your smile spreading over your cheeks, you gripped his knee, digging your nails into his slacks. “Gay.”

He shot you a glare. “Bi.”

Rolling your eyes, you whispered, “San is gay, you are a typical bisexual New Yorker, you’re not special, we’re all bi here.”

He took a hand to his chest, clutching nonexistent pearls. “Ouch?”

Glancing to his hand that screamed gay, you popped your brows. “Mr. Misogyny.”

He threw his other hand toward you, whacking your arm. “Shut up!”

“Shut up, you shut-”

“Children,” Seonghwa scolded with a smile, breathing through a laugh at how you and Jongho froze to look at him, arms tangled, faces scrunched up.

Pulling yourselves into your own seats like toddlers, you set your focus forward and pursed your lips. Mr. Song went on and on about the success of his company, how proud he is of how his success has spread nationwide, that he’s grateful to have such strong men like himself working beneath him, for him. You could hear how Seonghwa’s eyes rolled. You couldn’t wait to tell Yunho all of this.

Scanning the room, the lot of bald men and those with receding hairlines eating up every word though it all came out extremely backhanded, your eyes land on Hongjoong, snickering with Wooyoung, the two acting as though Mingi spoke directly to them.

Hongjoong sat at the end of the row, on the section opposite of yours. His legs were crossed, his slacks rising above his ankle to flash his designer socks. He wore no suit jacket, just his button down, a statement to the men around him, that he didn’t need to act or present himself like they did, that he was better than them. He sat here with ease, a relaxed posture, both him and Wooyoung simply waiting for the words to be said, and once they were, he sat forward with a gust of excitement, celebrating with the rest of them. But, then he turned over his shoulder, and his eyes landed on you like he’d kept tabs on where you were sitting.

Mingi announced, “That’s why we’ll be throwing a Harmony Foundation Gala, for all of our branches, right here in Manhattan. You’re all invited. Open bars, the finest catering, exquisite music, hours upon hours of not working,” he added coyly, and the room lost their minds, “And you will all receive a plus one.”

Seonghwa muttered to the man beside him, not surprised in the slightest that something of the sort would occur. Neither of them seemed to be excited, unlike the rest of the men who started a riot, shouting across the room to one another, elbowing each other in the guts with grins on their faces.

Jongho sighed heavily. “Well, this should be fun.”

“It should,” you mumbled, staring back at Hongjoong who shot you a wink. “This is why I need a dress.”

“Huh?” he asked, resting an elbow on your shoulder, following your eyeline to Hongjoong who turned away once he’d been caught. Jongho groaned, “Oh no.”

“He told me I need a dress,” you almost whispered. “I think he’s gonna ask me to the gala.”

Jongho sucked in a breath, one he didn’t seem to release. Glancing between you and the back of Hongjong's head, he stuttered, “Uh, really? How do you know? We just found out.”

“He knew about it,” you shook your head, “He fucking knew about it.”

Seonghwa tapped you with the back of his hand. “You were right.”

“I was,” you whispered. “He was.” Your belly bubbled with excitement, your heart beating three times faster than normal. You needed a dress, a good one, a gorgeous one. You had to schedule a hair appointment, a nail appointment, a facial, or something, whatever else it is that these other girls did before these kinds of parties, a wax, a bikini wax, Brazilian wax! And your eyebrows, you needed those done too, and maybe your face, just in case, you haven’t checked out those details in a while–

“New shoes,” you uttered out loud, and Jongho laughed.

Snapping your neck to look at him, he nearly leapt backward. “Christ,” he gasped, his hand reaching up for those non-gay pearls once again, “What just happened?”

You stood up abruptly, grasping the bottom of your vest. “I have so much to do.”

Seonghwa hooked a finger in the back of your vest by the collar of your shirt and pulled you back down. “He’s not done, you can buy your dress later.”

“And then he turned around,” you shouted over the music, hands splaying across the wooden table littered with empty drinks. San leaned forward, his broad chest bumping the table, rattling the glasses. Jongho sat beside him sucking on a straw making an awful sound. Yunho sat back in his chair with his arms folded over his chest, his face upturned. “And he looked at me.”

San threw himself backward with a gasp, his biceps rippling under the short sleeves of the tight black t-shirt. “No he did not,” he squawked, slapping a hand to Jongho’s shoulder, making the straw pop out of his mouth and his eyebrows skyrocket.

“He did,” he teased, rolling his eyes, setting the cup down on the table with a clang. Putting his elbows on the wood, he put his chin in his hands and eyed Yunho. “What do you make of all this?”

Kicking his foot around, the one crossed over his knee, he shrugged. “I think he’s a dick.” He held a finger up toward you just as a whine almost slipped out of you. Giving you a look from behind grey thin rimmed glasses, he said, “You deserve better, I don’t know why you’re chasing him.”

San, rubbing the back of his neck, slinging an arm around Jongho’s chair, muttered, “Mr. Big Dick…”

Yunho groaned, “Oh, great.” Jongho scoffed, nudging San as Yunho sat forward for his empty cup and knocked back the little bit at the bottom, and a few ice chips. Pushing them around with his tongue, he shook his head and leaned into you. “You can do better, Shug.”

Jongho kicked your leg under the table.

“Ugh,” groaning aloud, you shot a hand toward San, “You get it, don’t you?”

He picked the cherry out of his glass and popped it between his teeth. “I do, trust me, he’s packin’, but…” His voice trailed off, his gaze dragging over to Yunho.

Looking at him, then looking back at San, you swatted two hands at Yunho and groaned again. “But, what!”

“Nothing,” he shouted, twisting his lips into a smile. “We need another round, Jongho’s not drunk enough.” Yunho threw a hand in the air to call over the waitress who has served you more than once. 

Jongho tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. “Why me? Why me.”

San slung himself around the boy in a hoodie much too heavy for the summer heat. “Because, pretty boy, we like to hear you sing.”

“I can’t sing.” About half the bar stopped to glare at him, even the waitress who took Yunho’s order.

Grabbing his cheeks, San squished them and brought his lips dangerously close. “So humble, so cute.”

“Enough,” Jongho shrugged him off, poking a finger into his bicep to push him away with a hysterical glare. 

San’s eyes dropped to the hoodie. “That’s coming off in an hour.”

Sliding your hand across the table, you raised a pinky for him to hook with his. “I’ll take that bet.”

Exchanging wicked grins, San shook your hand around. “Loser has to let the winner take him home.” Jongho sighed, then smiled up at the waitress who clicked her pen.

“Bet,” you whispered with a scrunch of your nose.

“Thanks so much,” Yunho smized, the girl waltzing away with a pep in her step. Facing the table, he pushed his hair back off of his forehead and released a breath. “You guys are nuts.” Pouting, you propped an elbow on his bare shoulder exposed by the cut off tee he wore. He set his jaw in place, narrowed his eyes, and took his time looking at you, before he flickered his eyes over to San, then Jongho. “I give it a half hour.”

San, cracking a laugh, grabbed onto Jongho once again and shook him around, the two getting into a minor fistfight as San tried to take the hoodie off of him now.

Giggling, letting your bodyweight tip more onto Yunho, you caught his eye and gave him a small smile. Nodding toward where the waitress plugged in your order, you mumbled, “She was cute.”

He didn’t have to look at who you were talking about to know. Locked in on you, he smirked. “She’s taken.”

“How do you know that? You asked her already, didn’t you?”

He let out a laugh, shaking his head. Breaking his gaze from yours, he nodded toward the corner of the bar where a scrawny boy with blonde hair to his shoulders sat, one too pretty to even be a boy, so maybe he wasn’t. Dressed in a large white t-shirt and jeans way too big for his hips, he stared out the window with wide brown eyes as he guzzled his drink. Oblivious, almost, until the waitress popped in front of him and his cheeks broke out with the widest smile and most perfect teeth.

“Cute,” you whispered, and Yunho looked at you. You watched as the boy took the girl's hands and pulled her closer, his eyes full of galaxies as he listened to her speak. He asked her a question and she blushed, glancing over her shoulder with a laugh as if to see if anyone else had heard him. “Really cute. They look young.”

Yunho considered it, tilting his head. “Not much younger than us.”

You met his eyes. “You aren’t even looking at them.”

“I don’t have to,” he said quietly. Not even the way Jongho laughed at San could break his gaze. “Do you really like Hongjoong?” He wore a singular necklace today, it hung over the old band shirt he wore, shaped like a star, or some sort of sun. Reaching for it, you pulled your lips to the side and messed with the points hanging on the chain.

“I think I do,” you said.

“You think you do?”

Looking at him, you said, “I do.”

He flashed you a lazy smile. “You sure?” Tossing his necklace at his chest, ignoring how it bounced off, you shoved away from him with a huff. He twisted in his chair, following you, leaning into you instead. “No, no, I’m just asking. Are you sure?” One of his elbows rested on the back of his chair, the other on the edge of the table. He caged you in, his size incredible.

Folding your arms around yourself, now wearing a cropped tank and ripped jeans, you blinked up at him and shrugged. “I think so.”

“Well,” he breathed through a laugh, “As long as you think so.”

“Stop,” you whined, nudging him.

“No, I get it,” he nodded, tipping his chin up, “Mr. Big Dick, I’d like him too, he’s a hot shot.”

“You’re dumb,” you mumbled, facing the table, turning a shoulder toward him. He took that as an invitation to lean in and prop his elbow on it. “Get off’a me-”

“Shug,” he said just above a whisper, stopping you from pushing him away. He had your arm in his grip, gentle, but strong. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, you’ve told us so much about him, Jongho doesn’t like him, he doesn’t seem like a good guy, that’s all.”

“What do you know?” Shrugging again, he let you go, but then grabbed your ankle with his feet and trapped it. Glaring at him, he smiled back.

“I know you,” he said, “And I know that you’d rather share a cigarette with a stranger and then buy a beer for a bum on the street, clink your glasses together and talk about the ways of the world, rather than become a CEO’s wife.” Averting your gaze to his chest, his necklace, you listened to him. “You think he’d wanna come here and see how long it takes for Jongho to strip?”

“Hey,” Jongho whined, giving you both a mere glance before San took his attention back.

“You think he’d wanna sit here and try every drink on the menu? Will he tip our waitress too much ‘cause he knows what it's like to struggle? Will he think it's funny that you have to jump once on the floorboard by the lightswitch in your kitchen otherwise the light won’t turn on?”

Blinking up at him, you muttered, “Why the lesson?”

He shrugged, glancing around the bar before he said, “I just don’t want you to forget who you are. I’ve known you for six years, Shug. This crush is growing, I don’t want you to lose yourself in the process. If you wanna sleep with him, sleep with him,” you both laughed, “Just don’t get attached ‘cause he doesn’t seem like the guy to hold onto a girl.”

You twisted around to face him again, pulling your leg free from his hold, though now your knees were nestled between his. Closing them in, capturing you, he flashed you a smile.

Perking a brow, you glanced behind him, though you could barely see over his shoulders. “And you should sleep with the waitress.”

Yunho turned around briefly, the sight of the waitress and the blonde boy making eyes at each other making him hum his disapproval. “Think that little guy does just fine,” he said, turning back toward you. 

Comfortably letting life occur around you, you and Yunho shared a smile, one that faded as your eyes danced over the other's face. Six years you’ve shared, one of the first friends you made after your move to Manhattan, the cool guy in the record store you stumbled into looking for new wall decor. 

San was a bonus, his roommate, a packaged deal those two. You guys clicked in an instant, sharing interests, music taste, a love for the city and all that it offered. By your third visit into the store he was inviting you out for drinks that weekend. Surprised when you asked San to join, he stuttered a few times, but agreed, mumbling something about you all getting to know one another better. Six years and a Jongho later, here you were.

Pulling your eyes off of him, you notice that the next round of drinks had been dropped off and that San and Jongho were halfway done theirs, staring at you two. Sucking in a breath, you swiveled around in your chair, and Yunho did the same, ignoring how the boys ping ponged their stare between either of you.

“What?” you snapped, reaching for your drink. Yunho pinched his brow and sipped his beer. San seemed to say something to him telepathically, but everyone refused to acknowledge it.

“Anyways,” Yunho cleared his throat, cocking his chin at Jongho and his hoodie, “Off, Choi.”

With one arm wrapped around your shoulders, Yunho kicked his feet in front of him with each step, laughing while he sang aloud and you kicked your feet with him. Smiles wide, drunken laughter bouncing off of the hot concrete into the night sky, San swaggered a few steps in front of you with Jongho under his arm. 

Tossing a hand in the air, swaying into your side, throwing you off balance, Yunho sang, “I’ll stop the world-”

“And melt with you!” Jongho slurred, trying to escape San’s hold, but if he did he’d stumble over his own feet and almost fall on his face like he did five minutes ago. 

“You’ve seen the difference and it’s getting better all the time,” San’s voice was muffled, Jongho grabbed him as soon as his mouth opened and tried to kiss him.

Yunho, throwing his head back with a laugh that echoed down Bleeker Street, he squeezed you into him and sang, “There’s nothing you and I won’t do!” Hitting you with a grin, he groaned. “It’s so good, it’s so good.”

Bumping his hip with yours as the four of you came to a stop at the corner of 6th Avenue, your tipsy smile made him laugh. “This’ll be your song for the entire next week.”

Dipping down, his nose almost touched yours. “Until-”

“Something makes me feel better than this,” you said at the same time as him, widening your eyes.

Leaning into his hold, letting him balance you, you released a ragged sigh. “I needed this,” you yawned, snaking an arm around his waist for stability. Your several drinks had caught up to you, you needed your sweatpants and your bed. “I needed you.”

He smiled, meeting your gaze, his eyes heavy from the liquor, deeper than ever. “You did?”

Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, your fingers brushing against his bare side, you smiled something lazy and giggled. Then, you giggled again as Jongho almost tripped up the curb across the street. “I did,” you said with a sure nod, following close behind the boys heading up Bleeker.

Yunho snapped his head up and pressed his lips together, trying to hide his smile.

Nudging him, you asked, “What?”

He shook his head, popping out his bottom lip. “Nothing.”

Your laugh projected down the street, “What!?”

“Nothing!” 

Digging a finger up into his armpit he clamped down with a cackle, you dug your finger into his sides, in the cut outs of his shirt, bellowing with cries of success as he wriggled around and bent in half. “Tell me! Tell me!” San and Jongho were several steps ahead now, San raking his fingers through Jongho’s hair where his head sat on his shoulder.

Yunho lifted a knee, his whines and rampant giggles a white flag, and he tried to push you off of him. Clamping yourself to his front, your chests pressed together, both hands in the cut outs of his shirt, you had him. His weakness.

“C’mon,” you teased, grabbing him, messing with him, tickling him, all too funny really. “Tell me, tell me, tell me–”

He snapped straight up and grabbed onto your shoulders, pulling you into him as his face wiped clean. “Christ,” he muttered, spinning to the side. His arms slid around your back, holding you tight. Fear shooting through you, you grabbed onto his biceps and whipped your head around, searching for the source of his worry. Behind you, a door to a restaurant had swung open, one that would’ve hit you if Yunho didn’t have several inches on you and hadn’t seen the people coming.

“Excuse us,” a familiar voice slurred. Jung Wooyoung.

Which meant there was the possibility that–

“Hey, sweetheart.” Hongjoong.

Shit. Shit.

Heart lodging in your throat, you shoved Yunho away and brushed your hands over your front. In a cropped tee and ripped jeans you couldn’t believe you were running into him right now, while you looked like this, after several drinks. Crooked hair on your head, a necklace that had spun around the wrong way, the makeup you had put on after work that was now smeared, your lipstick worn in the middle. Yunho stumbled back a step, you didn’t have much power to move him, but your shove threw him off. Clamping his hands to his stomach, he tangled his brows and glared at you.

“Oh,” Hongjoong crooned, looking at Yunho before he smirked at you, “Sorry, I mean, Shug.” He wore what he had on in the office today, black slacks and his white button down that now had more buttons undone. Wherever his suit jacket had gone, you didn’t want to know. The bare skin of his chest made your mouth water.

A woman stepped out of the restaurant in tall heels and a short dress, complaining about the service, or the hostess, or the bathrooms, you couldn’t make much out over the heat of Hongjoong's stare. She tucked herself into Wooyoung's arm that he held out for her, a cigarette now hanging from his lips, one she reached around in his front pocket for a lighter to light it for him. She was handsy, grabbing something else with a smile before she fished the lighter out. Looking up at them, Wooyoung perked a brow, staring at you, catching you watching them.

“What’d you call her?” Yunho asked Hongjoong, cocking his head aside.

That wicked fucking smile. “Shug,” fell from his lips as smooth as the liquor you’re certain they serve inside this five star joint, “That a problem?”

Yunho narrowed his eyes. “What’s your problem?”

By the time you ripped your eyes off of Wooyoung and his girl you had tuned back into what you stood in the middle of. 

“My problem?” Hongjoong laughed, “I don’t have a problem, Stilts.”

Yunho scoffed, making the face he made before his anger overcame him. It never usually happened this fast. This was weird.

Yunho took a step toward him, toward you. “Walk away, Shrimp.”

Holding up a hand, pressing it to his chest, you screwed your brows up and gave them both a look. “Stilts, Shrimp… Grow up, what fucking year is it?”

Hongjoong, surprised, snickered, “What a mouth, Shug!”

“Shut up,” Yunho lunged, but you held him back. 

“C’mon,” Hongjoong sized, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you. “You like that old-timey shit don’t you? Play along, Doll, we could have some fun, go to the hop and shake a leg before we have a shag–” Yunho moved you aside in a blink, lunging for Hongjoong, pushing at his chest with both hands, sending him backward a few steps. “Walk away.”

“Watch yourself,” Wooyoung said, voice steady. He had his phone in his hand already dialed to 911. All he had to do was push the button.

Shoving yourself through the middle of the boys, you swatted at his wrist. “Okay, too far.”

He winked at you, puffing on his cigarette. “He taking you home?” he asked, nodding at Yunho.

Giving his girl a look, she didn’t seem to care. Muttering, “Oh my god,” you turned around and grabbed onto Yunho’s arm, tugging him away from Hongjoong. “Let it go, let’s just leave.” Glancing over your shoulder, you rolled your eyes at Hongjoong who still challenged Yunho. “Leave.”

His eyes glazed over to you, up and down your body, his tongue dragging over the flash of his white teeth. “Not your boyfriend,” he nodded, his eyes fluttering closed for all of two seconds, “Right. See you on Monday, y/n.” The three skipped across the street in the opposite direction. Hongjoong didn’t give you another look, but Wooyoung did, his smirk evident.

Shivering in the summer heat, his eyes making your skin crawl, you wrapped your arms around yourself and started down the sidewalk, following Jongho and San who were long gone.

“Hey,” Yunho breathed, hurrying after you, your pace quick. He reached for your shoulder, but you shrugged him off. “Hey,” he said, louder, “You mad at me?”

Bounding over a cross street, flicking your head in both directions, you didn’t bother to look at him. “No,” you spat, then shook your head, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

You sped up, your feet powered by your stomach that turned in cartwheels, and not the good kind. “I don’t know, Yunho.”

He grabbed onto your shoulder again, and this time you reached a hand up to pull him off, spinning on your heels to face him. Distraught, his face screwed up, he shook his head and tossed his hands out at his sides. “What’d I do?”

You let out one laugh. “Are you kidding me?” Barely moving, all he did was shake his head about. “Oh my god,” you groaned, twisting around to continue your race home.

“No,” he huffed, grabbing onto you to spin you back around, “What’d I do?”

For the last time, you swatted him away. “You really had to put your hands on him?” Yunho rolled his eyes and threw his head back. “I get you don’t like him, but we just talked about this, I do.”

“Even after what he said,” Yunho grumbled, eyeing the buildings on the street behind you, “Sure, you still like him.”

“He was kidding,” you said matter-of-factly, holding up a hand.

“Sure he was,” he said, raising both of his brows, “His boss was too, right? Kidding just like he was at the holiday party this past Christmas when he grabbed your ass?”

“He was drunk, he was–”

Yunho threw his hands up, his voice echoing down the street, “You’re making shit excuses for them, Shug!”

“It’s not excuses, it’s–”

“It’s what,” he slouched, tucking his hands behind his back, knitting his brows together over his eyes, “Tell me what it is. These guys taking advantage of you, for what? You tell Mr. Park they do all this? Speak to you like this? Put their hands on you? What would he say? What would he do?” He’d have them all fired. Or, he’d try.

He even asked you earlier today, if you thought they were all assholes, if you had an issue with them, as if he knew everything already and had been waiting for you to admit it. Even if he tried to help you, the higher ups wouldn’t do a thing. Shrinking into yourself, pulling fistfuls of denim into your hands, you stared at the concrete under your boots. 

Gorgeous he was. Hongjoong. Even when filthy words came out of his mouth, you wanted nothing more than for him to follow through. Everything he had given you all day, the closest you’ve come to him giving you the attention you’ve always wanted from him, he seemed to confirm it all in the filthy words he just said to you. Go to the hop and shake a leg before you have a shag. Cringe worthy, entirely. You wanted to laugh and groan and never hear them again, but what if they were true?

The company gala announced at the meeting was a month away. All of his cohort nagging of get a dress, do you have a dress, and his hints of asking you if you’ve ever been to a gala, or if you had a boyfriend. Even the way he looked at you after the announcement…

He was going to ask you. There was no way in hell that he was not asking you. But with how Yunho just acted like he had to protect you from him, it could’ve screwed everything up.

Lifting your chin, meeting his gaze, you gulped and shook your head. “Let it go,” you mumbled, and his posture admitted defeat. Though it hurt your heart, you said, “I like him, and I want to go to this gala with him. I know, I see it, I hear it, but I just… Maybe I need actual rejection to get over him, I don’t know, but I… I like him. Let me do this.”

Yunho clenched his jaw. Averting his eyes, he shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. Starting down the street, Yunho kept in time with your steps. After a minute or two of quiet, you looked up at him and asked, “You staying over?”

He didn’t smile, but he looked as if he wanted to. “Course.”

Rejection came sooner than expected. Standing at the coffee counter with two cups in your hands, at a bright nine thirty seven in the morning, you watched Hongjoong push a blonde against the wall down a hallway. Curling a finger beneath her chin, tipping her up to look down at her, his lips curled, and they spoke slowly, and she ate it up. Her slow blinks, her pouty lips parting, the lusty nods of her head.

He kissed her. Their hands slipped lower, exploring parts of them they’ve already seemed to touch, like their kiss. One practiced, one rehearsed, for a long time. An extended period of time. The way her hands roamed his back, over the curve of his ass, his hips, his thighs, up the front of his belly and down to his– Nah.

Placing both cups down, you straightened the crisp blouse you had pulled on this morning, one that you thought emphasized your curves like the dress on that blonde, and darted back into Seonghwa’s office, pressing your back to the door after slamming it shut. It hurt. It shouldn’t hurt, you’ve watched him do this with several other girls before, yet your heart had been pierced with something sharp.

Seonghwa sat at his desk, twirling his pen between his fingers. With one leg crossed, he sat backward on the leather, eyeing you curiously. “You do not look happy,” he said. Throat tightening, you shook your head. He uncrossed his legs and sat forward. “You feel okay? I can get through today alone if you need to go home.” You shook your head again, and he laughed to himself. “What happened out there that got you glued to our door?” 

“Nothing,” you squeaked. 

Unconvinced, he smiled. “One of these days you’re going to tell me the truth,” he said, “Or, I’m hiring you a body guard.”

“No,” you sighed, pushing off the door, stepping closer to his desk. “That hasn’t happened since–” Cutting yourself off, his brows skyrocketed.

“Continue,” he gasped, “Since?”

Raising a finger, you calculated your words, and sighed once more. “I’ll tell you later.”

Seonghwa studied you, his soft eyes sharp, analyzing you from tone to body language. “I’ll go get our coffee,” he said, knowing you didn’t want to go back out there, “Then we can discuss. Get comfy.”

“Wait,” you almost shouted as he grasped the armrests of his chair to stand up, “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

Settling back down, he tilted his head. “Apology not needed,” he said gently, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you breathed, shaking your head. “Just… needed a breather.”

Seonghwa asked, “From?”

Four knocks sounded on the door. Sharing a look with your boss, he gave a tentative, “Come in,” and when the door swung open, your heart sank to your knees.

Holding onto two coffee cups, the cups you left behind, Hongjoong, with a grin across his face, stepped inside and held them up. “You left these behind,” he said, breezing past you to pop them on Seonghwa’s desk.

“Thanks,” Seonghwa said through his teeth.

Hongjoong held a hand toward him. “Don’t mention it, please,” he chortled, adjusting the collar of his shirt. There was lipstick on it. Facing you, he cocked his chin up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You good?”

Thinning your lips, unable to look at him for longer than a second, you hummed, “Mhm.”

“Think she might be coming down with something,” he pouted, glancing at Seonghwa, “She was out partying with her boys all weekend.”

Scoffing aloud, jaw falling open, you shot him a glare, one he returned with a curve of his lips. Seonghwa sighed, reaching for his cup of coffee, not entertaining him.

On his way to the door, Hongjoong leaned into you. “Might want to find a date to that gala soon, Shug,” he sneered. “There’s not many left.”

“There’s not many left.”

San threw himself forward into the table, glasses rattling. “No.”

Copying him, eyes widening, you shouted, “Yes!”

“Asshole,” Jongho stated, hands palms up on the table.

Yunho, pressed to the back of his chair beside you, drug his fingers over his face, rubbing his eyes before he uttered a quiet, “Yeah.”

Knocking back the rest of your drink, slamming it to the wood, you threw a hand over the glasses graveyard before you and your friends and shook your head violently. “He’s… a jerk! That’s it. He sucks!” San, Jongho, and Yunho, they shared a glance before they turned toward you slowly. Squeezing your eyes shut, tightening your hand into a fist, you sighed heavily. “I mean it.”

Jongho asked, “Do you?”

“No,” you breathed, slumping over. Opening your eyes, you drug your hands over your cheeks. “I like him. Damn!” You pounded your fist on the table, glasses rattling again. Yunho rolled his eyes. “But, he sucks.”

“We’ve been trying to–”

“Yunho,” you snapped, pointing your eyes toward him, “I know.”

He screwed up his face and held open his arms in a shrug, his oversized t-shirt dripping off of him like water. “I’m just saying. It’s been all this time, and he’s done this to you so many times.”

Sucking in a breath, one big and dramatic, you leaned back in your chair and smoothed your hands over your thighs to grip your knees. “He has,” you mumbled, recounting the numerous times Hongjoong has flaunted a woman in front of you. “I just… I thought this time… He meant it.”

San downed the rest of his drink and popped his brows. “The bar is low.”

Jongho curled his lip. “The bar is in hell.”

Yunho stared at the table. “Satan is using the bar to hang his laundry.”

Groaning aloud, tipping your chin back, you eased the ache between your lungs with another deep breath. 

He meant it. He had to have meant it. You were different from any of the other women he entertained, you were you. Insanely more fun, and interesting, and far from plastic, far from a giggle at every joke kind of girl just because he has money. He had to have meant it, all these insinuations toward the gala, toward taking you, and making sure you were prepared, and had a dress, and a date. You had him. Until…

Snapping your head forward, you twisted in your chair, toward Yunho, who shot you the world's weirdest look. Jongho furrowed his brows and swatted at San’s hand that tried to swipe his half full beer, San who also stared at the two of you, curious. Yunho stared at you, into your eyes, focused, analyzing. An attempt to read your mind, you think.

And then it clicked.

He erupted, hands flying, voice raising. “Oh no,” he shouted, flinging himself around in his chair to face you, “No, no, no! No! I did not do this! This did not happen ‘cause of what I did, Shug, don’t you dare.”

San and Jongho both shouted, “What did you do?”

Gritting your teeth, you whined, then said, “He touched him.”

San gasped. Jongho, slightly alarmed, slightly disgusted, muttered a quiet, “Whaaa–”

Yunho glared at him. “Not like that.”

“Then how?” San asked, successfully grabbing Jongho’s beer, guzzling it down.

Placing your hands flat on the table, you sat up straight and parted your lips, though Yunho begged you not to. “Friday night, when we all left, you two made it back to your apartment first, you left us behind, and we just so happened to run into Hongjoong.”

“And Wooyoung, and his wife,” Yunho added, his tone flat and unamused.

“Not important,” you brushed off.

Yunho’s eyes shot open wide. “Yes important, he would’ve abducted you if I wasn’t there.”

“Hongjoong or Wooyoung?” Jongho asked.

Yunho said, “Wooyoung.”

San elbowed Jongho. “She wants Hongjoong to abduct her.”

“I do not want him to abduct me,” you spat. “Yunho pushed him.”

The boys gasped, both turning to Yunho at once. San smiled, Jongho tilted his head, disappointed.

Yunho held up both hands, feigning innocence. Fluttering his eyes shut, his long lashes splaying over his cheekbones, he said calmly, “He said some fucked up shit, okay? He got in my face, I was drunk, I couldn’t not do it. Mr. Big Dick, I don’t care who you are, you’re in my face, you’re talking shit to my girl, I’m gonna do something.”

Jongho’s jaw popped open. San pulled his lips together before hiding behind his beer, sipping it as his eyes drew over to you.

Cocking your head to the side, you narrowed your eyes. Yunho dropped his hands and looked at you, the face of normal, of patience. Glancing at the table, at the empty glasses in front of him, counting one, two, three, four… Okay.

“You’re drunk,” you said, facing the table and San and Jongho’s disappointment. “He was making jokes, Hongjoong, and he just so happened to get in our way, and between us, and–”

“And I wasn’t having it,” Yunho swung a hand about, “He acted like he had some major claim over you or something, I wasn’t gonna take that.”

Squinting at him, you asked, “And, what? You have ownership over me?”

He snipped, “What?” Facing you, he crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Sounds like it,” you huffed, giving a look to San. “You heard my whole thing about him that night, how it was possible he wanted to go to the gala with me, and I told you, I like him, and when we run into him, you ruin it.”

“He ruined it himself,” Yunho argued, his hands flying, “If he didn’t get jealous and try to piss on you to claim his territory, I would’ve never snapped. You’re not an object to be won, that’s how they look at women, that’s not you.”

Opening your mouth to fight back, Jongho sat forward and slung a hand between you. “Hang on,” he said quickly, taking his time to look at each of you. 

Silence fell, though the bar moved around you, tables getting their orders, the blonde boy and the waitress whispering on barstools, faint music pumping in the background. Jongho exchanged something with San, a look that spoke to only them, and in seconds San broke out into a toothy grin.

Jongho said to you, “Hongjoong said something fucked up to you.” The three of them waited, anticipation on their tongues. 

Shrugging, you muttered, “I mean, yeah, I guess it was fucked up.”

San continued before Yunho could air his grievances, “And when Yunho stood up for you, it pissed Hongjoong off?”

Giving your best friend the tiniest of glances, you shrugged again. “Yeah?”

San and Jongho both snickered and faced one another, slapping their hands together. “It’ll work,” they muttered to one another, “It’s going to work. It’s perfect, isn’t it? How did we not see this before? He’s so stupid, he won’t see it coming, he’ll be so pissed, he’ll–”

Yunho waved a hand in front of them. “Hello!?” The boys whirled around, taking in your shared confusion.

“What’s going on?” you asked as the waitress appeared at the end of your table, ready for the four of you to order another round.

San smized, mischief in his eyes, his gaze flickering from Yunho, to you. “You’re gonna win this. We’re gonna play his game.”

Four knocks sounded at your door. Timid knocks. Knocks he’s never made before. Usually they’re loud, and obnoxious, and a little excited, like the introduction to a Led Zeppelin song. This time they were any John Denver song ever to exist. Stomping through your apartment in wedged strappy sandals, you grumbled to yourself and yanked the door open, unable to believe he wasn’t going to pretend to be happy about this predicament when he’s the one who got himself here in the first place.

“We won’t have to do this,” is the first thing to leave his mouth before you get a word in. Dressed in denim torn to shreds showcasing his knobby knees and the length of his legs, the cropped black t-shirt he had pulled over his head hung just at the belt, if he had worn one. Tiny chains wrapped around the base of his neck, various golds and silvers wound together in mismatched plaits. His hair hung over his eyes, a bit shaggy today, wavy and natural. 

“I don’t, but you do,” you said with disdain.

Following you into your apartment, pushing the door shut, Yunho heaved a dramatic sigh. “But, if you’re not comfortable…”

Uncapping a lipstick, you wandered into the bathroom to glide it over your lips, a shade of pink to go with the stripes on your mini skirt. “Why wouldn’t I be comfortable?”

He appeared in the doorway, just as tall as it, leaning against the frame. Stretching one arm over his head, he made a sound while he thought, and opted to say, “I dunno, cause it’s me?”

Smacking your lips together, dropping the lipstick into the makeup bag on the shelf over the toilet, you shot him a look through the mirror. “It’s you because of what you did.” He rolled his eyes. Turning to face him, you pressed a finger to his chest, his hard, broad, sturdy chest. “This could easily be San, or even Jongho, that’d be the easiest, but this is how you’re going to make that night up to me.”

He dropped his chin, a smirk pulling at his lips. “My penance is being your fake boyfriend, even though Hongjoong thinking I am your boyfriend is what got you into this mess.”

“Us,” you corrected, standing to your tip toes in your sandals, missing his nose with yours by an inch. Pushing by him, he followed you, two steps into the kitchen.

“I was defending you, Shug, you can’t be mad at me for this,” his volume raised, and you held up a finger. “Sorry,” he huffed, slapping his hands on his thighs, dropping his tone, “Yeosang still giving you problems?”

Putting together a purse, a little leather one, you wiggled your brows, fishing your keys off the counter. “Not as of late, but I got something on him now, so if he ever does have some more shit to say, I’ll just tell him all about how I heard him going at it with his boss’s wife.”

Yunho gasped, a smile finally painting onto his face and yours. “You’re kidding me.”

Slinging the purse over your bare shoulder, your strapless top clinging tight to your middle, you pursed your lips and shook your head with pride. “Not at all,” you said, moving for the door. Yunho clung to your tail. “He’s a freak, who woulda thought?”

Stepping out into the hall, giving you space to lock up, Yunho glanced at the neighbors door and started putting puzzle pieces together. “Like… how?”

“Well,” you started, slipping your keys away, “This was last weekend, and yanno, it kinda made me realize these walls are paper thin, so I don’t think I can be too mad at him getting mad at us?” You started down the hallway, Yunho in tow. “Anyway,” you laughed, throwing your hands up, glancing up at him walking beside you, “I heard them come home and fumble with the keys in the door, they were giggling and shit, and he was hushing her. I was paralyzed at the kitchen table doomscrolling through clips of Maneskin’s last tour–”

Yunho squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his chin back. “Will we ever get them again?”

“One can dream,” you muttered with a groan. “I heard them over La Fine, okay? Vic was killing it, her tits were out, it was great, and I heard them.” Yunho held the door to the stairwell open for you. “He was telling her what a bad girl she was,” you amped up the act, walking backward down the stairs, to put on a show for him, “You shouldn’t be here, we shouldn’t be doing this.”

Yunho grinned, a laugh caught between his teeth.

“What will he think? What will they say?” You held up a hand to signal the character switch. “She says, “Fuck what they say!”

“No!” Yunho shouted, reaching out to grab you as you tripped over your feet and laughed. “Turn around.”

“Yes,” you confirmed, listening to him, facing forward, grabbing onto the railing. “I don’t even think they made it out of the kitchen. I’ve seen his apartment, that wall is shared with the one in my bedroom, they fucked in the kitchen.”

“Damn,” Yunho sighed, pushing open the door to your building, ushering you out onto the summer street of New York City. “Quiet boy has game, who woulda thought.”

Catching him off guard, you spun around and grabbed onto his biceps. Pushing him back against the brick wall of your building, you flipped your brows over all sappy and sweet, and whined, “Take me, Yeo, take me!” Shaking your hair around, you giggled. “Do what he can’t, love me like he can’t!”

Yunho’s shoulders rose, eating his ears as you shook him. Wide eyed, he smiled at your words, at the exasperated way you shouted them, mimicking Yeosang's boss’s wife, but then you gazed up at him, lips pursed, eyes soft, cheeks pouty, and he swore he stopped breathing.

Squeezing his arms in your hands tighter, you fluttered your lashes as you blinked, putting on an act, making fun of the way the woman many years older than Yeosang spoke to him. Fingers pressing into the meat of his biceps, realizing you surprised him, and that he wasn’t prepared to hear you do this in front of him, no matter the context… You gulped and wiped your face clean of emotion. 

The summer air grew thicker, your cheeks flushed, your stomach sunk a little– And you weren’t sure why. It’s not the first time jokes like this had been made, your friends always moaned a bit, they were boys for fucks sake, the occasional flirt sneaked out, this wasn’t new. As you gazed up into his sappy brown eyes that weren’t ready to experience this, how it seemed like a part of him was listening, paying attention, you audibly expressed your apologies with a groan and pulled away from him, hands dropping to your side.

“Yeah, it was…” you sighed, dragging a hand through your hair, “It was wild, anyways, should we go? I dunno what time they close, and San said that if we don’t make it there before six then the woman will–”

Yunho pushed off the building and hooked his arm in yours, a smile growing on his pink lips as he pulled you down the street. “Let’s go,” he said, entirely normal, keeping things normal, as normal as normal can be. Looking down at you, he said, “Gonna need you to recreate that for San and Jongho though, that was hysterical.”

Wedging your bottom lip between your teeth, you nodded. “Can’t believe I never told you guys.”

“That Yeosang gets chicks? And that he fucks?” He huffed a laugh, “Can’t believe you never told us either. I thought–”

Jumping in your sandals at the street corner cutting him off, you unhooked your arms and gasped. “Wait, if we’re gonna practice this, shouldn’t we hold hands instead?”

Yunho tugged at the hem of his cropped tee. “Waffle or pancake?”

Oh, how you yearned to lose your shit, fall to the concrete, and laugh at him. Instead, you deadpanned, and said, “You did not just ask me that.”

Holding up your hand for him to take, he scrunched up his face and gave you a look. “Shut up. C’mere, Shug.” 

Reaching around your back, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, yanking you into his side, the warmth of his hold engulfing you entirely. Wiggling his fingers to ask for your hand, guiding you with subtle nods of his head and small smiles, he laced his fingers with yours, the hand hanging from your shoulder, then gestured to your other hand wedged between your bodies.

“Sixteen Candles, c’mon,” he mumbled, meeting your eyes with a humor in his.

Furrowing your brows, you scoffed. “Yeah, sure Jan.”

He rolled his eyes. The people waiting at the corner moved on, leaving the two of you alone until a few stragglers flew by with papers in their hands or headphones on their ears. Everyone dressed for summer, tanks, shorts, dresses, crop tops, their variations of outfits mixed and matched yet impressively cohesive– Your neighborhood the neighborhood of color, of originality, thrifted clothes and bright colored hair. Artists, musicians, bohemian spirits. 

“I am not Sixteen Candles-ing you,” you giggled, and he clicked his tongue.

“You have to,” he joked with a solemn shake of his head. “I’m sure as hell not doing it to you, I’d rather you do it to me. It’ll be cute, do it.”

“But, there’s no one even around to–”

Yunho used his free hand to grab onto yours, pulling it behind his back as far as he could, allowing you to do the rest. Sliding it into his back pocket.

By the grace of the gods, the heavens, the angels, whoever you believed in, his denim hung off of him loose enough that you weren’t necessarily holding on to anything specific. Until you started walking. His proud smile guided you across the street and across a few more blocks like this, and your palm brushed over him repeatedly.

It felt weird, to feel like this wasn’t right, or that this was crossing a line, even though you’ve smacked him on his ass plenty of times before, mainly after a few drinks. This was intimate. A scene in an old movie you watched together, a scene in a newer movie you watched together… Where the girl needs the boy to do these things, and the boy agrees to make his old girl jealous…

Looking up at him, his brain at work putting pieces of the city together, admiring the streets that didn’t mirror the financial district in the slightest, you supposed this was fine. This was the purpose. Technically, it’s his duty, to help you make Hongjoong jealous, or, more jealous than he already appeared to be. And plus, it was Yunho.

Like you said, this was his way of making that night up to you. Though, at the end of the day, you’d rather be doing this with him than anyone else. Too intimate or not… It felt right.

“What do you mean you don’t have a dress yet?” The woman in jorts and a frilly blouse with big chunky boots on her feet stared at you in disbelief. Standing in front of a mirror in silver high heels, you stared back in shock. Yunho sat behind you on a stool with his hands on his knees, and confusion on his face. Her deep brown hair was tied up in a tight bun, with bangs hanging on her forehead. “How are you buying shoes without owning a dress?”

Shrugging, you parted your lips to answer her, but no sound came out. 

“Insane,” she spat, her lips curling, “Every girl knows, you buy the dress first, then you buy the shoes. How do you expect the dress to fit right, or lay right, or fall right at your feet if you’re buying the shoes first? You get a dress, then shoes, how do you know you can even wear the heels? Do you even like these ones? You’ve tried on several pairs, no wonder it’s taking you forever, you don’t have a damn dress.”

Biting your tongue, you sucked down a breath to steady your heart rate and your skin that burned. “This is the one store I can afford, my friends and I are thrift lovers, I’ve never done this before, so I–”

“Great,” she berated, “So I get to deal with the inexperience, wonderful, where did you say you worked?”

“Harmony Foundation–”

Her lined eyes widened. “And this is all you can afford?”

Pressing your hands to your belly, you shook your head fervently, feeling your throat tighten like how it would just before tears slipped down your cheeks. “I-I guess I don’t know, I mean, I’ve never done this, I don’t like to dress like this–”

“Great!” She shouted, and the few other customers in the store turned to seek out the noise. “You don’t even like it, why am I wasting my time, you might as well–”

“We’re done here.” Yunho leapt to his feet, snatching your wrist in his hand, pulling you behind him. The woman screwed her face up as she tipped her chin back to glare at him. “Don’t start. This was a waste of our time. My girlfriend works hard, she deserves this night. Fuck you for making her feel less than. Our best friend sent us here, he’s obsessed with you guys actually. I can’t wait to tell him how disgusting this whole visit has been.” Glancing at her name tag, he scoffed, “Have a nice day, Mina.”

Keeping his grip on you tight, he moved you away from the mirror, away from the lady who started out sweet as pie, and sat you down on another stool across the store. Crouching in front of you, he propped one foot up on his knee and started working his fingers at the buckle, the rough tips of his fingers brushing over your smooth skin.

He clenched his jaw tight, eyes pointed at your foot and shoe he slipped off of you. Moving with persistence, you could see the figurative smoke bellowing out of his ears, the gears that grinded behind his eyes. Switching feet, he slipped the shoe off gently, his actions rough, but the way he touched you– Soft. He put you back into your sandals, his whole hand wrapping around your ankles to move you around, his touch entirely distracting you from the menace Mina had been. Strapped into your shoes, he blinked up at you and sighed heavily.

“My girlfriend,” you teased under your breath, and he sighed again.

“Don’t start, I’m pissed off, Shug. Let’s go.”

He held your hand this time, really tight. Fingers intertwined, the grip he had on you almost made you want to peel his hand off ‘cause it was so tight. 

“Yunho, it’s fine,” you breathed, trailing behind him as he bounded down the street, dodging bodies that crowded now that it was past six o’clock. “I’ll find something later, we don’t have to go anywhere else, I’m over this today.”

The shake of his head told you plenty. “Me too.”

Dropping your hand, setting you free, he crossed his arms over his chest and stopped behind a group of people waiting for the cars to finish whizzing by to trudge across the street. His jaw tightened, and he wouldn’t look at you.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged you off. “Yunho?” The cars stopped. The bodies moved. You scurried along beside him, keeping up with the long strides of his legs. “Yunho,” you groaned playfully, elbowing him a couple times. It wasn’t until you were at the next block that he opened his mouth.

“That’s how it feels when Hongjoong speaks to you the way he does,” he said, turning toward you. “And I’ve only experienced it in person maybe twice? But, even when I have to hear about it, or whenever you talk about him, that’s how it feels.”

Glancing away from him, to the traffic, the unique people around you, you go numb for a moment hearing his name. Tilting your head, you asked, “Being degraded in the middle of a store by a woman who hasn’t gotten laid in years?”

He shot you a look. “What do you think Hongjoong does?”

“But, he gets laid all the time.”

Yunho drug his hands through his hair, arching his back in a stretch with an obnoxious whine. “Oh my god, Shug, nevermind, you’ll never get it.”

Pedestrian traffic moved, pushing you both along the current. Store doors swung open with chimes, music played underneath the awnings of eateries and restaurants with outdoor seating, delicious smells wafted through the cultured air.

“Hang on,” you groaned, reaching for the sleeve of his shirt, “I want to get it. I don’t see what you see, I’m sorry, okay?”

He, again, shrugged you off of him. “It’s really going to take you getting together with him, getting cheated on, heartbroken, and disposed of, to realize it.”

You grabbed onto him again, your hands pulling at his shoulders. He paid attention for you, his eyes on alert, scanning the crowds, the streets, it’s what he always did. Never once did you have to worry while you were out with him, he became your brain, your thoughts, your safety. Even now, while in the middle of some sort of argument, he pulled you out of the way of deranged tourists who think they have the right of way.

“I’m trying, okay?” Begging him to slow down, to look at you, to take a break, to understand you, you said, “I want to see what you see.”

His glare hardened. The crowd dissolved some. Turning into you, he smoothed his hands over your shoulders and pushed you up against the corner wall of a vacant store front. Leaning into you, his forehead millimeters from yours, he softened his eyes, his words not matching the tone he spoke in.

“If you wanted to see what I see, you’d try a little harder,” he nearly whispered. Flickering his eyes between both of yours, letting them flicker over your face, he smirked. “If you really cared that bad, to understand, to listen to me, to us, then we wouldn’t be doing this little experiment, would we?” His gaze glazed over your lips. His smirk deepened. You were holding your breath.

“Fake dating,” he mumbled with a Broadway worthy roll of his eyes. Chills ran down your spine as one of his hands slid up your neck, his palm cupping your chin, his fingertips brushing your hair. “To get his attention, to make him jealous, to play his game. Since when do you care about fitting in with people, Shug? Becoming one of them?”

You barely shook your head, whispering, “I don’t.”

Yunho narrowed his eyes. “Then, why are we doing this?”

“Because…”

“Because,” he repeated, mimicking the slight whine in your tone. “Use your words, you’re a big girl.” His thumb danced over your cheekbone, his words made your knees buckle. “I love to listen to you talk, it might be my favorite thing in the world. Tell me, why are we going to do this? Act like a couple, like we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, like we’re in love, like we share the deepest, most intimate parts of ourselves with one another at three in the morning entangled in a mess of sweaty sheets.”

You weren’t holding your breath, you couldn’t breathe. The depth of his eyes made it impossible to look away, impossible to pretend like his words dripping with sweet melted sugar weren't affecting you. He was close, so close, his body heat hotter than the sun that procrastinated setting.

“You look pretty today,” he whispered. “You always do. When I got to your apartment, and I watched you put this lipstick on, I just,” he shook his head, “Couldn’t not think about… it.”

Gulping, your voice shook as you whispered, “About what?”

He broke out into another smirk, his perfect teeth peeking through his heart shaped lips. “No,” he mumbled, a quiet laugh coming out of him, one that rumbled in his chest so deeply you could feel the bass, “I don’t wanna sound like him.”

“Say it,” you whispered, fast, and he bit his lip.

“Yeah?” Questioning you with a raise of a brow, he stood up straighter, chin cocking back.

You gazed up at him through your lashes, and you swore this newfound persona of his faltered. “Please.”

His other hand slid up the other side of your neck. He tipped your chin back, both of his thumbs on your cheeks, his fingers in your hair. Shared air filtered between you, he was that close. Eyes on your lips, on the shade of lipstick he watched you layer on, he whispered. “It’s filthy.”

“What did you think about, Yunho?” Your eyes fluttered shut for a split second, and he sucked in a breath.

Taking one thumb to your bottom lip, he tugged at it gently before pressing the pad to both of your lips, smirking as your lips seemed to instinctively kiss it. “Thought about how pretty they’d look wrapped around the tip of my…”

Your jaw fell open, your lips parting with a stifled sigh. Pressing your thighs together, his eyes widened some. It took him three seconds to move, out of your space, many steps from the wall.

Letting a laugh loose, he swiped the thumb covered in your lipstick over his lips and winked at you. “Bet San or Jongho wouldn’t do that, huh?”

Catching your breath, utterly blindsided, you situated your clothes that felt like he had ripped them off of you and thrown them back on even though he hadn’t touched them, and you pushed off of the wall. Trying to laugh, feeling as though you’d been doused with a bucket of ice water, you took a deep breath and shook your head. “No, they wouldn’t,” you forced your laughter, “Good one. That’s believable, how’d I do?”

Yunho rubbed a hand over his bare middle, his shirt lifting to show off his toned stomach. Bobbing his head, his eyes unreadable, he shrugged. “Don’t think you’re winning an Oscar any time soon. Your impression of Yeosang’s sugar mommy was way better.”

Smacking your lips, you laughed for real and rolled your eyes. “Not fair,” you muttered.

“You’re gonna have to try a little harder if you want us to be taken seriously,” he teased with a sarcastic huff, holding out his elbow for you to hook yours in. 

Swallowing, hard, your heart finally beating steadily, you rubbed your lips together, your lipstick that he looked at, again, and said, “Guess we’ll have to practice some more.”

The clock ticked on the wall, the halls silent enough the only sound to be heard were the hands counting down to five o’clock. Standing at a counter, waiting for the receptionist on your floor to return with several files Seonghwa needed to finish a sale with one of his loyal clients of many years, you had your elbow propped up on the edge and your chin sitting on your fist. 

It was the morning after your failed shopping date with Yunho, last night ending with stacked jokes on the way to San’s apartment, where you met Jongho there and spent the night shoveling take out into your mouths and playing guess that artist with Yunho until you all grew tired enough and fell asleep on the sofa’s mumbling about what new tattoos you all should get.

Snoozing on Yunho’s shoulder, you’d be lying if you said what he’d done to you didn’t stick with you. Pushing you up against a wall like you had done to him, except instead of mimicking a neighbor's hookup, he spoke real words to you. Words that sounded true. Words that felt true. Words you think… you wanted to be true. You’ve never heard him speak that way, his voice low and gravely, the things he said, dirty and hot.

Thinking back to the flings he’s had here and there, your mind wandered to the possibilities of what he said to them, how he treated them, an entire side of him you never once thought to ever explore. He turned you on, your body reacted to him, you wanted him to keep going, to say more, to maybe even do more than just touch his thumb to your lips like he wished it really was the tip of his…

“Hey, Shug.” A chill ran down your spine, your skin erupting in a blazing fire. Jolting upright, slapping your hand to the counter top, you whirled around and met Hongjoong’s smile, a stack of papers in his hand. He occupied the space beside you, stepping into your field of energy, placing the stack right next to your hand.

“Please don’t call me that,” you said with the release of a breath.

Hongjoong leaned against the desk and crossed one foot over the other. Glancing around the stranded lobby, he smiled before he pointed his eyes at you. “Find a date to the gala yet?”

Okay, straight to the point, damn. Time to lock in. Your stomach sank.

“Yes,” you squeaked, voice high pitched and nervous.

He perked a brow, his eyes drawing your body and the outfit you had thrown together this morning after running home from San’s with a half hour to spare. You were almost late this morning, and your oversized button down and wrinkled slacks let everyone know.

The corners of his lips perked up. “Wild night?”

“No,” you pushed through your lips.

Hongjoong met your eyes and laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. Look at you. That your boyfriend's shirt?” Scoffing, you looked down at yourself, and he laughed again. It was in fact Yunho’s shirt, one he didn’t use anymore, a white button down that would fit his chest snugly. It hung off of you, but this wasn’t the first time you had worn it.

“This is mine,” you stated with a point of your finger to your belly.

Hongjoong furrowed his brows, but his smile remained. “You sure you didn’t pick it up off his floor this morning?”

“No, Joong, it’s mine.”

“Coulda sworn he spent the night putting you through the mattress, at least from what I saw,” he snickered, averting his eyes to behind the desk. “Smooth talker, huh?”

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

Hongjoong laughed. “You let him talk dirty to you? I know you like a filthy mouth.”

Eyes bugging, you laughed with him, nervously, and knitted your hands together. “I-I-I don’t know what you’re… what you’re talking about, what are you…”

“I saw you,” he said, plainly, giving you a look. “On the corner of 7th, he had you pinned to the wall, his hands on you, talking all quiet.” He popped his brows and swung his hand about as he spoke. “I’ve never seen you look the way you did, all doe eyed, like he held your consciousness in his hands, so submissive–”

“Shut up,” you snapped.

He raised a brow, his lazy smile wicked. “Tell me again how the shirt isn’t his, how you weren’t letting him defile you last night, go ahead.”

“I didn’t, it’s not–”

He kept going. “Thought you’d let him take you right there on the street corner, I mean, damn, how long have you been in love with this guy, I would’ve thought you had something for me if I didn’t catch you two like that, does he know what a flirt you can be?” Leaning toward you, he popped his lips as he mumbled, “A brat?”

“Oh my god,” you muttered, pressing your front to the desk, knitting your fingers in your hair, staring at the linoleum. “Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.” Willing the receptionist back in whispers, Hongjoong heard, and fucking laughed.

“He probably gets off on it, right? Knowing you’ve got a little game going with me, he probably loves to hear all about it so he can fuck it out of you. Claim you.”

“Hongjoong, shut up. Leave me alone.”

He took a step closer to you, dipping his chin down. “No, I want you to be able to run home to have the fuck of your life after you tell him about this. Let him know that when I saw you over here all alone in his shirt, I envisioned what it’d be like to rip it off of you and spread you open on Ms. Kim’s desk, and how I wouldn’t care if she came back and caught us.”

Pressing your hands to your face, shaking your head, you sucked air in through your lips, and for the first time, you wished Yunho were here to stop him.

“Matter of fact, Wooyoung likes to watch,” he smirked, “He’d love a show. Would probably get a raise,” his fingers touched your shoulder, gently, but with purpose, piercing through the fabric of your shirt, “Just gotta make sure he can see your tits, so he can–”

“Hongjoong,” Seonghwa’s voice echoed off the ceiling, booming through the empty space. Clenching your jaw, tears welling up in your eyes, you clawed at your scalp. He tore his hand off of you, moving faster than you’ve ever witnessed. “What am I hearing?”

A sigh came out of him as he took a step away from you, his hands folding on the desk. “Please, she likes it.”

Seonghwa scoffed. “I guarantee you, she does not. Y/n?”

Peeling your hands away from your face, you pushed your hair back and turned to look at him. With a face full of sorrow, he waved a hand toward him, coercing you closer. “Go into my office and wait for me there. We’ll file a report together, but I’d like to personally hand his ass to him face to face.”

Only able to give him a nod, you wrapped your arms around yourself and hurried down the hall, straight into Seonghwa’s office, though you longed to linger and listen to what your boss had to say.

you: It worked..... He's pissed off or something..

yun: What happened.

you: I get what you guys mean now.. How he talks..

yun: Call me. Now.

you: I’ll tell you later….. Do you have to see Jag????? You haven’t mentioned him

yun: He hasn’t needed me.. I’m yours tonight.

Outside of a store with gowns on mannequins in the windows, you and Yunho stood elbow to elbow against the glass, appreciating the bustle of the people on this side of a neighborhood you longed to spend more time in. Similar to your own, this one had more structure to its freedom, like the people here knew exactly what they wanted and what they brought to table. It filled you with a sort of peace, clarity, like your dreams were right in front of you, and you could snatch them without remorse.

“Don’t say I told you so,” you muttered, and Yunho hummed.

“Never,” he said flatly, eyes scanning the heads that passed by. “I’m sorry that happened. He’s a dick.”

Looking up at him, you pinched your brows. “That’s all?”

He glanced back in shock. “Well, I can’t exactly go and kick his ass can I? If I do, you’ll lock me up and force me to marry you and have several kids, live a suburban life, I dunno.”

Laughing, throwing your head back, you gasped, “What!?”

Yunho held up his hands, his wide eyed expression growing tenfold. “Are those not your conditions for me putting my hands on him? I pushed him, so we have to date, what do you think you’ll make me do if I beat him up?”

“Sign a prenup,” you giggled, shoving him with your elbow. His obnoxious nod and the unintelligible sound he made answered for him. “I’m sorry,” you sighed, leaning your head against his arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t do the dating thing, maybe you just come with me to the gala as my bodyguard.”

“It makes me sad that you even have to think that way,” he mumbled.

Glancing up at him, your cheek squished on his bare arm, he looked down and smiled. “Seonghwa will be there, you don’t even have to come if you don’t want to, I don’t wanna subject you to hanging around these kinds of guys for hours on end.”

Squinting, he said, “I’d rather be with you to save you from having to hang around those guys for hours on end. I’m coming to the gala whether you like it or not, Shug.”

“Shug,” a woman’s voice parroted, one a little rough, a little grungey. “You really do call her that.” Yunho broke out into a grin, tossing his head back bashfully, trying hard as hell to negate all accusations as you pushed off the window to greet his friend. 

Stunning didn’t cut it. Ki, her name as sharp as she was, but not as simple. Covered in tattoos, doused in silver jewelry and piercings, her hair styled like she’d had it professionally done, you couldn’t help but let your jaw drop. Another girl stood with her, as close to her as you stood to Yunho, looking nothing like Ki. A little more indie, maybe bohemian, whereas Ki bled straight rock ‘n roll. 

Her smile smacked you in the face, perfect and dazzling. Holding out her hand amidst Yunho’s rebuttals, she introduced herself. “You’re exactly like he described,” she shook her head, giving you a onceover, “I’m Ki, this is Riley,” she said giving a nod to her friend who smiled and gave you a wave of her fingers. “Hope it’s okay you deal with both of us, you seem to fit right in between our vibe, I figured we could both give you a hand.” Her eyes flickered up at Yunho. “He’s not gonna know what he’s doing. You need girlfriends.”

Giggling, you looked up at him and he shrugged shamefully.

“You’re lucky he called,” Ki breathed, taking your wrist in her hand and Riley’s in the other. Giving Yunho a glare, she muttered, “You’re lucky Jag has let you have so much time off.”

“Time off?” you asked, bouncing back and forth between them. “You said he hasn’t needed you,” you said to Yunho, whose eyes widened.

Ki pursed her lips, her saccharine smile enough to woo you, you’re not sure how Yunho hasn’t been woo’ed yet. He said something back to her, with his eyes, an implication he didn’t want to speak further, a white flag of sorts. You aren’t sure how much time they spent together at Republic, though her name has come up plenty of times– Comparing the two of you.

“Let’s go, Shug,” Ki joked, tugging you and Riley along, into the store, leaving Yunho to trudge behind. “I’ll take the left side, Ri you take the right, Miss Sugar can take the middle.”

Yunho let the door swing shut behind him. “What about me? Do I get a say?”

Riley gave him a small smile. “If the boyfriend shopping thing is universal, I suggest you sit this one out.” 

Ki seemed to know what she was talking about with the way she laughed and nudged her shoulder, her bright smile and confident laugh bouncing around the racks of dresses. “He’s not her boyfriend, but still, sit this one out,” she said to both of them before the group broke into four.

With a sheepish shrug, Riley pulled her lips together and turned on her heels. Ki tossed her hair off of the shoulder of her lace tank and bolted for a black dress on a mannequin in the window. Yunho, he smiled at you when you turned to him, and waved you away to follow the girls.

“She’s cool,” you whispered, flickering your eyes over to Ki.

Yunho narrowed his eyes and smiled wider, whispering, “I knew you’d say that.” Smiling back at him, for too long, feeling your insides fill with warmth, a sort of comfort knowing he’d do something like this for you, he glanced at both of the girls on either side of the store and shooed you away.

You took to Riley first, who was already looking your way with her hands on a dress. Painting a smile onto your lips, you approached her in her oversized vintage Screen Actors Guild tee and clasped your hands together. Before you had the chance to open your mouth, she cut you off.

“This one’s gorgeous,” she mumbled, holding the emerald dress up in front of you, pressing it to your chest like she’s known you for ages. “I think this really goes with your skintone, but I’m not loving the straps, I think you should– Wait, how are you doing your hair?” Her eyes narrowed, studying you, drawing all over the bare skin you exposed today. “You’re fun, aren’t you? How many tattoo’s do you have?” 

“I got a few when I’d been drinking honestly, my friends know this guy who does them underground, yanno, so I have to have at least–”

“So cool,” she said without letting you finish, “I love tattoo’s, but I have to keep them hidden.”

“How come?” you asked, watching as she hung up the emerald dress and pulled out a few others, giving you glances over her shoulder.

“Broadway,” she said with utter nonchalance. “But, my boyfriend and I, we both have a matching one on our– Oh my god,” she sighed, turning toward you, grabbing your wrists, “I’m so sorry, by the way, for implying that Yunho’s your boyfriend.”

Giggling, you shook your head. “Don’t worry about it, I know how it looks, it’s really–”

“I’m sorry, though,” she said with a pout, “I have chronic foot in mouth disease, it’s severe, just ask Ki, or don’t, I don’t need this getting worse. I’m not good at this. I have a lot of guy friends.”

Shifting your hands around, grabbing onto hers that held onto you, you comforted her with a smile and shook your head. “So do I, I understand.”

“Hey, Glucose!” Ki shouted from across the store, waving her hand in the air, her bracelets jingling. 

Yunho picked his head up from where he rifled through suit jackets, almost shrieking within a laugh, “Glucose!”

Riley let go of you and gave you a gentle push on your back. By the time you made it to Ki she had already sent Yunho back into his silenced role, giving you the tiniest of smiles as you were subdued to more dresses being held up in front of you. Shooting him a wink, one he made a face of disgust at, you giggled, and Ki paused.

“He’s something, huh?” she asked, tearing her eyes from yours when you looked at her. The black dress she held had lace on the bodice, like her tank, and it was tight fitted, all the way to the bottom. “You might not be able to move in this, but I like black for you, what do you think?”

“I love black, sure.”

Pulling at the fabric, her eyes on the dress she held up, she muttered, “I meant Yunho.” Ki met your eyes with a glimmer in hers. “I got the story, y/n. He actually wouldn’t shut up. Whenever I see him at work, I get updates about you, instead of himself. When he asked me to come here he sounded so… worried. I thought, how can this girl have this boy who’s like chronically relaxed in this much of a fucking tizzy?”

“Oh,” you breathed, half following. She hung up the tight dress and pulled out another, one dark blue and Cinderella-esque. You both crunched your noses before she could even bring it in front of you. “How about that one?” Pointing to a black dress with long sleeves, she listened and held it up.

Tilting her head to the side, her striking eyes drinking in your form, she continued quietly, “Hope it’s okay I brought Riley, I didn’t want to be third wheel. Plus, I haven’t spent time with her in a bit. I like this one– Yunho!” He scurried over to her side, accepting the dress she tossed him. “Trying this one on,” she said and waved him off, “Shoo.”

Flashing you a smile, his face telling you he was just happy to be here, he returned to where he came from.

“You spend a lot of time at work, right?” Following her, like a shadow, you eyed her tattooed fingers as they grazed over satins and velvets before snatching one. “Yunho says you’re like… Really important.”

Her lips perked up. Holding up a velvet grey a-line, it didn’t make it two inches in front of you before she swapped it for a strapless black satin floor length thing. “I guess I am. He’s sweet,” she took a breath, “But, yeah, I spend a lot of time at work, I travel a shit ton, and Ri lives here in the city. I do too, but…”

“But?” you questioned, and she shrugged it off.

“A story for another time,” she smiled. 

“Uh, Riley told me she has a boyfriend, are you, uh, seeing anyone?”

She gave you a look over her shoulder. “Why, interested?”

Bushing, you pushed a breath through your lips and stepped in a tiny circle. “You’re gorgeous, but no,” you laughed, “I’m into someone else.” She glanced at Yunho, and you rolled your eyes. “No, he’s… just a friend.”

“Does he know that?” she asked, flicking through the dresses. 

“Yes,” you said definitively, brows going awry.

Ki nodded, slowly, pulling out a black gown she didn’t bother to hold up in front of you. “Yunho!” Like clockwork, he appeared, with several more dresses in tow.

“Who gave you these?” Ki asked.

Yunho blinked. “Riley.”

Taking in the dresses of various colors and lengths, Ki mumbled, “Damn thespian.”

“We need options!” Riley shouted across the store.

“She heard you,” you laughed, and Ki smirked.

“Quiet isn’t my specialty.” She tossed the dress over Yunho’s arms, and as he disappeared she asked, “Who are we into, Miss Sugar? If it’s not that hunk of alt sweetness the girlies eat up at the label.”

The girlies. Turning to find where he disappeared to, you found him at Riley’s side, the girl shorter than you, craning her neck back to look up at him. Her smile, soft, but her giggle, loud. Ki followed your line of sight and scoffed.

“He’s too tall for her, trust me,” she muttered, lower this time, “Plus, she’s like, locked in with her man. Trust me.”

“Is she?” you asked within a whisper.

Ki gave you a look, raising a brow. “Quiet isn’t her specialty. They’re crazy theatre kids, they’re… gross. One time I saw them–”

“And what about you?”

She rolled her eyes, enormously long. The breath she let out was just as long. “Don’t worry about me. You don’t wanna hear what it’s like being caught between two guys, one perfect for you, who knows everything about you, your secrets, your shadows, but then the other is capable of satiating a hunger you didn’t know you had.”

“What happened? After… the… satiating. I assume he wasn’t good for you?”

Ki held up a dress and pursed her lips. Shifting from the dress to your face, she released a breath and shrugged. “I was still hungry.” This dress she held onto herself. “Listen, he didn’t put me up to this, but I know about this other guy you’re into. Take it from me, as someone who’s been involved with a colleague. You have this fucking amazing guy right here,” she said, gesturing behind her toward Yunho who trailed behind Riley like a puppy. You almost spoke, but she cut you off. “I know, you’re friends. But, let him be an example. Of the types of guys you should be looking for.”

“Damn,” you uttered, lowering your chin with a snicker.

Ki furrowed her brows. “What?”

Giving her a look, you shook your head. “He didn’t update you about what happened today, I guess. You don’t have to give me the speech, I’m not Hongjoong’s biggest fan anymore. I know it’s been his obsession to rid me of him, I’m sorry he pulled you into this, but I’m good. Thanks for coming to help me, but I don’t need a pep talk.”

She tried to stop you, but you pushed past her, towards the fitting rooms. Holding a hand in the air to signal Yunho, she pointed at the back of you and shrugged. “I dunno what I did, that’s all you.”

Ignoring the worker who asked you if you needed any help, you stepped into a fitting room empty handed and let the door swing shut, pressing your back against the wall. Tears brimming your eyes, you took a shaky breath and released it all at once.

Everything cycled through your head, memories flashing all at once, from Hongjoong’s almost invitation to the gala, to the night Yunho pushed him, to yesterday when Yunho had you on the corner questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship.

Why were you questioning everything you thought you knew about your relationship? You never have before, this wasn’t normal. He was Yunho, your best friend Yunho.

Comfort is all that it is. Familiarity. 

You’ve just perhaps reached a point in your friendship where you care too deeply, because you know so much, because you’ve spent all this time with him, and now that it’s at a point where the lines seem to be starting to blur because you’re going to have to pretend to date him, it’s confusing.

That’s what it is. You couldn’t think that again if you tried. You wouldn’t even be able to say those words out loud. Did it make sense? You shouldn’t be spiraling about this, you should be spiraling about the fact that Hongjoong made some serious threats to you today, if you could even call them threats. You didn’t want to call it what it was, but Seonghwa sure did, and he had no shame in doing so.

Work tomorrow should be a blast, if he’s even there. The gala is right around the corner, would he even be allowed to attend after this? Groaning through a cry, you tipped your chin back and shook your head. Of course he’d still be allowed to attend, these men got away with everything. He’d be able to do what he said he’d do and he wouldn’t–

“Shug?” Three gentle taps to the fitting room door.

“I need a minute,” you steadied your voice as best as you could.

“I have your dresses,” he said softly. “Wanna try them on while you take your minute?”

Reaching for the door handle, you pulled it open and met his eyes, taking the pile from him. “Thanks,” you sniffled.

He frowned. “You okay?”

“Do I look okay?”

“No,” he whispered. “What happened?”

Hardening your glare, you mumbled, “Go talk to Riley.”

He blinked, confused. “What?”

“Or Ki, maybe that’s better,” you huffed, “She seems to know so much already, go tell her some more.”

You threw the door shut, but he caught it. “Hang on, what are you talking about?”

“Leave me alone,” you said, hanging the dresses up. Pushing on the door to push him out, it was silly of you to forget he was much, much stronger than you. Bumping the handle as he fumbled his way in, there was an audible click as the door slammed shut and his back pressed to it. The already small room grew smaller. Two bodies and a stack of at least thirteen dresses in one tiny New York space, one of those bodies over six feet tall. You couldn’t turn around without bumping into him. “I have to try these on, get out of here,” you muttered.

His jaw tensed. Staring at you for all of three seconds, he took a deep breath and spun around, facing the door, away from you. 

“Yunho–”

“Someone’s gotta zipper you.”

Sighing, losing this fight, you said, “Don’t turn around.”

“You already know I wouldn’t do that.”

Even this felt weird, and it shouldn’t. You’ve changed in front of him before, you’ve been half naked and drunk in front of each other, you’ve seen him in his boxers, he’s seen you in a bathing suit, this shouldn’t be so vulnerable, so… intimate. 

Ki implied, several times, that Yunho, quite possibly, maybe, cared about you too much. Maybe in a sense that you haven’t been able to pick up on until now. Pulling your shirt over your head, you tossed it over his shoulder, smiling at the inaudible laugh he heaved. Even though yesterday on the street, where he said some things you never imagined would ever leave his lips, when he pulled away, he acted as though it was for the gala. That you guys were practicing. Come to find out Hongjoong had seen you. Hongjoong had seen you.

Slipping out of your shorts, kicking off your shoes, you tossed the denim over his other shoulder. “Yunho?”

“Yeah?”

You took a blue dress off a hanger and stepped into it. “Yesterday,” you started, shimmying the tight fabric over your hips, slinging the spaghetti straps over your shoulders, “Did you see Hongjoong?”

His head tilted to the side, reluctantly asking, “When?”

“Zip me?”

He turned, and his eyes softened at the sight of you in the mirror. The bodice hugged your chest, blue satin cascading down your form to the floor so that you could so wear those silver heels with this. The fabric was bound over your middle, in three ripples slipping over your right hip and around the back like a waterfall. 

“Wow,” he breathed before snapping out of it, tearing his eyes off of your curves and onto the zipper at the middle of your back. Sliding it up, careful to not let his fingers graze your skin, he stepped back against the door and waited for your consensus.

Gliding your hands over the satin, over the chest, you pouted your lips and shook your head. “I like this,” you said, taking your hands to your hips. Yunho’s eyes followed. “But, I don’t like this,” you said, grabbing fistfuls of your tits. Yunho’s eyes followed.

“I do,” he whispered without thinking. Meeting his glare in the mirror, shock evident on both of your faces, you let out a laugh, and he let out a groan. “Oh my god?” Rolling his eyes at himself, he vigorously shook his head and reached for the zipper, freeing you before he spun around and banged his head against the door. He snatched your clothes off of his shoulders and hung them over the door, huffing to himself.

“It’s okay,” you said, sliding the dress off, opting for a black one Ki had set aside. “Practice, right?”

Yunho hung his head, shaking it like he had. “That wasn’t cool, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you whispered, stepping into the lace. 

“You look pretty today,” he whispered. “You always do. When I got to your apartment, and I watched you put this lipstick on, I just,” he shook his head, “Couldn’t not think about… it.”

Sliding it up your body, this one strapless, you held it tight to your chest and felt along your back that the zipper laid right over the curve of your ass. Glancing behind you in the mirror at his broad shoulders, wider than you, you took a second to admire how much larger than you he actually was. Gentle giant. 

Ki met your eyes with a glimmer in hers. “I got the story, y/n. He actually wouldn’t shut up. Whenever I see him at work, I get updates about you, instead of himself. When he asked me to come here he sounded so… worried. I thought, how can this girl have this boy who’s like chronically relaxed in this much of a fucking tizzy?”

Except when it came to you.

“I do not want him to abduct me,” you spat. “Yunho pushed him.”

The boys gasped, both turning to Yunho at once. San smiled, Jongho tilted his head, disappointed.

Yunho held up both hands, feigning innocence. Fluttering his eyes shut, his long lashes splaying over his cheekbones, he said calmly, “He said some fucked up shit, okay? He got in my face, I was drunk, I couldn’t not do it. Mr. Big Dick, I don’t care who you are, you’re in my face, you’re talking shit to my girl, I’m gonna do something.”

“Yunho,” you whispered, and he turned, his cheeks growing pink. “Zip me?”

Eyeing you in the mirror, how the lace clung to you, contouring your curves where the satin accentuated your form. Laying on top of you like it was a part of you, it hung from your thighs to the floor, the fabric free for you to move about, to dance, to walk comfortably. The chest, corset like, heartshaped and detailed with lace, it held you perfectly, every part of you. He couldn’t help himself. He stared.

You watched him have to manually tell himself to stop, to focus on what you asked him to do, but when he saw where the zipper laid, he lost it again. Eyes blinking a million times, he took a step closer to you, careful to not stand on the puddle the lace left around your feet. He blushed with color, his cheeks to his ears, as pink as can be, his hands acting just the same.

A little nervous, if you had to describe it. His fingers brushed over your skin, the small of your back, and you shuddered, goosebumps erupting over your skin. “Sorry,” he whispered, pulling back abruptly, not looking up at you in the glass.

“S’okay,” you whispered with a gentle nod. “Your fingers are cold.”

He shook his head once, squinting at the dress. “I-I think I have to… pull it up from the inside. I can get Ki–” “No,” you sighed, stopping him from stepping away from you. “You do it,” you said, your gazes eating one another up. You forced through your lips, “Practice, right?”

His miniscule shift in expression made your heart swell. The slight tweak of his brows, the plumping of his lips, the flutter of his lashes, all too tiny to be made out to be something, but you knew him.

Standing closer to you, your back nearly pressed to his front, he took in a breath and held it, taking the zipper between his fingers. Using his other hand to pinch the bottom, he slowly pulled up, his middle knuckle gliding up your spine, the act so gentle, so improbably erotic that you cursed yourself for how your breath hitched in your throat and the bottom of your belly clenched. It didn’t help that he stood close enough that the warm air that slipped through his parted lips grazed over your skin, your bare shoulders, your bare back. Radiating heat, his own breath uneven, once the zipper reached its peak, he paused. 

Neither of you moved. He gazed down at the dress, and you blazed a fire in his eyes through the mirror he refused to look at you through.

“Coulda sworn he spent the night putting you through the mattress, at least from what I saw,” Hongjoong snickered, averting his eyes to behind the desk.

You wondered if he could feel it. The tension disgustingly thick you could cut it with a knife. His large, strong hands, what would they feel like if he slid them down your hips in this lace? His lips, parted and dousing your skin in goosebumps with the hot air he exuded, what would it feel like if he dropped a bit lower and pressed them to your skin, the valley of your neck, the expanse of your exposed chest? Heat swelled in your belly, dropping lower, your thighs aching to squeeze together, but you wouldn’t. Not now. Now you were aware.

“Yunho,” you whispered desperately.

“I did see him,” he uttered quietly, finally meeting your gaze in the mirror. You wanted to melt to the floor at the sight of how lust had overcome him and he actively fought back. “I did what I did so you wouldn’t see him. I’m not proud of it. Especially now with what he did to you.”

“Not proud of it, what do you…”

He sighed, standing up straight, keeping his eyes on yours. “I didn’t want to do what I did,” he shrugged. “You were already getting upset with me, I knew that if you saw him it would push you over the edge, so I had to distract you, and nothing I would normally do would work. So, I made something up.”

Dropping your hands to your side, you gaped and spun around. “Made something up?”

Huffing, he screwed his brows up. “You thought what I said was real?”

Taken aback, you scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Uh, of course not, why the hell would you say something like that to me?”

Narrowing his eyes, he bobbed his head and poked his tongue in his cheek. “Right,” he muttered after a few seconds. “Right.” 

Spinning around, almost bumping you with his elbow, he turned the doorknob and yanked. It didn’t budge. Trying again, he yanked. He yanked, again. The walls shook.

“How do I unlock this,” he mumbled, messing with the knob every way he could think of. 

Sighing, you wedged yourself around him and tried to pull his hands off the gold, but he swatted at you. “Let me help,” you grumbled, “I don’t want you in here anymore.”

“I don’t want to be in here anymore,” he countered, tugging at your hands.

“Good, I want you to leave.”

“I want to leave.”

You threw the mindless bickers at one another for what felt like forever, until it got to the point of tears. Yours.

“You’ve been no help, I can’t believe San and Jongho came up with this, this is so stupid!”

“Stupid?” Yunho pressed a hand to his chest. “You said it yourself, I’m the one you want to do this with! Ki!” He banged a fist on the door. “This wasn’t supposed to turn into this, Shug, we were just supposed to go to the stupid gala.”

“Don’t call me that,” you huffed, reaching behind you for the zipper of your dress to free yourself. “You’re done calling me that.”

Groaning, he swatted at your hands. “Let me do it, you’ll rip it.”

“No,” you shouted, swinging your body away from him, tugging at the lace, “I got it. I’ll do it alone, like I’ll do the gala alone!”

“You’re not doing the gala alone,” he said, in a fistfight with your fingers. Let… go!”

“Hands off of me, Yunho.”

“You’re going to tear it, you like this one, this is it, don’t tear it!”

Fighting back, clawing at the fabric, you finally kicked a foot back against his knees and sent him stumbling backward, but the space was too tiny so he fell into you, and before he could catch himself, you were twisted sideways, and the lace tore down your back in one long, loud rip. Hands trapped behind you where your back pressed to the wall, you gasped and froze. Yunho hung over you, both of his hands pressed to the wall above you, his body hovering on top of you.

“Fuck,” you whispered.

“Why the fuck would you kick me?”

Glaring up at him, your noses almost touching, you sneered, “Why the fuck would you keep trying when I told you to leave?”

“I can’t leave, the door’s locked!”

“Fuck this,” you said, reaching up for handfuls of his shirt. Pushing off of the wall, taking him with you, your dress slipped down as you pressed him to the opposite wall. “You are going to climb out of here, either under or over that door, I don’t care, just get–” The door swung open.

“Whoa!” Ki shouted, eyes wide, pulling the door shut in a hurry. 

“No!” You and Yunho both shouted, and her face went crazy.

“I don’t wanna watch!”

Yunho glanced down at what this looked like, the way you gripped him and how your dress fell off your body. You had him pushed up a wall for fucks sake. Not to mention, if you had tried anything else with lace he’d find himself in a very awkward predicament. At least he could hide what it was for now.

“I’m done,” he said, reaching for your hands, making you release him. With one more look, he shook his head, and he left, not before murmuring to Ki, “Stay out here, that door locks from the inside, help her out.”

As soon as the door shut you sunk to the floor and let the tears spill.

Sipping your drink, the bubbles dancing over your tongue, you laid your head back on the cushion of the sofa you sat in front of. Jongho laid over a lounge chair, a beer can in his hand hanging off the edge, his legs over one armrest, his head over the other. Faint music played in the background, something off of his phone. You didn’t dare ask who made the playlist.

“It ripped,” you said with a flick of your hand, “It ripped right down the back, and I paid for it, because I ripped it, even though the woman says she’s not sure if she’ll be able to fix it.”

Jongho turned his head to give you a pout. “Damn, I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever, I guess,” you took a swig of your drink, “I’m not meant to be at this stupid thing anyway. I need to just call Yunho, tell him it’s off, and then let Seonghwa know I won’t be going.”

“Nooo,” he sang, shifting to lay on his side, tucking his knees into his massive chest. You frowned and he copied you. “I don’t want to go without you.”

“You’ll have San,” you muttered with a shrug, “You won’t miss me.”

“Yes, I will,” he whispered. Sharing a look with him, one that said a trillion things about leaving a friend behind at a work event where they’d need you because you get it, he said, “San won’t get my jokes.”

A smile graced your lips. “He’ll learn.”

“You can’t just break it off with Yunho and come without him?”

“There’s nothing to break off,” you said, voice growing stern, “We are friends, that is it. I don’t want to go to the gala, not anymore, not when I know Hongjoong will be there… And Wooyoung. I’m done with men.”

He sighed. “I get it.”

Screwing your face up, you shifted to your knees. “I mean, you should’ve seen his face, acting like I’m the one who messed this up, when he’s the one who said that shit to me. He’s the one who made me believe him, I totally thought that what he said was real. It felt real.”

Jongho marinated in silence, the gentle nods of his head encouraging you to go on.

“What do you take it as? ‘Cause I took that all as real,” you huffed, not giving him time to answer you. “You don’t say stuff like that, not to a friend. Especially not a guy friend to a girl friend, because that’s… that’s just…”

Crinkling his can in his hand, he shifted his lips to the side in thought. Eyes pointing from his beer, to you, he offered, “He made you feel something.”

“Yes,” you hissed without a second thought, “And that’s messed up.”

“Is it?”

Shooting him daggers, you shouted, “Yes!”

Jongho didn’t move. He didn’t even react. He simply asked, “Why?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” you whispered, sitting back against the couch, planting a hand to your forehead. You downed the rest of your drink, your third of the night, and sat the empty can on his coffee table.

“Did he make you feel like Hongjoong makes you feel?” Jongho asked.

Rubbing your fingers over your bare eyes, your bare face, you shook your head. “No,” you answered honestly. 

“How’d he make you feel?”

Giving him a look, he laughed.

“Tell me,” he teased, “I won’t judge.”

Taking a long, deep breath, you folded your arms over your front, your cozy hoodie, and released the air with a heavy sigh, one gravely and rough, a groan of sorts. Looking away from him, whether out of embarrassment or bashfulness, you lifted your shoulders and teetered your head side to side. “I wanted him to keep going,” you said, shifting your eyes over to him to see if he reacted. He didn’t. “I wanted… to know what else he would say. I wanted him to finish his sentence, and tell me what he really wanted.”

“That’s not bad at all,” he said quietly, finishing his beer.

The music changed into a softer song, one from the nineties. You recognized it, Yunho’s played it before, a one hit wonder gone rogue, never heard from again. You thought about him and how his brain worked, how passionate he felt about music, the joy it brought him, how it changed his mood in a snap, the way he’s devoted so much of his life to the art. No limits, that’s what he’d say music made him feel, immortal, everlasting, whole.

The songs he would send you in the morning when he knew you had a long day ahead of you, or when he knew the day would be a hard day, they always worked. As if he could feel what you were feeling, the tunes he prescribed cured you, in every which way. He cared. Deeply. San and Jongho didn’t get the songs. You did. And you haven’t gotten one in over a week.

Shifting onto all fours you crawled over to Jongho and wiggled his phone out of his pocket. Swiping open to his music, ignoring the dirty message from San on his home screen, you typed a title into the search bar, and you tapped on it. Turning the volume up, the song crashed through the speakers, bright and excited and invigorating, like Yunho himself burst through the door and lit up the room. The first verse led you into a story, a love song in disguise, one unlike any other, hidden behind a facade of futuristic melodies. And then the chorus hit, and your heart swelled.

‘I’ll stop the world and melt with you… You’ve seen the difference, and it’s getting better all the time… There’s nothing you and I won’t do…’

Haunted by memories, becoming a cage for them to flutter about in, you curled around your knees you tucked into your chest and buried your face in your arms.

All of the nights he’s walked you home from Dante’s, all of the nights he’s stayed, falling asleep either on your couch or in your bed on top of the covers still in your clothes from the bar. The days he’d swing by the office to drop off a new album find he thought you’d like, or bring you a coffee, or offer to take you to lunch, or to grab you something on his way to the label. This entire week, how he’s blown off work, or called out, or told Jag he’s not coming in, so that he can take you around the city and shop for a god damn company gala he agreed to fake date you at just to make your work crush jealous.

The way he looked at you the very first time you stepped into the record store, in a distressed denim jacket over top a short black dress that hugged your thighs, one that matched the boots on your feet– Boots you’ve since retired because they cannot handle the lengths you have to walk through the city. His eyes, they lit up. Half slumped over the counter with his chin in his hands watching the tourists flit about the rows of records just to not buy anything, when he saw you, he knew his luck had changed.

It was when he used to load his lobes with earrings, one of the first things you noticed, how he didn’t care how insane he may look to others. After picking up The Runaways Queens of Noise cassette, you slid it across the counter, shoved your hands in your pockets, and told him, “You’re cool.” 

His slender knobby fingers grabbed the tape. Unable to take his eyes off of you, the style of your makeup, the grown out bright pink color at the tips of your hair, how confident you were in how you smiled at him. He stuttered, a lot, scanning the tape, typing something into the register, mumbling his thanks, and how he thought you looked pretty cool too… You laughed at him, you can remember laughing at him. With him. The sweetest, kindest, cutest New Yorker you’ve run into since your move.

Just before you stepped out onto the street, he called after you, “We’ve got new stuff coming in this weekend,” he gulped as you spun to smile at him, “We’re the only store that gets the good stuff, the real stuff, so… If you’re interested.” Any chance to see that face again.

“I’ll be here,” you’d smiled.

He’d given you a nod, some sort of relief washing over him. “Cool.”

“Cool.”

Leaping off of Jongho’s floor, tossing his phone onto his chest where he laid, you ran your hands through your hair and hurried for your shoes at the door. He sprung off the couch as you bustled about.

“What are you doing?”

Shaking your head, really fast, you slipped into your sandals and waved him away. “I have to go,” you sniffled. “I’ll call you later. Thanks for drinks.” Leaning into him to press a kiss to his cheek, you left him dumbfounded in his doorway.

“I’ll walk you, it’s late,” he shouted down his hallway.

Turning over your shoulder, you tried to smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Springing down three flights of stairs, you wiped your sleeves over your cheeks to dry them, and stepped out onto the street. Past nine o’clock, the New York nightlife bled onto the gravel, the stretches of concrete, balancing on curbs, weaving through cars, a favorite pastime of yours. And Yunho’s. Raw dogging the walk, no music, no phone checking, no one to talk to, you held your focus forward, your pace just as pointed, focused, brisk.

Cancel it all. The thought circled like a vulture in the hot summer sun. The gala, the fake dating, the crush on Hongjoong– Cancel it all. Get rid of it. None of this would happen, everything would go back to normal, and you wouldn’t be overthinking your feelings for Yunho. You already haven’t talked to him in three days, the dressing room incident having happened over seventy two hours ago. His hands touching you like you were the most delicate thing to exist. The way your bodies both reached for one another. How he told you everything he said wasn’t real.

“Not real my ass,” you muttered to yourself, stopping at a corner.

You crossed before the light turned, the tourists around you wide eyed and curious that a Do Not Cross didn’t stop you. They followed you, and you knew what they felt within them, the first time you darted across a street with the possibility of traffic incoming, little to nothing compared to that feeling. Doing everything for the first time in the city, the freedom, the anonymity, no limits, as if you were immortal, everlasting, whole. New York was your music.

‘The future’s open wide…’

Yunho was your music.

Summer air whipped through your hair, breezed over your skin, a type of fresh laced with a grunge you could taste, grit, determination, the opportunity to restart day after day, to become someone new, to step into who you were meant to be. Even alone on the street, strangers passed by, most you didn’t mind, they lived the life you envied, the life you came here to pursue, you had no fear. Somewhere he was here.

Yunho, a summer night on 32nd street, barreling up and down the sidewalks mouthing off, daring one another to go up to the karaoke bars, to flirt with the bartenders for free drinks, to climb the scaffolding and scream from the top of your lungs, just to fall into one another in fits of laughter before plopping down on a curb on the corner of 33rd and 5th Avenue to admire the Empire State Building. Dozing off on his shoulder as the liquor and rumble of the streets sung you to sleep. Having wandered too far from home, faced with an hour's walk back to your apartment… He tucked you under his arm, kept you awake by making you guess the songs he would sing, and he got you both on the subway and home before you realized you had to be up for work in three hours. 

Faced with dirty looks from others as you pushed through a crowded street corner, you eyed the lights, the crosswalk, and the moment the lights changed and the cars stopped, you ran. Even after you hit the curb, you kept running, skipping sideways through groups of girls in tiny party dresses, rounding men with trash cans by the curbs, dodging doors that swung open onto the street. You ran until his building came into view.

Sucking down air like it was your job, you stepped into the vestibule and pressed 323. Pressing a hand over your heart that pounded, you waited. He didn’t answer.

“C’mon,” you gasped, pressing it again. It buzzed. You waited. He didn’t answer.

“Fuck,” you cursed, pulling your phone out. Swiping to his number, you tapped it, pressing your phone to your ear. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… Pick up.”

“Your call has been forwarded to an automated–”

“Fuck!”

Leaning into the keypad, you pressed 323 eight times, quickly, before giving up with a groan. Kicking the wall, you staggered backward and sunk against the wall, staring at his apartment number like you’d be able to open it with your eyes. You tried his phone again, but he didn’t answer.

He should be home by now, he never stayed at the label this late. Unless he was making up for all the time he lost dealing with you, he never worked past eight, and usually got back by eight thirty. He could be with San, if you weren’t all out together, those two sometimes went out on their own, but it was Sunday.

About to tap his number again, or maybe Jongho, the inside door to the building pushed open, a woman in a knee length dress with curled hair holding it open for you. “Oh, here you go,” she said sweetly, her deep purple colored lips twisting into a smile. “I’ve seen you before.”

“Thank you,” you breathed, taking the door from her hands. Making sure it closed, you glared up the stairs and shook your head. “Six,” you spat. Go.

By floor three you were already winded. By floor five you propelled yourself up with your hands, slapping the concrete of the next step like it was your bitch. By floor six, you had to stop at the top and catch your breath. Several years in the city and the stairs were still your kryptonite. 

He better fucking be here.

Trudging down the hallway of concrete floor and old brown walls, you stopped in front of 323 and held up a fist, freezing before you could pound on it.

What were you going to say? Would you apologize? Would he apologize? Neither of you had anything to apologize for, this was… dumb. Did you think you would show up at his door and tell him… that you don’t know what you’re feeling? That you’re confused, that you think you might like him, that your feelings may be deeper than you thought, that you screwed up six years ago and friendzoned him and he was too sweet to act further? To take it further? Even though the way he pressed his thumb to your lips, the way he had his hands in your hair, your thoughts on the backburner, and his heart in your hands, your knees trembling–

“Shug?”

Your heart sunk to your knees, your stomach leapt up into your throat.

Whirling around, fist still in the air, you released a sigh. “Yunho.”

Wearing sweats, an unlikely outfit for him to be out and about in, accessoryless with a baseball cap on his head, he carried a garment bag folded in half and another bag slung over his shoulder, his leather bag. “What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping in front of you to unlock his door.

Scrambling back to give him some space, you gaped, a fish out of water. “I-I was… I tried calling you, but I…”

“I left my phone here,” he muttered, pushing the door open. Looking at you over his shoulder, his face unreadable, he asked, “You coming in?”

Stepping over the threshold, following him onto the hardwood of his kitchen, you folded your hands over your belly and bit down on your tongue before blabbing, “I’m here to apologize.”

Setting the bags down on the kitchen table he and San share, he creased his forehead and moved to hang up his hat on the handle of a kitchen cabinet. Popping the fridge open, he eyed the shelves. “Apologize for what?”

“For…” You took a breath and spun in a little circle, almost catching your ankles together. “For–”

Facing him, he waited patiently, holding out a water bottle for you to take. Reaching for it tentatively, he shoved it into your palm. “You smell like alcohol.”

“I was at Jongho’s,” you muttered, all emotion leaving your face. He grabbed the back of his hoodie and pulled it over his head, his t-shirt lifting underneath, flashing you his middle. His toned, golden skinned middle. Averting your gaze, you faced away from him and sipped from the water. 

Dressed down, entirely bare aside from the cotton that hung off of him, your apparent new attraction grew tenfold. His shirt was huge, his sweats were huge, but they were tight. They were tight in the–

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Snapping your eyes to his, you widened yours and nodded. “Yes,” you breathed, then screwed your eyes shut, “I mean, no, no, I’m not.”

“How did you get here?” He moved around his kitchen, searching for snacks in the cabinet. He was going to try to feed you. Hurrying to his side, you closed the doors he opened, and he gave you a crazed look. 

“I ran,” you said.

He froze. Hands in the air hovering in front of a handle, he laughed aloud once, then turned to press his backside to the counters. “You ran,” he parroted, crossing his arms over his chest. His biceps rippled under the loose sleeves. The veins on his forearms, they ran through his elbow to his fingertips. His fingers, they… “Shug.”

“Yeah,” you sighed breathlessly, fluttering your lashes as you looked up at him.

His brown eyes narrowed. “What is up?” Whether your movements were liquor fueled or entirely not your own, you reached for his arms, smoothing your hands over his skin. Face faltering, his eyes shot open as you stepped in front of him, your knees parting around his where they stuck out. “You’re drunk,” he said.

“I’m really not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Then catch up,” you whispered, pressing your fingertips into his skin.

“What are you here for?”

You glanced at the fridge. “Have a drink first.”

Groaning, getting nowhere with you, he gently moved you out of the way and scoured his fridge for a beer while you rifled through the cabinet over the sink and pulled down a bottle of vodka.

“Oh no,” he snickered, “I don’t think so. Put it back.”

Giving him a small smile, you acquired two shot glasses from their resting place. Placing the bottle and the glasses on the counter with a rattle of the glass, you poured out two and knocked one back. “You tell the truth when you’re drinking,” you cringed, nudging his shot closer to him.

The confusion that lived in his eyes since he came up the stairs somewhat subsided, but was still present. Downing half of his beer at once, typical male, he reached for the shotglass with his other hand and shook his head before taking it. Smacking it to the counter top with a groan and a gasp, he said, “I’m gonna hate you tomorrow morning.”

“Maybe,” you said, small and quiet.

“What is going on?” He finished his beer and crunched the can in one hand, throwing it into the kitchen sink with a clang. Pouring two more shots, you held up the glass for him to clink his with yours, and you took them at the same time. “Fuck,” he sneered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Coughing once, you managed, “We’re not going to the gala.”

Eyes shooting open, he cocked his head aside and he poured two more shots. “You’re not serious, we’re good, so what, we argued, we’ve done that before, we’ll–”

“Not like that,” you said, and he frowned.

“What do you mean?”

Clinking your glasses, you both took your third shot and exclaimed aloud. Swallowing thickly, you pointed at him, leaning over the counter he stood on the opposite of. “We’ve never argued… like that.”

Yunho shrugged, pointing his eyes at the glasses. “Whatever.”

Slamming a hand to the counter, you laughed. “That’s all you have to say? Whatever? You’re agreeing with me.”

“Am not,” he spat, giving you a crazed look. “You were bugging out over what happened with that fuckass asshole, and you decided to take it all out on me!”

Scoffing, laughing, maybe both at once, you sprung up and held out your hands. “Would you like me to tell you I wasn’t even thinking about him at all?”

Yunho sneered, “Bullshit, you’re always thinking about him. Him and that god awful attitude, cocky son of a bitch–”

“I was thinking about you,” you shouted, pouring two more shots.

Yunho pushed off the counter and gripped his chin, pulling at his lips. Parading around the kitchen with one hand on his hip. “He’s horrible, he’s horrible, and the shit that he says, and the way he says it, like it’s okay. He talks to all women like that, not just you, but it’s worse because it is you, and I–”

“Yunho,” you raised your voice, moving around the counter to grab onto his arms again, shaking him. “Did you hear me?”

Shaking his head, still lost in his thoughts, he tensed his jaw. “I didn’t, I’m so angry, he pisses me the fuck off.”

“Don’t let him,” you said softly, dragging your hands over his biceps, his forearms, his hands. “He’s not worth it.”

His ragged sigh washed over you. “He’s not, but fuck, he really gets under your skin, how did you put up with him for so long, I just…”

“I don’t know,” you mumbled, answering him between his rambles, “But, I’m done. I’m over it.” Your fingers tangled with his briefly, his distracted mind subconsciously grabbing onto them, letting you do whatever it is you wanted to do to him in this moment.

“He needs to be fired, he needs to be reported and fired…”

“Seonghwa’s taking care of it, I don’t think he’ll get fired.” Sliding your hands from his arms to his middle, you step closer to him and drug them under his shirt, your fingertips finally grazing his middle, his core, his toned belly. He didn’t even realize, he just let you.

“Even if he doesn’t, there needs to be something done with the CEO’s or something, shit, I don’t even know what they’re even called, I don’t know how this shit works, I just know it’s fucked up, and you’ve been subjected to it for so long…”

Placing your palms over his belly, your breath hitching in your chest as you gazed up at him while you felt him, how his chest rose and fell with every heavy breath, how his abs clenched with every bite of a word, your blood ran red hot. His lips, moving a mile a minute, you don’t remember when you stopped listening, you wanted to listen, but all you could think about was how they felt, what they’d feel like on yours, wrapped around your…

“Shug.” His voice was quiet.

Looking up at him, how close the two of you had gotten, how he had backed up against the kitchen cabinets, how you were pressing yourself to him. Your hands got greedy, you were gripping him with a vengeance, feeling him up from his belly to his chest, your fingers were peeking out of the neck of his shirt. “Yunho,” you whispered, shameless.

Blinking heavily in the dim light of his kitchen, he dropped his chin, your noses millimeters apart. “Did you say… You’re over it?”

Both hands slid over his chest and up to his shoulders, pressing your thumbs into the muscles. Nibbling at your bottom lip, you took a breath in time with him and nodded, slowly, whispering, “I did.”

A curse pushed through his lips, one you couldn’t make out in the slur of the liquor. “What are you thinking about right now?”

You dropped your hands lower, your fingertips grazing his nipples on purpose before you gripped his belly. Proud of how he hissed and flinched, you smiled. “You,” you said, blinking up at him. “What you said to me, and how you said it… How it made me feel.”

Breathless, he sighed, “How did it make you feel?”

“Like,” you gulped, using all liquid courage to make these words work, “Like, I wanted… Wanted you to…”

“Fuck,” he whispered, then seemed to remember what he had done, what he said, what he made you feel, what he so obviously realized that he made you feel. Taking his hands to your chin, thumbs pressing into your cheeks, he tipped your head back and lowered his. Eyes burning into yours, his voice rumbled so low you could feel him in your core. “Words. Big girl, remember?” 

“Take me,” you whispered, and he held back a smirk. “Take me, show me, do it to me, touch me, fuck me.” His lips parted with a sigh, his brows pinching in the center. “Do what he can’t, what he’ll never get the chance to do, love me.”

His eyes fluttered shut, his vodka laced breath grew uneven. “Hang on.. W-Wait…”

“Yunho,” you whined, and his eyes shot open. “I don’t care about what you’re gonna tell me, about how this s’gonna ruin something, it’s not gonna happen. I hate knowing there’s girls looking at you.”

“Girls looking at me,” he said an inside thought out loud.

“Ki told me,” you grumbled, sliding your hands around his back, leaning on his chest, “The girlies at the label love you.”

He squinted. “What girlies?”

“I dunno,” you said, loud, making him jump, “Maybe it’s Ki and Riley, I dunno, Yunho, do you hear me? I’m over this Hongjoong thing, I just told you to fuck me, and you’re standing here talking to me–”

His strong hands tipped you further back, his frame caging you in against his chest. Tilting his head, he curled his lip with a curse before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss burning hot, a mess of teeth, a mess of tongues, nothing perfect, just a total hot, wet mess. Gasping for air whenever your lips parted, you took your hands out of his shirt and threw them around his neck, lifting your knees to climb onto him. Grunting through clenched teeth as he hooked his arms around your thighs and pulled you higher, he groaned as your fingers knitted through his hair, giving him the gentlest tug.

“You can pull harder than that,” he muttered, and you smiled within the kiss. 

“Jeong Yunho,” you teased, head tilting as his lips trailed down the side of your neck. He took two steps forward and sat you down on the counter beside the vodka. Tugging again, harder, he groaned, a sound trapped within his chest. “This s’gon be fun,” you breathed.

Tongue lobbing out to lick stripes under your jaw, he nipped the skin of your neck and hummed, the noise vibrating through you. “Wha’s that,” he slurred, his hands gripping the curve of your waist, shamelessly sliding over your ass to squeeze.

“Figuring out what you like… What we like… Together.”

Connecting his lips with yours, he hummed here, smushing your noses together as he mumbled, “Let me do it.”

“Hm,” you hummed back, dipping your tongue out to swipe over his lips. Nipping at it with his teeth, his heavy eyes drank in your lips, already swollen and pink. 

“Let me do it,” he whispered, knees buckling as he tried to kiss you. Holding him by his hair, Yunho entirely leaned over you, his eyes drunk on you, his body drunk on the liquor, he licked his lips and shook his head. “You won’t have to do a thing,” his lower register struck through you, you needed your sweats off, now. “You won’t have to move, you won’t have to think.” Your lips parted and your eyes softened, and he smirked. “Let me do it.”

“Shit,” you hushed, grabbing onto his shirt, yanking it over his head. “Please.” He did the same with your hoodie, pulling it off of you, pleased to find nothing beneath it. He didn’t miss a second. Kissing down your neck, his tongue teasing you in all the right places, he slid his hands down your thighs and pressed them open. Afraid that you soaked through the cotton, your suspicions became true when he grinned up at you. Pulling your legs closed, he forced them back open.

“Don’t,” he whispered, kissing up the valley between your tits, wrapping his lip around your nipple, sucking at it harshly. The first moan fell from your lips, and he nearly crumbled. Fingers digging into your thighs, he muttered, “So fucking perfect.”

Tugging at his hair, the strands a complete tangle now that you’ve mussed them up, your head dropped back with another cry as he kissed the other, using his fingers to tease the perky bud he left a slick mess. “Yunho–”

“God, so perfect,” he groaned, grabbing handfuls of your tits as he stood up to press an open mouthed kiss to your lips, tongues in a tangle, whines intertwining. “Wanna play with you forever.”

“Please, please–”

“Please, what?” Against your lips, he snickered, quietly, proud of what he’s done to you already. 

“Touch me,” you whispered, sucking in a gasp as he slid his hands higher on your thighs, up to the curve of your hips, into the dips. 

His smile against your lips made your breath shake. “Can I?”

“Yunho,” you whined, trying to grind onto him, but he stood an inch too far. 

Glancing between you, he huffed a laugh. “Did I really work you up like this?”

Pulling at his hair, tugging him closer, your noses touched as you muttered, “I wanted you to dick me down on 7th Avenue, asshole.”

“Damn,” he pulled his brows together, “Really?” Rolling your eyes, he snickered. “There’s my girl.” You clenched around nothing, your jaw dropping open with a gasp. He dipped his thumbs over your clothed, wet, center. “Oh, that’s what you like, huh?” Writhing as his thumbs pressed into you, your moan made him pout. “Oh, babe,” he cooed, dragging them up and down, slowly, on purpose. “Feel good?”

Your fingers loosened in his hair. Limbs growing gooey, you smiled something ditzy and let your eyes close. “So good,” you whispered.

His lips ghosted your cheek, his nose pressing there instead. Rocking with you, he said, “I’m barely touching you. My girl’s needy, huh? Kept you waiting so long.”

“Why did you?” Breath irregular, you peeked at him and whined as he grazed over your sweet spot. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Touching the tip of his nose to yours, he gave you a gentle kiss, one that lingered, and whispered, “I was scared.”

“Don’t be,” you shook your head, feeling his thumbs still. The look in his eyes, one you’ve never seen before, one he’s kept hidden for too long, and you his mirror. 

He took a hand to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips. “I still am.”

“Let me prove this to you,” you whispered, “That this is real.” Squishing his cheeks in your hands, you kissed him and he laughed. “Let me do what you said you want me to do, let me–”

“No,” he said quickly, standing up straight, still taller than you even with you sitting on the countertop. “You have nothing to prove, nothing you owe, no task to fulfill. I had guy brain, and you don’t deserve guy brain.” Drinking in every word, you bobbed your head. “You really want me?”

Whispering, you smiled, “Since I met you.”

“Since you… Fuck, Shug,” he tried to push away from you, but you pulled him back in, engulfing his lips in a kiss, grabbing onto his shoulders, climbing on top of him. Clinging to his front, the feel of him holding you, carrying you, so secure, you wanted him to fall to the floor and let you defile him as you pleased, but he didn’t stay in the kitchen. Lips locked, he bumped into the skinny walls of the apartment as he stumbled into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. 

The idea that San could come home at any minute didn’t come to either of you, you left your shirts on the kitchen floor.

Splaying you onto his mattress, climbing over you, he gripped the waist of your sweats and pulled them off, doing the same with his own, wasting little to no time. Mouths working overtime, stifled moans swapped with the spit, he cradled the back of your knees and pushed your thighs against your chest. Parting from you, lips smacking, you caught your breath as he sat back and gazed down at you spread open for him. Shaking his head, taking in how your chest heaved, how your hair was thrown so sexily, so messy, how you glistened for him, all for him. 

He did this to you, made you a panting, sweaty, whiney mess. You were in his bed, naked in his bed, he kissed you, he touched you, he was about to… Fuck. Looking between you, at how he sucked down hungry air, how he gazed at your body in disbelief, how your legs were spread, how his heavy, leaking cock would not be able to fit inside of you…

“Yunho,” you whispered, or gasped, it sounded the same.

He gulped and gave you a shake of his head. “Trust me?”

“You’re so big,” you said without a second thought, and he held in his smile. “What the fuck, you… You’ve just been hiding this?”

“Would’ve let you see it if you asked me nicely,” he teased before his eyes narrowed slightly and he focused on your expression. “Trust me?”

Letting your head fall back on the mattress, you whispered, “Always.”

Bending in half, keeping his knees under your legs, he settled on top of you, soothing your racing heart with a soft kiss to your chest before he trailed up your neck to kiss your lips. His fingers smoothed down your belly and slipped between your legs, the first real feel of him touching you, teasing your clit, twisting his fingers in long, gentle circles to work you up, though it felt like he did this for his own enjoyment. 

Smiling as he felt your lips part and your arms wrap around his back, he pressed gentle kisses to your cheeks, groaning with you as you moaned for him with little to no regard for the neighbors. Vulnerable, sensitive, intimate, he thinks he could live right here forever and devote the rest of his life to bringing you pleasure. He grew harder, if that were possible, he thinks he’ll finish untouched, until you finally beg.

“Wanna feel you, wan’ you inside,” you pushed out through gusts of breath, “Please, Yunho, need you, need you.”

“Sound so pretty,” he mumbled through kisses to your skin, “Gotta help me, baby, okay?”

Your whine echoed through his room as you cried, “Okay.” Brows twisting, body burning, you arched off his bed as he slid two long, slender, curved fingers inside of you. 

“Damn, Shug,” he said through his teeth, scissoring his fingers as he slid them out of you before he pushed them back in. “Tight little thing, you gonna take all of me?”

“Yes,” you cried, melting into his touch, the slip of his fingers.

“Don’t be an overachiever,” he cooed, nudging your nose with his, the tips of your lips brushing together.

Jaw clenching, you stilled your breath, choked back a moan as he pressed his fingers up, finding that spot with ease, and managed to say, “I could go fuck Hongjoong instead.”

Yunho saw red. You broke out into a grin, biting down on your bottom lip. Pulling his fingers out of you, he grabbed both of your wrists and pinned them over your head. Connecting his hips with yours, his cock slipping through your arousal, over your clit, he laughed as you whined, and he held you tighter, your legs, your body, folded in half.

“You’d think I’d see this coming,” he groveled, pressing his nose to your cheek. Angling his hips so his tip caught your entrance, he bared his teeth and spat, “My girl’s a brat.” The pressure between your hips grew as he pushed himself into you, inch by inch, slowly, lips parting as you sucked him in, both of you. “You want him?” His voice shook, his stomach tensed, his grip on your wrists grew even tighter.

Through a breath, you cried, “Yunho,” back arching into his chest, arms and legs writhing in ecstasy, the shock subsiding leaving you completely and utterly cockdrunk. 

“Moanin’ my name, but telling me y’want him,” he snapped, testing the waters with a slow drag of his hips. Using one hand to hold both your wrists, he took the other between your legs, playing with you. “Who knew my girl was so messy, huh? You feel this?” The tip of his middle finger swirled over your clit, your body trembling. “So wet,” he whispered, grazing his lips over the shell of your ear, “Let me right in, baby, you don’t want him. You’re just a needy little cockslut who’ll say anything to get what she wants, huh?”

Pleasure shot through your middle. “H’my god,” you moaned as he moved again, each gentle thrust of his hips rendering you thoughtless. “Your mouth.”

“My mouth?” He thrust again, harder this time. You nodded and parted your lips to speak, but he slid his finger in, the one he touched you with, spreading your own sweetness over your tongue. “Talk about yours.” Lips wrapping around the digit, you sucked as he pushed it towards the back of your throat, seeing stars as he pushed into you, harder, getting faster as he felt you relax further.

“Saying his name,” he snapped, pulling his finger out with a pop to your dismay. You whined and he shook his head. “Bad girls don’t get what they want, do you hear yourself?” Both of his hands held onto your wrists again. Shifting over you, pressing down on your hands, propping himself up on his knees, lifting your hips in the debauched act, he smirked. “You’re mine.”

Insatiable, starved, entirely feral, he pistoled into you, your foreheads pressed together, your lips bumping with every other moan, every other smack of his hips against yours. 

“You’re mine,” he growled again, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, his breath rough and ragged. Enthralled with how you writhed, how you cried out his name, how no other word seemed to come to mind, he smiled wickedly, and you clenched around him. “Squeezin’ me already, you like to hear that? That you’re mine?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your lungs filling with air that didn’t seem to release, “Say it, say it.”

He let go of your hands and groaned, sliding them beneath your body, holding onto you. Burying his face in your neck, he latched his teeth to your skin as he rutted into you and moaned, “Mine. No one else can fucking touch you,” he pushed himself up to his elbows to kiss you messily, “I do have a claim on you, fuck anyone else who tries. You belong to me.”

Hands clasping around his back, your nails dug into his skin, scrambled pink lines drawing over the expanse of his golden skin. Your body, gleaming with a sheen that matched his, clung to him. So full, so complete, you didn’t want him to let go. You’d spend eternity getting rocked senseless by Jeong Yunho.

The press of his lips to your skin, the clench of your belly as he pushed himself inside you to the hilt, his hands clinging to you like you were the last strain of sanity in the world–

“I love you,” you whispered, feeling your throat tighten. Tears welled in your eyes as he picked up his head in shock, his eyes wide, his hips slowing. 

Mid-breath with parted lips, he brought his hands to your cheeks and held you.

“God, don’t stop,” you whined, half laughing as your tears spilled, “Keep going.”

Yunho, heart thundering in his chest, breath racking through his lungs, he shook his head and drug his thumbs under your eyes to wipe them clean. It took him eight seconds, but he whispered, “I love you too.”

Gazing up at him, trembling in ecstasy and through tears, you grabbed his cheeks and pulled him down to kiss him, hard and soft, all at once. Within it he groaned and grabbed onto you, wrapping himself around you, hitting that pace from before, hard and soft, all at once. 

Minutes passed, several sweaty, disgusting, erotic minutes of skin on skin, becoming a part of one another. His bed had shifted, it banged into the wall, the frames of old records already shaking from the noise alone. You were too wrapped up in one another to notice, to care, to give a shit. From mewls, to moans, to giggles, to filthy words, neither of you wanted this to end, but with an ending came a promise of again.

High pitched and entirely deranged, you cried out for him, your vision searing white hot, your body doused in him, clenching around his cock, shaking in his hold, giving him the most vulnerable part of you, allowing him to drive you here, to hold you through it, to talk you through it. His swift mumbles of, “Good girl, oh fuck… Feels so good, I know, did so good… I’m right here, right here– Fuck, where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you whispered, voice broken, only able to hold onto him, your nose pressed to his cheek. “Inside.”

The creak beneath you was obscene as he sped up, focused on his own high, spiraling you into overstim. Head going dizzy as he took you, and used you for what he wanted, what he needed, you moaned with him as he spilled into you, his teeth pressing into your shoulder as he came.

Everything went still, aside from the rise and fall of your chests. Everything went quiet, aside from the gentle noises slipping through your lips.

Lifting his head, his lids heavy, his lips swollen, he gazed down at your fucked out eyes and flushed cheeks and sighed. “You’re so pretty,” he whispered, pushing hair from your face, planting a kiss to your cheek. Blinking up at him, you could only manage a small smile. “Was this your plan? When I found you at my door?” 

Shaking your head, you moved at a snail's pace, taking your hands to his cheeks, your body exhausted and trembling. “No,” you whispered, smoothing your thumbs under his lashes, “Just wanted the truth.”

Yunho pursed his lips, his brows curious under his messy hair. “The truth?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, “You do love me.”

“I have since I met you,” he confessed, dragging the backs of his fingers along the edge of your jaw.

“I think I have, too,” you whispered. “I was just…”

Yunho shut his eyes for a second. “Scared.”

“Yeah, scared.”

He started to smile. “Are you still?”

“Not with you,” you whispered, “Never with you. Why do you think I had the balls to say it?”

Laughing, he shifted over you and your bodies parted. Admiring how your lips popped open at the feel, he smiled and pressed a kiss to your bottom lip. “I love you,” he said quietly, like someone would hear him, someone like you.

Cheeks going pink, you smiled. “I love you too.”

“Come shower with me,” he whispered against your dewy skin.

“You might have to carry me, you’re a wild animal.”

His smile pierced through your heart and stirred your belly, swimming in the leftover pleasure he’d brought you to mere minutes ago. “Anything for you, Shug.”

Crawling off of you, he helped you up and wrapped an arm around your back. Pulling open his door a crack, he peered out into the shared space and listened.

Swatting at his chest, you giggled, “You really think he came home?”

Shrugging, he shot you a sarcastic look, “Wouldn’t be able to hear him if he did, you’re really loud.”

“Yunho,” you gasped, bumping him with your hip.

“Look’s like your strength is back,” he teased, “Guess you can walk to the bathroom alone.” His grin grew as he slid his arm off of you, laughing as you grabbed onto him and clung to his side.

“Don’t be a jerk.”

Smoothing a hand over your hair, he hushed you and shook his head, “I’m sorry, I’m kidding, I’d never. C’mon.”

Taking you out toward the kitchen, the bathroom on San’s side of the apartment, you tiptoed over the hardwood, and you both paused.

Your hoodie and his shirt, they were folded neatly and placed on the counter beside the bottle of vodka that had been capped, the shot glasses arranged nicely next to it. 

“Uh, we didn’t do that, did we?” he asked, sharing a just as confused look with you.

Thinning your lips, you felt your cheeks flush of all color as you looked up at him. “Nope.”

“Ah, shit,” he grumbled, “Where’s my phone?”

Glancing around, letting yourself slip away from him, you searched for yours as well. Finding it on the other counter, again placed nicely, surprised he didn’t also plug it into a charger for you, you swiped it open and drafted a text to Seonghwa, one you sent with an apology for the late hour.

Yunho groaned from behind you, swiping his hand over his forehead, pushing his hair back. “Well,” he trailed off, stepping to your side, showing you his screen and his text from San.

UR BROTHER: jongho and i are going to dante’s, glad you idiots worked this shit out IT’S ABOUT DAMN TIME… meet us here when you’re done, i want details, jongho doesn’t, please help me torture him… sounds like your doing a good job though!!! 

Your shoulders rose to eat your ears.

Yunho bent his knees and leaned into you, popping a kiss to your cheek. “Loud.”

“Stop!” Whining, you shoved him, and he staggered back with a laugh. 

“It’s hot,” he shrugged, reaching for you to pull you into the bathroom, “I like it that way. We gonna go get a drink?”

Leaning against the doorframe, watching him turn the hot water on, you admired his bare body and smirked. “If we’re sure that San’ll go home with Jongho.”

Whipping himself around, he took one stride toward you and looped his arms around your neck, pulling you into him. “He always goes home with Jongho, and you’re coming back here with me.”

Biting down on your bottom lip, you smized. “You serious?”

He curled his lip and dropped his chin down to kiss you rough, whispering, “Deadly. Now get in here and let me see if I can make you cum in five minutes.”

“Yunho,” you laughed, having blushed more in your time with him this evening than ever in your life. He whisked you beneath the hot water and pushed you up against the wall, kissing you. 

Pulling his lips away, he pressed his forehead to yours and took a deep breath. “I don’t wanna go to the gala.” A smile pulled at the corners of your lips, growing until you almost doubled over in laughter. “Whaaat,” he whined, laughing with you, the sound contagious. 

Gripping his cheeks you shook him a bit. “Don’t worry about that, we’re not going. I just told Seonghwa.”

“Oh,” he sighed, relieved, “Okay, good, that’s okay?”

“More than okay,” you rolled your eyes, “I didn’t wanna go either.”

Pulling his lips to the side, he said, “I got your dress fixed.” Taking your wide eyes for an answer, he added, “I went back to the store to get it, San knows someone really good at this kind of stuff.”

“Who is she?”

“He. A drag queen in Greenwich.”

Huffing through a laugh, you shook your head. “You know sometimes they prefer it if you call them she.”

Yunho furrowed his brows. “His name was Brian.”

Tilting your head, you squinted. “Huh… Why are they all named Brian?”

“Don’t know…” His voice trailed off, leaving you both in thought until he dropped down to his knees and spread your thighs apart with his chin. Laughing at how you shrieked, he wiggled his way between them and kissed the inside of your hips.

Your fingers tangled with his hair. Laying your head on the wall, you laughed breathlessly, “Five minutes.”

He smirked and poked out his tongue. “Starting now.”

you do not have permission to copy or translate my works without my consent.

masterlist | talk to me | ao3

[03jyh23]

“It’s Not the First Time I Call You Baby” — s.m.g

── friends to lovers, non idol!mingi x fem!reader

“Tell me again. Tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.” Three months ago, you and your best friend called it a mistake and buried it under silence. Tonight, one stranger gets too close and Mingi finally says the part you’ve both been choking on. Now the only question is whether you can survive the version of Mingi that’s done waiting.

Genre: smut with plot, angst-ish(?) Trigger Warnings: (spoilers ahead) alcohol use, arguments, anger, manipulation, guilt-tripping, explicit language, jealousy and possessiveness, physical violence, sexual explicit content (mdni) , rough/nasty sex, hard/mean dom! mingi, degradation, humiliation, name-calling (slut), breath play, hand on throat (not fully choking), biting, marking, hair pulling, semi-public sex/risk of being caught (car, taxi, elevator), unsafe sex, manhandling, big dick mingi, p in v, oral sex (m! receiving), throat fucking, a lot of cum (everywhere), cream pie, cum eating, multiple orgasms, dacryphilia, face slapping, spanking, breasts play, breeding kink-ish, masturbation, squirting WC: 19.6k

Mon’s Note: for my darling @minkieater!! thank you for trusting me with this request and for pushing me to write mingi in a way i don’t usually do. i must say it was a challenge but nonetheless i enjoyed it a lot! hopefully it turned out the way you imagined, sweetheart 🫶🏻 have fun with it!!

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The bass rattled through your molars, a rhythmic thud that drowned out the pulse in your own neck. The air in the middle of the floor was a soup of expensive cologne, salt-slicked skin, and the heavy scent of smoke. Behind you, the guy you’d been grinding against for the last three songs shifted his weight, his palms damp where they gripped the curve of your waist. He was a good dancer but the friction was starting to feel less like a release and more like a chore. You peeled his hands away with a practiced, apologetic tilt of your head, the neon blue light catching the sweat on your collarbone. He said something, but the words were swallowed by a remix of a track you didn’t recognise. You just pointed toward the booths, offering a non-committal wave before weaving through the thicket of bodies.

Mingi was exactly where you’d left him, though the rest of the group had long since scattered into the chaos. He was leaning against the high mahogany table. The new blonde of his hair was tucked haphazardly behind his ears, the strands glowing every time the strobe swept past. He wasn’t looking at the crowd. He wasn’t looking at his phone.

He was looking at you.

His chocolate eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris, tracking your progress across the floor with a heavy, unblinking focus. He didn’t look like he was having fun. He looked like he was vibrating at a frequency that might shatter the glass in his hand.

“You look like you’re at a funeral,” you hiked your voice to reach him, sliding into the narrow gap between his body and the table. The heat radiating off him was different from the dance floor—dryer, more concentrated. Mingi didn’t move back to give you space. He stayed still, his height forcing you to crane your neck, his shadow swallowing you whole.

“Do I?” His voice was a low rumble that you felt in your chest more than you heard in your ears. He didn’t smile. He just watched the way your chest rose and fell with your heavy breathing.

“Yeah. Serious. Grumpy.” You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold, condensation-slicked glass of the beer bottle he was white-knuckling. “You’re bringing the vibe down, Min. You need to get laid or get drunk. Preferably both.” You didn’t wait for an invitation. You wrapped your hand over his—your skin stinging at the contact of his frozen knuckles—and tilted the beer bottle toward your mouth. You took a long, stinging swallow, the bitter amber liquid cutting through the coat of sugar on your tongue from the cocktails earlier. When you pulled away, a stray drop of foam lingered on your lower lip. You didn’t miss the way Mingi’s gaze dropped to it, his jaw muscle jumping as he ground his teeth together.

“That’s mine,” he muttered.

“Everything of yours is mine,” you countered, leaning your hip into his thigh to steady yourself as a group of drunks stumbled past. “Since when do we care about germs? We’ve shared everything.”

Mingi let out a sharp, jagged breath through his nose. He took the bottle back, but he didn’t drink. He just held it, his thumb stroking the neck of the glass in a rhythmic motion. “The guy,” Mingi said, his voice dropping an octave, rasping against the music. “He had his hands all over you.”

“That’s usually how dancing works,” you teased, reaching up to flick a stray blonde hair away from his forehead. Your fingers lingered for a second too long against his skin—he was burning up, a stark contrast to the ice-cold beer. “He was fine. Boring, but fine.”

Mingi leaned down, his face inches from yours. The smell of him suddenly outweighed the scent of the club. His eyes searched yours, intense and frantic. “You’re sweat-soaked,” he noted, his free hand came up, not to touch you, but to hover just an inch from your waist, the heat of his palm seeping through your clothes. “You should sit down. Get some air.”

“I don’t want air,” you said, feeling a strange, tight coil of tension pull in your gut. You reached out, grabbing the material of his shirt to pull him a fraction closer. “I want you to stop acting like a bodyguard and start acting like my best friend. Drink. Dance. Find a girl. I’ll even vet her for you.”

Mingi’s hand finally closed the distance, his fingers splaying wide over the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. The movement was sudden, knocking the breath right out of your lungs. “I don’t want a girl,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he lowered his head.

You leaned back just enough to catch the dark, honeyed shift of his eyes, the sticky heat of the club rushing into the inch of space between your chests. You let out a huff of a laugh, your hand still at his shoulder for balance while the floor tilted slightly under your shoes. “You better change your mind then,” you teased, your voice bright and irreverent over the thumping music. You didn’t lower your volume; the crudeness felt natural between you, a byproduct of years of shared secrets and unfiltered bullshit. “Your dick needs a good sucking, Min. You’re wound so tight I can practically hear your gears grinding from here. Go find a victim.” You flashed him a grin—the one that usually got him to stop brooding—and reached for the beer again, taking another long, unhurried swallow. The cold liquid slid down your throat, a sharp contrast to the humid air pressing against your skin.

Mingi didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a self-deprecating smirk. Instead, his fingers, still splayed across the small of your back, twitched. The fabric of your dress bunched under his palm as his grip tightened, drawing you a fraction closer until your thighs brushed his. He was tracking the way your throat moved as you swallowed, his jaw locked in a hard, protruding line. “Is that what you think?”

“I know it is,” you patted his chest, the muscle beneath his shirt felt like carved stone. “I’ve seen you when you’re stressed. You’re a menace. Go. I’ll be fine. I might even go find that guy again—he had a nice rhythm.”

Mingi’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the faint click of his teeth over the sub-bass. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. He just stared at you, then, without a word, he tilted his head back. You watched the column of his throat work as he downed the rest of the beer in several heavy, aggressive gulps. The glass rattled against his teeth. When he pulled the bottle away, a single trail of amber liquid escaped the corner of his mouth, glistening in the strobe light before he wiped it away with the back of a shaking hand.

“Okay,” he said. The word was clipped, stripped of any warmth. It wasn’t the voice of the best friend; it was the voice of a man who had reached a very specific, very dangerous limit. He set the empty bottle on the table with a sharp clack and turned away. He didn’t look back. Not once. He didn’t check to see if you were following, didn’t offer a “see you later,” didn’t even spare you a final glance. He simply melted into the shifting sea of limbs on the dance floor, his blonde head bobbing through the neon haze like a signal fire being swallowed by the dark.

You blinked, the sudden absence of his heat leaving a strange, chilly vacuum against your front. “Well,” you muttered to yourself, the word lost to a sudden surge in the music’s volume. “Ask and you shall receive, I guess.” You shifted your weight, the floor sticky beneath your boots. You’d gotten what you wanted—Mingi was finally out there, hopefully looking for someone to help him sweat out that foul mood—but the air felt thinner without him hovering over you. You shook the feeling off, rolling your shoulders to loosen the tension that had settled there.

Time to find Mr. Rhythm.

You scanned the crowd, squinting against the blinding flashes of violet and white. The club was a kaleidoscope of blurred faces and grinding hips. You spotted the VIP section, where a group was spraying champagne, the fine mist catching the light like diamonds. You looked toward the bar, then back toward the floor where you’d been earlier. There. About twenty feet away, near the speakers, you caught the back of a familiar head—the guy from before. He was already back at it, his hands on the hips of a girl in a red dress, moving with that same fluid, easy confidence.

You felt a sharp, unexpected prick of annoyance in your chest. That was fast.

You turned your head, searching for Mingi instead. You found him almost instantly. He wasn’t hard to miss. He was standing near the edge of the floor, and he wasn’t alone. A girl with long, dark hair had already gravitated toward him, her hand resting brazenly on his bicep as she shouted something into his ear. Mingi was leaning down, his ear inches from her lips, his expression unreadable. From this distance, he looked like a different person.

You stood there for a moment, glued to the edge of the mahogany table, your fingers tracing the ring of condensation Mingi had left behind.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. His hair was catching every flicker of the neon lights. The girl with the dark hair was closer now, her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his jeans, pulling herself into the narrow orbit of his space. Mingi didn’t push her away. He didn’t lean in, either. He just stood there, tall and terrifyingly still, his head tilted back as he looked down at her with an expression that was cold, and entirely unrecognisable. It felt like watching a stranger wear your best friend’s skin. The knot in your stomach tightened, a dull ache that had nothing to do with the alcohol you had.

“You look like you’re waiting for a crash.” The voice was slick, cutting through the electronic roar of the track. You turned your head, blinking against a sudden burst of violet light. A man was standing beside you, leaning one elbow on the table. He was older than the guy you’d been dancing with, wearing a crisp black button-down and a heavy silver signet ring on his pinky. He held two glasses—crystal tumblers filled with an amber liquid and a single, oversized cube of ice.

“I’m just watching the show,” you said, your voice raspy from the smoke and the shouting.

“That tall, blonde guy?” The stranger followed your gaze, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer before sliding one of the tumblers across the wood toward you. “He looks like he’s trying to set the room on fire. You look like you’re wondering if you should call the fire department.”

You looked at the drink. “I don’t take drinks from people I don’t know,” you said, though your hand moved toward the glass of its own accord. Your throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

“I’m Seongmin,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone that didn’t need to strain against the music. He took a sip of his own drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now you know me. Drink it. It’s better than that bottom-shelf lager the blonde guy was chugging.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the glass. The condensation was biting, a shock of cold against your palm. You took a sip—it was a peaty, expensive Scotch that burned all the way down, lighting a small fire in your belly.

“Better?” he asked, stepping a fraction closer. He smelled of peppermint gum and expensive leather.

“Stronger,” you countered.

Seongmin leaned in, “Strong is what you look like you need,” he reached out, his movements fluid and deliberate, and tucked a damp lock of hair behind your ear. His fingertips were warm—dry and steady—lingering against the sensitive skin of your temple. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you lied.

“Your shoulders are up to your ears.” He let his hand slide down, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before his palm settled heavily on the nape of your neck. It was a grounding weight, firm enough to make you still. “There. Better.”

Across the room, the violet strobe cut through the dark, illuminating Mingi. He wasn’t paying attention to the girl grinding on him anymore. He was looking straight at you. Even from twenty feet away, the intensity of his stare felt like a physical shove.

Seongmin noticed. He didn’t turn around to look, but his eyes narrowed as they tracked yours. A slow, predatory smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s very protective, isn’t he? Your... friend.”

“He’s just moody,” you snapped, turning your back on the dance floor to face Seongmin fully. The movement brought you deep into his space, the scent of leather and peppermint thickening. “He needs to mind his own business.”

“I agree.” Seongmin’s hand shifted from your neck to your waist, pulling you an inch closer. “You’re much too vibrant to be watched over like a child.” He took the glass from your hand, setting it behind him without breaking eye contact. Then, he took your wrist. He didn’t ask. He simply guided your hand up until your palm was flat against his chest, right over the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart. The silk of his black shirt was cool, but the body beneath it was searing. “Dance with me.” It wasn’t a question, your legs were already moving as he backed away, leading you by the wrist toward a darker corner of the floor, away from the main crush but directly into Mingi’s line of sight.

The music shifted—the aggressive EDM fading into a R&B track with a bass line that felt like velvet. Seongmin didn’t waste time with distance. He stepped into you, his thighs slotting between yours, his hands sliding down to rest low on your hips. He moved with a slow, grinding confidence that made the previous guy look like an amateur. He surged forward, forcing you to take a half-step back until your spine hit the padded velvet of a pillar. He followed, pinning you there with the weight of his body. His hands didn’t stay still; they wandered, one sliding up to bunch the fabric at your waist, the other reaching up to cup your face, his thumb pressing firmly into your lower lip.

“You have a very loud mouth,” he said, his voice a dark, amused rumble. “I wonder if it tastes as sharp as it sounds.”

You felt the heat of him everywhere. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the collar of his black shirt, intending to pull him closer. He tilted his head, his lips grazing the corner of yours—a dry, searing contact that sent a jolt of static electricity straight to your toes. You felt the heavy silver of his ring press into the soft skin behind your ear, a cold touch as he began to claim the space you’d so carelessly offered. His tongue flicked out, a ghost of a touch against the seam of your lips, tasting the salt and the lingering amber of the drink he’d given you.

Seongmin’s thumb didn’t just rest on your lip; it hooked into the corner of your mouth, dragging the sensitive skin downward to expose the damp gleam of your teeth. The bass of the R&B track vibrated through the velvet-padded pillar behind you, rattling your ribcage and syncing with the heavy, insistent thud of his heart against your palm.

He shifted his weight, his thigh high and hard between yours, pressing upward with a slow, agonizing deliberation. The friction of his suit trousers against your thinner fabric was a dry heat that made your breath hitch, hitching again when he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your knuckles.

“Not so loud now,” he murmured. He leaned in, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. He didn't close the distance to your lips. Instead, he tilted his head, his nose grazing yours, trailing down to the sensitive dip of your cupid’s bow. He inhaled sharply, a ragged sound that vibrated in his chest.

“Your friend is burning a hole in the back of your head,” Seongmin whispered, his breath ghosting over your damp lips, tasting of the same amber liquor. “Do you care? Or are you too busy feeling me?”

His hand at your waist tightened, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hip bone, pulling you flush against the rigid line of his belt. He began to move—a slow, rhythmic grind that was less about the music and more about the friction. Each roll of his hips was a calculated invasion, forcing you to arch your back against the pillar, your fingers twitching where they were trapped between your chests.

You tried to pull him closer by the collar, the silk bunching in your fist, but he resisted, holding his head just an inch back. He wanted you reaching. He wanted you strained. His tongue flicked out again, tracing the very edge of your upper lip, a teasing, wet velvet that left you shivering.

“Answer me,” he commanded, the ‘s’ lingering into a hiss. He punctuated the demand with a sudden, sharper surge of his hips.

The air in the corner was thick, stripped of oxygen and replaced by the scent of him and the heat of the crowd a few feet away. You could hear the muffled clink of glasses and the roar of the party, but here, pinned under his shadow, the only thing that mattered was the way his thumb was now sliding inside your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, claiming the silence you’d finally fallen into.

He watched your eyes blow wide, his own dark and heavy-lidded, tracking the way your throat worked as you swallowed around him.

Then, a shadow fell over both of you.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” Mingi looked feral, his blonde hair damp and sticking to his temples, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a marathon. “She’s done.”

Seongmin didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. He just tilted his head, his thumb still depressing your bottom lip, exposing the pink dampness of the inside. “She looks like she’s just starting, actually. Maybe you should take the hint, kid. You’re the only one here who’s uncomfortable.”

Mingi stepped forward, his hand lashing out to grip Seongmin’s wrist. He didn’t just pull it away; he twisted, a low growl vibrating in his throat that was purely animal. “I said,” Mingi rasped, his face inches from Seongmin’s, his knuckles white where he held the older man’s wrist, “she’s done”. He didn’t look at you—he couldn’t. If he looked at you, he’d see the flush on your neck and the way your mouth was still parted from Seongmin’s touch, and he knew he’d lose the last thread of his sanity.

“I’m not finished,” you managed to get out, your voice sounding thin and breathy even to your own ears. The adrenaline was pulsing in your blood, caught between the slick, practiced heat of Seongmin and the raw, bleeding energy radiating off Mingi.

Mingi’s other hand found your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising force that made you gasp. He yanked you toward him, stumbling you out from between Seongmin and the pillar, tucking you firmly under the line of his shoulder. He was shaking—hard enough that you could feel the tremors through his clothes.

“Mingi, stop,” you hissed, grabbing his forearm. “You’re making a scene.”

“We’re leaving,” Mingi stated. “Now.”

Seongmin stepped forward again, ignoring Mingi’s posturing. He reached out, his fingers skimming down the line of your arm, just inches away from where Mingi was holding you. “If you want to finish,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours, ignoring the blonde man entirely, “I’ll be at the bar. Don’t let the noise hold you back.” He winked and turned on his heel, disappearing into the neon haze with a grace that made the rest of the club look clumsy.

The silence between you and Mingi was a living thing, more deafening than the music screaming from the rafters. He didn’t let go of you. He started walking, his pace aggressive, dragging you through the thicket of bodies. He didn’t care if he bumped into people; his shoulders were set in a hard, uncompromising line.

Mingi’s hand didn’t just stay on your wrist; he hiked it up, forcing your arm between your chests as he crowded you back against the mahogany bar. The wood bit into the small of your back. Around you, the club blurred into a frantic smear of neon, but Mingi was the only thing in high-definition—the sweat beading on his upper lip, the raw, dilated heat of his pupils.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped, his voice jagged and loud enough to pierce the music. “Folding for some suit who looks like he’s scouting for a second wife? Are you actually that dense?”

You didn’t shrink away. You stepped into the suffocating radius of his space, poking a finger hard into his chest, right over his thundering heart. “I was just having fun until you decided to play the caveman!”

Mingi let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh that had no humour in it. He leaned down, his face so close you could see the frantic, rhythmic pulse in his temple. “Oh, I’m the caveman? You’re the one standing here wagging your tail for any guy with a silver ring and a line of bullshit.” He sneered, his eyes raking over you with a disdain that stung worse than any insult. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that? You told me to go get laid, telling me I’m ‘wound too tight’—but look at you.” He reached out, his hand moving too fast to track, his fingers hooking into the hair at the nape of your neck and tugging, just enough to force your chin up. His touch was electric and furious. “Look at you,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration that bypassed your ears and settled deep in your gut. “You’re practically begging for it. You’re flushed, you’re panting, and you’ve got his damn thumb-prints all over your face. Is that what you wanted? To see how long it would take for me to lose it?”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you hissed, your breath hitching as his thumb swiped across your lower lip—hard, as if he were trying to scrub Seongmin’s touch right off your skin. “You don’t get to act like this.”

“I get to act however the fuck I want when I’m watching you throw yourself at a predator,” he growled. He stepped even closer, his thigh forcing its way between yours, pinning you firmly against the table. The friction of his denim against your skin was a shock. “You think he wanted to talk? You think he wanted to hear your ‘witty banter’? He wanted to see how easy it would be to get you into a car. And you were making it real damn easy for him.”

“He was a better dancer than you’ve been all night,” you taunted, the words slipping out before you could filter them, fuelled by the sting of his grip.

Mingi’s expression shifted—the anger didn’t fade, but it sharpened into something dark and concentrated. He didn’t yell this time. He leaned in until his lips were brushing the shell of your ear, his chest heaving against yours. “A better dancer? Is that what this is? You want to be handled? You want someone to stop being ‘nice’ and just take what they want?”

His hand slid from your neck down to your waist, his fingers digging into the soft skin there, pulling you so flush against him. He wasn’t acting like a bodyguard anymore. He was acting like a man who had finally stopped pretending he didn’t want to break you.

“Tell me,” he rasped, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “Do you want me to be like him? Do you want me to stop being your ‘best friend’ and start being the guy who puts his hands wherever he wants? Because I can be that guy, Y/N.” The neon light overhead flickered, casting a sickly violet strobing across Mingi’s face, turning his features into a series of jagged, angry shadows. He looked like he was vibrating, the sheer force of his irritation radiating off his skin in waves of dry heat.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that! You don’t own me!” you snarled, the words tasting like the peat and fire of cocktails and Scotch. Your pulse was a frantic hammer against your ribs. “You’ve been acting like this all night—like you have some kind of divine right to be pissed off just because I’m breathing the same air as other men.”

“I have every right!” Mingi barked, the sound cutting through the synth-heavy beat of the music. He didn’t flinch as a group of clubbers squeezed past, his world narrowed down to the few inches of charged air between your faces. His blonde hair was a ruined mess, damp strands clinging to his forehead, and his eyes were wild—blown wide and dark, searching yours for a shred of the loyalty he thought he possessed.

“Based on what?” you challenged, stepping into him until your chest heaved against the solid, unyielding plane of his. “Based on a decade of friendship? Friends don’t act like this! Friends don’t suffocate each other! They don’t play the jealous watchdog every time someone looks my way!”

Mingi’s laugh was a jagged, ugly sound that started deep in his throat and ended in a sneer. He let go of you, but any hope of space vanished as he slammed both palms onto the mahogany table behind you. The wood groaned under the impact. He leaned in, his large frame creating a cage of heat and muscle, effectively pinning you against the bar.

“Friends?” the word dripped with a bitter, metallic irony that made your stomach flip. “Is that what we’re sticking with? Is that what we were three months ago?” He lowered his head, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and smelling of the beer he’d used to try and drown his temper. His eyes dropped to your mouth, tracking the frantic movement of your breathing with a terrifying, singular focus. “Was I just a ‘friend’ when you spent three hours screaming my name in my apartment because you couldn’t get enough of me? When you had your nails buried in my back, begging me not to stop?”

The air left your lungs in a silent rush. The memory hit you—the smell of rain on his skin that night, the way the floorboards had groaned under the weight of the two of you, the desperate, fumbling heat of a “mistake” you’d both agreed to bury under a mountain of “it was just the drinks” and “we’re fine.”

“Oh, you’re going to bring that up now?” you breathed, your hands coming up to his chest to push him back, but your fingers only curled into the damp fabric of his shirt. “We agreed, Mingi! We sat on your living room floor and promised it was a mistake! We shook on it! You don’t get to keep that in your back pocket like a fucking weapon just because you’re having a bad night! So shut the fuck up!”

“I won’t,” he growled, his hand moving from the table to catch your jaw, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your bone. It wasn’t a gentle touch. “You don’t get to go back to ‘friends’ because it’s convenient! You think I can just watch that suit touch you and not want to rip his hands off?” His grip on your jaw tightened just a fraction, his eyes dark with a desperate, starving hunger.

“We said that didn’t count! We agreed. It was a one-time thing. It was a slip-up!”

“You call the way you clutched at my back a ‘slip-up’? The way you begged me not to stop? That’s a hell of a lot of effort for a ‘slip-up,’ baby.”

“Don’t call me that!” You hissed, your vision blurring with a mix of heat and pure, unadulterated rage. “You’re just pissed because you can’t control me. You’re acting like I’m some prize you won three months ago and now you’re mad someone else is looking at the trophy.”

Mingi’s hand slammed against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning under the impact. The sound was a gunshot in the dark. “I don’t want a fucking trophy! It’s not the first time I call you ‘baby’, and you damn well know it wasn’t just a ‘slip-up’ for me.” Mingi roared, his composure finally snapping. “It’s been three months of me watching you pretend it never happened! Three months of me watching you smile at other guys while I can still feel the way your skin felt under my hands.” He was shaking now, his hands white-knuckled against the mahogany. The subtext was gone; the ugly, beautiful truth was laid bare between you, more neon and loud than anything in the club.

“You want me to go get laid?” he barked, his voice a jagged, ugly thing. “Fine. Give me a name, Y/N. Who should I go fuck tonight to make you feel better about being a coward? Should I find some random bitch at the bar who doesn’t mind being seen in public with me? Someone who isn’t busy playing ‘best friend’ while she’s still got the ghost of my hand on her thigh?”

He leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes bloodshot and burning with a terrifying, charcoal-dark intensity.

“Because that’s what this is, right? A game?” He let out a harsh, mocking bark of a laugh. “You have the fucking audacity to tell me to go find another girl. Like I can just turn it off. Like I haven’t spent every goddamn night remembering exactly how you taste.”

“Mingi, stop—”

“Stop what? Telling the truth?” He slammed his hand against the table next to your hip, the wood groaning. “You’re pathetic. You’re so scared of what we are that you’d rather see me balls-deep in some stranger than admit you belong to me. Is that it? Does it make you feel ‘safe’ to think of me with someone else?”

He grabbed the edge of the bar, pinning you in, his breath hot and smelling of bitter resentment.

“Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe I’ll go back down there, find the loudest girl in the club, and fuck the memory of you right out of my head. I’ll tell her to scream your name so I don’t forget who I’m trying to replace. Would you like that? Should I give you a play-by-play tomorrow morning while we’re having our ‘friendly’ coffee? Should I tell you if she’s tighter than you were?”

The words were a physical assault, a cruel, calculated attempt to draw blood. He was weaponising the intimacy you’d shared, dragging it through the dirt just to see you flinch.

“You’re a fucking liar,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, venomous crawl. “You’re a liar and a coward, and you’re so desperate to keep this ‘friendship’ alive that you’re willing to watch me bleed out right in front of you.”

The slap wasn’t a choice; it was an explosion.

Your palm connected with his cheek with a violent, stinging crack that seemed to suck the air out of the room. The force of it snapped his head to the side, his blonde hair falling over his eyes as he went deathly still.

Silence stretched between you, a taut, vibrating wire.

Slowly, Mingi turned his face back to you. The imprint of your fingers was blooming a dark, angry red against his pale skin. He didn’t look hurt. He looked unhinged. A dark, terrifying smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the look of a man who had finally stopped trying to be the “good friend.”

“I was wondering when you’d stop pretending to be ‘fine’.”

The air in the club was suddenly too thick to breathe, a humid soup of Mingi’s possessiveness and the ghost of a memory you’d both tried to bury under layers of “best friends” bullshit.

“Now, tell me again. Tell me to go find someone else. Look me in the eye and tell me you want another man’s hands on you after what we did.”

You shoved at his chest—hard—and this time he let you, his hands sliding off the mahogany with a jagged scrape. You didn’t say a word. You turned and bolted for the exit, the heavy bass chasing you like a heartbeat until the steel doors hissed shut behind you.

The parking lot was lit by the buzzing, sickly orange glow of lamps. The air was bitingly cold, snapping at the sweat on your skin, but it wasn’t enough to cool the furnace in your blood. You were halfway to the taxi zone when the heavy thud of the club doors swinging open again echoed off the asphalt.

“Don’t you fucking walk away from me!” Mingi’s voice cracked the silence of the night.

You spun around, your heels clicking sharply against the oil-stained ground. “Or what, Mingi? What the fuck are you going to do? Pin me against another table? Remind me again how I sounded three months ago?” Your voice rose, trembling with a mix of fury and the terrifying realisation that the walls you’d built were crumbling. “You don’t get to use that! That was—that was a mistake! We said it was a mistake!”

Mingi didn’t stop. He ate up the distance between you with rushed strides. He reached you in seconds, his hand lashing out to catch your upper arm, spinning you around so hard you stumbled into the side of a parked SUV. The metal was freezing against your shoulder blades.

“A mistake?” He threw the word back at you like a slur. He slammed his hand against the car next to your head, the thump of palm on metal loud enough to make you flinch. “Is that what you call it when I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you? Is it a ‘mistake’ that I can’t look at another woman without wishing she had your eyes?”

“Stop,” you breathed, but your hands weren’t pushing him away anymore.

“No,” he rasped, his face dropping until his nose was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath a searing brand against your skin. “You want me to act like I don’t give a shit who touches you? I can’t do it. I’m fucking done pretending.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were no longer chocolate; they were charcoal, burning with a hunger that made Seongmin’s interest look like a polite suggestion. “Tell me it was a mistake again,” he challenged, “Tell me you didn’t feel the way my hands were on you. Tell me you want that suit back here instead of me.” His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He didn’t wait for your answer. He leaned in, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from yours, the tension so thick it felt like it would shatter the glass in the windows around you. “Say it,” he whispered against your lips. “Lie to me.”

“You have no right to be this angry! You agreed to the silence! You looked me in the eye over coffee the next morning and said, ‘Let’s just be us again’ It’s you who lied!”

“I didn’t lie! I tried! I tried to be ‘us’ again. I tried to watch movies with you and not think about the way we kissed. I tried to listen to you talk about work and not remember the way you moaned when I was inside you!” He let out a harsh, guttural breath, his eyes wild and shimmering with a frustrated heat. “But then you walk into a club looking like that. You spend the whole night grinding against some strangers, looking back at me like you’re daring me to say something. And then you have the fucking nerve to tell me I need to get laid? Like I haven’t been starving for three months because I’m stuck in ‘best friend’ purgatory?”

“I didn’t ask you to wait!” your voice trembled with a mix of fury and a terrifying, rising ache in your chest. “If you wanted me, you should have said something! You should have stopped me from leaving that morning! But you just fucking sat there and let me walk out!”

“Because I was terrified! I was terrified that if I reached for you, I’d lose the only person who actually knows me. I thought I could handle being your friend. I thought I could watch you date and smile and be happy. But tonight? Seeing his hands on you?” He leaned down, his forehead thumping against yours with a dull, desperate thud. His breath was hot, smelling of malt and obsession. “It felt like someone was ripping my ribs out of my chest,” he whispered, the anger turning into something far more dangerous—honesty. “I’m done, baby. I’m done pretending. I’m a fucking wreck. Are you happy now? Is this the ‘fun’ you wanted me to have?”

You felt the heat of him radiating through your clothes, the violent rhythm of his heart drumming against your own ribs. Your hands, which had been balled into fists against his chest, slowly unfurled, your fingers clutching at the damp fabric of his shirt.

The silence of the parking lot was heavy, broken only by the distant, rhythmic hum of the club and the ragged hitch of Mingi’s breath against your mouth. The cold air nipped at your damp skin, but where your bodies pressed together, the heat was suffocating.

“I’m not happy,” you whispered, your voice cracking as the last of your defensive anger dissolved into a jagged, aching vulnerability. “I'm exhausted, Mingi. I’ve been waiting for you to say something. Anything.”

Mingi’s hands, which had been bruising your hips, suddenly shifted. One slid up the curve of your spine, his palm flat and searing, while the other tangled deep into the hair at the base of your skull, tilting your head back until you were forced to meet the raw, unmasked hunger in his eyes. He didn’t look like your best friend anymore.

“You want me to say it?” he rasped, his lips brushing yours with every word, a torture of near-contact. “I want you. I’ve wanted you since the second I woke up that morning and saw you curled by my side. I wanted to pull you closer and never let the sun come up.” He leaned in, his nose sliding against yours, his grip tightening until you were fused to the cold metal of the SUV. “I don’t want to be your ‘friend’ tonight, I don’t want to be the guy who vets your dates or buys you a beer while you dance with someone else. I want to be the reason you can’t walk tomorrow. I want to be the only name you can remember.”

He paused, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his touch heavy and possessive. “Tell me to stop. Right now. Tell me you want the ‘best friend’ back, and I’ll walk away. I’ll go find that girl. I’ll do exactly what you told me to do.”

You looked at him—at the damp platinum hair, the red mark of your palm still burning on his cheek, the intensity of his stare—and felt the last of your resolve shatter. You couldn’t tell him to stop. Instead, you arched your back, pulling his hips flush against yours, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders. “Don’t go.”

Mingi didn’t give you a chance to change your mind. He crashed his mouth against yours, the contact violent and desperate, a collision of three months of starved silence. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was a reclamation. His tongue demanding entry as he groaned deep in his throat—a sound of pure relief. His hands were everywhere—clutching your waist, hiking up the hem of your dress, his skin a brand against yours. He backed you harder into the car, the suspension creaking under the weight of his aggression. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe you in, like he was trying to erase the ghost of every other hand that had touched you. It was messy, teeth clashing, the salt of your sweat mixing as he tilted your head back at a sharp angle to get deeper, hungrier. You didn’t fight him. You were kissing him back with the same pent-up rage. Your hands flew to his hair, your fingers tangling in those blonde, sweat-damp strands, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a molecule of air left between your bodies.

“Min—” you whimpered into his mouth, the name broken and small.

His large hand slid down from your face, his fingers pug your dress higher, knuckles grazing the sensitive skin of your tight. He broke the kiss to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his breath scalding your skin. He bit—not a nip, but a sharp, possessive mark, making you arch your back and cry out into the empty parking lot. His hands were everywhere now, frantic and heavy, mapping the curves he’d spent days trying to forget.

“Mine,” he muttered against your skin, his voice a dark, fractured thing. “You’re mine.”

The metal of the SUV groaned as Mingi surged forward, his body crushing you into the side of the car. He didn’t just hold your leg; he hiked it higher, his forearm hooking under the crook of your knee to pull you flush against the hard, frantic line of his hips. The friction of his denim against your bare inner thigh was a jolt of pure electricity, a rough, grounding contrast to the slick, desperate heat of his mouth. Mingi’s grip on your thighs tightened until his knuckles went white, his fingers sinking into your skin with a bruising, territorial force that made you let out a sharp, jagged gasp. He didn’t care about the bruises he was leaving; he wanted you to feel every ounce of hunger he’d been choking back.

“Say it,” he growled, his voice vibrating against the sensitive cord of your neck. He didn’t wait for you to speak, his teeth grazing the skin he’d just bitten, soothing and then stinging again. “Tell me you’re mine before I lose my fucking mind.” His free hand, the one not holding your leg, didn’t stay still. It slid upward, the tips of his fingers dragging over the silk of your dress, bunching the fabric until he found the damp, heated skin of your waist. He didn’t stop there. He pushed the material higher, his palm sliding over your ribs with a possessive, heavy pressure that made your breath hitch in a series of broken stammers. He moved his hand from your waist, his fingers fumbling with the button of his own jeans with a frantic, clumsy desperation. He broke away from your neck, his face flushed, his eyes dark and blown out with a hunger that was terrifyingly beautiful.

“Say it,” he growled again, his voice dropping into a guttural, terrifying register as he ground his hips into yours. You felt the hard, insistent length of his cock through his clothes. The friction was a white-hot spark against your core, the heavy, rigid length of him pressing through the thin silk of your dress with an uncompromising demand. “I want to hear you admit what a fucking liar you’ve been. Tell me you’re mine before I fuck the memory of that other prick out of your head right here on the street.”

Your head thrashed back against the cold glass of the car window, a low, desperate whine vibrating in your throat. “Min… Please… It’s you. I promise it’s you.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he hissed, his mouth crashing onto the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his pupils so dilated they swallowed the gold of his irises. “I don’t want ‘it’s you.’ I want you to say the words. Tell me you’re my slut. Tell me you’ve been sitting across from me for months dreaming about me pinning you down like this.”

He didn’t wait for your answer. He let go of one of your legs, his hand diving between your bodies to finish what he’d started with his jeans. You heard the harsh, metallic zip of his fly—a sound that felt like a death knell for your dignity. He didn’t think about a condom; he didn’t even slow down. He grabbed his own length, his other hand bluntly and impatiently pulling the lace of your panties to the side.

Mingi guided himself to the soaking, frantic heat of your entrance. The feel of him—thick, hot, and uncompromisingly hard—pressing against your opening made your vision spark. He wasn’t entering you yet, but he was right there, the blunt head of him sliding through the slickness you’d made for him, teasing the very edge of the abyss.

“Look at you,” he taunted, his breath hitching as he felt how ready you were. “Leaking like a fucking sink for me while you were telling yourself we were ‘just friends’ ten minutes ago. You’re so desperate for me you don’t even care who sees.” He hiked your leg higher, his forearm pressing into the glass behind your head to steady himself. He leaned in until his nose was brushing yours. “I’m going to stretch you out so wide you won’t be able to walk back into that club,” he promised, his hips twitching in a slow, shallow thrust that tested your limits. “I’m going to fill you with so much of me that you’ll smell like me for a week. Now, tell me who you belong to before I take it.”

“Min, someone... someone might—”

“Let them fucking look,” he rasped, his voice a jagged edge. He didn’t care about the yellow wash of the street lamps or the muffled, rhythmic thump of the club doors.

“Min… stop,” you gasped, your fingers trembling as you shoved against the hard wall of his chest, trying to find a single inch of air. “Not here. Take me… take me home. Please.”

He didn’t let go. If anything, he pressed closer. “Take you home?” he leaned in until his lips were grazing yours, his teeth bared in a jagged sneer. “What, you worried that suit might walk out and see you getting exactly what you’ve been begging for? You want to be a lady now?”

"No, I just— Not here,” you gasped, “Mingi, please... not on the street. Take me home. Just—get me home.” You were breathless, your voice a ragged thread of sound that broke against his lips. You didn’t pull away; instead, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the salt, the expensive cologne, and the raw, terrifying heat of him. You bit down on the corded tendon of his shoulder, a sharp, desperate nip that was less about pain and more a wordless, frantic plea.

Mingi let out a sound that was half-groan, half-growl, his forehead thumping against the car window with a dull thud as he fought the urge to just sink into you right there. He stayed pinned against you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving in sync with yours.

The silence of the alleyway seemed to roar in his ears. Slowly, the haze in his eyes cleared just enough for him to see the way you were shaking in his arms—not just from the cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming weight of him. With a sharp, frustrated exhale, he snapped. He pulled back abruptly, his hands leaving your skin so suddenly you nearly stumbled. “Home,” he nodded slowly, the word sounding like a vow.

He didn’t drop you gently. He slid you down the side of the car, his hands never leaving your waist, his thumbs digging into your hip bones to keep you steady as your heels hit the pavement. His eyes were dark, almost black in the orange glow of the streetlamp, tracking the way your chest rose and fell. He reached out, his fingers trembling as he jerked your dress back down, smoothing the fabric over your thighs with a possessive, territorial rough-handedness.

“Don’t move,” he stepped back just far enough to fumble with his zipper, his movements jagged and impatient. He didn’t look toward the club; he looked toward the street, his arm shooting up the second he spotted the yellow glow of a taxi rounding the corner two blocks away.

He didn’t wait for it to reach you. He started walking toward the edge of the curb, his hand locked around your wrist, pulling you behind him with a singular, focused gravity. He was a different person—harder, faster, his shoulders set in a line that warned the world to stay the hell away. The taxi screeched to a halt, the driver barely having time to put it in park before Mingi yanked the back door open. He practically folded you into the seat, his body following yours so closely that you were pinned against the far door before he’d even slammed the car shut.

“Where to?” the driver asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Mingi gave his address, his voice dropping an octave, his hand already finding your thigh under the cover of the shadows. He didn’t care about the driver. He didn’t care about the neon lights of the city blurring past the window. He leaned over you, his hand sliding up your leg to bunch the fabric of your dress back toward your hips, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, beautiful promise.

The interior of the taxi was a cramped, vinyl-scented capsule, the orange glow of the street lamps strobing across Mingi’s face in rhythmic, violent flashes. The driver hummed some mindless radio tune, oblivious to the fact that the air in the backseat was thick enough to choke on.

Mingi didn’t waste a second. He shifted, pinning you against the far door, his thigh slotting between yours to keep them spread. He looked out the window, his jaw set in a hard, protruding line of feigned indifference for the driver’s benefit, but his hand was doing something entirely different. His fingers hooked into the hem of your dress, the fabric sliding up your skin with a dry, rasping sound. He didn’t stop until his knuckles bumped against the damp lace of your underwear. You let out a soft, broken hitch of a breath, your head falling back against the window as the cool glass met your burning skin.

“Mingi,” you breathed, a warning and a plea rolled into one.

“Shh,” he rasped, finally turning his head to look at you. “You wanted to go home. We’re going. But I’m not stopping.”

He slid his hand beneath the lace, his palm cupping you with a sudden, bruising heat. You buckled against him, your fingers digging into the denim of his thighs. The taxi hit a pothole, jouncing the cabin, and Mingi used the momentum to drive his palm harder against you. He didn’t just slide his fingers in; he paused at the threshold, the tips of his fingers merely fluttering against the soaked silk of your underwear. He began to stroke you—just a feather-light touch at first, a torturous promise—before his fingers dipped lower, finding the slick, aching heat you’d been hiding all night. Your head hit the headrest, a choked-back moan dying in your throat. You could feel the vibration of the car’s engine beneath you, but it was nothing compared to the violent thrumming of Mingi’s heart against your shoulder.

“Look at this,” he whispered, his voice thick with a terrifying sort of triumph. He shifted his hand, bringing his damp fingers up between your faces so you could see the shimmer of yourself on his skin in the passing glow of a streetlamp. “All that talk about being ‘friends’ and ‘slip-ups,’ and you’re leaking for me in the back of a fucking taxi.” He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his scent—sharp, masculine, and intoxicating—filling your head. He slid one finger in, just past the first knuckle, hooking it upward. You let out a strangled, high-pitched whimper, your hips jerking upward in a desperate search for friction. “You wanted me to put these hands on a stranger? To make her feel like this?” He pulled his finger back out until he was barely there. He did it again. And again. A rhythmic, shallow teasing that was ten times worse than the frantic grinding in the parking lot. He was reclaiming you, inch by agonising inch.

“You like that?” he rasped, his thumb catching your clit and pinning it with a heavy, steady pressure that made your vision go white at the edges. “I bet that suit didn’t even get close enough to know how sensitive you are right here. He didn’t know that if I press just like this, you start shaking, did he?” He began to move in a slow, torturous rhythm—not fast enough to bring you to the edge, but deep enough to keep the ache in your lower belly twisting into a tight knot. Every time you tried to buck against him to speed him up, he’d still his hand, or pull back entirely until you were whimpering for him to continue.

“Please,” you sobbed into his neck, your fingers digging so hard into his shoulders you were sure you’d leave marks.

“Please what, baby? Please stop?” He nipped at the skin of your throat, his fingers stretching you open as he added a second digit, sliding it in alongside the first with a deliberate, slow friction. “Or please don’t stop because you’ve been thinking about this as much as I have? Tell me the truth. While you were dancing with him, were you wondering if he’d touch you like this? Were you wondering if he knew how to make you fall apart?” He increased the pace just a fraction, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, the heavy silver of his rings a cold, hard contrast to the blistering heat of your body. You were melting, your breath coming in shallow, frantic hitches as the pressure built, centring right where his thumb was grinding.

“You aren’t finishing in the back of a Prius. You’re going to wait until we’re home. You’re going to wait until I can hear you moaning my name,” he looked out the window as the taxi pulled up to the curb of his apartment building. He didn’t move his hand until the car came to a full stop. Then, with one final, deep thrust that drew a sob from your throat, he withdrew, the sudden loss of heat and pressure making you feel dizzy. He wiped his fingers on the seat beside him—or perhaps your dress, you couldn’t tell—payed the driver, and leaned over to open the door, his eyes burning with a promise that made the taxi ride feel like a mere appetiser.

“Out,” he ordered, his eyes dark with a promise that made your knees feel like water. “I’m done teasing.”

The lobby was a blur of marble and hushed silence, a stark contrast to the war zone in the back of the taxi. Mingi didn’t let go of your wrist, his stride long and jagged as he hauled you toward the elevators. His knuckles were still damp, the scent of you clinging to his skin, and he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze devoured the curve of your throat.

The chime of the elevator felt like a starter pistol. The doors slid shut with a heavy, mechanical sigh, sealing the two of you into a mirrored box of brushed steel. Mingi slammed his palm against the button for the 12th floor and then immediately pivoted, his arm lashing out to pin you against the handrail. The elevator jolted upward, the sudden gravity pulling your stomach into your throat, but Mingi’s weight was the only thing keeping you upright.

“Twelve floors,” he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating growl that echoed off the metal walls. “You have exactly twelve floors before I have you behind a locked door.”

His hand slid up from your waist, his palm flat and heavy against your ribs. His fingers splayed wide as he reached the underside of your breast. He squeezed—not a gentle caress, but a firm, possessive claim that made you gasp, your head thumping back against the mirrored wall. He leaned down, his teeth nipping at the sensitive junction where your neck met your shoulder, his tongue licking the sting away a second later.

His other hand dived low, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress and yanking it up to your hips. He didn’t care about the security camera in the corner. He shoved his knee between your thighs, forcing them apart, his hand sliding over the silk of your underwear to find the heat he’d left behind in the taxi. He began to rub, a slow, heavy friction that made your knees buckle. “Look at yourself,” he commanded, nodding toward the mirrors.

You looked and saw the wreckage of your hair, the flush climbing up your chest, and Mingi—towering over you, his blonde hair a mess, his large hand disappearing between your legs.

“Floor six,” he whispered against your ear, his breath scalding. His thumb find your nipple through the dress and pinched, a sharp bolt of pleasure-pain that made you cry out. He caught the sound in his own mouth, kissing you with a bruising, desperate hunger that tasted of beer and obsession. His hands were a frantic map, sliding from the swell of your breasts down to the soft meat of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin.

“Floor nine,” he groaned into the hollow of your throat, his hand sliding back down to grip your thigh, hitching it up around his waist so he could grind his dressed hardness against your core. The friction was a slow-motion torture that had you sobbing his name into the quiet hum of the elevator.

The chime for the 12th floor was the loudest sound you’d ever heard. The doors slid open. Mingi didn’t let you down. He kept your leg hooked around his hip, his arm a steel band around your waist as he practically carried you down the hall, his keys already out and jingling with a frantic, metallic rhythm. He fumbled with the keys, his breath coming in short, jagged hitches that rattled in his chest. The lock clicked and he kicked the door open, dragging you inside into the pitch-black entryway. He didn’t turn on the lights and slammed the door shut behind you, the boom echoing through the empty apartment, and in the same motion, he shoved you back against it. The wood was solid and unforgiving against your spine, a cold shock that lasted only a second before Mingi’s heat incinerated it. He dropped his weight into you, his forearms slamming against the door on either side of your head, pinning you in the narrow dark. The only light came from the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, casting his silhouette in a jagged, silver outline. He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. He reached down, his hands catching the hem of your dress and yanking it up past your hips, the fabric bunching around your waist in a frantic, messy pile. His palms were scorching, his skin a brand against your thighs as he hiked your legs up, his strong arms hooking under your knees to lift you off the floor.

You let out a broken gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders, your fingers digging into the material of his shirt for balance. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your heels locking behind his back, pulling him flush against the aching, empty core. He buried his face in the crook of your neck. He didn’t kiss you; he claimed you.

“I’ve spent three months staring at this door, remembering the way you looked when you walked through it the last time. I’m not letting you go until I’ve had every fucking inch of you.”

He shifted his grip, one hand staying under your thigh while the other moved to his jeans, the metallic rasp of his zipper sounding like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. He was shaking—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the raw, unhinged desperation of a man who had reached his absolute limit. When he adjusted his grip on your thighs and surged forward, the air didn’t just leave your lungs—it was stolen.

His cock was massive. A blunt, heavy intrusion that felt like he was rearranging the very architecture of your body. The initial stretch was a sharp, searing sting, a fire that made your eyes snap wide and your breath hitch into a tight, jagged sob. It was too much; it was the physical manifestation of ninety days of starved silence suddenly demanding entry all at once.

“Mingi—wait,” you wheezed, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, your knuckles white as you tried to find your bearings.

“No,” he growled, the word a dark, guttural vibration against the sensitive cord of your throat. He didn’t pull back. He stayed buried deep to the absolute hilt, his forehead thumping against the door next to your ear as he fought the urge to just cum right then. His muscles were coiling like overwound springs, his skin radiator-hot against yours. “Don’t you dare tell me to wait,” his teeth grazed your earlobe with a threatening pressure. “You’ve made me wait for three fucking months. So now, you’re going to take every bit of this.”

He didn’t ease you into it. He began to move—a shallow, punishing rhythm that forced your head back against the wood. Every strike was a blunt-force, pleasure and pain, the sting began to dull into a heavy, throbbing ache, a fullness that radiated from your core to your toes. You let out a long, shaky moan, your hips tilting instinctively to take more of him. Your hands, frantic and clumsy with adrenaline, fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, your fingernails grazing the damp, hard heat of his chest. You needed him closer. You needed the barrier of the fabric gone. As the shirt fell open, you pressed your palms against his bare skin, feeling the violent gallop of his heart.

“Take it off,” you whimpered into the hollow of his neck, your teeth catching on his skin. “Min, please.”

He let out a sound that was purely animal. He didn’t take the shirt off; he simply ripped it back, the buttons popping and skittering across the hardwood floor like hail. He caught your face in his hand, his thumb digging into your cheek as he kissed you—a messy, desperate collision of tongues and teeth that tasted of salt and obsession.

He hammered into you, his thrusts deep and punishing, pinning you against the door with a force that made the hinges groan. Every impact sent a shockwave through your frame, your head knocking back against the wood in time with his movements. The pain was gone, incinerated by a white-hot friction that made your vision blur into streaks.

Mingi pulled back just an inch, his eyes raking over the silk fabric of your dress. He didn’t reach for a zipper at the side. He didn’t look for a seam. He hooked his large fingers into the delicate neckline and pulled. The sound of the silk shredding was a sharp, violent protest in the quiet hallway. He hauled the fabric down, the material bunching around your waist and then falling to the floor in a ruined, expensive heap. He didn’t stop until you were completely exposed to the cool air of the apartment, your skin pale and shivering under the harsh focus of his gaze. He grabbed your waist again, his thumbs digging into your hip bones as he slammed you back against the door. Without the silk as a barrier, the contact was electric.

“You’re so tight,” he rasped, the words broken and guttural, hissed into the sensitive shell of your ear. “Fucking killing me... how much you want this.” His hand moved to your breast, his palm heavy and possessive, thumb catching your sensitive nipple and rolling it with a bruising pressure that made you cry out. Mingi couldn’t care less about the noise. He didn’t care about the neighbours or the world outside. He was focused entirely on the way you were breaking around him, the way your legs were locked around his waist, your heels drumming against the small of his back.

His pace became frantic, a blurring, heavy friction that pushed you toward a ledge you weren’t ready for. He was growling now, his breath coming in ragged, wet hitches, his mouth against your cheek as he felt the first tremors of your climax begin to ripple through you.

“Look at me.” You opened your eyes, your vision swimming with tears and pleasure. Even in the dark, his eyes were burning, fixed on yours with a terrifying, singular focus. “Tell me,” he gasped, his pace quickening, his chest heaving against yours until you could feel the frantic gallop of his heart. “Tell me who’s inside you. Say the name.”

“Mingi,” you sobbed, the name a shattered, breathless thing as you gripped his hair, pulling his face closer. You couldn’t even think; the sheer, thick volume of him was filling every corner of your consciousness, stretching you until you felt like you might split apart from the pleasure of it. “It’s you.”

He didn’t stop. His pace was a heavy, wet rhythm that echoed through the apartment. Each thrust was a blunt-force, pinning you so hard against the door that the wood vibrated against your shoulder blades. “Say it again,” he growled, his teeth bared, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose onto your cheek. “Tell me whose you are.”

“Yours,” you moaned, your hips buckling, chasing the friction as the pressure behind your navel tightened. “Mingi, I’m yours. Please—I’m close. I’m so close.”

His breath hitched, a jagged, guttural sound as his own control finally disintegrated. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his muscles corded like steel cables under your palms. He was trembling violently, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that told you he was right on the precipice. “Where?” he rasped, the word barely a whisper, thick with a desperate urgency. He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left white imprints on your skin. “Where do you want it? Tell me where, baby, before I lose it.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in as if you could pull him into your very soul. “Inside,” you choked out, your voice dropping to a raw, pleading whimper. “Inside me, give it all to me. Fill me up.”

The permission was the final blow. Mingi let out a low, primal roar that vibrated through your entire chest cavity. He surged forward one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and stalled there. His entire body locked up, his head snapping back as he came, the sheer force of it pulsing through him in heavy, rhythmic waves. You felt the blistering heat of him flooding you—a thick, relentless spill that made your own walls contract in a violent, cascading climax. You cried out, your voice dying in your throat as your vision sparked with silver, your body sagging against him as the world tilted and dissolved.

For a long minute, the only sound in the entryway was the ragged, sobbing hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against the door, his chest heaving as if he’d just survived a wreck. He didn’t move, holding you up as the mess of him began to trickle down your skin.

Slowly, he pulled his head back, his eyes searching yours in the dim silver light. He kissed you, his lips lingering as he let your legs slide down his body until your feet touched the floor.

Your legs were liquid, useless stalks of flax that buckled the moment your heels touched the hardwood. You would have crumpled right there in the entryway, amidst the ruins of your dress, his shirt and the lingering scent of sex. But Mingi didn’t let you fall. He caught you, his large hands clamping under your armpits with a strength that felt more like a crane than a caress.

He didn’t lead you. He hauled you up, his arm hooking under your knees and his other hand bracing your back. You were a dead weight against his bare, sweat-slicked chest, your head lolling against his shoulder as the hallway blurred past.

He reached the threshold of the bedroom and tossed you. You hit the mattress with a heavy whump, the air huffing out of your lungs as you bounced once, twice, before settling into the tangled, dark sheets. The bed smelled faintly of him but it was quickly being overwhelmed by the scent of the two of you, salt and sex.

Mingi didn’t join you immediately. He stood at the foot of the bed, a dark silhouette against the moonlight, his chest heaving as he stared down at you. He looked like a man who had just won a war and didn’t know what to do with the prisoner. He kicked off his boots, the heavy thuds echoing like stones hitting a grave, and then his hands went to his jeans.

“You think that was it?” he stripped the rest of his clothes off with a violent, impatient efficiency, throwing them toward the corner without looking. “You think I’m just going to let you sleep after what you did tonight?”

He reached out, his hand wrapping around your ankle with a grip that felt like an iron shackle. He unbuckled the delicate straps of your heels and tossed them aside like they were trash. Then, he crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping dangerously under his weight. He didn’t come at you from the side; he moved over you like a shadow, his knees pinning your thighs down, his hands catching your wrists and pinning them above your head.

He was still hard—viciously so—the evidence of his release in the hallway still glistening on his skin. He looked down at you, his blonde hair falling over his eyes, his expression stripped of every ounce of the “best friend” mask.

“I’m going to make you stay awake until you can’t even remember that prick’s name,” he hissed, his face dropping until his nose was an inch from yours. “I'm going to mark every inch of skin he even thought about looking at.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties—the ones that were a soaked from your slick and his cum, a ripped mess from how he pushed them aside in the hallway with too much force. Mingi didn’t slide them down your legs. He buried his knuckles into your hip bones and ripped them. The sound of the lace tearing was a sharp, final punctuation. He shredded the fabric, pulling the scraps away and throwing them into the dark behind him. He dived down, his mouth catching your breast with a hunger that was borderline painful, his tongue swirling around the peak while his other hand slid down, his fingers spreading your folds open with a rough focus. You were still sensitive, still pulsing, and the sudden, heavy contact made you cry out, your hips jerking upward in a frantic, uncoordinated search for release.

“Min, please—”

“I told you,” he growled, his voice vibrating against your skin. “Don’t fucking ‘Min’ me. You wanted this version of me? You wanted the guy who needs to ‘get laid’? You’ve got him. At the club you had a lot of advice for me, didn’t you? You told me I was ‘wound too tight.’ You told me exactly what I needed to fix my mood.”

He let out a low, dark chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes.

“What were the words, baby? ‘Your dick needs a good sucking’?” He threw the phrase back at you like a slur, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw before hooking into your mouth, forcing your lips open. “You were so worried about my stress levels. So eager to find me a ‘victim’ to take care of it,” he hissed. “Well, the victim’s right here, and I’m still wound pretty fucking tight. So, since you’re such an expert on what I need, why don’t you show me? No more talk. Do exactly what you said I needed.”

He didn’t wait for you to move on your own. He grabbed your waist and hauled you off the bed, his movements jerky and impatient. “On your knees, use that fucking mouth for something other than lying to me,” he commanded, “I want to hear you choke on every word you said tonight.”

Mingi didn’t sit back to enjoy the view. He stood over you, his legs braced wide. His hand didn’t just rest on your head; it clamped into your hair, his knuckles scraping against your scalp as he forced your face forward. “Do it,” he hissed, the word a serrated edge in the quiet room. “Show me exactly how you’d take care of a stranger. Show me what you were going to offer that suit.”

When you finally took his cock into your mouth, the sheer, thick volume of him was shocking. Your jaw ached instantly, the muscles straining to accommodate the heavy, pulsing heat of him. You started slow, your tongue swirling around the tip, tasting the salt and the lingering, raw scent of the night, but Mingi wasn’t interested in a slow burn. He groaned—a low, guttural vibration that you felt in your teeth—and his grip in your hair tightened until your eyes watered. You leaned in further, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at the base of him, the scent of his skin—musk, sweat, and adrenaline—filling your lungs until you were lightheaded. You were drooling, the slick moisture running down your chin and dripping, but you didn’t pull away.

“Suck it,” he commanded, his voice dropping into a dark, demeaning rasp. “Like you’ve been starving for it.”

He didn’t wait for you to find a rhythm. He began to move his hips, a slow, rhythmic surge that forced you to swallow him deeper. Every time you tried to pull back for air, his hand at the back of your head became a vice, slamming you back forward. He was fucking your throat, his thrusts reaching a shallow speed that triggered your gag reflex, making your chest heave against his thighs. You were choking, a muffled, wet sound dying in your throat, but Mingi didn’t ease up. He liked the sound. He liked the way your eyes were wide and shimmering with tears, fixed on his as he looked down at you with a cold, predatory triumph.

“That’s it,” he growled, his breath coming in ragged, animalistic hitches. “Choke on it, baby. Let me feel how much you hate that you love this. Tell me again how I’m just your ‘best friend’ while you’re down there on your knees like a fucking dog.” He increased the pace, his hands moving from your hair to your shoulders, pinning you down so you couldn’t move an inch. He was relentless, his cock sliding past the point of comfort, hitting the back of your throat with a blunt, rhythmic force. “You’re so pathetic,” he taunted, his thumb reaching down to rub a drop of moisture from your lip before smearing it on your cheek. “Acting all high and mighty at the bar, and now you’re desperate. You’re shaking.” He wasn’t close to being done. He was using you to vent every ounce of the ninety days of silence, every second of the jealousy that had been eating him alive. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up at him as he continued to drive into your mouth. “Is this ‘fun’ enough for you?” he groaned, his voice breaking with the effort of his control. “Is this what you wanted to see? The version of me that doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings?”

Mingi hauled you back up by the roots of your hair, your head snapping back as he forced you to sit on your heels. You were a wreck—makeup smudged into dark halos around your eyes, your lips swollen and slick, a string of saliva trailing down to the curve of your collarbone. You looked exactly how he’d imagined you, and the sight of it seemed to strip the last of the humanity from his expression.

Mingi’s hand was a heavy at the base of your skull, his fingers deep in your hair as he set a rhythm that was purely for his own satisfaction. Every time he drove deep, the world blurred into a haze of white noise and the suffocating scent of him, your throat working desperately around the thick, relentless intrusion of his length. You were drowning in him, your senses overloaded by the friction and the raw, guttural sounds he was making above you. Unable to stay still, your hand drifted downward, your fingers seeking the slick, aching heat between your thighs. The moment you touched yourself, the sensation was a violent electric shock; you were so sensitive, so over-sensitised by the rough treatment and the crushing fullness in your throat, that the slightest pressure felt like an explosion. You were a drenched, pulsing mess, your fingers sliding through the excessive wetness you’d made for him as you began to work yourself in sync with his thrusts.

The sight of it—the way you were frantically helping yourself while he used your mouth—sent Mingi straight to the edge. He watched your eyes roll back, your hips twitching in a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm, and he felt the frantic, wet heat of your throat tightening around him in response.

“Fuck, you’re so close,” he choked out, his voice a fractured wreck. He could feel the pressure building behind his eyes, a searing, white-hot tension that told him he was seconds away from losing control completely. “Three months of acting like you were too good for this. Three months of playing the ‘best friend’ while you were probably dreaming about being exactly where you are right now.” He didn’t want to finish in your mouth; he wanted to see the mess he’d made. Mingi didn’t let go of your hair as he pulled out, the sudden rush of air into your lungs making you let out a broken, wheezing sob. He watched your hand move frantically between your legs. You were too far gone to stop; the friction of his throat-fucking had left you on a razor’s edge, and the sight of him—hard, twitching, and lethal—was the final shove you needed. “Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a jagged, guttural snap. “Don’t you dare close your eyes. Watch what you’re doing to yourself for me.”

You obeyed, your eyes wide and glazed with a terrifying level of pleasure as you worked your fingers against your swollen core. You were drenched, the sound of the wet friction loud in the quiet room. Mingi’s hand moved to his own length, his grip blunt and punishing as he matched your frantic pace. He was snarling now, his teeth bared, his eyes fixed on the way your hips were jerking, the way your inner thighs were trembling.

“That's it,” he rasped, his own rhythm turning into a blur of motion. “Come for me, you slut. Show me how much you want it.”

The world fractured. You hit your peak with a high, shattered scream that echoed off the walls, your body arching off the floor as your muscles convulsed in a violent, rhythmic release. Right as you shattered, Mingi let out a low, animalistic roar, his own body locking up as he finally let go. The first splash of his cum hit your cheek, a searing, thick contrast to the cool air of the room. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut for a second before you forced them open, watching him as he came. It was a heavy, relentless release, painting your skin—the bridge of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your other cheek. Mingi didn’t stop until he was spent, his breath coming in sobbing, jagged bursts. You were still twitching from your own orgasm, your breath coming in sobbing hitches, when the final, hot spray landed against your forehead.

He looked down at the wreckage of your face with a mix of hunger and a terrifying, dazed possessiveness. “You’re nothing but a little cum slut, aren’t you?” He whispered, his voice a broken thread of sound. “Now you look right. Now you look like you belong to me.”

Slowly, your fingers traced the heavy, warm smear on your cheek, dragging the heat toward the corner of your mouth. When your tongue flicked out, catching the stray, salt-sharp drop from your lip, the sound that left Mingi’s throat wasn’t human. It was a low groan—a guttural vibration that started deep in his chest and broke against his teeth.

“Fuck,” he rasped, leaning closer, his shadow swallowing you as he watched you swallow him.

You tasted the raw, metallic tang of him. You didn’t just take it; you looked him dead in the eye, your tongue tracing the seam of your lips to make sure you didn’t miss a single drop. You were a mess—covered in his cum, your face flushed and ruined—and you were offering it back to him as a final, absolute surrender.

“You like it, don’t you?” his thumb slid into your mouth, dragging across your tongue. He let out another fractured, breathless groan. “You’re sitting here, looking like a fucking angel with my mess on your face, and you’re asking for more.” He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into your skin with a territorial, bruising intensity that made your breath hitch. He wasn’t just satisfied; he was re-ignited. The sight of your total lack of shame—the way you were devouring the evidence of his claim—was the final match in the powder keg of his restraint.

You reached up, your fingers trembling as you gripped his wrist, pulling his hand just far enough from your lips so you could speak. You were trembling, your chest heaving with a desperate, frantic need that hadn’t been satisfied yet. “Say it again,” you whimpered, the words sliding out in a high, desperate whine. “Please... Call me that again.”

Mingi froze, his muscles locking up under your touch. “Say what?”

“What you called me,” you sobbed, the desperation finally breaking through. You looked up at him, your eyes blown out and shimmering with tears, the salt of his release still stinging your cheeks. “Call me that again. Call me your slut. I want to hear it while you’re looking at me. I want to know that’s all I am to you tonight.”

A dark, visceral shudder ran through Mingi’s entire frame. He let out a sound that was half-choke, half-growl, his hand sliding to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling deep in your hair to force your head back. He leaned down until his lips were a hair’s breadth from yours, his breath searing. “You want to hear it?” he hissed, his voice dropping into that terrifying, guttural frequency that made your insides turn to liquid. “You want me to remind you how pathetic you are? How you’re sitting here on the floor, covered in my cum?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your hips reflexively hitching toward him. “Please, tell me.”

“You’re a slut,” he didn’t say it with kindness; he said it with the raw, territorial hunger of a man who had finally claimed his prize. “You’re my little slut. My lying, beautiful, desperate slut who’s finally exactly where she belongs.” He watched the way the words made you shatter, the way your eyes rolled back and a high, broken moan tore from your throat. “You’re pathetic,” he rasped, his hand coming down to catch your jaw again. “A mess. Look at you, begging for it.”

“I am,” a small, broken sound. You leaned your face into his palm, your skin stinging where the stubble on his thumb caught. “I want... I want you to make me feel it. Slap me, Min. Do it.”

Mingi’s hand stilled against your jaw, his fingers curling into your hair as he stared at you with an expression that was both horrified and hungry. “What did you say?”

“I want... I want you to make me feel it,” you whispered, your voice a broken, jagged thread of sound. “I want you to make me understand. Slap me. Do it. Show me exactly what you think of me.”

A dark, visceral shudder ran through his frame. He didn’t hesitate. The sound of his palm connecting with your cheek was a sharp, heavy crack that echoed through the empty apartment. Your head snapped to the side, the force of it making your vision spark white for a split second. The sting was immediate—a white-hot, throbbing heat that radiated from your cheek down to your throat, making you moan.

Mingi didn’t let you pull away. He grabbed your jaw, his fingers digging into the bone to force your face back toward his. He was shaking, his chest heaving as if he’d just run a mile, his nostrils flared. “Is that what you want?” he hissed, his voice a jagged edge of pure, unadulterated menace. “You want me to treat you like a toy? You want me to leave marks so everyone knows what you’ve been doing behind closed doors?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, the word breaking against his lips. “Yes, please.”

He hit you again—shorter, sharper this time, the sound punctuated by the desperate, high-pitched whine that tore from your throat. He grabbed the back of your head, forcing you to look up at him. “You want me to treat you like you’re nothing? Like you’re just a place for me to put my dick in?”

He hadn’t even fully come down from the first two rounds before the sight of you, messy and pleading on your knees, had his dick surging back to life. “All fours. Now. I want your ass up and your head down.” His hand moved from your head to your shoulder, pulling you up only to shove you toward the mattress.

You scrambled to obey, your limbs heavy and uncoordinated, your knees dragging against the sheets. You pushed yourself up, your back arching as you lowered your chest to the pillows, leaving your hips elevated and exposed. The cool air hit your damp skin, making you shiver. Behind you, Mingi grabbed your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a bruising intensity that marked his territory. He positioned himself at your entrance.

“Don’t you dare move,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating threat against your spine. He surged forward, a deep, uncompromising thrust that felt like it reached all the way to your ribs. You let out a loud, echoing moan, your forehead thumping into the pillow as the sheer, thick volume of him filled you to the absolute limit, your walls contracting in a desperate welcome.He wasn’t being careful. He immediately started hammering into you, the sound of skin hitting skin a rhythmic, wet slapping that filled the room. He reached forward, his hand finding your hair again and pulling, forcing your head up so you had to see your own reflection in the mirrored closet doors across the room.

“Look at yourself,” he hissed, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. “Look at what a mess you are for me. Tell me you’re my slut. Say it while I’m fucking the life out of you.”

“I’m yours,” you sobbed, your voice breaking as he hit that one spot deep inside, over and over, with a relentless, territorial precision. “I’m your slut, Mingi... please, don’t ever stop.”

He let out a low, primal roar, his thrusts becoming shallow and frantic as he reached the precipice. Mingi’s palm slammed into the soft meat of your ass with a stinging, heavy crack that echoed louder than your own frantic breathing. The impact made your spine whip into a sharp arch, your chest pressing so hard into the pillows that the air was forced out of your lungs in a jagged, high-pitched sob.

He reached forward, his hand sliding under your jaw and clamping around your throat. He didn’t cut off your air, but the weight of his palm was a heavy, suffocating collar that forced your head back at a punishing angle. He leaned over your back, his bare chest a wall of heat against your spine. He didn’t kiss you; he sank his teeth into the sensitive skin of your shoulder, a sharp, jagged bite that drew a muffled, pained cry from your throat. He held it there, his teeth grinding into your skin until you felt the sting turn into a white-hot, throbbing ache that radiated down to your toes.

He let go of your neck only to grab both of your wrists, pinning them into the small of your back with one massive hand while his other hand found your ass again, spanking it with a territorial, bruising intensity. “Is it too much for you? Is the ‘best friend’ being too mean? Tell me to stop, slut.”

“No,” you sobbed, the word a broken, pathetic whine that was lost to the rhythmic, wet slapping of his hips against yours. You were a mess—your skin slick with sweat and the evidence of his earlier release, your vision sparking with every deep, uncompromising strike. “Mingi... please... don’t stop. I’m yours. Only yours.”

“Good,” he growled, the vibration of the word traveling through your body. He increased the pace, his thrusts reaching brutal speed that made the bed frame rattle against the wall. He was hammering into you, his knuckles rubbing against your inner thigh, his thumb finding that one specific spot he remembered and grinding into it with a relentless, heavy pressure.

You were breaking. The walls you’d built over the last three months weren’t just crumbling; they were on fire. You were a moaning, begging, sobbing wreck under him, your hips stuttering in a frantic, uncoordinated dance as you tried to keep up with his aggression. Every time you tried to pull away from the intensity, he’d yank your hair or tighten, forcing you to take every inch of him.

“Look at yourself,” he shoved his fingers into your mouth, tasting the salt of your tears as he forced you to choke on them. “Ninety days I sat across from you and acted like I didn’t want to do exactly this. Ninety days of you pretending you didn’t need this. And now look at you. You’re pathetic. You’re shaking for me.”

He suddenly released your wrists, but before you could even bring your hands forward to brace yourself, he grabbed your waist and hauled your hips upward, his fingers hooking into the front of your hip bones and pulling you back so hard you thought you might snap. He dived deep, his cock hitting the back of you with a blunt-force that made your vision go black for a split second.

“Mine,” he roared, the word a primal, guttural sound that tore from his throat. He was close—you could feel the tremors in his muscles, the way his breath was coming in ragged, wet hitches that rattled in his chest.

“I’m coming,” he hissed, his voice a fractured thread of sound. “And I’m going to fill you so full you won’t be able to think about another man for the rest of your fucking life.”

He surged forward one last time, his entire body locking up as he came. He let out a low groan, his forehead thumping against your back as he flooded you with a thick, relentless heat. Mingi didn’t move, he stayed buried inside you, his heavy weight pinning you into the sheets, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. The silence that followed his release was suffocating, broken only by the ragged, wet sound of Mingi’s lungs fighting for air against your spine. He was a dead weight, his chest heaving, his skin slick and sticking to yours as the heat of him pooled inside you. But for you, the world hadn’t stopped. The friction, the bites, and the deep, territorial hammering had wound you into a tight, screaming knot of nerves that was now vibrating with fire.

You tried to shift, to grind your hips back against him in a desperate search for the friction he’d just stolen away, but he was too heavy. You were pinned, your face buried in the damp pillow, the salt of your tears stinging the raw skin of your cheeks.

“Mingi,” you whimpered, the name coming out as a broken, high-pitched sob. “Mingi, please... I can’t—I need to cum.”

He let out a low, vibrating grunt against your shoulder blade, his fingers still curled loosely into the hair at the base of your skull. The lack of response made the ache in your lower belly sharpen into a physical pain. You began to thrash weakly, your knees scraping against the sheets as you tried to find the ledge he’d just pushed you off.

“Please!” you cried out, your voice cracking, raw and whiny. “It hurts, Min. I’ve been so fucking good... I did everything. I let you... I let you do everything.” The memory of the hallway, the cold door, the floor, and the taste of him flooded back, making your pulse hammer in your throat. You were a mess—covered in him, marked by him, and utterly unraveled. “I need it,” you sobbed into the pillow, your hips bucking in a pathetic, uncoordinated jerk. “Please, don’t leave me like this. I was so good for you. Call me whatever you want, just—please, Mingi, make me cum.”

You felt him shift then. It wasn’t a gentle movement. He let out a dark, weary chuckle that sounded more like a growl, his head lifting from your back. He didn’t pull out; instead, he gripped your waist again, his fingers sinking into the bruises he’d already made.

“You’re still talking?” he rasped, his voice a jagged, exhausted thread. He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath searing. “You’re still demanding things?”

“I have to,” you wailed, your hands clawing at the headboard, your knuckles white. “I’m going to die if you don’t... please, Min... I was your slut, wasn’t I? Take care of your slut.”

The word seemed to spark the last of the embers in him. He didn’t rise back up to his feet, but he shifted his weight, reaching one large hand down between your bodies. When he found the slick, swollen clit—drenched in the evidence of his own release—you let out a scream that was muffled by the bedding.

“You were good,” he muttered, his thumb finding that sensitive peak and pinning it with a brutal, heavy pressure. He began to move, a slow, torturous circle that made your vision go white. “So fucking good.” He increased the pressure, his other hand coming around to catch your throat again, holding you still as you began to shatter. The moment his thumb ground into that hyper-sensitive peak, the tension that had been coiling in your gut for didn’t just snap—it exploded. Your back arched so violently your spine felt like it might crack, a sharp, broken scream tearing from your throat as the first wave hit. It wasn’t a quiet release; it was a violent one. You felt the sudden, hot deluge as you squirted, the fluid drenching his hand and splashing against the sheets and his own thighs in a frantic, uncontrollable flood.

“Fuck!” you wailed, your head thrashing against the pillow, your vision blurring into white static.

Mingi let out a dark, guttural sound—half-laugh, half-growl—as he felt the heat of you soaking the bed beneath him. He didn’t pull back. He didn’t give you a second to breathe or let your heart rate settle. Instead, the sight of you finally breaking, drowning in your own pleasure and his mess, seemed to snap the last of his restraint.

“Look at this,” he watched the fluid soak into the dark fabric of the sheets. “Look at what a fucking mess I made of you. You’re soaking my bed, baby. You’re practically drowning in it.”

He didn’t wait for the tremors in your thighs to stop. He gripped your hips again, and surged forward. He was still semi-soft from his release, but the sheer, friction-heavy contact of your contractions squeezing him, combined with the sight of your total undoing, had him hardening inside you again with a terrifying, rapid gravity.

“We’re not done,” he hissed, his teeth grazing the back of your neck. “You wanted to be my slut? You wanted to stay on your knees? Then stay there. I’m going to make sure you’re still twitching when the sun comes up.”

He grabbed your waist, his strength uncompromising as he forced you to shift. He hauled you around until you were flat on your back, your hair fanned out against the cushions. The transition was jarring, the cool air hitting your drenched skin and making your nipples peak instantly.

Mingi loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his chest heaving. From this angle, he looked even more massive, his shadow swallowing you whole. He reached down, grabbing your ankles and shoving your knees back toward your chest, pinning you wide open in a position that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

The sight of you—flushed, trembling, and still glistening from your own climax—sent a fresh wave of heat through him. He looked down at your face, seeing the red mark on your cheek and the dazed, broken look in your eyes, and his jaw tightened.

“I want to see your face when I do this,” his hand slid down to guide his rigid, pulsing length back to your entrance. He was already heavy and leaking again. “I want to see your eyes roll back when you realise you’re never going to be empty again.”

He leaned forward, his weight crushing you into the bed, and began to sink back in. It was a slow deep stretch, his eyes locked onto yours as he watched the exact moment the air left your lungs. He began to move again, but the rhythm was different now—slower, heavier, and even more punishing. Every thrust was a wet, sliding impact, the sound of skin hitting skin loud and rhythmic in the quiet room. Because of how wet you were, he was sliding deep, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made you sob, your hands clutching the sheets as you tried to keep your balance.

Mingi watched your face with a predatory stillness, his eyes tracking every flicker of sensation that crossed your features. He didn’t move fast. He didn’t give you the frantic pace. Instead, he began a slow, deep grind, his hips rotating in a way that forced you to feel every single ridge, every throb of his pulse against your internal walls.

“Does that hurt?” he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to resonate inside your very bones. “Or does it just ache? Tell me how it feels to have me taking up every inch of you while you’re still coming down.”

He pulled back so slowly it was a torture of its own, the slick friction of his withdrawal making your breath hitch in a series of broken, stuttering hitches. Just as you thought he was going to leave you empty, he surged back in, a heavy, deliberate thrust that bottomed out with a wet, visceral thud.

“I can’t... Min, I can’t,” the words dissolved into a series of broken moans. You were a sobbing, twitching, mess under him, your body no longer your own, entirely at his mercy.

Mingi reached down, his hand clamping around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to hold you still, his thumb pressing firmly into the hinge of your jaw to force your mouth open.

“You’re clenching around me so tight,” he groaned, his forehead thumping against yours. “It’s like your body is trying to trap me inside. Is that what you want? To keep me here until the sun comes up?”

He moved again—a torturous, dragging slide that hit your G-spot with a precision that made your toes curl and your fingers dig into his forearms. Your hips reflexively tried to chase the rhythm he was denying you. Every time you tried to buck upward to meet him, he used his hands to pin you back further, keeping you wide, and exposed.

“Don’t rush me,” he hissed, his teeth grazing your jaw. “You’re going to feel every single second of this.”

He leaned down, his tongue catching a stray tear on your cheek before his mouth hovered over yours.

The slowness was stripping your nerves bare. Every time he dragged himself out, you felt a hollow, frantic grief, and every time he pushed back in with that heavy, unhurried deliberation, your vision swam with a desperate need. You were reaching for a peak that he was moving further away with every torturous rotation of his hips.

“Please... please,” your fingers were clawing at his biceps, trying to pull him down, trying to force a friction that would finally break you. “Not like this. Don’t... don’t be slow. I can’t take it.”

“You want me to stop being gentle?” he gripped your hair, tilting your head back until your throat was exposed and your eyes were locked on his. “You want me to treat you like the slut you are? To drive you into the bed until you can’t remember your own name?”

“Yes!” the word was a shattered, frantic plea.

“Damn right.”

He didn’t ease into it. He surged forward with a sudden, violent velocity that knocked the air out of your lungs in a sharp ungh. He began to drive into you with a rhythmic, bruising ferocity, his hips hitting yours with a sound like a physical assault. He leaned down, his chest crushing yours, his mouth on yours in a kiss that tasted of salt, desperation, and total victory. He grabbed your wrists, pinning them beside your head, his fingers interlacing with yours in a grip that felt like a permanent brand. Every thrust was deeper than the last, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, heavy sound that filled the room. He was watching you—watching the way your lips parted, the way your eyes rolled back, the way you were completely, utterly coming apart under him. He liked the mess. He liked that he was the one who had reduced you to a whimpering, begging slut.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” he muttered against your lips, his breathing coming in jagged, animalistic bursts. “Broken. Messy. Mine.” He shifted his grip, one hand leaving your wrist to slide down, his thumb finding your hyper-sensitive clit again, grinding into it even as he hammered into you. The dual assault was too much. You felt the scream building in your throat, your entire body coiling into a tight wire.

“I’m—I’m going to—Fuuuck—”

“Go then,” he roared, his own pace reaching a blurring, frantic speed. “I want to feel every bit of it.”

As you shattered, your walls clamping around him in a violent rhythm, Mingi let out a low moan. He drove into you one last time, his entire body locking as he flooded you again, his forehead thumping against yours.

Mingi collapsed on top of you, his full weight crushing you into the bed, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he sobbed for air. He was shaking—truly shaking—the adrenaline finally leaving his system and leaving him hollowed out and spent.

The room fell into a heavy, ringing silence, broken only by the wet, rhythmic hitch of your combined breathing. Mingi didn’t pull away; he stayed buried deep, his forehead pressed against yours, his skin slick and fused to yours by a layer of salt and heat.

The bedroom felt different now—thicker, charged with the heaviness of the storm that had finally spent itself. The ‘best friend’ facade hadn’t just been cracked; it had been ground into the floorboards along with the buttons of his shirt.

Slowly, Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath that fanned across your neck. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes hooded and dark, searching your face in the dim silver light. He looked at the smear of himself on your face, the bruises blooming on your neck, and the way your lips were swollen and parted as you struggled for air.

He didn’t look sorry. He looked settled.

“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, his voice still a fractured rasp. His hand moved from the pillow to your hair, his fingers gently—finally gently—tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Don’t think about the morning. Don’t think about how you’re going to try to take this back tomorrow over coffee. It’s done.”

You let out a small, tired whimper, your fingers curling weakly into the muscles of his forearms. Your body felt like it had been hollowed out, replaced by a warm, heavy liquid. “I can’t take it back, Min. I don’t think I can even walk.”

A ghost of a smirk pulled at one corner of his mouth—the first glimpse of the Mingi you knew. “Good. You’re staying right here.”

As Mingi finally began to withdraw, the sensation was a slow, heavy drag that felt like he was peeling himself away from your very soul. The air in the room hit your raw skin, but the cold didn’t last long. Without the solid plug of him holding it back, the sheer, excessive volume of what he’d left inside you began to yield to gravity.

You felt a thick, warm rush—a heavy, creamy spill that leaked from your core and pooled in the dip of your thighs. It was a visceral, sliding heat, a pearly mess of his release mixed with your own frantic fluid, painting a stark, white map against the dark sheets.

Mingi stayed close, his knees still bracketed around you as he watched the evidence of his reclamation coat your skin. He reached down, his large hand following the path of the spill, his fingers dragging through the cream and smearing it across your hip in a slow circle. He wanted to see it; he wanted to see exactly how much of himself he had forced you to carry.

“I told you,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, satisfied hum as he watched the slow drip hit the mattress. “I told you I was going to fill you up. I told you I’d make sure you felt me for the next days.” He didn’t reach for a tissue. He didn’t try to clean you. Instead, he leaned down and licked a stray drop from your inner thigh, his tongue rough and hot, before looking back up at you with a predatory glint still simmering in his eyes. “That's exactly where it belongs,” he whispered. “Right inside you. Marking you so that every time you take a step tomorrow, you feel me sliding out of you and remember exactly what happened.”

The adrenaline was finally receding, leaving behind a heavy, aching lethargy. Mingi pulled you flush against his side, his skin still damp and radiator-hot against yours.

He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The harsh, territorial side of him had softened, though his eyes still held a dazed, singular focus. He reached out, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lower lip before he leaned down for a kiss. It wasn’t like the others. There was no bruising pressure, no desperation—just a slow, deep, and devastatingly passionate press of his mouth against yours. It tasted of salt and total surrender.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “I love you,” he whispered.

The words hit you harder than any of the impacts against the door. You froze, your heart skipping a beat before hammering against your ribs. Your eyes were wide, searching the sharp, damp angles of his face for a smirk, a sneer, or the dark, demeaning glint he’d worn all night. You were looking for the punchline—the part where he told you that you were just a convenient place to dump three months of frustration. But his gaze was steady.

“What?” you breathed, your voice a fractured wreck. “What are you talking about? Min… I thought…” You swallowed hard, a sudden, stinging heat rising behind your eyes. “I thought I was just… a good fuck. I thought this was you finally getting me out of your system so you could stop hating me.”

Mingi flinched, his expression crumbling into genuine, hurt surprise. He let out a dry, huffed laugh, his hand sliding from your jaw to tangle deeply in your hair. “A good fuck?” he repeated, his voice thick with disbelief. “You think I’d turn into a fucking animal like that for just anyone? You think I’ve been sitting across from you for three months, dying a little bit, because I wanted a fuck?” He shook his head, his eyes burning with a raw honesty that made your throat tight. “I’ve loved you since we were eighteen, you idiot,” he rasped, his thumb brushing a fresh tear from your cheek. “Every thing I did, every time I stayed over to watch movies, every time I walked you home... it was because I couldn’t stand being away from you. Tonight wasn’t just about sex. It was because I was terrified I was actually losing you.”

The air left your lungs in a long, shaky sob. All the walls you’d kept up, the “friendship” you’d tried to protect while your own heart was breaking, finally shattered for good. You surged upward, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.

“I love you too,” you choked out, your voice muffled by his skin. “I’ve loved you forever, Min. I just thought... I thought you only saw me as one of the guys. I thought tonight was just... yet another mistake you’d regret in the morning.”

Mingi let out a long, shuddering breath, his arms tightening around you until you were practically a part of him. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him so your heart was beating directly against his. “Never a mistake,” he promised, his voice dipping into that protective, low hum. “And you’re never going back to being ‘just a friend.’ You’re mine now. I’m not letting you go again.” He began to stroke your back, his large hand moving in slow, rhythmic circles that chased away the lingering tremors in your muscles. He leaned up, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before hovering over your lips. “I love you, you beautiful, stubborn girl. But don’t think for a second that means I’m going to be any less greedy with you.”

Mingi let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind that sounded like a man who had finally laid down a hundred-pound weight he’d been carrying for years. He looked around the room, his eyes landing on the wreckage of your dress near the door and the literal state of his floor, and he let out a dry, breathy chuckle.

“Well,” he rasped, his voice still a bit wrecked. “I’m definitely going to need to hire a professional cleaning crew. And you’re definitely getting a bill for my dignity.”

You let out a weak, tired laugh, burying your face back into the crook of his neck. “Your dignity? You’re the one who turned into a feral animal because I wore a dress with a slit, Song Mingi.”

“A slit that went to your armpit,” he corrected, his hand sliding down to give your hip a playful, much gentler squeeze. “And don't act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’ve been a brat for years, Y/N. I was just finally fulfilling my civic duty to shut you up.”

“My legs are actually jelly,” you whispered, resting your forehead against his. “I hope you’re prepared to carry me everywhere for the next business week.”

“A business week? Please. With the way you were begging? You’re lucky if I let you walk by next Christmas,” he teased, his eyes sparkling with that familiar, mischievous glint you’d loved since you were teenagers. “And for the record, you were always a terrible ‘just a friend.’ You’re much better as a ‘terrifyingly loud girlfriend.’”

“I wasn’t that loud,” you defended, though your face flushed a deep crimson.

“The neighbours three floors down would disagree, but sure,” he kissed your forehead with a gentleness that felt like a secret, followed by a soft, lingering kiss to your nose. “We need to shower. But if you think I’m washing your hair without making fun of your taste in men—specifically that suit-wearing prick—you’ve got another thing coming.”

You rolled your eyes, “I love you, you idiot.”

The corner of his mouth twitched into a real, soft smile—the one he only ever saved for you. “I love you too, baby. Now let’s get in the shower before I decide I’m not actually as tired as I thought I was.”