L.

Silent reader ‘04

[hoonkitti]

      OBSESSION ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

 𓊆박성훈 x fem reader𓊇 hold me, kiss me. whisper sweetly that you love me forever. hold me, kiss me. whisper sweetly that you love me forever. hold me, kiss me. whisper sweetly that you love me forever.

      part two of two ― read part one

  ⤫ 28253 ⤫ ― based & inspired on the movie: obsession (2026), heavily major spoiler alert: warnings, style, plot. ― gore, body horror, psychological horror, incel horror, cannibalistic themes, supernatural obsession, graphic violence, self-harm + mentioned of razor on wrist, suicide, toxic co-dependency, coercive control, drugs & alcohol use, smut, technically sex with a demon, blood, mentions of cuts, animal death (cat), profanity, mental health themes, dubcon, noncon sexual content, missionary, cowgirl, blowjob, please let me know if i've missed any!

  ⊹ 𐙚⋆˙˚ oh my gosh... i meant to do this in 15k but i accidentally doubled the amount haha... omg enjoy... :"( i hope it's not as shit as i think it is ajneabse i've proofread this like ONCE. p/s: i love this movie so fucking much it's sickening and unhealthy... please don't forget to leave your comments, thoughts, and inboxes :(( it makes me so happy!!!

being with you was even better than sunghoon had ever imagined.

you were so different than what he’d expected—warmer, more openly affectionate, almost clingy in the sickest, sweetest way possible. the girl who used to be shy and reserved with her feelings now looked at him like he was the center of her universe. 

it was intoxicating.

the two of you were making breakfast together in his kitchen. you stood behind him while he cooked eggs,  arms wrapped around his bare waist, chin resting on his shoulders as you hummed. every few seconds you’d press a kiss to his neck or cheek.

sunghoon laughed softly when you stole a piece of fruit from the cutting board.

“you’re gonna eat everything before it’s done, baby,” he teased, squeezing your hands on his tummy. you giggled and kissed his jaw, pressing you chest against his back.

“can’t help it… you look so cute when you’re cooking.”

you both ended up eating at the counter—you sitting on the top and sunghoon standing in between your legs as you fed him pieces of bacon. he laughed at how cute you looked, and you giggled at his terrible jokes.

it felt domestic.

at work, you two couldn’t keep your hands off each other. 

in the breakroom, sunghoon had you pressed against the wall, kissing you deeply. your hands were in his hair, pulling him closer as you moaned softly into his mouth. you made the breakroom like his bedroom.

jake walked in at the wrong moment. he froze, eyes wide, then quickly looked away with a muttered, “jesus christ…” before backing out. he found it odd. weird, bizarre even to see sunghoon and you… but you, especially in this state.

he supposed he didn’t know you enough—despite knowing each other since the earliest days of jake’s life.

haewon, who had been right behind him, looked visibly uncomfortable, eyebrows furrowed as she turned and left without a word. 

you and sunghoon didn’t even notice. or even if either of you did—no fucks were given.

on the floor, you were “checking out cds” together—but really, it mostly meant him standing behind you with his arms around your waist as the two of you decided which movie to watch for the night.

even during his band practice time that you’d tag along—sunghoon spent most of it teaching you how to use his electric guitar, sitting on his lap with your back pressed flashed against his chest, sunghoon’s arms wrapped around your waist.

his members would give him a look, and so did your girl friends who shared the room.

it’s weird. it’s unlikely.

every night was spent together under the sheets. 

you loved kissing him. you could do it for hours, everywhere, anywhere—slow, deep kisses that turned hungry, soft pecks all over his face, neck, chest, or just lying there with your lips pressed against his for long moments.

you’d pull him on top of you, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering i love you between kisses like it you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between your bodies.

sunghoon wasn’t complaining. not even a little.

he had never been this happy.

waking up with you curled into his side, making breakfast together while you hugged him from behind, stolen kisses, falling asleep with your head on his chest every night—it felt like a dream he never wanted to wake up from. the constant affection, the way you looked at him… it filled every empty space he’d carried.

days turned into weeks.

and now it had been almost two months together.

“acoustic guitar?” 

you and sunghoon were sitting across from each other at a small table by the window, sharing a plate of pastries and drinks. your fingers were playing with his hand on the table—tracing his knuckles, interlacing your fingers, gently squeezing every few seconds.

you genuinely couldn’t stop touching him.

sunghoon chuckled softly, watching the way your pretty manicured fingers traced the lines on his palm. “yeah. the band’s been doing mostly acoustic sets now. the electric stuff is fun but… i don’t know, it feels different when it’s just the guitar. personal, i guess?”

you nodded, still playing with his fingers. were you even listening?

“i like when you play acoustic. your voice sounds really nice like that.”

“you think s—”

RING—!

sunghoon glanced down to his phone with its screen facing upwards—seeing jake’s contact. he simply acknowledged it before flipping his phone. 

the conversation flowed easily as it should between two lovers—about his band’s past gigs, practice, and whether he should start his own project since the band wasn’t as active anymore.

“you should,” you said, eyes sparkling. you squeezed his hand, nails lightly digging into his flesh. “you’d be amazing leading your own band. i wanna come to every show—wanna follow you everywhere you go.”

sunghoon smiled, warmth spreading through his chest. 

“of course you will.”

you picked up a piece of bread, tore a small chunk, and fed it to him with your fingers. sunghoon accepted it, lips brushing against your fingertips. he was about to do the same for you when his phone buzzed on the table.

jake was calling, again.

sunghoon sighed. “hold on, baby. it’s the second time he’s called now. i’ll be quick.”

he excused himself from the table and stepped outside to take the call. 

you watched him go, your expression shifting. your smile faded. a subtle annoyance flickered across your face as you stared at him walking away, fingers tapping lightly, impatiently on the table.

“what?” he answered, a little impatient. “i’m busy.”

“busy with yn?”

sunghoon sighed. “what do you want?"

there was a beat of hesitation on the other line.

“okay, so…” jake started. “i haven’t told anyone because i don’t know how true this goes, but i went to yn’s house the other day to pass some pie. her grandma was asking where yn is.”

sunghoon frowned, “your point?” 

“she thinks yn lives with me. thought she was sick of her. i didn’t tell her what yn said about her kicking her out but… something’s going on.”

sunghoon glanced back at you. you were staring in his direction, smiling in an unnatural, almost too–wide way. he gave a small wave. you waved back, smiling.

jake continued, voice lower. “and plus, this is just so weird, man… i’ve never seen her acting this way. i didn’t even know she liked you.”

that ticked sunghoon off—he didn’t like that. so what if it was fucking weird? so what if jake didn’t know you liked sunghoon? jake didn’t need to know everyfuckingthing there is to know in this world. just because you and him were childhood friends, it doesn’t mean you need to tell him everything.

his grip on the phone tightened. “what the hell are you trying to say?”

a beat.

“i’m just saying it’s weird,” jake replied carefully. “i’m happy for you two, really. but it’s… it’s like yn snapped into a different person.”

sunghoon looked back at you again. you were still staring at him with that same unwavering smile. it was as if you didn’t stop smiling, at all. 

jake kept going. “i don’t know what’s going on with her… or you… but i think you guys should be apart for a while. she literally hasn’t been home.”

a beat.

“hello? sunghoon?”

call ended. 

sunghoon hung up and slowly walked back to the table. he was annoyed, slightly shocked, and trying hard to hide it. his mind was still replaying jake’s words.

you looked up with him with that soft, adoring smile.

“everything okay, baby?”

he sat down, forcing a small nod. “um, yeah.”

you tilted your head, watching him carefully.

“actually, do you…”

“mmmhm…?” you hummed, leaning forward slightly. sunghoon hesitated, then shook his head. “nothing.”

you studied him for a second longer before smiling again. “hm, okay…. i have something for you.”

you reached into your bag and pulled out a small red box, sliding it across the table toward him.

sunghoon blinked. “what’s this?”

“...open it.” 

he hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the box, before finally opening it. inside was a beautiful gem—a deep, dark onyx with flecks that caught the light. it was attached to a simple silver chain, clearly old but well–cared for.

“oh… wow,” he murmured, genuinely surprised.

you smiled gently. “it was my grandma’s… then my mom’s, then mine. but i want to give it to you.”

sunghoon looked up at you, confused. “why are you giving it to me?” 

you reached across the table and gently took his hand. “well… it’s important to me. and so are you—but you’re way more important.”

sunghoon looked at the onyx in his palm, then back at you. “you sound like you love me,” he said, heaf–teasing, half–testing. 

you gave him an eerier, almost creepy smile—too wide, too unwavering, full of teeth. “hoonie… i love you so much. i love you more than anyone else.”

the way you said it sent a chill down his spine.

he tried to keep his voice light. “you’d be sad without me?”

you didn’t even hesitate. “i could die.”

the silence that followed was heavy. sunghoon played with the stone between his fingers, the weight of your words sinking in. then, what jake had said slipped into his mind.

i’ve never seen her acting this way. i didn’t even know she liked you.

yn’s grandma thought she was sick of her.

“yn?”

“yeah?”

“did your grandma really kick you out?”

a beat.

you blinked. then you started chuckling—low, strange sound that quickly turned into scoffing. you stood up from the table abruptly. 

“no, no, no, no, no…”

sunghoon looked up at you, confused. “what?”

you raised your voice, almost childlike in your denial. “nooooo, don’t you do that!”

the entire restaurant went quiet. heads turned, the uncomfortable tension was immediate—all eyes on your table, whispers began scattering around in the space. 

sunghoon stayed seated but reached out, gently grabbing your hand. 

“what? baby, calm down. let’s sit first, please?”

your eyes were twitching, and so were your fingers—gripping into the hem of your pretty sweater. “why does it matter?!”

he looked around, clearly embarrassed, cheeks burning as people continued staring. you pulled your hand back slightly but didn’t sit back down. 

“i thought we were having a nice date?” your voice trembled. your head jerked and tilted sideways, shoulders shuddering. to others, it might just seem like a girlfriend getting psycho over the boyfriend, but to sunghoon who knew better—

it was anything but it.

“we are! we are…” he tried to reassure you, lightly nudging you to sit down again—but you wouldn’t budge. 

“so why does it matter?” you repeated, voice getting smaller. just then, you started crying—softly, almost childishly, tears rolling down your cheeks as you stood there by the table with sunghoon’s hand holding yours.

the silence around you was deafening.

sunghoon was growing concerned and embarrassed—people were getting the wrong ideas, he could feel the judgemental eyes on him—the guy must have done something terrible to make his girlfriend cry in public.

swallowing the lump in his throat, he squeezed your hand gently. “doesn’t matter to me, baby. doesn’t matter,” he said quickly, voice low and soothing.

he finally managed to pull you toward him. you collapsed into his lap and chest almost instantly, sobbing quietly against his shirt. sunghoon wrapped his arms around you tightly, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back, the other cradling the back of your head.

you finally went quiet.

“shhh, it’s okay… i’ve got you,” he whispered into your hair, holding you close as your body trembled with hiccups. “it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter to me.”

the restaurant slowly, very agonisingly so, went back to their own conversations, but the uneasy atmosphere lingered. 

sunghoon kept holding and rocking you gently, completely focused on calming you down.

——

the night ended with another fucking session. tonight lasted slightly longer than usual—one sunghoon could only assume was due to your frustration from the dinner date earlier. admittedly, it was sunghoon’s fault. he shouldn’t have brought it up, shouldn’t have listened to jake, shouldn’t have put you on the spot.

if you really wanted to talk about it, you would’ve.

sunghoon accidentally woke up sometime in the middle of the night. groggily, he checked the time on his phone.

03:47

and your side of the bed was cold. 

he sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes as he looked around the dark room. at first, he thought you might have gone to the bathroom, or went down to get yourself a glass of water. but then his eyes caught something in the far corner—behind a stack of boxes.

a figure. barely visible. so faint it might’ve been nothing.

sunghoon sat up and leaned forward, squinting to get a clearer view. the figure stepped forward at his movement.

“yn…?”

you were standing there in nothing but his oversized shirt, the hem barely covering your ass. your nipples were visibly perky through the thin fabric, and your eyes reflected just enough light from the window to look almost glowing. eyeshine.

“go back to sleep,” you said softly.

sunghoon’s heart rate picked up.

“what are you doing…?”

you tilted your head slightly. a small, serene smile on your lips. 

“watching you sleep. you’re cute when you sleep, hoonie.”

then, without a word, you stepped back into the shadow of the dark corner, becoming almost invisible again. sunghoon stared at the spot where you had been for god knows how long—unable to shake the chill that ran down his spine.

“...can you come back to bed?” sunghoon asked. voice careful.

“no.”

“yn?”

“no.”

the silence that followed was thick and suffocating. sunghoon sat there in the dark of his room, heart beating faster, tummy gurgling with uneasiness. he was getting weirded out—uncomfortable—getting scared by the girl of his dreams.

you were just standing there, not doing anything. not fiddling with the hem of his shirt that you were wearing, not moving an inch, not blinking or cracking a smile. hell—sunghoon couldn’t even see your lungs expanding. 

it was… uncanny. 

he thought of calling out again—but out of nowhere, you started giggling. a childish, high–pitched sound that didn’t belong in the middle of the night, and was definitely not yours. your shoulders shook and trembled with each giggle that slipped past your lips, but you weren’t moving.

“yn—”

you were acting fucking weird when you hopped back toward the bed like nothing had happened, crawling onto him and kissing his cheek with wet, eager presses of your lips.

“you know i love you the most, right?” you whispered sweetly against his skin, voice dripping with something unhinged. “i love you sooooo much…” 

your hands roamed his bare chest possessively, cold fingers digging into his skin as you groped his bicep, squeezing like you were testing how much of him you could claim—ripped out with your bare hands.

you kissed down his neck, grazing your teeth along his pulse point—not quite biting, but close enough to send a shiver of fear through him.

“i could eat you up…” you murmured, teeth scraping harder this time, voice low and obsessive and not yours. “just…. consume every little part of you until there’s nothing left for anyone else—not even for yourself. wouldn’t that be nice? you’d be all mine. only mine. forever.”

your nails dragged down his chest as you nuzzled into his neck again, pressing your chest against him. sunghoon state frozen beneath you, heart hammering. the earlier warmth completely replaced by a deep, instinctive dread. 

with your hand roaming along his body, they travelled down until you were caressing his thigh, close to his boxer. sunghoon let out a small grunt as you licked the part where his major jugular vein pulsed, then followed it with wet, butterfly kisses along the slope of his neck.

sunghoon had never noticed or felt how sharp your canines are. 

“i wanna do it again,” you murmured, fluttering your pretty lashes with that same unhinged adoration. 

even through the fear he’d never felt before in his life, sunghoon couldn’t deny you. not when you leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear as you whispered,

“fuck me, please?”

——

sunghoon stepped out of the bathroom, still half–asleep as he adjusted his shirt. at the same time, you walked out of the kitchen looking as normal, cute, girlfriend–ly, and happy as ever—bright smile, fresh face, still wearing the same oversized shirt as last night. 

“oh! good morning, my baby!” you chirped, immediately walking over and kissing his cheek sweetly.

sunghoon smiled despite the lingering unease from last night. “hi, morning.” he hummed, kissing you back softly on the lips. 

he hesitated for a moment, then spoke carefully.

“... can we, uh, talk about last night?”

your expression shifted. you looked down for a second, then back up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

“ugh, i’m sorry,” you said softly. “i had a really bad dream… and i think i was sleepwalking or something. i don’t even remember most of it…”

sunghoon hummed, rubbing the back of his neck. “it was kinda scary. you were saying and doing stuff. and the way you looked at me—” “i know, i know,” you cut in gently, stepping closer and wrapping your arms around his waist. you hugged him tight, pressing your cheek against his chest. “i’m so sorry, baby. i won’t do it again—promise.”

he slowly hugged your back, arms clinging around you. his voice was relieved, but still worried. 

“it’s okay. just promise me it won’t happen again.”

“i promise,” you said sweetly, giving him a squeeze. “i love you so much.”

“i love you too.”

it’s all so weird, but also not. just last night, sunghoon swore he could piss himself on the bed—but came the morning, and he couldn’t help himself.

he reached for his nametag on the counter and pinned it on. “i’ll see you later.”

“mmhm,” you hummed happily. then you suddenly perked up. “oh! i made you a little something.”

you hurried back to the kitchen counter and came back holding a neatly packed lunchbox, handing it to him with both hands like it was a precious gift.

“since i’m not working anymore, i couldn’t stand not doing anything for you and feeling like a useless sex doll—”

sunghoon frowned almost instantly, cutting you off. “what? what are you talking about?”

for a split second, your expression glitched in real time—eyes flickering, smile twitching unnaturally like a bad video feed. your pupils constricted and dilated before it went back normal. you recovered almost instantly, laughing it off like it was nothing. 

“what? sorry, just forget it! here.”

you pushed the lunchbox into his hands with a wide smile. 

sunghoon took it, a little confused. “um… alright.”

you leaned in and kissed him again—soft, lingering, and full of that obsessive affection. he kissed you back, placing his hands on your hips momentarily. 

you pulled away with a bright smile, brushing off nothing from his shoulders like a doting girlfriend. then, you did that cute giddy thing—standing on your tiptoes, dropping back down, then rising onto your tiptoes again, hands clasped in front of you.

“enjoy your day, hoonie!” you said sweetly. “but not too much.” you smiled.

“i’ll be right here when you get home.” 

sunghoon gave you a small smile, and turned toward the door.

only to find it taped shut, literally. layers of grey duct tape crisscrossing over them frame and knob and wall, sealing it completely.

he stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “uh… um…”

he didn’t say anything else. he just walked over and tried to pull the knob—the tape held firm.

behind, you stood perfectly still, watching with that same serene smile. you were still standing on your tiptoes, then dropping back down, then onto your tiptoes again. 

“you okay, baby?” you asked, voice soft and innocent. “you seemed to struggle a little… maybe you should just stay at home?”

sunghoon forced a chuckle, still tugging at the door. “no, no, i uh… i got this, baby. just…”

with a sharp rip, he finally tore enough of the tape off to open the door. he turned back to you, trying to act normal. 

“i’ll see you soon.”

you waved at him with an unnervingly sweet, cute smile. still standing in the same spot—still doing your tiptoes movement.

——

sunghoon and haewon were in the aisles arranging the new cd arrivals. 

“been a while since we hung out,” she said casually, sliding a few albums into place. 

“yeah,” sunghoon replied, not looking up from where he was crouching down. “got busy. and yn’s not exactly the hang–out type anymore.”

haewon paused, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

“what, really? she used to come over a lot and watch movies with jake and i.” she shrugged. “huh. guess relationships change people.”

sunghoon chuckled, then he smiled, finally looking up to her. “what’s up with that?”

the girl laughed lightly, shaking her head as she continued with her task. “nothing? i always thought yn was like this really cool, whimsical girl, you know what i mean? but now i barely even see you, let alone her. just… bummed.”

sunghoon’s hands slowed on the cds. “uh. i guess so.”

the silence between them grew a little awkward. sensing it, haewon quickly changed the subject with a brighter tone. “oh, yeah, also—jake wants to hold this big, cool movie night at our place tonight. you’re joining?”

sunghoon pursed his lips, then thought for a little while. true—it’s been a while since the three—or four, if including you—hung out together since sunghoon and you became a thing. it had also been a while since he properly talked to haewon and jake outside of work.

everything lately had revolved around you.

“...yeah, sure, actually,” he finally said. “who else is joining?”

haewon smiled, relieved that the awkwardness had passed. “mm, i think jake invited some band people too. aerona’s there too, if you remember.”

sunghoon nodded. “sure. yeah, that works.”

they were cut off by kim calling out from the front counter. “haewon! can you work on this aisle? and sunghoon, you can take your break now!”

haewon grunted softly, rolling her eyes. “i’ll see you tonight.”

“sure,” sunghoon replied with a small smile. 

with another grunt from him, he stood back up, rubbing his hands together and setting the box aside.

as he was walking toward the counter to head to the breakroom, sieun—your bestfriend—suddenly appeared in front of him. she was wearing a low cut sleeveless top and jeans shorts, boots that rose up till her knees.

“sunghoon, hi!”

he was slightly taken aback. “oh, sieun, hey. what are you doing here?”

he kept walking, slipping behind the counter and into the small breakroom to grab his lunchbag. the breakroom door was right behind the front counter, so sieun waited in front with her arms folded in front of her, pressed against her chest—making her cleavage appear more… prominent. 

when he came back out with the lunchbox you’d made him, sieun grinned.

“oh, you know… i kinda wanna rent something,” she said, voice playful. “secretary, maybe?”

sunghoon didn’t know sieun like that aside from sharing a band practice room together occasionally. so seeing her this way, kinda changed the way he viewed her. 

he hummed, letting out a small scoff. “we don’t sell porn here.”

sieun giggled, tilting her head. “oh! so you know?” she leaned forward a little more. “it’s not porn, though? it’s just… suggestive.”

the atmosphere between them felt changed—flirty on her end. 

“well, you gotta pirate it, ‘cause we don’t have it here.”

he then set the lunchbag you made him on the counter between them, creating a space. sieun’s eyes flicked to it. 

“awe, mommy made you lunch, sunghoon?”

“nope,” he replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. “yn did, actually.”

sieun let out a soft laugh, raising her eyebrows. “oh, how sweet. she’s the best at cooking,” she hummed, raising an eyebrow. “very… housewife material of her.”

sunghoon chuckled lightly and opened the lid.

the smell hit them both at the same time. 

inside was the most unappetising, inedible, atrocious looking lunch either of them had ever seen—it was just a sandwich. except, the sandwich was both burnt and wet at the same time—the bread charred back on the edges while the middle looked soggy and slimy. a small bug was even crawling slowly across the top.

both of them recoiled instantly.

siuen made a disgusted noise and turned her head away. sunghoon quickly slammed the lid shut, eyes wide with horror.

the lunchbox landed in the trash.

——

the drive started quiet. after shift, jake asked for a ride home in which sunghoon agreed—having lived in the same row of neighborhoods, after all. 

then, jake cleared his throat.

“i wanna talk about you and yn.”

sunghoon kept his eyes on the road. “what’s there to talk about?

“come on.”

the driver sighed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. “you know i like her. for a long time too.”

“i know,” jake said carefully, knowing how fragile the topic was. “but i just think you guys should be apart for a bit—”

“i’ve never been so fucking happy,” sunghoon cuts in, voice sharp, laced with defensiveness. “not after my dad passed.”

jake tried again. “it’s just for a little—”

“and you’re trying to give me reasons not to be.”

a heavy beat of silence settled in the car.

“look, i just don't want you, or yn for that matter, to get hurt,” jake said, tone more serious now. “she’s my friend, and you’re my bestfriend, and i’m totally thrown and weirded out by this. can we please break this down?”

sunghoon’s grip on the wheel tightened. “i don’t want to break it down for you.”

jake pushed. “she lied about her grandma. she didn’t have a reason to—”

“i’m still not breaking down our relationship—”

“we don’t even hang out anymore—”

“right, like i had to hear about your cool–ass party from haewon—”

“and you don’t think this is fucking weird at all?”

“were you going to invite us?”

their voices overlapped, the argument building fast and messy in the confined space of the car.

jake frowned. “don’t change the subject. and i wasn’t sure if i wanted to, if i’m being completely honest.”

sunghoon’s jaw clenched. “why not?”

the car slowed to a stop in front of jake’s house.

he turned to sunghoon, expression serious. “because it looks like yn is going through something worse than molly, and it seems to me that you’re taking advantage of it—”

“oh, for fuck’s sakes!” sunghoon snapped, turning to jake. his arms rested on the shoulder of the car seat. “she’s all over me! are you fucking kidding?”

“exactly!” jake shot back. “you were all over her, now she’s all over you and it doesn’t look good. it doesn’t look good at all, man.”

sunghoon let out a bitter laugh, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “why are you trying to ruin this for me? she’s the one who won’t leave me alone.”

jake exhaled, rubbing his face. “alright. then be a man, and make that clear. you can come, but out of love, yn can’t. or yn can come, and you stay at home.”

just before jake stepped out of the car, he paused, one hand on the door.

“i don’t want my friend’s relationship to be built on some weird codependency or what-the-fuck-ever.”

he shut the door behind him.

——

tired from the long day and the argument with jake, sunghoon pushed the door open and flicked on the lights. he just wanted to shower and rest—and cuddle with you until sleep took over.

but the moment he stopped inside, the smell hit him first—sour, acrid, vomit, and urine.

you were still standing in the middle of the living room, the same spot he left you in, soaked in sweat and vomit, standing in a pool of your own piss. the same shirt from earlier was ruined, clinging wetly to your body. urine stained your legs and the floor beneath you.

you hadn’t moved from that spot.

“hoonie!” you said brightly.

sunghoon froze, eyes wide with horror.

“oh, shit—yn?! what the fuck? are you okay?”

you seemed to realise the state you were in. at his reaction, you stepped back embarrassed, looking down at yourself with a small, confused frown.

“i—i’m sorry… oh gosh, i should’ve showered…”

sunghoon moved toward you quickly, concerned and utterly confused. he grabbed a tissue from the tv stand and started wiping your face, trying not to gag at the smell.

“what happened?” he asked, voice laced with worry.

you looked up at him, eyes glassy. “my body feels weird and i couldn’t stop puking… ugh, i don’t know…”

sunghoon’s eyes widened. he scrunched his nose at the overwhelming stench. “did you have a seizure or something?" 

you shook your head slowly.

“i was waiting for you to come home.”

you looked down at yourself again and shivered with visible revulsion.

“oh gosh… i’m so disgusting… you’re probably so disgusted with me. i’m so sorry—let me shower, and i’ll clean this all up.”

you walked toward the bathroom. sunghoon followed close behind, but you slammed the door in his face before he could do anything. the shower water turned on a second later.

“yn, i don’t understand how—” he started, voice raised above the noise of the water.

“i’ll clean it, baby,” you called back, voice sweet despite everything.

sunghoon stood right outside the door, shoulders slumped, forehead resting against the door.

“yn?”

“yeah?”

“...you love me, right?”

“yeah, a lot!”

he closed his eyes.

“...okay. so never do that again, hm?”

“do what? wait for you to come home?”

sunghoon rested his head fully against the door, voice tired.

“not that, baby. you can wait for me—but you know, you can also do things around the house.”

“okay, baby.”

a beat of silence.

“so uhm… what did you do today?”

“nothing, baby.”

another long pause. defeated and unsure, sunghoon finally spoke up again, “i’m going to jake’s house tonight.”

the shower water stopped. and everything went eerily quiet. 

you sounded hurt when you replied. “okay.”

“so i, uh… i’m gonna go there, okay?”

“yup. i can get dressed after this.”

“that’s nice, baby, but uh… i think it’s just a band thing.”

“oh, i know ‘cause sieun was telling me she’s going.”

sunghoon frowned, taken aback. “sieun too? what, really?”

the bathroom door suddenly slammed open. 

you stood there, drenched, wrapping only in a towel. hair dripping water onto the floor. your eyes were wide and intense. 

“yeah. why? are you happy? excited? is that why you’re telling me not to go?” with every sentence, you walked towards him. your eyes were wide, and your skin was warm and flushed from the hot water. you tilted your head once harshly, it threatened to break.

sunghoon stepped back until his back met the wall, hands raised. “no, no, no, baby, no that’s not it—”

then, like a switch, you stood still, like normal, with an innocent look on your face. “but um, okay. if you want me to stay at home, i can stay at home, hoonie.”

now he was feeling overwhelmingly guilty. he didn’t know sieun, your bestfriend, was coming too—so now it just seemed like an overall big misunderstanding. 

“no, it’s okay. i’m sorry—you should come.”

“mm, it’s fine. you can go without me.”

he started persuading you to go, but you kept insisting in that soft tone of yours—”i don’t want to bother you, i’ll just wait here like always,” “i don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”

sunghoon didn’t know what to do.

——

jake deadpanned sunghoon the moment he walked in with you clinging to his arm. sunghoon avoided his gaze. around the low table were two other guys from the band circle and sieun, who gave sunghoon a flirty little wave. 

you and sunghoon sat together on the couch, your body pressed close to his. jake and haewon were sitting on single chairs across the table, and others just scattered around.

the group was playing “dare or drink”—a stack of cards with ridiculous and explicit dares.

one of the guys, jaemin, pulled a card and grinned.

“switch spots with whoever you want.”

“hell yeah,” he said immediately, eyes landing on you. “i wanna sit next to yn.”

your eyes widened slightly and you instantly looked over to sunghoon, pouting and pleading, “nooo…” and caught sunghoon’s hand as he got up, squeezing it lightly. “baby, i’ve showered…”

he gave your hand a gentle squeeze back. “it’s fine, babe.”

he stood up and moved to the only empty spot—right next to haewon.

jaemin happily took his place beside you. you looked visibly sad, like a kicked puppy with your eyebrows frowned inwards, scooting slightly from the other guy. 

he laughed. “damn, sunghoon, what kinda spell you got on her?”

the group chuckled. sunghoon forced a smile but didn’t say anything.

it was now your turn. you pulled a card but didn’t read it out loud. instead, you stared at it for a long second before standing up and suddenly speaking in a soft, rambling voice—like you were telling a story no one asked for.

“my wish is to die like an angel, sinless… i don’t know what it is, and i don’t think i’m the only one. falling from the sky with wings made of glass, shattering beautifully so everyone can see who i really am inside. but i can’t. i can’t die like an angel, and i think i can’t die at all. i can’t die like an angel like i wanted to. i’m not an angel—i’m not—i don’t know. i just want to be something.”

the room went deathly quiet. whatever it was… hung heavy in the air—deeply unsettling in everyone’s ribs. jake blinked, swallowing the lump in his throat. haewon, too, blinking confusedly, her lips parting like she wanted to say something—but not sure what.

sieun made a face—a clear what the fuck….? expression—while the other two guys exchanged awkward glances, one of them muttering a quiet, “what…?”

sunghoon just stared at you, completely confused, mouth slightly open like haewon—wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

sieun finally broke the silence, raising an eyebrow. “uh… you good, babe?”

you blinked, sat down again, then smiled like nothing strange had happened at all. 

“yeah. i’m perfect.”

haewon cleared her throat awkwardly. “um… okay, sunghoon—it’s your turn.”

sunghoon blinked, snapping out of it. “oh shit, okay.”

he reached forward and pulled a card. his face paled the moment he read it. he glanced at you—you were leaning forward with sweet anticipation, smiling brightly. then he looked at jake silently pleading. 

“...kiss the person to your left.”

it was haewon.

“ooohs,” and “wows,” rippled through the group. sunghoon made eye contact with you again. your expression had gone completely dead—emotionless, empty. then, the corners of your mouth stretched downwards tightly while your eyes remained unblinking and wide.

then you stood up slowly. everyone’s eyes followed you. 

you stood behind haewon’s folded chair for what felt like forever.

swiftly, you moved behind haewon’s chair and grabbed the back of it—dragged it backward with a loud, grating creak that echoed through the room. haewon’s eyes widened and she gripped the armrests for support and balance. 

then you crouched right next to sunghoon’s chair, puckered your lips, and waited.

the whole room was shocked into silence.

sunghoon stared at you for a second. he hadn’t even planned to do the dare—he was going to drink instead. but the way you were looking at him now…

he leaned in and kissed you. 

then, you looked at sunghoon with glassy eyes.

“no one on this earth will ever comprehend what it feels like to love someone as much as i love you,” you whispered against his lips.

you stood up abruptly and giggled, clapping your hands once like a child who’d just finished a performance. 

“that was fun!”

jake looked almost hurt for a second, but then forced a smile. “um, okay… dare still count. who wants shots?”

a beat.

jaemin raised his hand. “i’ll take one.”

“god bless, thank you jaemin,” jake said, trying to keep the mood light.

“who else?”

you locked eyes with sunghoon. he looked rather uncomfortable. guilt suddenly washed over your face. your heart beat once, then twice, then thrice before something in you snapped.

you jolted violently, swiping the entire stack of cards off the table with one arm. before anyone could react, you grabbed the vodka bottle and smashed it hard against the edge of the table.

CRASH.

glass exploded everywhere. everyone jerked back in fear, chairs scraping loudly as people scrambled away. haewon nearly stumbled over her chair. 

“it’s not me!” you screamed, voice cracking. “i’m not the devil!”

you kept smashing the broken bottle against the table, shards flying. sieun gasped aloud, but wasn’t able to do anything to stop you. sunghoon too, just watched in horror.

“help her! shit—sunghoon!”

“get her to the fucking hospital!”

then, in a frenzied motion, you lifted the sharp, broken vodka bottle and stabbed the jagged end into the side of your face. 

the blunt glass failed to puncture deeply, but it still caused crazy damage—tearing open your cheek in a ragged, bloody gash. blood poured down your face instantly, dripping onto your pretty little dress (too pretty for a simple movie night) and onto the floor. 

sobbing, you kept pressing it in, twisting it slightly. more blood spraying as the glass cut deeper into your skin.

“please—it’s not me!”

the room erupted into chaos—people standing up, chairs knocking over.

“yn, shit!”

sunghoon just stared at you from where he was sitting, almost… emotionless. almost. he blinked like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. his mind was racing—every moment, every strange behaviour, every time he’d ignored it all. he didn’t move.

he couldn’t.

you kept pressing the jagged glass into the side of your face for a few more terrifying seconds before you suddenly stopped. the broken bottle slipped from your bloody fingers and clattered to the floor.

your expression changed instantly. you blinked, looking around the room like you just woke up from a nightmare. 

“oh… oh my gosh, i’m so sorry…”

you looked horrifying. blood poured freely down the left side of your face from the ragged rash on your cheek, staining your pretty dress. your hands were cut and bleeding from gripping the broken glass—and your eyes were wide and teary.

you chuckled awkwardly, nipping at the bottom of your lip as you darted your tongue to lick the blood around your lips. 

everyone in the room was horrified. haewon had her hand over her mouth. sieun was colourless. the other guys were frozen. jake looked like he was about to be sick. 

you tried to smile, voice shaky as you stood up, wiping your bloody hands on your skirt. 

“okay, okay… i’m so sorry, guys. oh gosh, silly me,” you let out a weak laugh, tucking your hair behind your ear. “it was just a joke, um—i’m leaving. sorry, sorry…”

you started crying softly, tears mixing with the blood on your face.

then, you turned to sunghoon, voice small as you extended your arm out.

“come on, baby.”

everyone’s eyes snapped to him.

——

the hospital didn’t take you in.

the nurse had asked sunghoon to make a report and leave you there for treatment, but he refused. he didn’t want to leave you alone. not now, not like this, not ever.

so he drove home instead, your head nuzzling into his shoulder the entire ride, one of your hands tightly gripping his free arm like you were afraid he’d disappear.

back at his house, sunghoon sat at the dining table. the cut on your cheek had stopped bleeding but the parted flesh looked raw and ugly. it gave him chills how you were so unbothered by it.

he was about to stand up when you grabbed his hand.

“where are you going…?”

“just getting water, yn…”

you looked down on your lap, still holding his wrist. sunghoon stared at you for a long, heavy moment—contemplating, licking his dry lips wet.

“why did you do that?”

you finally looked up to him, eyes showing visible sadness, your eyebrows dropped. “...you and haewon were going to kiss…”

sunghoon sighed. he’d half–expected that’d be your answer. sighing, he ran his other hand along his face. “i wasn’t even going to do it,” he said, frustration creeping in. “i was going to drink—you… you scared everyone.”

swallowing the lump in your throat, your gave his wrist a gentle squeeze. “i don’t know why i did it…” you whispered. 

sunghoon shook his head, sitting back down. “look at your face,” he said, voice softer but still strained.

“i’m sorry—i got scared…”

he reached out and gently wiped the dried blood from your cheek with his thumb. you leaned into his touch like a starved animal. 

then, you added quietly, “sieun likes you too.”

sunghoon’s patience finally snapped. he frowned, and pulled his hand back, growing frustrated. why the fuck would it ever matter if sieun liked him? 

“that’s… god, that’s—”

you looked up at him, confused, pulling your hand back. “what…?”

it all blew up.

“god, everything was fucking normal!” he burst out, voice cracking as he stood up. sunghoon turned around to face the wall, clear frustration, anger, disappointment, confusion—all displayed on his face. 

“and now you’re so—you’re so—!”

sunghoon turned and stopped himself, seeing the way you flinched, eyes wide and shocked and teary. 

“i’m sorry… i’m sorry,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he reached for you again. his hands were shaking as he held your cheeks, thumbs gently brushing away the tears. 

“you’re normal,” he whispered, voice cracking. “you’re so normal, and you’re so beautiful and i love you so much but—oh god, yn, please don’t ever do that again.”

sunghoon’s eyes were glassy, filled with fear and guilt and love all at once.

“it’s not okay,” he murmured, shaking his head. “this isn’t okay.”

you looked up at him. he searched for your face desperately, still cupping your cheeks.

“do you… do you like me?”

“of course, hoonie. i love you—”

“no, no, no, no, no,” he cut you off, shaking your head frantically. his grip on you tightened a fraction. “do you like me? do you even like me?”

you tried to answer again. “i lov—”

sunghoon frowned—he almost pressed his thumbs into your flesh. “did yn like me?” he pressed, looking right into your eyes for answers. “is yn happy? did she like me?”

slowly, you cracked a smile, all teeth and almost like a grin. 

“yeah.”

sunghoon let out a shaky breath, eyes filled with pain and confusion. “yeah… no, no, no, no…” he whispered, suddenly pulling away, standing up and walking away.

you stood up too, voice small and scared. “where are you going?”

“bathroom, yn,” he said almost quickly, not turning around. “can i even do that?”

you frowned, now looking frustrated. the obsessive mask cracking as it bled through like the blood from your cut fleshes. “well, can you tell me you love me?” you said, tone laced with something of annoyance and eagerness. 

sunghoon stopped and turned around. his eyes were red, exhausted, and full of everything he’d been holding in.

“yn… this is all i’ve ever wanted.”

you tilted your head before stepping closer. “of course. i know that. this is all i’ve ever wanted too.” 

sunghoon shook his head slowly, stepping back. “no… it’s not…”

you stepped forward, eyes wide and pleading. “yes it is. this is all i’ve ever wanted.”

“i want this to work so bad,” he murmured, pain clear in his voice as he rubbed his face. 

“it can,” you said quickly, almost desperately as you stood before him. “of course it can.”

“no, it can’t.”

“yes it can.”

he ran a hand through his slightly sweaty hair, exhausted but not quite slowing down. sunghoon was borderline tearing up too out of frustration that you were just not getting it. “okay—so i’m gonna send you home and we’re gonna take some space—”

you immediately broke. your shoulders slumped like your soul just left you, like all the energy within had drained out. “noooo…” you started crying, then sobbing, then full–on wailing in a matter of seconds. 

“i don’t want space! i don’t wanna be apart from you! tell me what i should do!”

sunghoon frowned, voice cracked with frustration as he stepped away. “just be normal! be normal, yn!”

you screamed through your tears, “i can be normal!”

“god, i just want you to be yn!”

“i can be yn!” you screamed back, voice breaking and sobbing as your shoulder trembled. you followed wherever he went. “i can be anything you want!”

“don’t say that.” sunghoon said quietly, obviously drained. he held your shoulders, pressing his thumbs into your flesh to keep you steady. “yn will never say that.”

“it’s true!” you insisted, tears screaming. you held onto the hem of his shirt like an upset child. “i’ll be anything!”

sunghoon looked completely exhausted, no emotion left on his face. he was quiet now, staring at the floor. 

your lips parted when he didn’t look at you in the eyes. 

“oh… i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, baby.”

you dropped to your knees in front of him with a thud, wrapping your arms tightly around his leg, clinging desperately as you buried your face against his thigh. your tears wet the fabric. 

“i can be yn… i can be yn… i’ll be whatever you want.” you murmured, kissing his thigh through his jeans.

“i’ll be sweet, and soft, and kind, caring… like yn… i’ll take care of you and we can cook and read together. i can be yn…” you continued, pressing your cheek into his flesh.

sunghoon slowly crouched to your level, cupping your cheeks so you were looking at him. 

“i love you too…” he whispered, voice breaking.

sunghoon really did.

then something in you snapped.

your face went completely emotionless. your eyes were empty, and you weren’t smiling—and it was as if your tears just stopped trailing down your flushed cheeks. you stood up in one unnaturally smooth, but quick motion—moving backward toward the table with stiff, mechanical steps. 

it didn’t look human.

sunghoon’s eyes widened in terror as he stumbled backwards against the desk, knocking things over. 

“stop! stop—fuck, yn, stop!”

you stood still in the darkness of the room, body rigid. for a terrifying second, he couldn’t predict what was coming next—only hearing his own heavy, ragged breathing and loud thumping of his own heart beat in his chest.

sunghoon didn’t know what was coming—cause you lunged forward, running straight at him—

but you stopped yourself.

“i’m sorry,” you murmured. 

a beat passed.

sunghoon was terrified, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

“okay… god, okay. yn, i… i’m gonna step out. why don’t you… why don’t you take the bed, and i’ll just… i’ll just sleep somewhere else and i’ll come back in the morning before you’re even up.”

you stared at him for a long moment—sunghoon couldn’t see, but he could tell you were because of how heavy everything felt.

“okay.”

then you turned around and walked into the kitchen. a loud crashing sound echoed through the house—glass shattering, cabinets slamming, steel pans and pots clattering through the tiles. 

sunghoon flinched, frozen in fear. 

“yn?! what the fuck is happening? what are you doing?!”

the loud chaos went on for the next few seconds before it completely stopped. eerie silence. you came back out of the kitchen, still shrouded in shadow. your voice was calm, almost sweet, but the words were nothing but. 

and you were holding a knife.

“well… if i have the bed all to myself tonight…” you tilted your head, voice distant and almost flat, like you were not in the same space as he was. “...you’re not going to touch me. so i’ll do it myself. over and over and over. i’ll keep going until there’s nothing left inside. until every piece of me is used and hollowed out. my hands will move long after they go numb—and my body will keep moving even when it stops feeling like mine. it won’t stop until it hurts, and i won’t stop until i’m empty. i’ll just keep pushing until the last little bit of me breaks,” 

“...and then there’ll be nothing.”

the sharp blade of the knife in your hand glinted.

then you switched again.

“or you can stay!”

sunghoon’s eyes remained wide in terror as he gripped the carpet beneath him. trembling and shaking in fear, he let out a soft—

“...yeah.”

——

“do you love me?” 

that was the 27th time you asked that night.

you were on top of him, riding him slow and deep, hips rolling in a rhythm. your arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, pulling him as close as physically possible. you wanted to intertwine the cages of your ribs with his’—if that was possible. 

you couldn’t stop kissing him. kisses that tasted like salt from your tears and blood from your cut cheeks that didn’t want to leave your skin.

“do you love me?” you whispered against his lips for the 28th time that night.

sunghoon groaned softly, hands gripping your waist as you sank down onto him again, taking him to the hilt. despite everything—the fear, the confusion, the guilt, the violence—it felt so fucking good. too fucking good.

you’re perfect around him, warm and tight and desperately his.

“yeah…” sunghoon breathed, voice hoarse. “i love you.”

you smiled against his mouth, kissing him deeper, tongue sliding against his as you rode him harder. your hips moved with needy, possessive rolls, like you were trying to fuse your bodies together. 

“i love you so much, hoonie,” you murmured between kisses, whispering the confession straight into his insides. “i love you so much like no one else can…”

sunghoon’s eyes stung, wet. a tear slipped down his cheek as the overwhelming mix of pleasure hit him. he loved you. he loved you so much. even like this, he still loved you.

you noticed the tears and slowed your movements, cupping his face with both smaller hands. 

“why are you crying, baby?” you whispered sweetly, kissing the tear away. “i love you so much. i love you so much…”

you rode him again, slower this time, grinding down deep as you kissed him like the world was ending tomorrow. your bodies moved together in the dark of his room. 

sunghoon held you tighter, burying his face in your neck as tears fell down your shoulder, along your collarbone, tits, and down.

he didn’t know what this was anymore.

and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

——

some hours later, after the sex and the clinging, sunghoon was awoken by the soft buzz of his phone.

slowly, quietly reaching for it and careful not to wake you up. the screen lit up.

sieun: can you meet me at the park? sieun: i need to tell you something about yn.

at first, he quickly typed back with one hand.

sunghoon: i can’t. sieun: please. it’s important.

sunghoon: text.

the bubble appeared, then disappeared.

siuen: if youre not cmg, then im cmg over sieun: its about yn

he stared at the scene for a long second. 

sunghoon: fuck. fine

he glanced at you—sleeping on his arm, naked beneath the blanket, looking as soft and calm as ever. slowly, very slowly, he moved your arm off his chest and slipped out of the bed. he put on his pants and shirt as quietly as possible.

sunghoon was just about to leave the bedroom when—

“sunghoon.”

he froze.

“i’m just getting water…” he whispered back, heart pounding. he didn’t want to deal with another breakdown. 

there was a long pause. then your voice came again—different, smaller, quieter. 

“sunghoon… kill me. please.”

he stopped dead in his tracks, ashamed and in disbelief as he stared at your unconscious, sleeping body.

“what?” “shh… she’s sleeping. it’s me.”

despite the tremble in your voice, you were sleeping soundly. 

“you are you, yn.”

“shh… please don’t wake her up.” your voice cracked, desperate. “just kill me.”

a beat of heavy silence.

sunghoon’s throat tightened as he glanced at the floor, before returning to your sleeping form. your hair covered your face, but even so, he knew your eyes were closed, and your mouth was shut.

“what would be so bad… about being with me?”

he could hear the tears in your voice. 

“i’ve never been with you, sunghoon.”

a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“just kill me. please.”

sunghoon stood there, frozen. his heart shattered like it had never been before. without sparing you another glance, he turned and left the room. 

behind him, your voice followed, weak and broken, repeating and chanting like a prayer—

“please… please… please… please… please…”

——

sunghoon got into her car, closing the door behind him. 

“alright. so what about yn?”

sieun raised an eyebrow, unbuckling her seatbelt. “jeez, calm down… what’s up with her first? is she fine?”

sunghoon darted his eyes away, sighing. “nothing. she’s uh… she’s fine. she just wasn’t feeling well at the party.”

the girl gave him a look. a long one. full of suspicion and doubt. “she was about to kill herself.”

“i know,” sunghoon said quickly, trying not to recall the moment you stabbed yourself in the face with a vodka bottle. “but she’s fine now. she’s just going through something.”

the car fell quiet for a moment. sieun tapped her fingers on the steering wheel before she shifted in her seat.

“um, okay… well, first of all, i’m saying this as yn’s friend. and also your acquaintance, somehow.” she paused, raising an eyebrow, then continued. “i’d hate to see your hurt, and—oh, yn too, i guess. and i wouldn’t have done this if you guys weren’t together.” 

sunghoon frowned. “yeah…?”

sieun took a deep breath, dropping her hands from the steering wheel and onto her lap where she played with the hem of her short skirt. “i promise yn i wouldn’t tell you this.”

“what are you on about?”

“well… yn and jake have been hooking up on and off like, three years ago—and they’ve stopped, but i’m not sure when. probably a year ago, or something. it’s chill. i don’t think it’s romantic. and i know jake’s your bestfriend and all, and i’m sure he stopped going after her because he knows you like her. i’m just saying this just so you know.”

sunghoon stared at her, stunned. his heart was beating as fast as it could. he never knew this. he never fucking knew you had a history—a fling—with his own bestfriend before. 

the thought of jake fucking you the way sunghoon did was making his blood boil. the thought of you moaning jake’s name the way you did in his dream was making his skin crawl. the thought of the two of you sharing a kiss—the same lips sunghoon kissed every night—was making him… repulsed.

“what the fuck…?”

“yeah,” sieun said softly. “i just… i don’t know if she’s told you that, so i felt like i had to.” she said, still playing with the fabric. “you couldn’t imagine what it’s like being me, and having to be in a room with jake, you, and yn all together.” 

the mood in the car shifted. sieun leaned a little closer, her voice dropping into something more… slicky. 

“i just think you deserve someone more… outgoing. or something. like, chill…”

sunghoon looked at her and swallowed the lump in his throat. distracted, his hands landed on the way her fingers were moving around the skirt. 

he parted his mouth to say something when—

CRASH.

the driver–side window shattered violently. 

glass exploded inward as you ran head–first into it like a battering ram. before sieun could even scream, you wedged a brick against the steering wheel, grabbed a fistful of her hair—so tight it threatened to rip off her scalp—, and slammed her face down hard against the brick.

HONK!

the horn blared with every slam..

you didn’t stop.

you yanked sieun’s head back by the hair and smashed her face into the brick again.

HONK!

blood sprayed across the dashboard and onto sunghoon’s face. sieun’s nose crunched on impact, splitting open. her cheek tore wide open, teeth falling down on her lap. 

HONK!

more blood poured from her broken nose and split lip. her cheekbone cracked with a wet sound. one of her teeth flew out, clattering against the windshield.

HONK!

you were relentless, animalistic. your face was covered by your hair, unfiltered rage as you kept yanking her head back by the hair and driving it down over and over and over again. 

HONK! HONK! HONK!

it was a bloodbath inside. on the seats, the roof, the windows, sunghoon. her face was unrecognisable, swollen, and mangled, one eye swelling shut, the other was exposing her eyeball. she was gurgling, choking on her own blood,

dead.

nothing to the name anymore.

playgirl’s just lost the lead singer.

sunghoon sat frozen in the passenger seat, paralysed by shock and terror. his body wouldn’t move, not a centimeter. his mouth hung open in silence as he watched you—the girl he loved—violently smashing her bestfriend’s face with raw force. 

he could only stare.

HONK!

with one last slam, you let go of sieun’s chunk of hair that you’d pulled out. her body slumped lifelessly against the seat, head tilting back. warm blood poured from her face, dripping down.

sunghoon stared. smoke from the broken horn lingered in the air like a ghost. he was paralysed—eyes widened, body frozen in horror.

you finally sighed, lifting your head up to face him with a bright, almost cheerful smile, blood smeared across your cheek and hands.

“oh—oh gosh! i’m sorry you had to see that, baby!”

you moved your hair out of your face, still smiling.

“my heart took a path i never chose… but just know you wanted this. this is all your fault. this is what you’ve wished for.”

sunghoon’s face was pale, mouth slightly open but nothing came out. upon his terrified reaction, your heart broke and the smile was instantly wiped off your face, replaced with a concerned look. 

“oh, no no no no no—” you rushed to his side, opening the passenger door. you cupped his face with your bloody hands, wiping the sweat and specks of blood from his skin. “breathe, baby, breathe,” you said, taking deep breaths.

“it’s okay. i’ve got you. that’s all that matters… you’re fine, baby. i’m soooo sorry for the drama, but this is your fault. sieun’s your fault.”

you pulled him into a tight hug, pressing your blood stained cheeks against his chest. 

“and you’re gonna have to help me get rid of her body, okay?”

sunghoon shook his head frantically. “no… no no no—”

“yes, baby. you’re gonna help me.”

“no, no, no—” he groaned, voice breaking.

you pulled back, still holding his face gently, eyes soft but insistent.

“baby, i forgive you and i won’t hold it against you. but we have to get rid of her, okay? now shake your head yes.”

he shook his head again, tears welling up.

you smiled patiently. “yes. yes. yes, baby.”

he kept shaking his head.

“nod your head yes.”

realizing he had no choice, sunghoon finally nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks.

——

sunghoon helped you move sieun’s body into the trunk of your car. you kissed him softly on the lips before saying you’d take it from here.

he drove back to his house but couldn’t bring himself to go inside. the fear was too heavy even though he knew you weren’t inside. the thought of being in his house by himself, waiting for you to come back was too much.

so instead, he drove until he reached crystal cove. 

it was barely 8 in the morning when he barged in, the bell above the door ringing violently. he went straight to the shelf where he’d found the one wish willow—

it wasn’t there.

“what the fuck…”

out of breath, sunghoon rummaged through the other display boxes, panicking—if it was all just his imagination. when he couldn’t find it, he stormed to the cashier, voice shaking.

“where is it? where’s the one wish willow?”

“what?”

sunghoon’s eyes twitched. “the one wish willow! it’s—it’s a white box with a twig that you can only wish for one thing!”

the cashier, with a cup of coffee in hand, raised an eyebrow, clicking his tongue.

“hey, look—you gotta chill… it like 7AM. what’s with the vibes you’re giving off?”

sunghoon was frantic, he looked around the shop for it. “come on, one wish willow! please, please—”

he stared at the bloodied guy like he was crazy. “...what? are you okay?”

sunghoon’s heart dropped. “what…?”

was it because of the blood on his shirt that nobody was taking him seriously? or was it because there was no such thing as one wish willow in the first place?

he was in disbelief. “no, no, no—don’t fuck with me. you guys had those!”

the cashier looked at him weirdly for a second—before chuckling like it’s the funniest fucking thing ever.

“chill out, jeez… i’m just messing with you. we moved them here.” he pointed right at the counter, where a small display now sat. 

sunghoon frowned, wanting to flip the cashier off but decided there was more important matter now. he grabbed the remaining one wish willow box from the display. 

“how can you fucking sell this to people?!”

the cashier shrugged, sighing. “look. we just sell what the boss wants us to sell. now if you can’t chill out and wipe that theatre blood off your face, i’m not gonna scan those for you.”

sunghoon snapped out of his rage for a second, realising how crazy and unhinged he sounded. he let out a deep breath and rubbed his face with one hand, on the verge of another round of tears and break down.

“sorry… fuck, i’m so sorry. oh god…”

the cashier’s expression softened a little when sunghoon calmed down, then he glanced at the boxes, and realisation kicked in.

“... what did you do?”

sunghoon couldn’t speak. the words wouldn’t come. 

the cashier sighed. “oh well. that’s just how it is.”

sunghoon’s voice cracked as he put the boxes on the counter. “help me reverse it.”

he shook his head. “nope. already used mine.”

“please, please, please—” 

sunghoon was begging at this point.

“nooo, you know that’s not how it works. it’s one wish for a reason! the box is full of warnings—did you read the instruction paper?”

“instru—dude, please, please—”

“nope. you know what you were wishing for.”

“i didn’t—”

“no.” the cashier said firmly, now looking at sunghoon straight into his eyes. “you do. there’s no way to undo, or break the wish unless you kill youself—”

sunghoon’s eyes widened, he froze.

“—unless you kill youself, or have someone else reverse it.”

“k—kill… myself?”

the cashier nodded, drumming his fingers against the countertop. “yeah. that’s usually the easy way people do it. i’ve dealt with unsatisfied customers like you all the time for the same reason. it’s too much of a hassle to explain it to others, so they just kill themselves.”

sunghoon remained frozen, swallowing the lump in his throat. his hands shook around the box. the weight of his mistake finally came crushing down on him when he realised just how heavy the consequences were. 

noticing sunghoon’s reaction, the cashier sighed, rubbing his head. 

“just have someone undo it for you. that’s probably the best option you got here—since,” he lifted an eyebrow, seeing sunghoon in a state of shock.

 “...you don’t wanna kill yourself.”

the cashier scanned all the one wish willows for sunghoon.

——

sunghoon knocked on jake’s door—loud, frantic, over and over until jake finally opened it, looking confused.

“hey, what’s up? you almost knocked my door over.”

sunghoon ignored it and pushed past him into the house. jake closed the door behind. the friend wanted to ask about the stain and blood on sunghoon’s shirt, but didn’t get the chance to when sunghoon began.

“is haewon here?”

jake frowned at his friend’s urgency before shaking his head. “no… she left cause she wanted to check up on yn…”

“what—?! fuck, uhm, okay, listen to me first. listen to me well. you know—you know how yn started acting all weird and liking me all of a sudden?”

jake nodded slowly, still confused. “...yeah?”

sunghoon pulled out one of the one wish willow boxes from his pocket and held it in front of jake with shaky fingers.

“it’s ‘cause… it’s ‘cause i made a wish. i made a wish—and i broke this twig and at first i was confused as hell but it’s real!”

jake frowned, staring back and forth between sunghoon and the box. “what…?”

“no, it’s real!” sunghoon insisted, voice shaking. “you can make a wish, but just one! just one… and it’ll work. i wished yn loved me, and i didn’t think it was gonna work but it worked and it’s why she’s acting insane all of a sudden!”

sunghoon’s voice cracked. “you don’t even recognise her anymore.”

a beat.

jake took it all in, quiet for a long moment. then he looked at sunghoon with wide, stunned eyes. 

“...you made a wish… on yn?”

sunghoon looked down on the box in his hands. “...yeah.”

jake was shocked, almost disgusted. it felt as if he didn’t know who was standing before him. “why the fuck would you do that… why the fuck would you wish something like that on her?”

“because i fucking like her, jake!” sunghoon exploded. “i fucking like her and you know it and you would’ve done the same too if you had this! and—and i know you guys have been fucking!” 

jake’s face hardened. “what the fuck? that’s none of your business! and for the record, you know i liked yn first. you fucking know it but you decided to like her too and i’m too kind of a friend to give that to you!”

he snapped, heart pounding. jake’s never fought with sunghoon this bad, ever.

quietly, like a murmur, he continued, “and no, i’m not that big of an asshole to wish something like this.”

sunghoon scoffed, bitter. “sure. right. ‘cause you’re yn’s most perfect guy that she loves. because you’ve been with her since childhood—so naturally, you guys are meant to be together? is that it?.” 

the tension in the room was suffocating. 

not being able to stand jake anymore, sunghoon swallowed the lump in his throat before storming away from the house, slamming the door behind him loudly.

——

“...yn…?”

the house was dark except for the slivers of sunlight cutting through the curtains and the candles flickering across the house. the air smelled like wax, and heavy with metal.

you were nowhere to be found.

but on the coffee table was a memorial, or at least what looked like it—photos of sieun, locks of her hair, her eyeball that threatened to roll out of the skull, her id, and her belongings from the car. 

there was also stuff of haewon’s, arranged carefully with flowers and little trinkets. it looked like a shrine too. 

next to the table, on the tv—played clips of sunghoon sleeping, with you recording and appearing every now and then.

sunghoon’s stomach dropped. “yn…?”

“i’m right here, baby.”

you stepped out from behind him.

you were wearing sieun’s clothes—a short denim skirt, boots, and a tight tank top. your hair was cut shorter, choppy, and you’d stabbed a nose piercing through your nostril. blood still trickled down from the fresh wound.

you smiled at him sweetly. 

“do you like me better now?” 

sunghoon was stunned, shocked into silence. his mouth opened, but no words came out. he couldn’t get his eyes off you.

“...yn… yn, i need you to do something for me… okay?”

you tilted your head, eyes wide and glassy. even after all these, you still weren’t enough for him. 

“why can’t you just love me? why don’t you love me?”

you started hitting yourself—hard, open–palmed slaps against your own face until sieun’s rings and bracelets split your cheek open, fresh blood running down. 

“i just want you to love me!”

“stop! stop!”  

you stopped, standing still. sunghoon stumbled backwards, backing away slowly, terrified. you stepped closer, voice dropping obsessively, hungrily, and almost sweetly inhumane.

“gosh, i want to eat you up… i want to be with you,” you licked your lips, tilting your head as you followed him. “i want you to love me… i love you more than anyone else in this world…”

sunghoon’s breath hitched.

outside, a loud knocking started on the door. 

jake’s voice came through, urgent. 

“dude, i’m sorry! i’m so sorry—tell me again what’s happening and let’s fix it! can we still save her?!”

sunghoon’s eyes widened. he fell back onto the couch, mouth open like he wanted to scream at jake not to come in—but he couldn’t bring himself to. the words died in his throat as he’s forced to look at you.

you straddled his lap, eyes wild and unhinged. the screaming outside grew louder as jake kept banging on the door. 

“hoon—i’m coming in! shit, i’m coming in!”

you pressed the tip of the knife you’d been holding right in front of your left eyes, smiling with pure psychotic glee as blood trailed out of your mouth. 

“i’ll kill myself, hoonie! i’ll fucking kill myself right in front of you!”

the horror in sunghoon’s face was pure. his body was shaking as he stared at the blade hovering too dangerously close to your eye.

right at that moment, you turned with crazy speed and hurled the knife toward the door.

THUD.

the blade sank deep right into jake’s chest the second he forced the door open. he stumbled back, eyes wide with shock as blood instantly soaked his shirt. he collapsed, back hitting the door shut.

dead, before he even hit the ground.

almost instantly, you turned back to sunghoon, fisted the collar of his shirt before screaming—

“i’ll rip my fucking eyes out of my skull and shove them up my fucking cunt, hoonie!”

you vomited stomach acid right at his face. sunghoon flinched, shutting his eyes as the warm, burning  liquid slid down his skin. 

he was trembling, broken, unsure what to do or what was real anymore, but the words still came out soft and full of the love that had ruined everything. 

“i love you. i love you, yn. i love you.”

you screamed at him, eyes wild. “scream it!”

“i love you! i love you, yn!”

like a flick of a wrist, you fell on top of him, sighing contentedly as you rubbed your cheek against his chest. your voice dropped into that sickly sweet tone again.

“i know… i know. i love you too, baby. you owe me that. you owe me that.” 

sunghoon’s voice was hoarse and dry as he lifted his arms to wrap them around your frail body. “we can… we can work this out.”

his hand came upon your head, brushing your hair. 

“mmhm. mmhm. i’m sorry for the drama… ugh, i don’t know why i do that. i know you love me. i’m gonna stop on the mollies…”

he nodded slowly, still in shock. if you could feel, or hear his heartbeat—you didn’t comment.

you nuzzled closer, kissing his jaw. “i’m such a mess… i’ll be pretty again, i promise."

“no, no,” he whispered, holding you tight as he planted a kiss on top of your head. “you’re gorgeous, baby. i love you so much. i love you.”

“i’m sorry—”

“you’re beautiful. my beautiful girl.”

you smiled against his neck, all soft and loving. 

“i love you so much. more than anyone else in this world.”

he knew that.

sunghoon closed his eyes and looked up, tears slipping down his cheeks. he’s fucked up. he’s fucked up like no one else ever did before. he’d ruined you—an angel, the sweetest girl anyone’s ever met. he’d turned you into a version of yourself not even your parents could recognise—admit it was theirs. 

a version not even you, would know. 

“let’s take a shower. let’s take a shower, okay? freshen ourselves up.”

you hummed happily. “mmhm.”

——

“open up! open this fucking door, hoonie!” 

you were yelling and slamming on the door like manic, voice shifting from wild rage and sickly sweet.

“baby, please… i’m sorry, i’m so sorry—did i scare you? just open the door. i love you. i love you so much. don’t leave me! don’t you dare leave me—!”

“let me in, bitch! fuck you, fuck you!”

“oh shit—just a second, baby! just a second!” he screamed back.

“okay, just a second. thank you!”

sunghoon stood in front of the sink, staring back at himself in the mirror. his face was bloodied—did some belong to him? some yours, some sieun’s. he’d like to think jake’s and haewon’s were there too.

his eyes were empty. he couldn’t cry if he wanted to. there was just nothing left.

he touched the onyx necklace you had given him, the stone cold—meant for protection and grounding, felt meaningless in his hand. 

“baby?”

a beat.

“i thought about what you said, and maybe you were right… we need some time apart for us…”

sunghoon opened the cabinet with shaking hands and pulled out a razor. he held it to his wrist, then his throat, then his neck—aiming for the spot that would it fast. 

his hand trembled as he pushed the blade deeper into his skin, not yet puncturing, but making a dent.

he couldn’t do it.

“if space is what you need—then sure, okay, we can take some space.”

sunghoon pulled away with a deep breath, shaking his head and tossing the razor aside. he rubbed his face and pressed the heels of his palms deep into his eyes—praying this was all some sick nightmare that was about to end.

and then he’d wake up, and everything will be fine. you’ll invite him over for a movie night where he would come in bringing popcorn and drinks. and he’ll confess—tell you everything he’s been keeping to himself.

just like the way he rehearsed it. 

“i’m really sorry for scaring you, hoonie. i just—i just love you but i want to respect your decision.”

instead, sunghoon opened the cabinet again and found the old bottle of insect poison pellets—the same ones that had killed kibbles.

he sat on the toilet, staring at the bottle for a long moment. he knew there was no turning back. he poured one pellet into his palm, then put it in his mouth and swallowed it.

not convinced enough, he dumped the rest of the bottle straight into his mouth and forced them all down, choking them dry.

“hoonie…? baby, please open the door…”

sunghoon got off the toilet and rested his forehead against the door, when he knew you were standing and waiting for him on the other side of the door. 

he spoke softly, exhausted.

“um, yn… i… i’m really sorry.”

he swallowed hard, eyes closed.

“i’ve liked you for so long. so fucking long. i just… i couldn’t find the courage to confess. i thought you didn’t like me back and i was scared of losing you,” sunghoon said, the tip of his nose brushing against the hard wood.

“and now… now this is happening and there’s nothing i can do to fix it. i just like you so much. i love you so much.”

a beat of silence.

it felt like hours passed in a matter of seconds.

then a whisper, barely audible through the door—

“she likes you too.”

sunghoon’s eyes snapped open.

“what?”

before something shifted.

a spark ignited within him. the world snapped back into focus as the heavy fog that clouded everything lifted. 

his eyes widened. he stared at the bathroom door like it was the first time he was seeing it. slowly, sunghoon opened the door and walked out.

you were standing across from him, smiling shyly at him, a little nervous, a little hopeful. your hands are clasped in front of you. all sweet and innocent girlfriend.

he smiled back.

the two of you laughed together.

it was romantic when he approached you. sunghoon leaned in and kissed you passionately, hands cupping your face. his lips moved against yours with all the love and longing he had. on your tiptoes, you cupped his cheeks as well and with a soft flick of his tongue, you parted your lips partly and he wasted no time slipping his tongue in, overlapping and dancing your own. 

“i love you,”

when sunghoon pulled back slightly, his face was covered in blood from your wound, but neither of you cared. 

then suddenly, his knees buckled.

sunghoon collapsed—but you caught him, lowering him onto the sofa on your lap. pure panic flooding your face as you cradled his cheeks, hands trembling.

“baby… babe… oh gosh, don’t leave me alone—what did you do? oh gosh, baby no!” 

your voice cracked, high and desperate, as you searched his face for anything. his eyelids fluttered, skin already turning clammy. you could feel his warmness fading beneath your palms.

“no, no, no—stay with me. stay with me, baby,” you whispered, pressing frantic kisses to his forehead, his temples, his lips. tears streamed down your cheeks, mixing with the blood still drying on your hands. “you can’t leave me. i love you more than anything. i did everything for you… everything. don’t you dare go. i won’t let you.”

you wailed, hugging his head tightly to your chest, rocking him back and forth. you stroked his hair while the other clutched his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric as if that could hold his soul down.

sobs wrecked your entire body as you buried your face in his hair, breathing in his scent. his breathing was growing weaker and shallower—white foam of saliva began forming to the corner of his mouth as his body went limp. 

"i love you... i love you so much, hoonie, please—"

his body gave one final, weak shudder in your arms.

then everything went still.

for a heartbeat, the room was silent except for your ragged breathing.

the moment his heart stopped beating, you snapped back. 

your eyes widened in horror—followed by a blood-curdling scream ripped from your throat as you shoved yourself backward, letting sunghoon's limp body fall onto the bloodied floor with a dull thud. 

you stared at your bloodstained hands first—they were coated in sticky crimson that you could probably never remove no matter how many times you washed your hands. then your gaze darted around the room, confused, panicked, scared.

jake's body slumped by the door, eyes still open.

the memorial of haewon's and sieun's on the table.

and... sunghoon's motionless on the floor when you'd pushed him off you.

the wish shattered, and reality crashed over you like ice water.

"no... no, no, no—"

you scrambled onto the sofa, pulling your legs up and hugging your knees tightly to your chest. your sobs came harder and harder, violent, whole body shaking as you rocked back and forth. 

tears poured down your face as you buried it between your knees, screaming and sobbing louder. the weight of every horrible thing you had done—despite being only a witness hit you at once.

you were finally yourself again.

and you had never felt more alone.

ㅤ© ⌞hoonkitti⌝ ⁞ all rights reservedㅤ please don't share, copy, or translate my work.

𝗺𝘆 𝗼𝗯𝘀𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 ♥︎ @doyotint @tearbs @el1009 @sunsito0203 @tsanho @jstemz @hooniful @iheartwonnieee @misfitsvi @moasshi @ikeu05 @darkmuffin22 @dearestevan @riknywngi @savageislandanchor @wonzi0209 @coffeetiramisuu @wetorwild @nesquikluvr @me0ooww @hoshiwhore @hoonieslove @simjaeyunslut @babyvinnie @prettygirlthings-world @woniedoyouloveme @jjongelical @parkinghoon @fancypeacepersona @ikuesimsimp @cherryw0n @fairystudio @envil @layenha @kkathy101 @visadora31 @nichoberrie @elfolders @human169 @jwsverse @seongxhyeon @purityofthenape

[necrophili]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀SECRET; 조

Or when your boyfriend, Asakura Jo, has been hiding his sweet desires.

word count ᯓ 910

cw ᯓ smut (MDNI), afab!reader, petplay, p in v, unprotected sex, power imbalance, use of “master” and “owner”, dom!reader x sub!jo, puppy!jo, dumbification elements, size difference, kink discovery, fluff at the very end.

autor’s notes ᯓ this is my first fic here. keep in mind english is not my first language so i had to use help from a translator! hope y'all enjoy some of my thoughts on the puppy!jo agenda.

Jo was shy. Extremely shy. So, in your sex life, you didn't expect anything different from him. Sex with Jo was teeth rotting sweet, rarely taking risks and never springing sudden experiments on you. Shy pecks stolen during missionary, eye contact  that revealed a small smile at the corner of the boy's lips and made Jo's big ears turn red and warm. So when you innocently checked Jo's search history and found extensive wikis and blogs about "How to introduce pet play to my partner," you were more than surprised, you were… actually wet.

Wanting to spice things up, you started planning. Maybe using themed lingerie with little tails and ears would work? But no, nothing changed dramatically... Jo continued with his usual shyness; he absolutely seemed like he had questions to ask, but he must have ended up keeping them to himself. Noticing how normal everything still was, you, being a very attentive girlfriend, beginned to explore similar wikis, finding topics that interested you, and eventually falling down a rabbit hole about male pet play and how to tell if your partner has that kind of kink. That sparkled something hungry in you, and you absolutely knew you had to try it with your boyfriend.

It started with a "good boy" here and there, in everyday life and sometimes in bed. Jo didn't seem to understand why you were calling him that, but he was happy anyways with the praise although his ears didn't show any particular unusual color. Growing impatient, you decided to get straight to the point. You bought a pet collar from a proper website. Now, how would you introduce it to your boyfriend? The huge one that still blushed after years with just a unexpected kiss? It had to be during it, or he would probably hide and die from embarrassment. 

...

So, during a makeout session, the kiss between you grew sloppier until you stopped him and looked into Jo's doe eyes, making your already wet pussy throb beneath your panties.

"Jo."

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you something a little… strange?" you said, slightly out of breath.

"Of course, my love" the boy replied innocently, stealing you a quick peck.

"Promise you won't get embarrassed?"

"I can't promise that, darling, but I can try”

Of course he couldn't promise that, after all, he was still Asakura Jo.

"Can I put this on you?"

You gently pulled the item from the bedside drawer: a baby pink collar with a leash attachment.

...

"Baby?"

Jo's eyes were almost shut, his mouth was slightly open, his ears impossibly redder than usual, and a damp spot had formed on his boxers. His hard cock looking ready to burst right through the fabric. Noticing, you chuckled quietly, trying not to make your shy boyfriend explode. "My handsome little puppy~ you really like this, huh?" You praised. Hearing the petname, Jo thrusted his hips upwards unconsciously, desperately searching for friction, letting out a delicious moan as the collar was properly put around his neck.

"P-please Y/n, just… fuck–"

Those words coming from his mouth surprised you just as much as they had surprised him. His face was flushed, his half-lidded eyes looked directly at you and his underwear, once damp, was soaked with pre-cum, tight around his cock.

"Calm down, puppy. Impatience won't get you anywhere~" you teased, climbing off Jo's lap before pulling his boxers off in one swift motion and positioning yourself directly over his dick.

"First, say you're my good boy. Say it to your owner"

"Hah... I'm your good boy– Please fuck me, Master…" Jo whined. You dropped down all at once onto Jo's large cock, feeling your cunt do a biiiig stretch around him. Bouncing up and down on the boy's dick, you tugged on his collar, making your once quiet boyfriend let out even more beautiful sounds.

"Thaaat's it, just like that. What is my good little puppy going to earn for making his owner feel so good riding him?"

Jo was already completely gone, only capable of babbling "M-Master, you're so good to me..." and whining nothings on your ear. You bounced precisely on his cock, succeeding to make him hit your perfect spot repeatedly, forming a white ring around his base and making you moan even louder.

"Ah pup, I'm cumming!" your pussy squeezed him tighter, getting ready to milk him at the same time. You were treating Jo’s body like a plaything, and he was loving it. His hips, previously limp, sprang back to life when he heard that from your lips, driving him to relentlessly hit your G-spot while you came all over his cock. “Baby, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum! IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou” Jo released his load inside as he shuddered, mixing your fluids together.

…

After lying on top of the boy for a few minutes, you gently opened your eyes and slid off your boyfriend’s cock, finding Jo asleep with an impossibly innocent expression after the session. You let out a soft, proud laugh at your giant boyfriend, who, in that moment, looked so small it was startling. You got up to clean yourself and grab a damp towel for your sweet boyfriend, returning to the bedroom, finding Jo still cutely sleeping at the bed. You cleaned him up tenderly and then joined him, only to be surprised by a tight hug. “I love you, pretty” Jo murmured, half-asleep. “I love you more, my little pup”.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀inspired by @odetolune 'SWEET BOY'

[bunhrtd]

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗜’𝗠 𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡 𝗢𝗡 𝗠𝗬 𝗞𝗡𝗘𝗘𝗦, 𝗬𝗢𝗨’𝗥𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗜 𝗣𝗥𝗔𝗬

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 ' 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅. 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 — 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍

ᦸ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾🧁 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋‎ ‎ 22.3k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW corruption kink religous allusionsㅤ reblogs&kisses

You hated the town long before you learned its name.

Your father insisted that hatred was a strong word, one that people reached for too quickly whenever life refused to accommodate them. Still, he had never understood that some places possessed the uncanny ability to reject you before you had even crossed their borders. Hatred, in your opinion, implied familiarity; this feeling was stranger than that. It was instinctive, immediate, almost animalistic, settling somewhere beneath your ribs the moment the highway dissolved into narrow country roads lined with skeletal oak trees and weathered fences whose peeling white paint looked as though it had been touched by every season except change. The farther the city disappeared in the rear-view mirror, the more oppressive the silence became, until even the hum of the old Ford sounded intrusive against the vast stretches of open fields and endless blue sky.

Chicago had always been loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

This place seemed determined to make you listen to every single one of them.

The moving truck rolled slowly down Maple Street, its engine grumbling as though it, too, objected to the destination, and you rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window while watching the neighbourhood reveal itself slowly. Every lawn had been trimmed within an inch of perfection. Every mailbox stood upright instead of leaning drunkenly toward the road. American flags fluttered from polished porches despite there being no holiday worth celebrating, and flowerbeds burst with arrangements of roses whose petals looked too immaculate to have survived wind or rain. Even the children riding bicycles seemed strangely choreographed, calling cheerful greetings to neighbours who knew each of their names, their laughter carrying through the warm spring air before disappearing beneath the distant toll of church bells.

Your father finally slowed the truck in front of a modest two-storey house with pale blue shutters and a wraparound porch. He turned off the engine without saying anything, gripping the steering wheel for several seconds while cigarette smoke drifted lazily from the one balanced between his fingers. The divorce had split everything neatly down the middle—house, furniture, bank accounts, holidays—but no one asked where eighteen-year-old daughters wanted to go. Your mother stayed in Chicago with the apartment she'd fought tooth and nail to keep. Your father accepted a new job three states away because "there was nothing left" back home.

"You can take whichever room you want," he said eventually, still looking through the windshield instead of at you.

It was such an ordinary sentence that it almost made you laugh.

Not Are you okay?

Not I'm sorry your life fell apart because ours did.

Typical.

You climbed out before he could say anything else, letting the truck door slam harder than necessary, and inhaled air that smelled overwhelmingly of freshly cut grass and damp earth instead of gasoline, hot concrete, and rain-soaked asphalt. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs from somewhere nearby, sweet enough to become cloying after only a few breaths, and the oppressive neatness of the neighbourhood wrapped itself around you with the suffocating gentleness of a freshly washed bedsheet.

It didn't feel real.

It felt staged, like someone had built an entire town from the collective memories of people who believed America had once been simpler than it actually was.

Your father lit another cigarette almost immediately after finishing the first.

"Apparently," he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the afternoon sky, "the pastor lives next door."

You followed his gaze without much interest.

The neighbouring house was much older than yours, its white clapboard walls softened by decades of climbing ivy that curled around the porch railings in thick emerald vines. Rose bushes bloomed beneath every window, their crimson blossoms almost unnaturally vibrant against the white paint. While rows of lavender swayed gently beside a stone pathway leading toward the front steps. 

A woman emerged from the garden carrying a wicker basket balanced against her hip, and even from across the lawn there was something effortlessly graceful about the way she moved, brushing loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before looking toward the moving truck with an expression that immediately softened into a welcoming smile.

She waved.

Your father waved back with awkward enthusiasm.

You offered the smallest possible nod.

The woman didn't seem offended by your lack of warmth. If anything, her smile only widened before she disappeared inside the house, leaving the front door open behind her as though expecting someone else to follow.

"You could try being polite," your father remarked.

"I nodded."

"You looked like you were attending a funeral."

"I kind of am."

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Your father didn't answer; he simply looked away, crushing the cigarette beneath his shoe with more force than necessary before opening the truck and beginning to unload boxes in silence.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

Your bedroom overlooked the street.

It wasn't particularly large, but the slanted ceiling and wide window gave it the illusion of space, and if you ignored the floral wallpaper left behind by whoever had lived there before, it might even have been pleasant. You left every box untouched, stepping instead toward the window where the neighbourhood stretched beneath the late afternoon sun in quiet perfection. From here, the church dominated everything.

It stood only a short walk away, its white steeple rising confidently above the rooftops until it became the highest point in town, casting a long shadow that crept slowly across the surrounding streets as the sun drifted westward. The stained-glass windows caught the light in fractured colours, spilling ribbons of sapphire, crimson, and gold across the stone walls, and every hour the bell announced itself with unwavering certainty, as though reminding the entire town exactly where its heart resided.

You had never been particularly religious. 

Your mother claimed belief was something people found when they were desperate enough. Your father claimed nothing at all.

Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about the building—not welcoming, exactly, but impossible to ignore. It possessed the quiet confidence of institutions that had existed long before the people inside them and fully expected to remain standing long after everyone currently alive had become names carved into marble.

The longer you stood there, the more impossible it became to convince yourself that the church was simply another building.

Every street curved toward it, every sidewalk appeared to lead back to its weathered stone steps, and even the houses seemed arranged in quiet deference, as though generations of families had built their lives around its presence without ever questioning why. It reminded you less of a place of worship than of a watchtower, standing silently above the town with the patient certainty that everyone, eventually, regardless of where they wandered, would find themselves returning to its doors.

With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the window and looked around your bedroom for the first time. Brown cardboard boxes towered against one wall with your mother's handwriting still scrawled across the tape in black marker—BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, BEDROOM—small pieces of a life that no longer existed packed away as though memories could be folded as neatly as sweaters. For a fleeting moment, you considered unpacking, imagining where your records might sit or which shelf your novels would occupy, but the thought felt strangely disloyal, as though arranging your belongings meant accepting that this house was something more permanent than a temporary stop on the way back home.

Because that was what you kept telling yourself.

You weren't staying.

Your father might believe in fresh starts, but you believed in endings, and sooner or later, this one would end too.

You left the boxes where they were.

Downstairs, the muffled scrape of furniture drifting across hardwood floors reminded you that your father had continued working without you. You could picture him perfectly without even looking—the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, another cigarette dangling absentmindedly between his lips despite promising your mother years ago that he'd quit, moving through the house with the determination of someone who believed staying busy was easier than admitting he didn't know what else to do with himself.

He had always been good at pretending. Pretending as if the shouting matches hadn't rattled the windows, that your mother's packed suitcases hadn't sat untouched by the front door for nearly a week before she finally carried them downstairs herself, that signing a stack of divorce papers in a lawyer's office on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon was no different from signing for a parcel at the post office.

Some people cried when their marriages ended.

Your father had simply bought another pack of cigarettes.

You wandered downstairs without thinking much about where your feet were taking you, trailing your fingers lightly along the polished banister as unfamiliar floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The house carried that peculiar scent all recently vacated homes seemed to share, a mixture of fresh paint and old timber. 

Your father was standing in the kitchen with his back to you, staring blankly into an open cupboard that contained nothing except two chipped mugs the landlord had apparently forgotten to remove. For several moments, he didn't move at all. He simply stood there with one hand braced against the counter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling while the afternoon light spilled through the sink window and painted long rectangles across the floor.

For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly older than you remembered.

Not because of the grey beginning to thread through his dark hair or the pull of his permanent frown that exemplified a network of deep wrinkles, but because loneliness had a way of ageing people unevenly. It hollowed them out from the inside until they carried themselves like houses after a fire—still standing, somehow, but unmistakably changed.

He noticed you only when the floorboard beneath your foot groaned.

"There's a diner a few blocks over," he said, reaching automatically for his wallet. "I figured we'd get dinner there. Saves unpacking the kitchen tonight."

You leaned against the doorway.

"Sure."

He hesitated.

"You hungry?"

"I guess." You sighed.

Another silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable before he cleared his throat and slipped the wallet into his back pocket.

"People say the pie's good."

The comment felt almost painfully rehearsed, like something he'd read in a brochure on how fathers were supposed to speak to daughters after destroying their lives.

"That's reassuring."

"I thought so."

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, you looked past him through the kitchen window.

The church steeple was visible even from here.

It rose above the rooftops in the distance, brilliant white beneath the lowering sun, impossible to escape no matter which direction you faced. The cross at its peak caught the fading light so intensely that for a moment it seemed suspended in the sky itself, detached from the building below, watching over the town with quiet indifference.

"Everything around here revolves around that place, doesn't it?" you asked without turning away from the window.

Your father followed your gaze.

"I suppose it does."

"That's depressing."

"It depends who you ask."

You let out a quiet hum.

"I wasn't asking."

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The diner sat on the corner of Main Street, tucked between an old hardware store and a tiny bookshop whose faded sign looked as though it hadn't been replaced in decades. A little brass bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside.

It looked exactly how diners always looked in old American films, with red vinyl booths polished smooth by generations of customers, spinning chrome stools lined neatly along the counter, and waitresses who somehow remembered every regular's order before they'd even sat down. A jukebox stood silently in one corner, its coloured lights flickering despite no one feeding it coins, while framed photographs of local baseball teams and town parades crowded every inch of the walls.

The conversations stopped. Not all at once, but you felt it nonetheless.

Heads lifted almost imperceptibly from steaming coffee mugs and half-finished meals. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed before drifting away again, only to return moments later under the pretence of looking elsewhere. 

You were no longer just another girl.

You were the new girl.

The divorced man's daughter.

The strangers from Chicago.

Your father either didn't notice or chose not to. He slid into a booth near the window, picking up a laminated menu, prompting you to sit down too. Your fingers drifted absently over the frayed edge of the laminated menu, though you weren't really reading it. The words blurred together into an endless procession of burgers, meatloaf, club sandwiches and slices of homemade pie, all priced cheaply enough to suggest the recipes had remained unchanged for decades. It struck you that this diner, like everything else you'd seen since crossing the county line, seemed entirely uninterested in becoming something new.

A waitress appeared beside the table with two glasses of water balanced expertly on a round metal tray tucked against her shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties, her greying hair pinned into a loose bun beneath a paper hat embroidered with the diner's name, and she smiled with the effortless familiarity of someone who had spent most of her life recognising faces before names.

"You folks must be the Parks," she said brightly, setting the glasses down without needing to ask whether you wanted lemon. "We've all been expecting you."

Your father looked up in surprise. "You have?"

"Oh, honey." She laughed softly, her voice oozing with honey. "Nothing much happens around here. New neighbours are practically headline news."

You lowered your eyes to the condensation gathering on your water glass, tracing a fingertip through the droplets before they slipped onto the tabletop. Somehow, hearing it confirmed felt infinitely worse than merely suspecting it.

The waitress scribbled something onto her notepad before looking between the two of you again.

"Your daddy's taking over at the engineering firm, isn't he?"

"That's right," your father replied politely.

"Well, we're happy to have you both. Lord knows this town could always use a few fresh faces."

Your father offered the strained smile he'd perfected over the last year. "Thank you."

She turned to you then, her expression softening almost instinctively.

"And you'll be starting at Saint Augustine's on Monday?"

You blinked. "I guess."

"You'll like it there."

The certainty with which she said it made something inside you churn.

"What if I don't?"

She paused for the briefest moment before smiling again, as though she believed every difficult thing could be solved with enough kindness.

"Oh," she said gently, "I'm sure you will."

When she finally wandered off toward another table, your father reached automatically for the sugar dispenser despite drinking his coffee black.

"You didn't have to answer like that."

"I answered."

"You know what I mean."

"No," you replied, lifting your glass. "I really don't."

He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across his jaw before staring out the window instead of arguing further. It had become another habit of his lately, abandoning conversations the moment they threatened to become honest. You sometimes wondered whether it was because he genuinely wanted to avoid conflict or because he no longer trusted himself to say the right thing.

Outside, Main Street basked beneath the last warmth of the evening sun. A teenage boy wheeled his bicycle past the diner's window, one hand balancing a paper bag hooked over the handlebars while an older woman called after him from across the street, reminding him not to forget choir practice tomorrow evening. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement without even turning around, clearly having heard the reminder a hundred times before.

Choir practice.

You almost smiled to yourself; of course, there was choir practice.

Of course, there were church picnics and Sunday bake sales and Christmas pageants where everyone knew every line before the first rehearsal. You could already picture the bulletin boards covered in handwritten notices, casserole dishes appearing mysteriously whenever someone fell ill. 

The waitress returned with a steaming mug of coffee for your father and a basket of warm dinner rolls that she insisted had "just come out of the oven."

"They're on the house," she said with a wink. "Welcome to Maple Creek."

Your father thanked her.

You stared at the basket for a long moment before pulling one apart absentmindedly, watching gasps of steam escape into the air. The bread was still warm enough to burn your fingertips, tasting like someone's grandmother had been making them exactly the same way for fifty years, refusing to write the recipe down because she'd never needed to, measuring ingredients by instinct rather than teaspoons, and somehow producing the same perfect result every single time. You truly hated how good it was.

Your father noticed the expression that crossed your face before you had the chance to hide it, the smallest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for one himself. "See?" he said quietly, tearing his own roll in half. "The pie probably isn't lying either."

You looked up just long enough to roll your eyes.

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I'm just saying," he replied with a shrug that felt almost familiar, "the place has potential."

"The bread has potential."

"I'll take that as progress."

"It isn't."

He smiled anyway.

It was brief—gone almost as soon as it appeared—but for the first time since you'd crossed the state line, your father looked a little more like the man you remembered. Before the lawyers, before the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder-high in your old living room, before every conversation between your parents had become another carefully measured negotiation about who got what and when. There had been a time when he laughed easily, when Sunday mornings meant burnt pancakes and classic rock playing too loudly through the house while your mother complained that neither of you knew the meaning of an inside voice. Sometimes it frightened you how difficult it was becoming to remember those versions of them. 

The waitress returned, balancing two heavy plates against her forearm, a skill that could only come from years of doing the same job every single day. She placed your father's meatloaf before him first, thick slices drowned in peppered gravy beside a generous mound of mashed potatoes. She then set your cheeseburger and fries in front of you with a smile.

"Everything looks alright?"

"It looks fine," your father answered politely.

"You just let me know if you need anything. Ketchup's already on the table, and don't be shy about asking for more fries. Earl always makes too many."

She drifted away before either of you could respond, stopping at another booth to refill an elderly couple's coffee cups without needing to ask. The old man thanked her by name. She asked after his wife. Two booths over, someone else called her over just to tell her that his grandson had finally gotten into college, and she clasped both hands over her heart as though the news belonged to her own family.

You watched the exchange for longer than you meant to.

You had the uneasy feeling that, by tomorrow morning, half the town would know exactly where you'd eaten dinner on your first night. By the end of the week, they'd know which house you lived in, what car your father drove, and probably the fact that you'd barely spoken through the entire meal. In a place this small, stories didn't spread because people were cruel. They spread because there simply wasn't much else to talk about.

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You learned later that the woman from earlier was Mrs Sim, the pastor’s wife. She arrived with a still-warm peach cobbler, which your father accepted with a gratitude that seemed genuine, the lines around his eyes softening as she spoke to him about the community, the quiet, the good schools. You lingered in the doorway of your new bedroom, arms crossed, watching the performance of small-town benevolence. Mrs Sim’s eyes eventually found yours. “You must be y/n,” she beamed. “My son, Jake, is about your age. I’ll send him over later to help with the heavier boxes. It’s so nice to have young people in the house next door again.”

Jake.

The name meant nothing to you; it was simply another piece of information about a place you hadn't asked to know.

A pastor's son.

Someone who probably belonged here in the same way everything else seemed to.

You imagined someone polite, someone with perfect manners and neatly folded clothes, someone who had grown up knowing exactly where he fit in the world because everyone around him had spent his entire life reminding him. The kind of person who would wave at strangers while driving, volunteer on weekends, and probably know every verse of every hymn before he was old enough to understand why he was singing them.

Someone who would look at you and immediately know you didn't belong.

"That's nice," you replied.

Your father gave you a look, but you ignored it.

Mrs Sim only smiled. "You'll meet him soon enough."

Mrs Sim's words lingered in the air even after she had finished speaking, though you weren't entirely sure why. There was nothing particularly significant about them. She had simply mentioned her son in passing, the same way someone might mention a neighbour's dog or a nearby restaurant or which grocery store had the freshest produce. It should have been forgettable, another harmless detail about a town you had no intention of becoming attached to. Yet somehow, the certainty in her voice bothered you. You'll meet him soon enough. Not if you want to. Not if you happen to. Just a quiet assumption that, eventually, your lives would cross because that was how things worked here. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place already waiting for them.

You wondered if that was what made small towns feel so comforting to the people who loved them. There was no uncertainty. No endless possibility of becoming someone entirely different from who you were yesterday. In places like Chicago, people disappeared and reinvented themselves all the time. They changed schools, changed neighbourhoods, changed friend groups, changed everything about themselves until sometimes even the people who knew them best couldn't recognise who they had become. Here, it seemed impossible to escape the version of yourself that other people had already decided existed. Your family history, your mistakes, your reputation, your name—all of it followed you down every street and through every doorway.

Maybe that was why everyone here smiled so easily.

They had never needed to wonder who they were.

The conversation continued downstairs, though you stopped listening. Your father asked Mrs. Sim about the school district, and she answered with the same gentle enthusiasm she seemed to offer everything else, explaining which teachers were wonderful, which streets were safest, which shops had been around for generations. She spoke about Maple Creek as though it wasn't simply a town but a living thing, something delicate that required care and loyalty. You watched your father absorb every word, nodding along with an expression of relief that you recognised immediately.

He wanted this to work.

That was the part you hated most.

If he had been miserable, if he had admitted he regretted moving, if he had looked around this unfamiliar house and said that maybe he had made a mistake, then perhaps you would have felt less alone in your resentment. But instead, he seemed lighter here. Not happy exactly, but closer to it than he had been in months. The possibility that this place could become something good for him felt unfair somehow, because while he was finding a reason to believe in a future here, you were still grieving the one you had lost.

You quietly stepped back into your room before either of them noticed, closing the door without making a sound.

The peach cobbler sat untouched on the kitchen counter.

You could smell it even from upstairs.

Another thing this town seemed determined to make impossible to dislike.

You hated that. You hated that the houses were beautiful, that the neighbours were kind, that the diner food was good, that your father looked slightly less broken every time someone welcomed him. You had spent the entire drive here building a version of Maple Creek in your mind—a place where you could justify being angry, where every smiling face could be dismissed as fake and every gesture of kindness could be interpreted as pity.

But what were you supposed to do when people were genuinely nice? Anger was easier when you had something to fight against.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the unopened boxes surrounding you, and pulled your knees toward your chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your father's footsteps, and the distant hum of traffic passing along the main road.

Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.

You looked toward the window instinctively. You had never understood the comfort people found in places like that.

The idea of faith had always seemed strange to you—not because you thought people were foolish for believing, but because certainty itself felt like something you had never possessed. Some people moved through life convinced there was a plan waiting for them, that every heartbreak had meaning and every loss had a purpose. They believed things happened for a reason.

You had never been able to understand how.

Your parents had loved each other once.

At least, everyone said they had.

There were photographs proving it. Old videos, memories you carried from childhood of them dancing in the kitchen, laughing over burnt dinners, holding hands while walking through crowded streets. There had been a time when their marriage had seemed as permanent as the church standing at the centre of Maple Creek.

And then one day, somehow, it wasn't.

So what exactly was faith supposed to do with things that broke?

What was the point of believing something was sacred if it could still be destroyed?

The question followed you as you unpacked only the things you needed for the night. A toothbrush. Clean clothes. Your phone charger. The essentials required to pretend that tomorrow would be normal, even though nothing about your life felt remotely familiar anymore.

You avoided opening the box marked BEDROOM, avoided touching the photographs, avoided anything that felt too much like admitting you were staying.

Downstairs, your father eventually called goodnight, and you answered automatically.

Then you were alone.

The first night in the new house was quieter than you expected. Not peaceful—peace implied comfort—but quiet in a way that made every small sound noticeable. The pipes shifting behind the walls. The wind moving through the trees outside. The occasional footsteps of your father crossing the hallway below.

And beneath everything else, faint but unmistakable, the church bells. They rang once more before midnight.

You lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as the sound travelled through the darkness.

You didn't know anything about Maple Creek.

You didn't know its streets, its people, its traditions, or the boy whose name had been casually introduced to you before you had even met him.

For now, though, all you knew was that you were eighteen years old, three states away from everything you had ever known, living beside a church you didn't believe in, in a town that seemed determined to believe in you before you had even decided whether you wanted to believe in anything at all.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The next morning, Maple Creek looked almost deliberately beautiful.

You resented it immediately.

The sky was clear, the kind of bright blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and sunlight spilled across the streets as though the entire town had been carefully arranged for someone else's happiness. Birds moved between the trees, children walked toward school in groups, and neighbours greeted each other from opposite sides of the street with the casual familiarity of people who had been doing the same thing for years. There was something almost offensive about the way everything appeared untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. The lawns were freshly cut, the gardens were beginning to bloom with the first signs of spring, and every house seemed to sit peacefully beneath the morning light as though heartbreak, divorce, and starting over were things that happened somewhere far away to other people.

It was impossible to hate something that looked like it belonged in a memory.

You stood in the kitchen drinking coffee your father had made before getting ready for work. m He had already unpacked half the kitchen, organised the cupboards, and somehow found the patience to locate the coffee machine among dozens of unopened boxes that still crowded the dining room and hallway. It was such a typical thing for him to do that, despite everything, it almost made you smile. Your father had always dealt with uncertainty by creating order wherever he could. When things became unpredictable, he cleaned. When conversations became too difficult, he focused on practical tasks. When emotions became too overwhelming, he found something that could be measured, arranged, or fixed. He had spent the last year losing control over nearly every aspect of his life, and now that he had a new house with empty shelves and rooms waiting to be filled, he seemed determined to rebuild everything piece by piece.

You watched him move around the kitchen, placing mugs into cupboards and checking his work schedule on his phone, and you realised that this was probably the first time in months that he had looked like he knew what he was doing. It was strange seeing him like this. You had grown used to the version of him who sat silently at the dinner table, who stared at paperwork longer than necessary, who seemed to carry the weight of conversations he never dared to start. The divorce had changed both of your lives, but you had always been more focused on what you lost than you had forgotten he had lost something too.

That did not mean you were ready to forgive him for bringing you here.

It only meant you understood him slightly more than you wanted to.

"You should probably leave soon if you don't want to be late," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen as he reached across the counter for his keys. He glanced briefly toward the clock hanging above the stove before looking back at you, his expression carrying the same quiet concern he had been trying to hide since the move. "First impressions are important."

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth distract you from the uncomfortable feeling building in your chest. You glanced toward the clock above the stove, even though you already knew exactly what time it was.

"You already checked my schedule, didn't you?"

Your father paused for half a second, his fingers still wrapped around his keys, and that tiny hesitation gave him away immediately. He had always been terrible at pretending he wasn't overly involved. He tried to act casual, as though he hadn't spent the previous night reading through your school information or memorising your timetable, but you knew him too well. When he was worried, he disguised it as preparation.

"You need to admit that you would forget something important if I didn't."

You looked at him over the rim of your mug, unimpressed.

"I wouldn't."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.

"You forgot your passport before our flight to Florida."

You looked away.

"That was one time."

Your father leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.

"You forgot your wallet at a restaurant last summer."

"I got it back."

"After I drove back twenty minutes to get it."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued before you could.

"You left your phone on top of the car."

You immediately looked away.

"That happened once."

Your father's smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the heaviness that had followed both of you since the divorce disappeared. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it reminded you of the person he used to be before everything became complicated. The father who teased you about losing things, who laughed when you became stubborn, who knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone.

He picked up his briefcase from beside the kitchen table and moved toward the front door, but before he stepped outside, he stopped.

The hesitation was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it, but you did. 

"Are you nervous?"

The question was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it difficult to answer. You looked toward the front window instead of at him, watching a neighbour across the street wave to someone passing by. Everyone here seemed so certain of themselves, so comfortable in a world that already knew their names. Meanwhile, you were standing in a kitchen that still smelled like cardboard boxes and unfamiliar paint, preparing to walk into a school where nobody knew you except as the girl who had just arrived.

You could have lied.

You almost did.

"No."

Your father didn't say anything, he didn't need to.

The look he gave you carried the quiet disbelief of someone who had known you your entire life and could tell when you were pretending.

You sighed, setting your coffee mug down on the counter.

"Maybe a little."

It was the closest thing to admitting the reality that you were willing to offer.

His expression softened immediately, and for a second, you prepared yourself for the kind of speech parents always gave in moments like this. Something about how everything would be okay. Something about making friends and giving people a chance and remembering that everyone felt nervous sometimes. You expected reassurance because reassurance was what adults usually offered when they didn't know how else to help.

Instead, he simply nodded.

"That's normal."

You looked back at him, almost surprised by how little he said.

"That's it?"

He shrugged slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.

"What do you want me to say?"

You looked down.

"I don't know."

The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise both of you.

Your father let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting briefly around the house. The unopened boxes stacked near the hallway. The unfamiliar walls. The unfamiliar kitchen. For the first time, he looked less like someone who had brought you here with a plan and more like someone who was simply trying to figure everything out alongside you.

"Neither do I," he admitted.

The words settled between you. And strangely, they helped more than any perfect speech could have.

Because your father had spent so long trying to make everything seem manageable that you had almost forgotten he was also struggling. He didn't have some hidden answer for how to rebuild a family after it had fallen apart. He didn't know the secret to making a new town feel like home or how to erase the memories you had left behind. He was just another person standing in unfamiliar surroundings, hoping that somewhere along the way, he had made the right choice.

"I'll see you after school," he said eventually.

You nodded.

"Okay."

He opened the front door, letting in a rush of cool morning air that carried the scent of grass and flowers from the neighbouring garden. He stepped outside, then paused with one hand still resting against the doorframe.

"Y/n?"

You looked up.

"Try not to get suspended on your first day."

You stared at him.

"Seriously?"

A small smile appeared on his face, the first genuine one you had seen that morning.

"I'm just saying."

"I haven't even been there yet."

"I know my daughter." He smiled as you watched him walk down the front steps and toward his car, his briefcase held loosely in one hand while the morning sun stretched across the driveway

You grabbed your bag from beside your stool and checked your phone one last time before leaving. There were still messages from Chicago, but fewer than yesterday. The group chat that had been impossible to ignore during the drive had become quieter overnight, conversations naturally shifting toward things you weren't there to experience. Someone had posted a picture from a coffee shop you used to visit after school. Someone else had mentioned a teacher you had complained about for years. Tiny pieces of your old life continuing without you.

You stared at the screen for longer than you should have.

Then you locked your phone.

There was no point in torturing yourself with reminders of somewhere you couldn't return to.

At least, not yet.

You stepped outside, locking the front door behind you, and immediately became aware of the house beside yours. The pastor's home stood exactly as it had the previous evening, peaceful and untouched beneath the morning sunlight. The garden that had seemed almost excessive yesterday looked different now—not less perfect, but more alive. The roses beneath the windows moved slightly in the breeze, and the ivy climbing along the porch railing cast delicate shadows across the white wooden walls.

You wondered briefly what kind of person grew up in a house like that.

Not because you were interested, you reminded yourself of that.

It was just simply curiosity.

A house like that came with expectations. You knew enough about people to understand that. The pastor's son probably had a reputation before he was old enough to create one himself. People probably knew him as a child before they knew him as a person. They probably expected kindness from him, patience from him, goodness from him. They probably looked at him and saw his father's occupation before they saw anything else.

You wondered if that ever became exhausting.

The thought disappeared quickly.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and started walking toward school.

The route was shorter than you expected, which somehow annoyed you. You had imagined getting lost, having an excuse to turn around, having some dramatic reason to delay arriving at a place where you knew nobody. Instead, Maple Creek made everything inconveniently simple. The streets were easy to follow. The sidewalks were clean. The school appeared at the end of the road exactly where the map on your phone said it would be.

Even the town was refusing to give you a reason to hate it.

The school building was larger than you expected, though it carried the same old-fashioned charm as everything else in Maple Creek. Red brick walls covered in climbing greenery, tall windows reflecting the morning sunlight, neatly maintained gardens surrounding the entrance. It looked less like a school and more like a place people took photographs of during graduation.

You stood at the edge of the school grounds for a moment longer than necessary, letting the flow of students move around you as though you were standing still in the middle of a river. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, which hallway they needed, which friends they were meeting, which teachers they needed to avoid before the first bell. There was a strange confidence in the way people moved through familiar places, the kind that only came from years of repetition. They weren't thinking about where to turn or whether they belonged there. They simply existed within the routine of it.

You missed that.

Not the school itself. Not the crowded hallways or the endless assignments or the people who had somehow made every small inconvenience feel like a personal crisis. But you missed knowing what to expect. You missed walking into a building where you knew which staircase was always empty between classes, which vending machine stole your money, which teachers would let you hand things in late without a lecture. You missed the comfort of being a person who already had a place, even if that place wasn't perfect.

Here, everything was unfamiliar.

And unfamiliar meant vulnerable.

You hated that feeling.

You followed the signs toward the main office, your shoes making quiet sounds against the polished floor as you entered the building. It was exactly what you expected inside. Framed photographs lined the walls, displaying graduating classes from decades before you were born, sports teams holding trophies with proud expressions, theatre productions captured mid-performance, students who had once walked through these same hallways and eventually left to create lives somewhere beyond the town.

It was strange seeing so much history preserved.

Back home, schools changed constantly. Posters were replaced, rooms were renovated, people came and went so quickly that it was easy to forget anyone had existed there before you. Here, the past seemed carefully protected. Maple Creek held onto things. It held onto houses, traditions, names, and memories with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things people were afraid of losing.

The thought followed you into the office, where a woman sitting behind the front desk looked up immediately. She had the same welcoming expression everyone here seemed to possess, the kind that made you suspicious because you couldn't understand why a stranger would look genuinely pleased to see you.

"You must be Y/n."

You stopped.

It was becoming unsettling how often people knew who you were before you had introduced yourself.

"Yeah."

The woman smiled and reached for a folder beside her computer. "I'm Mrs. Li. We spoke briefly with your father yesterday when your enrolment paperwork came through. Everything has been processed, and your schedule is inside.

She handed the folder across the desk.

You accepted it carefully, glancing down at your name printed neatly across the front.

"Thank you."

"You'll find everyone here is very welcoming," Mrs Li added.

There it was again.

The phrase everyone seemed determined to use.

Welcoming.

You wondered if there was a meeting where the entire town agreed on the same vocabulary.

You forced a small smile.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Mrs Li didn't seem offended by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything, her expression softened slightly, as though she understood more than you had said.

"Your first class is English. It's just down the hall and to the left. If you have any trouble finding anything, ask someone. We have a wonderful group of students here."

You nodded.

"Okay."

The hallway had become busier now, students moving between lockers and classrooms as the first bell approached. Conversations blended together around you, creating a constant stream of voices that you tried not to focus on. You kept your eyes on your schedule, pretending you didn't notice the occasional glance in your direction.

You knew what they were thinking.

Who is she?

Where did she come from?

Why is she here?

You had been the new girl before, but never like this.

In Chicago, being new meant being one person among thousands. There were always other transfers, other unfamiliar faces, other people trying to figure out where they belonged. Here, you felt like the entire town had watched your moving truck arrive. You weren't just a student who had transferred schools.

You reached your classroom and paused outside the door, hearing voices from inside. The urge to turn around was immediate and irrational. Not because you were afraid, but because walking through that door meant admitting this was real, that you were actually here and not on some sort of visit. You weren’t just passing through; this was your life now.

Eventually, you pushed the door open.

The classroom was brighter than you expected, sunlight spilling through the wide windows and casting shapes across the desks. Students looked up briefly as you entered before returning to their conversations, their curiosity subtle enough to be polite but obvious enough that you noticed. You had become aware, almost immediately, of how visible you were here. 

You made your way toward the empty seat near the window and placed your bag down, grateful for the small distance it gave you from everyone else. For the first few minutes, you simply sat there, watching the classroom. The teacher arranged papers on her desk. Students exchanged conversations that seemed to continue from yesterday, last week, and years ago.

The rest of the morning passed in a way that felt strangely unreal, as though you were watching yourself move through someone else's routine rather than actually participating in your own. Every classroom had its own rhythm that you didn't understand yet; every teacher seemed to know exactly how much time to spend explaining something, exactly when to move on, exactly which students would answer questions before they even raised their hands. 

You found yourself observing more than listening, studying the small details that revealed how deeply connected everyone was to this place. The girl in front of you had a sticker on her notebook from a local charity event. The boy beside the window wore a jacket with the school emblem stitched neatly onto the chest. Two students passing your desk exchanged a joke that clearly referenced something that had happened years ago, something you could not possibly understand because you had not been there to witness it.

By the time you checked your schedule again before your next class, you were already expecting another subject you would have to pretend to care about, another room where you would sit quietly and allow people to decide what they thought of you. Instead, your eyes stopped on the words printed beneath the next period.

Chapel.

You stared at it for several seconds, convinced that maybe you had misunderstood.

You looked back at the schedule.

Still there.

A mandatory chapel period.

Not an optional gathering. Not a once-a-week event. Not something students attended only if they wanted to participate. It was built directly into the school day with the same certainty as mathematics, English, or science, another requirement that everyone accepted without question.

You almost found it impressive.

Only a town like Maple Creek could create a school where religion was not simply something people practised, but something embedded so naturally into everyday life that nobody even considered questioning it.

Of course, they had a chapel.

You followed the other students toward the chapel building, trying not to let your expression reveal exactly what you were thinking. Nobody else seemed bothered. That was what caught your attention more than anything. They weren't walking there reluctantly. They weren't whispering complaints about having to attend. They weren't rolling their eyes or joking about finding a way to escape.

They simply went, like it was normal.

The chapel itself was beautiful, which added to your growing irritation. The building was old but carefully maintained, with dark wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and rows of polished benches facing a raised platform at the front. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, breaking into fragments of blue, red, and gold that shifted slowly across the floor as the morning passed.

You took a seat near the back, naturally, the safest place for someone who had no intention of becoming involved.

The teacher at the front began speaking about faith, purpose, and community, and you tried to listen. You genuinely did. You weren't there to mock anyone or disrespect something that clearly mattered to the people around you. But there was a difference between understanding why something was important to others and feeling it yourself.

People always talked about faith like it was something that remained when everything else fell away, but what happened when the things you believed in failed you first? What happened when the people who promised they would always be there were suddenly the reason you had to leave your home? What happened when forever turned out to be something people said only because they wanted to believe it at the time?

Maybe that was why religion had always felt so distant to you. It wasn't because you hated it, and it wasn't because you thought people were foolish for believing in something greater than themselves. You understood the appeal of having something permanent to hold onto when everything around you felt temporary. The problem was that belief required a kind of trust you no longer knew how to give. You had spent too much time watching things people promised would last forever eventually fall apart, watching something that was supposed to be unbreakable become fragile enough to disappear. It was difficult to surrender yourself to the idea of certainty when your own life had become proof that certainty could be taken away without warning.

The clock above the doorway seemed to move more slowly with every passing minute, each second stretching longer than the one before it. You tried to convince yourself that you could sit there until the period ended. It was only one class. Forty minutes of listening, pretending, and doing what everyone else seemed completely comfortable doing.

But the longer you remained in that room, the more aware you became of how different you felt from everyone around you.

The chapel, which seemed to offer comfort to everyone else, began to feel strangely suffocating. You felt as though the room itself was asking something from you—some kind of acceptance, some willingness to belong, some acknowledgement that this was now your world too.

You looked around one more time, almost hoping to find someone else who looked as uncomfortable as you felt.

You didn't.

Every student seemed exactly where they were supposed to be.

Everyone seemed to have a place.

Except you.

The realisation irritated you more than it should have, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you quietly gathered your notebook and slipped your bag over your shoulder. You waited until the teacher turned her attention toward the front of the room before standing, moving carefully between the rows of benches and making your way toward the side exit. Nobody stopped you. Nobody questioned where you were going. For a moment, you wondered if that was because nobody noticed, or because in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone, you were still too new to matter.

Either option was strangely comforting.

The moment the chapel doors closed behind you, you exhaled.

The hallway outside was empty, and the sudden absence of voices felt like stepping out of a crowded room after holding your breath for too long.

You walked without a destination, following instinct rather than any actual plan, letting your feet carry you away from the main buildings where students gathered and teachers watched.

The further you walked, the quieter the school became.

Eventually, the polished pathways and carefully maintained gardens gave way to a less noticeable section of campus behind the sports fields. It was the kind of place people probably passed without ever really seeing, hidden behind a line of tall trees that separated it from the rest of the school grounds. The branches stretched overhead, creating patches of shade across the grass, while the old maintenance building stood quietly against the edge of the property, its brick walls worn by years of changing weather.

It wasn't somewhere students were supposed to be, which immediately made it somewhere you preferred.

There was something comforting about finding a place that hadn't been perfected. Unlike the rest of Maple Creek, which seemed determined to preserve every detail and present itself as something untouched, this corner of the school existed without trying to impress anyone. The grass grew unevenly. The walls carried marks left behind by time. Nobody had placed flowers here or added signs explaining its importance.

It was simply there.

And for the first time that morning, you felt like you could be too.

You leaned back against the wall, pulling the cigarette from your bag with the familiar ease of someone who had done this too many times to feel guilty anymore. You knew exactly what people would say if they saw you. You knew the assumptions that would immediately follow. The new girl from Chicago who couldn't even make it through her first day without breaking a rule. The divorced man's daughter who clearly had an attitude problem. The outsider who had arrived and immediately proved everyone right.

You almost laughed at the thought.

People loved being right about others.

It made them feel like they understood the world.

The lighter flickered in your hand, and for a moment the small flame was the only movement around you. You watched the cigarette catch before lowering your hand, allowing the smoke to disappear into the cool morning air. The irony wasn't lost on you.

You had escaped a chapel full of people searching for meaning only to find yourself hiding behind a building with a cigarette in your hand.

Maybe everyone had their own way of coping, and yours was just less socially acceptable.

For the first time that morning, you felt like you could breathe properly. There was no teacher watching you. No receptionist smiling at you like she already knew your entire story. No students glancing over and wondering where you came from.

Just complete silence.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself enjoy the rare moment where nobody expected anything from you.

Then you heard footsteps.

At first, you assumed they belonged to another student who had discovered the same hiding place. You didn't bother moving. If anything, you were slightly annoyed that even your one quiet corner couldn't remain yours for longer than five minutes.

The footsteps came closer, slow and unhurried.

Not the hurried steps of someone trying to sneak away.

Someone who knew exactly where they were going.

You opened your eyes.

A boy stood a few feet away, one hand resting casually in the pocket of his uniform trousers, his expression difficult to read. He wasn't wearing the usual look people gave you when they caught you doing something wrong. There was no immediate judgement, no smug satisfaction, no excitement at having discovered someone breaking a rule. He didn't have the expression teachers usually wore when they found students somewhere they shouldn't be, that careful mixture of disappointment and authority that suggested they had already decided what kind of person you were before you had the chance to explain yourself.

Instead, he simply looked at you.

He appeared to be around your age, dressed in the same Saint Augustine's uniform as everyone else, though somehow he carried it differently. The other students you had seen that morning wore their uniforms like an extension of the school itself, every shirt neatly tucked, every tie perfectly adjusted, every detail reflecting the careful order that seemed to exist everywhere in Maple Creek. This boy didn't look careless, but there was something less deliberate about him. He looked comfortable, as though the uniform was simply something he wore rather than something he used to prove that he belonged.

His eyes briefly moved toward the cigarette between your fingers before returning to your face, and you waited for the inevitable reaction. You waited for the sigh, the disapproving expression, the comment about rules and responsibility and how this was not the kind of behaviour expected at a school like Saint Augustine's.

Instead, when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than you expected.

"You know, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly where you're supposed to be during chapel."

You stared at him for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the fact that his words sounded more like an observation than an accusation. The cigarette remained between your fingers, smoke curling lazily upward before disappearing into the cool air surrounding the trees.

"I'm aware," you replied.

Your tone was sharper than necessary, but you had already spent the entire morning surrounded by people who were trying to make you feel like you were being welcomed while simultaneously reminding you that you didn't belong. Defensiveness had become easier than politeness. It was a habit you had developed without realising, something you reached for before anyone had the opportunity to hurt you.

The boy didn't seem bothered.

If anything, he looked slightly amused.

"Good," he said simply.

You frowned.

That wasn't the response you were expecting.

Most people would have continued. They would have taken your attitude as an invitation to argue, because people often mistook defensiveness for a challenge. They liked proving they were right, especially when they believed they were helping.

You studied him for a moment before asking the question you already knew the answer to.

"Are you going to report me?"

The question came out automatically, almost like a test. You weren't actually interested in whether he would tell someone. You were interested in seeing what kind of person he was. Whether he was the kind who followed rules because they mattered to him or because breaking them gave him a reason to feel superior.

For a moment, he didn't answer.

His gaze moved briefly toward the school building in the distance, where students were still sitting inside the chapel, probably listening attentively to whatever lesson you had decided you couldn't endure.

Then he looked back at you.

"No."

The simplicity of the answer made you hesitate.

"Why?"

He shrugged slightly, his expression remaining thoughtful rather than dismissive.

"Because I don't think getting you in trouble is going to change anything."

You tilted your head slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he said, looking toward the ground for a moment as though choosing his words carefully, "that if someone doesn't want to be somewhere, making them feel worse probably isn't going to make them suddenly want to be there."

You looked away, taking another slow drag before exhaling toward the trees.

"You're surprisingly understanding for someone at a religious school."

There was a slight pause, then he smiled faintly.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

You shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, and the sound surprised you because it wasn't the kind of laughter you expected from him.

"You thought I was going to give you a lecture."

"I mean, you're standing behind a church school talking to someone who skipped chapel and is smoking," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as though the situation itself explained everything.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disbelief, but in genuine thought, as though he was actually considering your words rather than waiting for his turn to respond. It was a strange reaction, and you found yourself watching him more closely because you couldn't figure out what he was trying to do.

"Do people usually do that?" he asked.

The question was so simple that it almost confused you.

You glanced away for a moment, looking toward the empty field beside the building where the morning sunlight stretched across the grass. "Usually."

You didn't need to explain what you meant.

He seemed to understand anyway.

"And does it work?"

The question caught you off guard.

Not because it was difficult, but because you had expected him to ask something else. You expected him to ask why you smoked, why you skipped chapel, why you seemed so determined to reject everything about the place you had just arrived in. You expected him to focus on the action itself, because that was what people usually did.

You looked back at him, studying his expression carefully.

"What?"

"Does it work when people lecture you?"

For a moment, you didn't answer.

The cigarette slowly burned between your fingers, the ash growing longer before falling quietly onto the ground beneath you. You opened your mouth, ready to give him the easy response. The sarcastic one. The answer you usually gave whenever someone asked a question that felt too close to the truth.

Something like depends who's asking.

Or clearly not, considering I'm still here.

But the words didn't come.

"No."

The answer came out quieter than you intended.

The boy didn't look surprised. He didn't look pleased, either, like he had somehow won an argument. He simply nodded slowly, as though your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.

"Then I don't see the point."

There was something unusual about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to convince you of anything. He wasn't saying it because he expected you to suddenly agree with him or because he wanted credit for being understanding. He said it like it was an obvious conclusion, like forcing someone to listen to advice they had no intention of accepting was just another way of making yourself feel useful.

You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what kind of person said things like that.

It was difficult because he didn't fit neatly into any of the categories you had already created for everyone in Maple Creek. You had expected people here to be predictable. You had expected the students at Saint Augustine's to be polite in the same rehearsed way the rest of the town was polite, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had never had to question whether they belonged. You expected judgment hidden beneath kindness, because that was what you had grown used to.

Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

"You know, I don't think I ever got your name."

For a moment, something almost amused passed across his expression, like he hadn't realised until then that you had been standing there having an entire conversation without knowing who he was.

His eyes softened slightly, and he shifted his weight away from the wall, extending his hand in a gesture that felt strangely normal considering how unusual the circumstances were.

"I'm Jake."

You looked at him for a moment, your fingers still holding the cigarette as you tried to place where you had heard it before. It sounded familiar, but the thought disappeared before you could catch it. There were too many new names, too many new faces, too many pieces of information being thrown at you since arriving in Maple Creek.

You would remember eventually.

"Y/n." You replied.

He repeated your name quietly back to you, almost absentmindedly, like he was making sure he remembered it.

And you hated how much you noticed.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The walk home felt strangely shorter than it had that morning, and you found yourself resenting that more than you probably should have. The Sim house came into view as you turned onto Maple Street, standing beside yours exactly as it had the day before.

You looked at it only briefly before turning toward your own house.

You didn't have the energy to think about anything else.

The day had already been long enough.

You dropped your bag beside the stairs, kicking your shoes off before walking further inside. The living room looked slightly different from when you had left that morning, although you couldn't immediately identify what had changed. Your father had clearly spent the day trying to make the space feel more lived in. A few boxes had disappeared, the curtains had been opened, and the empty shelves that had made the room feel like a stranger's house were slowly beginning to fill with pieces of your old life.

It was strange watching him rebuild everything so quickly.

Your father had always been good at practical things.

He knew how to assemble furniture without reading instructions. He knew how to fix things that broke. But making it a home was something else entirely, it required something you couldn't unpack from a cardboard box. It required time, memories.

You found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while sorting through paperwork beside a half-empty mug of coffee. He looked up when he heard you enter.

"You're home."

You leaned against the doorway.

"Unfortunately."

A small smile tugged at his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.

It was one of the things you noticed about your father. He rarely laughed properly anymore. Since the divorce, happiness seemed to appear in brief moments before he remembered there were still things to worry about.

"How was school?"

You knew what he wanted. He wanted some kind of reassurance that this hadn't been a mistake. That moving three states away hadn't made everything worse. That his decision to leave Chicago, to take the job, to start over, had actually been the right one.

You could have given him the answer he wanted.

You could have complained about everything and proven yourself right.

Instead, you placed your bag down beside the counter and shrugged.

"Fine."

The word was deliberately vague, and you knew it the moment it left your mouth.

Your father knew it too.

He looked up from the papers he had been sorting, his expression changing only slightly, but you noticed the shift anyway. He didn't look angry or disappointed. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who had expected that answer before he had even asked the question.

"Fine?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter.

You opened the refrigerator door, more to give yourself something to do than because you actually wanted anything inside it. The shelves were organised with the same careful precision that seemed to define everything your father had done since arriving. Groceries were arranged neatly, containers were stacked, and everything had already found a place despite the fact that you still hadn't decided where half your belongings belonged.

"Yeah."

You could feel him watching you.

"You know, most people would probably use more than one word to describe their first day at a new school."

You didn’t reply, and he didn't ask again.

Instead, he simply returned to the papers on the counter, allowing the conversation to move on without forcing you to explain something you weren't ready to explain.

After a few moments, he glanced down at the papers before speaking again.

"The Sims stopped by earlier."

You glanced back at him, immediately recognising the name. The woman from next door had already made more of an impression on your first day than most people had managed to in years, mostly because she seemed almost impossibly comfortable in a way you couldn't understand. She had arrived with a warm peach cobbler, spoken to your father as though they were old friends rather than strangers who had only just met.

"The neighbours?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

Your father nodded, placing the papers aside and leaning back against the counter. "Yeah. They invited us over on Sunday."

There was something about the way he said it that immediately made you cautious. Not because you disliked the Sims specifically, but because you had started to understand that in Maple Creek, every friendly gesture seemed to come with some deeper connection to the town itself. 

You looked at him carefully.

"For what?"

Your father hesitated only briefly, but it was enough for you to notice. He had always been terrible at hiding things from you, especially when he knew the answer would probably annoy you. There was a certain expression he got when he was trying to approach a subject carefully, like he was mentally preparing himself for the reaction before the conversation had even started.

"Church."

You stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or explain that he was joking, but his expression remained completely serious. Of course, he was serious. This was Maple Creek, after all. You should have expected that the first invitation from the neighbours would involve the very building that seemed to watch over the entire town from its place above the rooftops.

Your father watched your expression carefully, already knowing exactly what you were 

"I don't know why we have to go," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, although your father clearly heard the resistance underneath it.

He set his mug down slowly, and for the first time since you walked through the door, you saw the patience he had been holding onto begin to weaken. You knew your father well enough to understand that the church was not the real issue. The issue was everything that had come before it — the constant rejection of every attempt he made to make this place feel less unfamiliar, the way you had spent days insisting that Maple Creek was a mistake before you had even given it a chance.

"They're being kind," he said.

"I know."

"Then why does it bother you so much?"

You looked away because you didn't have a simple answer. It wasn't that you thought Mrs Sim was a bad person. She wasn't. It wasn't that you thought your father was wrong for wanting to meet people. He wasn't. The frustrating part was that everything about Maple Creek was making it harder for you to stay angry.

Your father watched you for a moment before letting out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more exhaustion than frustration. "You know, I understand that you're upset."

You stayed silent.

"I understand that you didn't want this. I understand that you miss Chicago and your friends and the life you had before everything changed. I understand that you feel like you were dragged here because of choices you didn't make."

"But you have to understand something too."

You looked back at him.

"I didn't choose this either."

The words made you pause.

Because you had spent so much time thinking about what you had lost that you had forgotten your father had lost something too. He had lost the same home, the same routines, the same version of your family that you missed. The difference was that while you had been angry, he had been trying to make sure there was still something left to save.

"I am trying," he continued, looking around the kitchen that still didn't quite feel like yours. "I'm trying to make this work. I'm trying to make this place feel like somewhere we live instead of somewhere we ended up."

The honesty of it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know what to do with it. Anger was easier. Anger gave you something to hold onto. But your father's frustration wasn't coming from a desire to control you. It was coming from the fact that he was tired of feeling like he was the only person willing to believe things could get better.

"I'm not asking you to love Maple Creek," he said after a moment. "I'm not asking you to suddenly become someone you're not. I'm just asking you to stop deciding that everything here is against you before you even know what it is."

The kitchen fell quiet again, filled only by the distant sound of the town outside and the faint ringing of the church bell in the distance. You hated that the timing almost felt intentional, as though Maple Creek itself was reminding you that it was still there, waiting patiently for you to stop fighting it.

But after a long moment, you finally sighed and looked back at your father.

"One Sunday."

The surprise that crossed his face was immediate, and you regretted agreeing almost as quickly as you saw it.

"Don't make it a big deal," you warned.

A small smile appeared on his face, the first one you had seen since the conversation started.

"I won't."

You narrowed your eyes slightly because you both knew that wasn't entirely true.

"You will."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his mug again.

"Maybe a little."

You grabbed your bag and headed toward the stairs before he could say anything else, still uncertain about whether agreeing had been a mistake. You still weren't looking forward to Sunday. You still didn't understand why this town seemed so determined to pull you into its routines, its traditions, its carefully preserved little world where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.

But as you entered your bedroom later that evening and looked out through the window toward the church steeple standing above the rooftops, you found yourself wondering what exactly waited for you there.

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The Sunday you were dreading seemed to come faster than you wished.

The pews creaked under the weight of the congregation as you sat rigid beside your father, the stiff collar of your dress scratching at your neck. The sermon droned on, the pastor's voice booming from the pulpit, but your attention drifted until the side door opened. A boy about your age slipped in late, Bible tucked under one arm, and took the empty seat two rows ahead. The moment his profile turned, your stomach dropped. It was him—the same guy who had caught you behind the school last week, cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling from your lips.

Jake.

For a moment, you wondered if he had noticed you, but he seemed completely absorbed in the service, carefully opening the worn Bible beneath his arm before offering a quiet apology to the elderly woman beside him for arriving late. She smiled as though she had forgiven him before he'd even spoken, patting his arm affectionately before turning her attention back toward the pulpit.

Every movement he made carried the unconscious ease of someone who had spent years within these walls. He knew exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to join the hymns without needing to glance at the page numbers announced from the front. Even the people around him seemed to move naturally around his presence, greeting him with small smiles whenever the congregation shifted or the peace was exchanged, as though he wasn't simply another student from school but somebody they had watched grow up.

You couldn't imagine what that felt like.

The service continued, the pastor's voice echoing beneath the high timber ceiling while coloured light from the stained-glass windows drifted slowly across the polished wooden floor. You tried—genuinely tried—to pay attention, but your concentration wandered almost immediately yet again, your gaze drawn back toward Jake every few minutes despite yourself. It wasn't curiosity anymore, at least not entirely. It was something closer to disbelief. The boy who had found you smoking behind the maintenance building somehow looked exactly the same here, yet completely different at the same time. 

Eventually the pastor closed his Bible, offering a final blessing before the congregation answered in practiced unison. Almost immediately the atmosphere changed. The solemn quiet dissolved into conversation as people rose from their seats, hymn books slid back into their holders, and families gathered in the aisles with the familiar ease of people who had repeated the same ritual every Sunday for decades. Children darted between rows of pews while older couples lingered to catch up.

Your father stood beside you, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before offering you a hopeful glance.

"Come on," he murmured. "We should say hello."

You resisted the urge to sigh.

Instead, you followed him reluctantly through the growing crowd, offering polite nods whenever another unfamiliar face introduced themselves. Everyone smiled. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased that you were there.

It was exhausting.

Across the room, you caught sight of Mrs Sim weaving effortlessly through the congregation with the same warmth she'd shown the day she'd arrived at your house carrying a peach cobbler. The moment she noticed the two of you, her face lit up, and she crossed the room with surprising speed before your father had any chance of escaping.

"I'm so glad you came," she said brightly, clasping your father's hands between hers before turning that same smile toward you. "And you must be surviving your first week at school."

"Barely," you replied.

Mrs Sim laughed, apparently choosing to interpret your answer as a joke.

"I'm sure it'll get easier."

You weren't convinced.

"Oh," she said suddenly, looking over her shoulder. "Jake!"

You followed her gaze instinctively.

Jake had been speaking with an older man near the front of the church, but at the sound of his mother's voice, he excused himself immediately and made his way over, offering the man a polite smile before crossing the aisle. Up close, he looked exactly as he had behind the school, except for the blazer he'd pulled on over his shirt and the Bible still tucked beneath one arm.

"Jake," Mrs Sim said warmly as he reached the group, resting a gentle hand against his arm. "I'd like you to meet our new neighbours."

He turned obediently toward your father first, offering a polite smile before extending his hand. "Hi, sir. I'm Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake," your father replied, returning the handshake. "I'm Daniel, and this is my daughter." Only then did Jake's attention shift towards you.

Recognition crossed his face almost immediately, so brief that anyone else would have mistaken it for an ordinary pause, but you caught it anyway. His eyes widened the slightest fraction before settling, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile he seemed to think better of almost as quickly as it appeared. 

He hadn't expected you to be here.

You hadn't expected him either.

"Hi," he said after the briefest hesitation, extending his hand towards you exactly as though the two of you had never spoken before.

You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it.

"Y/n."

"Jake."

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, "It's... nice to meet you."

You caught the tiny pause before meet, and for a moment you wondered if anyone else had noticed it. Judging by the bright smile spreading across Mrs Sim's face, they hadn't.

Mrs Sim's smile widened with obvious satisfaction as she looked between the two of you, entirely convinced she had just witnessed the beginning of a perfectly ordinary introduction. "Isn't that lovely?" she said, clasping her hands together for a moment before turning her attention back to your father. "I've been telling Jake all week that he should properly come over and welcome you both, but between school and helping his father prepare for Sunday, we simply haven't had a moment."

Jake withdrew his hand slowly, offering his mother a small, almost sheepish smile that suggested this was hardly the first time she'd volunteered his time on his behalf. "Sorry about that," he said, his attention returning to you for only a moment before politely addressing your father again. "I should've introduced myself sooner."

"It's been a busy week for everyone," your father replied easily. "We're still finding boxes we forgot to unpack."

"I can imagine."

The conversation settled into an easy rhythm almost immediately, though you found yourself contributing very little. It wasn't intentional; there simply wasn't much to say. Your father and Mrs Sim seemed strangely well suited to one another's company, discussing the town with the comfortable enthusiasm of two people standing on opposite sides of the same experience—one eager to tell stories, the other grateful to hear them. Your father listened with genuine interest, asking questions whenever she paused, and you realised with some surprise that he was smiling more than you'd seen him smile since leaving Chicago.

"You survived your first week."

Jake's voice came quietly from beside you. You turned your head just enough to find him standing beside you, close enough to speak without raising his voice but careful not to crowd your space. He wasn't looking directly at you. Instead, his attention rested somewhere across the sanctuary where a little girl in polished black shoes chased her younger brother between the pews before their mother caught both of them with an exasperated laugh. The corners of Jake's mouth lifted ever so slightly at the sight, his expression carrying the quiet amusement of someone who had probably watched the same scene play out countless Sundays before.

"Barely," you admitted, your answer escaping with a dry honesty that surprised even you.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. For a brief second, the carefully composed image everyone seemed to have of Jake dissolved, revealing someone your age rather than the pastor's son everyone else appeared to see.

"I figured," he said, the smile lingering faintly as he glanced down for a moment before looking back toward the sanctuary.

You studied him for a second, curiosity getting the better of you.

"You figured?"

His attention finally shifted towards you, and there it was again—that impossibly gentle expression that somehow never felt rehearsed. "Most people," he said with the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice, "don't decide to skip chapel on their first day."

You couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, the memory arriving almost uninvited. You could still picture the look on his face when he'd stepped around the maintenance building and found you leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers. You had been so certain you knew exactly how that conversation would unfold. You had expected disappointment, a lecture rehearsed from years of Sunday sermons, or at the very least the smug satisfaction of someone catching another person doing something they shouldn't.

"No," you replied, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "I figured I'd make an impression."

Jake's head dipped as another quiet laugh escaped him, this one accompanied by the smallest shake of his head. "You definitely managed that."

"Oh?" you asked, unable to resist. "I was under the impression you were trying very hard not to think about it."

"I was."

"But?"

"But..." He hesitated, searching for the right words with the same care he seemed to give everything he said. "You're not exactly easy to forget."

The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you. The words hung between you for a moment before a faint flush climbed slowly across his cheeks, and you watched the realisation dawn on him that he'd spoken aloud instead of keeping the thought to himself.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant."

His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful that you hadn't chosen to make things more embarrassing than they already were. A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head, his fingers absentmindedly tightening around the worn spine of the Bible tucked beneath his arm. It was strangely endearing, watching someone who seemed so composed unravel over a sentence as innocent as that.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, then Mrs Sim's voice drifted across the sanctuary before either of you had the chance to say anything else.

"Jake, sweetheart," she called, waving him over with an affectionate smile. "Would you mind helping your father carry the coffee urn into the hall?"

Jake glanced over his shoulder toward his mother, then back at you, and for a moment he looked almost reluctant to leave. 

"I should probably..." he began, his voice trailing off as he nodded toward where his mother was waiting.

You glanced in the same direction before looking back at him.

"Go," you said, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. "Before she sends someone else over here to get you."

He adjusted the Bible beneath his arm, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover as though he needed something to do with his hands.

"It was..." He paused, searching for the right words, and the hesitation was so unlike the confident, composed version of him everyone else seemed to know that it almost made you smile. "It was nice to officially meet you."

You looked at him for a moment, letting the irony sit between you.

"We're still pretending that's what happened?"

A small smile appeared on his face, one that he tried and failed to hide.

"...It was nice to officially meet you too."

Something about your answer seemed to genuinely please him. His smile widened, then he disappeared into the crowd, moving easily between familiar faces and Sunday conversations, stopping every few steps to greet someone who knew him by name. You watched him for a moment longer than you intended.

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The weeks after that passed slowly enough that you almost didn't notice when Maple Creek began feeling less like a place you had been sent to and more like somewhere you actually existed.

You still missed Chicago in ways you didn't always admit. You missed the noise of the streets outside your old apartment, the constant movement of people who didn't know your name and didn't care enough to ask. In Maple Creek, everyone knew everything, or at least they acted like they did. The neighbours waved whenever you walked past. Teachers remembered your name. People asked how you were adjusting with genuine concern, and you never quite knew what to do with their kindness.

It wasn't that the town had suddenly become home. It hadn't. There were still mornings when you woke up convinced that if you looked out of your bedroom window, the familiar skyline of Chicago would somehow have returned overnight, replacing the church steeple that stood stubbornly above the rooftops. There were afternoons when you found yourself reaching instinctively for your phone to text friends who were no longer part of your daily life, only to remember that conversations became difficult when they were separated by three states and an entirely different routine. Life back home continued without you, just as yours continued without them, and there was something quietly devastating about how quickly people adapted to absence.

School settled into something resembling routine before you realised it had happened. The novelty of being the new girl faded as other distractions claimed everyone's attention, and the curious glances that had followed you through the corridors during your first week gradually disappeared. Teachers stopped introducing you to every class. People no longer whispered your name after you walked past. 

To your surprise, you found yourself sharing more classes with Jake than you had expected.

English, where the seating plan placed him one desk beside you after Mrs Henderson announced she wanted "fresh perspectives" before rearranging the entire room. History, where he somehow managed to answer questions without sounding like he was showing off, speaking only when the teacher called on him and never a moment longer. Even Chemistry, where your assigned lab partners changed every fortnight until, through what you suspected was extraordinarily bad luck, you ended up standing opposite him at the same scratched black laboratory bench.

"You look disappointed," he observed one afternoon while measuring chemicals into a graduated cylinder with infuriating precision.

"I was hoping for someone who'd let me do absolutely nothing."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though he kept his attention on the clear liquid slowly rising against the measurement lines.

Your eyebrows rose.

"You did?"

"No."

You let your head fall back with exaggerated disappointment.

"There goes my entire plan for the afternoon."

Jake finally glanced up, the faint smile still lingering on his face.

"You had a plan?"

"I usually don't," you admitted as you leaned against the bench, absentmindedly spinning an empty beaker between your hands. "That's probably the problem."

"I noticed."

You looked at him suspiciously.

"Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"No."

"It sounded like one."

"It wasn't."

"You didn't even deny noticing."

"I didn't think I had to."

For a second, you simply stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped you. Jake smiled in return, before returning his attention to the experiment.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why talking to him had once felt awkward.

The strange thing about Jake was that conversations with him never felt like conversations you had to win. He never treated your sarcasm like a challenge or an invitation to argue. Most people responded to your remarks by trying to outmatch them, determined to prove they were cleverer or funnier or somehow immune to the walls you built around yourself. Jake simply accepted them for what they were, answering with the same gentle humour every time until, before you realised it, you found yourself talking without thinking quite so carefully about every word.

You hated how easy that was becoming.

One morning you arrived at English to find the teacher running late, and Jake had absentmindedly saved the empty seat beside him without either of you acknowledging it. You would steal half his fries at lunch because, according to you, "sharing was a Christian virtue," and he'd sigh with theatrical disappointment before sliding the carton a little closer anyway. Another afternoon you discovered your pen had run out halfway through a history test, and before you could even ask, another one appeared silently on your desk. He never made a point of it. By the end of the lesson, he'd simply asked for it back with an absent-minded, "I only own two."

Neither of you ever spoke about it.

There simply came a point where being around one another stopped requiring an invitation.

By the time October settled over Maple Creek, the trees lining Main Street had begun surrendering their leaves one by one, covering the sidewalks in deep shades of amber and burnt gold that crunched beneath your shoes on the walk home. The afternoons grew cooler, sunlight fading earlier than it had only weeks before, and your routine settled into something that almost resembled normality. School. Home. Homework you pretended to hate. Dinner with your father, who looked a little less exhausted every evening.

One Friday evening, you arrived home to find the house smelling faintly of rosemary, garlic and something roasting in the oven. Music drifted quietly from the old radio your father had finally unpacked, filling the kitchen with the familiar sound of Fleetwood Mac while every available surface had somehow become covered with bowls, chopping boards and ingredients.

"What happened?" you asked, eyeing the organised chaos spread across every available surface.

Your father looked over his shoulder, the wooden spoon still resting in his hand, his brow creasing with mild confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You cooked."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he returned his attention to the saucepan.

"I do know how."

"You ordered takeaway four nights this week."

"I was busy."

"And now?"

He hesitated for only a second before a small, almost satisfied smile settled across his face.

"I invited the Sims over for dinner."

The words landed with enough force that you straightened instinctively.

"You... invited them?"

"I did."

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was joking. Judging by the calm expression on his face as he sprinkled herbs into the saucepan, he wasn't.

"The pastor's family?"

"Our neighbours," he corrected gently.

You let out a slow sigh, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs as you rubbed a hand across your forehead.

"You really expect me to survive an entire evening of polite conversation?"

Your father smiled to himself as he stirred the sauce once more.

"I think you'll manage."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

"I think you're overestimating me."

His smile only grew. "Dinner's at six tomorrow."

You groaned quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair.

"I wasn't asking."

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The following evening arrived with surprising speed, carrying with it the kind of nervous anticipation you refused to acknowledge. By half past five, the house had been transformed into something almost unrecognisable. The dining table, which had spent the better part of a month buried beneath unopened mail and half-unpacked boxes, now sat neatly arranged with your father's best plates and polished cutlery that hadn't seen daylight since Chicago. 

Your father had changed shirts twice.

You knew because you'd watched him do it.

The first one had apparently been "too wrinkled." The second, according to him, made him look like he was trying too hard. Eventually he'd settled on a navy button-down you'd seen him wear exactly twice before, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleeves every few minutes as he checked the oven for what had to be the sixth time.

"You know they're only coming for dinner," you observed from where you leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching him fuss over the table with growing amusement.

Without looking up, he adjusted one of the forks by what couldn't have been more than half a centimetre.

"I know."

The doorbell rang precisely at six.

Your father disappeared into the hallway before you had a chance to move, and moments later the sound of warm greetings drifted through the house, accompanied by the unmistakable laughter of Mrs Sim. You remained exactly where you were for another moment, taking a steadying breath before reluctantly following.

The Sims stood just inside the front entrance, autumn coats folded neatly over their arms after escaping the cool evening air. Mrs Sim was the first to notice you, her face brightening instantly as she crossed the hallway with the same effortless warmth she seemed to carry everywhere, wrapping you in a brief hug before you had any real opportunity to avoid it.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, stepping back to admire you with an approving smile. "It's lovely to see you again."

You returned an awkward smile, still adjusting to people who expressed affection so freely.

"You too."

Pastor Sim stood nearby, extending a firm hand toward your father while thanking him again for the invitation. He carried himself with the same quiet authority you'd heard in his sermons, though stripped of the pulpit and formal robes, he seemed considerably less intimidating than he had on Sunday morning. He laughed easily, spoke gently, and thanked your father three separate times before stepping inside.

Jake lingered near the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had entered before quietly closing the front door behind them. Unlike church, where he'd worn pressed clothes and carried a Bible tucked neatly beneath one arm, tonight he looked comfortably ordinary. Holding a charcoal knit jumper over his arm, he wore a pale collared shirt whose sleeves had been rolled casually to his forearms, and his hair, usually kept neatly in place throughout the school day, had begun to curl slightly around his forehead in the cool evening air.

His eyes found yours almost immediately.

A small smile appeared before either of you spoke.

"Hi."

"Hi."

The greeting was simple, almost laughably so after weeks of sharing classrooms and conversations, but somehow it felt different here. There were no teachers nearby pretending not to overhear you, no church congregation moving around you, no hurried walk between classes limiting the conversation to a few passing words. This was your house. He was standing in your hallway.

"So..." you said, leaning casually against the hallway wall as the adults disappeared into the dining room. Your eyes moved over him with deliberate curiosity, taking in the fact that the boy who spent his days looking perfectly composed at school was now standing in your house looking slightly out of place. "This is how you spend your Saturday nights?"

Jake glanced towards the dining room before looking back at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He seemed caught between defending himself and admitting you had a point.

"Apparently."

Before you could say something back, Mrs Sim called for both of you from the dining room, and Jake gestured for you to go ahead.

You looked at him suspiciously as you walked past.

"Just manners?"

He smiled.

"Just manners."

Dinner was easier than you expected.

You had prepared yourself for an evening of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation, the kind where every question felt like an interrogation and every answer had to be carefully chosen. Instead, the night moved naturally. Your father and Pastor Sim carried most of the conversation, discussing the town, work, and everything you had missed during your first few weeks in Maple Creek. Mrs Sim filled in the quieter moments with stories about the neighbourhood, laughing whenever your father admitted something embarrassing about adjusting to a smaller town.

You mostly listened. Jake sat across from you, occasionally catching your eye when the adults became too invested in their conversation. Each time, there was a quiet understanding between you both—a shared amusement at the fact that neither of you had expected the evening to be as normal as it was.

By the time the dinner had ended, the plates were cleared away, the last traces of conversation drifting from the kitchen as your father and the Sims continued talking.

You had just started relaxing into the evening when your father returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel as he glanced between you and Jake.

"You know what?" he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You should show Jake your vinyl collection."

You looked up immediately.

"My what?"

Your father ignored the disbelief in your voice, leaning casually against the doorway.

"You spent all that time organising them last week."

You narrowed your eyes at him, already knowing exactly what he was doing.

Jake glanced towards you, a small smile forming. 

"I'd like to see them." He responded.

"Fine.", you sighed, standing from your chair. 

Your father smiled in victory.

"But if you judge my music taste," you added, pointing at Jake, "I'm making you leave."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he followed you towards the stairs.

You led the worn wooden stairs creak under Jake's weight as you guided him up to your room. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck, a palpable thing that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. "My dad has a few old gospel records," he said, his voice softer than it had been downstairs. "But they're predictable. The same messages."

You pushed your bedroom door open, "Predictable is boring," you stated, your tone leaving no room for argument as you gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold like he was crossing into another world, his eyes wide as they took in the turntable on your desk.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed.

You pulled a record from its sleeve, toying with the black disk in your hands. "This one," you said, not asking, as you placed it on the platter and lowered the needle. A slow, grinding bassline filled the room, something primal that seemed to push against the walls. Jake flinched, just slightly. "Listen," you instructed, standing close enough that your arm brushed his. You didn't move away. "Hear the difference?."

He stared at the spinning record, but his attention was fractured, pulled to where your skin met the crisp cotton of his polo shirt. "It's intense," he managed, his voice tight. You turned to face him fully, closing the small distance. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the lifetime of doctrine warring with a raw, waking curiosity.

"You don't have to analyse it, Jake," you murmured, your hand coming up to not quite touch his cheek. You let it hover. "You just have to experience it." His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, and when they opened, the look in them was one of surrender. You finally let your fingertips graze his jawline. He leaned into it, ever so slightly.

Your other hand found his, prying his fingers open from the fist he hadn't realized he'd made. You guided his palm, placing it flat against the album cover on your desk. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" you asked, the music swelling around you both. He didn't speak. He only nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin, his eyes locked on yours.

The song ended with a final, resonant thrum, and the sudden silence felt louder than the music. Jake’s hand remained on the album cover, his knuckles pale. You watched him, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his starched shirt a little too quick. You didn’t move your fingers from his jaw. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the things he’d been taught to confess and repent.

You finally broke the contact, turning back to the turntable. You lifted the tonearm, the click of the switch cutting off the faint surface noise. “There’s more,” you said, your voice a low murmur, not looking at him as you flipped through the crate, the cardboard sleeves stacked against each other. You could feel him watching you, his eyes following your every move.

You selected another record, this one with a stark, abstract cover in deep reds and blacks. “This one builds slower,” you explained, your back still to him as you slid the vinyl out. “It takes its time. It makes you wait for it.” You placed it on the platter, setting the needle down with care, and a single, clean piano note echoed through the speakers, followed by another, spaced apart by a breath of silence. Jake let out a slow exhale behind you. You heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifted his weight.

You turned then, leaning back against the edge of your desk, crossing your ankles. You studied him openly—the way his hair fell a little too perfectly over his forehead, the rigid set of his shoulders that was beginning to soften. His eyes were fixed on the record as it spun, but you knew he wasn’t really seeing it. He was listening, truly listening, to the music.

“Do you understand now?” you asked, your voice barely above the level of the unfolding melody. His gaze flickered to yours, and in the low light from your desk lamp, you saw the first crack in his composure, a fine, hairline fracture. He gave another small, silent nod. You held his look for a long moment, then let your eyes drift back to the spinning black disk, letting the music fill the space where words would have been a trespass.

His fingers slowly curled, lifting from the album cover. He brought his hand back to his side, but it didn’t hang with its usual relaxed posture. It was a fist again, though looser this time, as if holding onto the ghost of the sensation. The piano melody wove around a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He took a half-step forward, then stopped, as if an invisible line on your floor marked a boundary he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.

You didn’t invite him closer. You simply watched, your expression neutral, giving him nothing but the space to choose. His eyes traveled from the turntable to your face, then down to your lips, before snapping back up, a faint flush coloring his neck. The music built, layer upon layer, a sonic cathedral of something entirely secular. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to him, you could tell.

“Where did you find this?” he finally asked, his voice rough. It was the first question he’d dared to ask since entering your room. It wasn’t about the music, not really.

“A little shop downtown,” you answered, your tone casual. “The owner knows what I like.” You uncrossed your ankles and stood up straight, taking a single, slow step toward him. He didn’t retreat. The distance between you was now just a matter of a few inches. You could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.

“It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him something. His gaze dropped to your collar, to the hollow of your throat, before he forced it back to your eyes. He was trying so hard to be polite, to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct was pulling him elsewhere.

You reached out again, this time not towards his face, but towards the stiff collar of his polo shirt. You didn’t grab it. You merely hooked a single finger under the fabric, just beside his neck, and gave the slightest tug. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp sound swallowed by the swelling music. His entire body went still, a deer caught in headlights.

A slow, wry smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the tension. “Checking the thread count?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper that carried a surprising hint of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a quick-witted retreat into something safe and mundane, but it faltered as your finger remained, the back of your knuckle resting against the pounding pulse in his throat.

You released the collar, your finger brushing the warm skin of his collarbone as you withdrew. “Just seeing if it’s as ruined as your demeanor,” you replied, matching his tone but letting your gaze drop meaningfully to his lips. The color in his cheeks deepened, but he held your look. The music built around you, a complex tapestry of sound that felt like it was weaving the two of you together in the dim light.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My mom insists on a specific laundry routine. Says a crisp appearance reflects a… an ordered mind.” The words were a confession and an offering, a glimpse into the world of rules that shaped him. He was letting you in, piece by piece, even as his body trembled on the precipice.

Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You kissed him, your mouth demanding against his, and after a moment of stillness, Jake responded with a desperate, hungry fervor that shattered his careful composure. His hands came up, hovering awkwardly at your sides before finally settling on your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. You walked him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed, and he sat down with a soft thump, breaking the kiss only because he had to.

You stood between his knees, looking down at him. His lips were swollen, his breath coming in short pants. You reached for the hem of his polo shirt again. This time, you didn’t tease. You pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest was pale and smooth, his skin heating under your gaze. Your fingers went to the button of his chinos. He watched, mesmerized, as you undid it, then the zipper. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his briefs. “Lift,” you commanded softly.

He obeyed instantly, raising his hips so you could strip the last barriers from him. He was fully, beautifully exposed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You let your eyes travel over him, a slow, appreciative look that made him shiver. Then you sank to your knees on the floor before him. His eyes widened, a soft “oh” escaping him. You didn’t make him wait. You took him into your mouth, your tongue sweeping a broad, wet stroke along his length. His whole body jerked, a choked cry tearing from his throat. His hands flew to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just tangling in the strands as if he needed to hold onto something solid.

You set a slow, deep rhythm, your mouth a warm, slick haven. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, a rhythm as old as time but entirely new to him in this context. His breaths were ragged prayers, gasps of “please” and “God” that had nothing to do with the divinity he’d been raised to worship and everything to do to the sinful paradise you were building with your lips and tongue. You could feel the tension coiling tightly in him, his thighs trembling against your shoulders. Just as he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back, leaving him gasping and bereft. You looked up at him, your chin glistening. “My turn,” you whispered, and you rose to guide him back onto the bed.

He hesitated for only a second, his face flushed with shame and arousal. “I… I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is wrong… I was taught to resist this kind of temptation.” Yet his body betrayed him. His cock twitched visibly, already leaking at the tip, and he didn’t resist when you pushed him onto his back. He lay there obediently, arms at his sides, fingers clutching the sheets like he was praying for strength. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and pleading. “Tell me what to do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll be good for you.”

You guided him onto his back, and he went without resistance, settling against the sheets with his arms loose at his sides. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed dark and twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat. You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and his eyes followed your every movement like he was watching something forbidden yet irresistible.

"I shouldn't," he whispered again, the words catching in his throat. "It's a sin. I've prayed against this... against wanting it." His voice cracked on the last word, but his hips lifted slightly, seeking contact even as he spoke against it. His hands stayed where they were, fingers digging into the bedding, waiting for your command.

You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. "Then pray while I use you," you told him. A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a moan. You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around his cock, and lined him up. His whole frame tensed as the head pressed against your entrance.

"Please," he breathed. "Tell me I'm allowed. Tell me to take it."

"Push up," you ordered.

He obeyed at once. His hips rose in one smooth thrust, sliding into you with a single, desperate motion. The moment he was buried to the hilt, a strangled prayer tore from his lips—half-formed words of repentance mixed with raw need. You stayed still above him, letting him feel every inch of your heat gripping him, while his thighs trembled beneath you.

"Move," you said.

He started with shallow, careful thrusts, trying to keep some measure of control, but it quickly unraveled. His hips snapped upward harder, chasing the slick friction, each stroke punctuated by soft, guilty gasps of "God" and "forgive me." His hands finally left the sheets to grip your hips, not to guide you but to hold on as if you were the only thing anchoring him. Every time he bottomed out, his eyes squeezed shut like he was both praying for strength and begging for more.

You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his, and whispered against his mouth, "You're being so good for me. So obedient."

A shudder ran through him. "I want to be good," he panted. "I want to please you. Even if it's wrong. Even if I have to confess later." His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him inside you, mixing with your own slickness. His abs flexed with every movement, the muscles in his arms standing out as he held you.

You sat up again, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him cry out. "Don't come yet," you warned.

He nodded frantically, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "I won't. I won't until you say. I'll hold it. I'll be good." His cock throbbed inside you, right on the edge, but he forced his hips to slow, following your command even as his entire body shook with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, glassy, and completely surrendered.

You stayed seated on him, savoring the way his cock pulsed inside you with every desperate heartbeat. His grip on your hips tightened, but he kept his thrusts shallow and controlled exactly as you ordered. Sweat glistened across his pale chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer even while his body betrayed every word of it.

"Good boy," you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow grind that dragged a broken moan from his throat. "Keep praying. Let me hear it."

His voice cracked as he obeyed. "Forgive me... Lord, forgive me for this... for wanting it so much..." Each word dissolved into a gasp when you clenched around him. His thighs quivered beneath you, and his cock twitched hard, threatening to spill, but he fought it back with visible effort.

You leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next plea. When you pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected your mouths. "Now fuck me properly," you told him. "Hard. Don't stop until I tell you."

The permission hit him like a command from above. His hips snapped up in one powerful thrust that drove the air from his lungs. He buried himself to the hilt again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as he used every ounce of strength to obey. Each stroke punched a ragged sound from him—half curse, half prayer.

"Yes... yes, use me," he panted. "I'm yours... I'm so sorry, God, but I'm yours right now." His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy with guilt and lust. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him, mixing with your slickness and making every thrust louder, filthier.

You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you. The sight of him—flushed, sweating, desperate—pushed you closer. "Don't come," you warned again. "Not until I do."

He nodded frantically, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. His rhythm never faltered even as his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. "I won't... I promise... I'll be good... I'll wait..." His cock swelled inside you, so close to the edge it hurt to watch, but he kept driving upward exactly as you wanted.

You rode him faster, chasing your own release while he suffered beautifully beneath you. His prayers had dissolved into wordless, broken sounds. Every thrust hit deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.

"Now," you gasped. "Come with me."

The permission shattered what little control he had left. His hips jerked upward in one final, brutal thrust as he came hard, flooding you with hot pulses. A loud, guilty cry tore from his throat—your name mixed with another broken apology to God. His cock throbbed violently inside you, emptying everything he had while his body arched off the bed. You clenched around him and came right after, your walls pulsing and milking every drop from him.

He kept thrusting weakly through both orgasms, unable to stop even after he was spent. When the last aftershocks faded, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut in shame and relief. His softening cock still twitched inside you, sensitive and overstimulated.

You stayed on top of him, letting him feel the mess he'd made. After a long moment he opened his eyes, looking up at you with raw, wrecked devotion.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For... for letting me. Even though I shouldn't have." 

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

You hadn't expected Jake to become so desperate for you. Then again, you couldn't argue against it since the boy had never touched anything until that night in your bedroom. That night had been your experiment, a little game to see if the golden boy preacher’s son would crack, and he had shattered. Now, three weeks later, the crack had become a canyon, and he was falling through it daily, reaching for you.

He appeared at your usual smoke spot, his crisp button-down looking absurd against the scarred wall. His hands were shoved deep in his khaki pockets, his shoulders tense. "The archives in the library basement," he said, his voice low and urgent, skipping any greeting. "The theology section. No one goes there on Wednesday afternoons." His eyes, usually so clear and certain, were clouded with a need that looked like physical pain. You took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, watching him flinch. Not from the smoke, but from the delay.

It became a pattern. A folded note tucked into your sociology textbook with a time and a location scrawled in his neat handwriting: *Boiler room, 3 PM.* A text message that just read *Empty classroom, second floor, east wing. Now.* He never asked if you wanted to. He simply presented the opportunity, a sinner offering his own temptation, his voice always carrying that same ragged edge. You’d find him there, pacing or standing perfectly still, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. The moment he saw you, the calm would evaporate, replaced by a frantic energy as he fumbled with his belt, or yours, his prayers forgotten, replaced by whispered pleas against your skin.

You met him in the designated broom closet. It was cramped, smelling of lemon cleaner and dust. He had you pressed against the shelves before the door clicked shut, his mouth hot and demanding on yours, his hands pulling at your clothes with a clumsy haste. "I can't stop thinking about it," he gasped against your neck, his hips already moving against you. "About you. That's all I think about." His confession was torn from him, as he learned your body with a fervor he'd once reserved for scripture, each touch a new verse in a gospel of his own damnation.

Afterward, he would help you dress with trembling hands, his fingers brushing your skin as if memorizing it. He’d smooth his own hair, try to rearrange his face into something resembling the composed Jake everyone else saw. But the look in his eyes gave him away—a hollowed-out, hungry thing. "Tomorrow," he'd say, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, a necessary appointment for his survival. "The photo development lab. During the yearbook committee meeting."

You saw him at a campus ministry barbecue two days later. He was flipping burgers, laughing politely, the perfect picture of clean-cut devotion. His eyes scanned the crowd, found you leaning against a tree at the edge of the lawn. He held your gaze for a fraction of a second too long, and the plastic spatula in his hand snapped clean in two. He looked down at the broken pieces, then back at you, a slow flush creeping up his neck. He turned back to the grill, abandoning the ruined burger, and walked away from the crowd without a word to anyone.

The broken spatula was the first public crack. He didn't come to the smoke spot for two days, and you assumed maybe the guilt had finally won, that the prayer circles and his father’s disappointed eyes had rebuilt the wall. You were almost disappointed. Then, on the third day, as you were leaving a late class, a hand closed around your wrist from the shadow of a doorway. It was Jake, but he looked ravaged. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his collar was undone.

"Walk with me," he said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a request. He didn't let go of your wrist as he steered you away from the main paths, toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the botanical gardens. It was locked for the night, but he produced a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was thick and humid, and he finally released you, turning to face you under the ghostly light filtering through the glass ceiling. "I tried," he breathed out, the words sounding ripped from his chest. "I prayed. I read. I went to confession." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "It just made it worse. All I could think about was the smell of your skin in that closet."

He reached for you then, but his touch was different. It wasn't the frantic groping of before. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a terrifying tenderness. "You ruined me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours. "Do you understand that? Completely. And I don't want to be fixed." His mouth found yours, and this kiss was a slow, deep claim, devoid of its earlier panic. It was a surrender. He guided you down onto a bed of soft peat moss behind a tray of orchids, his movements deliberate.

He took his time. He peeled your clothes away with a reverence that was more unsettling than his prior desperation. He mapped every inch of you with his lips and tongue, whispering things that sounded like prayers but weren't. "This is my communion," he murmured against your stomach, his breath hot. "This is my only truth." When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made you cry out, the sound swallowed by the dense air. He moved with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as if studying for a final exam.

After lying tangled together on the borrowed jacket he’d spread beneath you, he didn't scramble to leave. He traced idle patterns on your arm, his head on your chest. "My father is giving the sermon at the downtown mission on Friday night," he said, his voice quiet in the humid dark. "The office in the back will be empty. The door locks." He stated matter-of-factly. The dependency had crystallized into something calm and absolute.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

Your father stood at the stove, absently stirring a saucepan while an old Fleetwood Mac song played softly from the radio, the familiar melody blending with the quiet clink of cutlery as you wandered in to grab your jacket from the back of a chair.

"You've been going out a lot lately."

His voice was casual, almost conversational, though you could feel him watching for your reaction.

You shrugged one shoulder as you zipped up your jacket.

"So?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at the saucepan, stirring it slowly.

"I don't know..." he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You just seem happier."

Your hand paused around your keys, turning to look at him properly, a faint crease appearing between your brows, "Really?"

He nodded once, meeting your eyes for only a second before his attention drifted back to dinner, "I think so."

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hip against the counter as though considering the possibility for the first time.

"...I didn't notice."

"I don't think you were supposed to."

The silence that followed settled easily between you, neither awkward nor heavy. The saucepan continued to bubble softly on the stove while somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly down Maple Street.

You pushed yourself away from the counter, slinging your jacket over your shoulders.

"You're not going to ask where I'm going?"

Your father smiled to himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"I thought about it." He admitted.

"And?"

He looked back at you then, amusement warming his expression.

"I figured you'd tell me it was none of my business."

A slow grin spread across your face, "See you later."

"Don't stay out too late," he called after you, though there wasn't much authority behind it anymore.

You glanced back over your shoulder, a teasing smile still lingering on your face.

"No promises."

The downtown mission was cold and smelled of old wood and candle wax. He was waiting for you in the dark, a silhouette against the faint light from the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He didn't speak, he simply took your hand and led you to the low, padded kneeler at the front of the small room. He guided you to kneel, then knelt beside you, not before the altar, but facing you. His hands trembled as he reached for the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric up your thighs.

His repentance began with his mouth between your legs, there on the kneeler, his whispered prayers lost against your skin. Each flick of his tongue was a plea for forgiveness, each deep, worshiping stroke a confession of his weakness. He drank from you like communion, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he sought his own form of absolution in your taste. When your back arched and a stifled moan escaped your lips, he only pressed closer, his own need evident in the desperate sounds vibrating against you.

After, as you trembled, he rose to his feet. He unzipped his dress pants with a soft hiss that was obscenely loud in the quiet. He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm. "Do it," he breathed, his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back toward the vaulted ceiling. "Let me feel you… take your penance from me." Your hand moved on him, slow at first, then faster at his urging, his hips jerking into your fist. His other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of his own ragged, broken gasps as he spilled over your fingers, his release hot and sudden in the dim, holy space.

He sank back onto his heels, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The silence returned, thick and heavy. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, the kind he always carried, and carefully wiped your hand clean. Then he wiped himself, folded the soiled cloth, and tucked it back into his pocket without a word. He stood, straightened his clothes, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at you, still kneeling on the padded bench, your skirt rumpled, and in his eyes was a profound, unsettling peace. The crisis had passed. The sin was complete. He offered you a hand up, his touch now steady.

Sunday night found you in the back pew of the very same church, the evening service sparsely attended. Jake was at the pulpit, his voice clear and strong, speaking about grace and the burden of temptation. He looked every inch the devoted son, his suit crisp, his expression serene. His eyes scanned the congregation and landed on you. There was no flicker of recognition, no secret smile. His gaze passed over you as if you were a stranger. The sermon ended. The final hymn was sung. People filed out, offering him quiet greetings which he returned with gentle nods.

You waited until the last person had left, until the sexton had dimmed the lights and exited, leaving only the eternal flame flickering near the altar. The heavy door clicked shut. Jake remained at the front, his back to you, staring up at the cross. You stood and walked down the center aisle, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space. He didn't turn. You stopped a few feet behind him. For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the building's electricity.

"Tell me you're sorry," you said, your voice soft but echoing slightly in the empty church.

He finally turned. In the dim light, his face was unreadable. He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance. He didn't touch you. He simply looked down at you, his expression a mask of perfect, placid devotion. "I am washed clean," he stated, his voice low and even. Then his hand came up, not to your face, but to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He took your hand and placed it flat against his bare chest, over the frantic, hammering beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot. His eyes never left yours. The lie was a physical thing between you, trembling under your palm.

"I haven't been able to sleep," he rasped, his voice sounding ruined. "Every time I closed my eyes, I felt you. Every time I spoke of purity, I could taste you on my tongue."

He didn't kiss you softly. He claimed your mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entrance as if he were trying to consume you. There was a desperate edge to him now; the seal had been broken, and the floodgates were wide open. He wasn't just a man resisting temptation anymore—he was a man who had tasted the forbidden fruit and found he couldn't survive without it.

His hands were frantic, sliding up your thighs with a familiarity that made your heart race. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, exactly how to touch you to make you arch your back and moan his name into the silence of the church.

"You've ruined me," he groaned against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your neck to the swell of your breast. "I go to the altar and all I can think about is the way you scream when I'm deep inside you. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. And I don't care."

He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as he freed himself from his trousers. He was already rock-hard, pulsing with a need that eclipsed any sense of divine duty. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the table so he could align himself with you.

He looked you in the eyes, his expression a mix of agony and ecstasy. "Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibrate. "Tell me you want me to forget everything but the way you feel."

As you whispered your consent, he drove into you in one fluid, powerful motion, filling you completely. He let out a guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—as he buried himself in you, his forehead crashing against yours. The rhythm was savage, a relentless pounding that shook the heavy table, the sound of your colliding bodies echoing through the hallowed halls.

For Jake, this wasn't just sex; it was a desecration, and every thrust felt like a deeper plunge into a beautiful, shimmering hell. He clung to you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, as he chased the blinding peak that would leave him shattered and ruined once again.

The sound of the mahogany table groaning under the weight of their colliding bodies filled the room, a rhythmic, visceral thud that drowned out the distant chiming of the church bells. Jake was no longer the composed man of God; he was a storm of sweat and desperation, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps that sounded like prayers to a different kind of deity.

He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left crescent marks on your skin, anchoring you as he drove into you with a relentless, punishing force. Every thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. You could feel the sheer size of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building a heat that threatened to consume you both.

"I can't... I can't stop," he groaned, his voice a guttural wreck. He shifted his angle, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder to plunge even deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a piercing, electric pleasure that radiated through your entire body.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. You whispered his name—not as a plea, but as a command—and the sound of it seemed to break the last shred of his restraint.

Jake’s movements became frantic, a blur of motion and heat. He was chasing a release that felt like it would tear him apart. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his voice a low, shaking moan of "Oh God, oh God..."—though now, it wasn't a prayer. It was a surrender.

The tension reached a breaking point. You felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you, tightening your walls around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. The feeling of you gripping him was the final trigger. Jake let out a loud, unrestrained cry—a sound of pure, unadulterated release—as he thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go.

He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he spilled himself inside you in hot, heavy bursts. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. For several long minutes, the only sound in the vestry was the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.

As he slowly pulled away, the cold air hit your skin, but the heat between you remained. Jake didn't move immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes clouded with a mixture of absolute bliss and a crushing, lingering guilt.

He looked down at the wreckage of their clothes, then back at you, a dark, hungry smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, kissing you softly.

"I'm condemned," he whispered, "And I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure we both burn for this."

୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧ this is the longest fic i have ever wrote... so it is kind of proofread... i rlly hope you guys like this because i put so much effort into this and im scared u guys wont!! also im not trying to offend anybody with this fic, its purely for entertainment and entirely fictional!!! + this layout is inspired by katsuiki

[ikeuzito]

SUGARCOATED

(박종성) ✶ fem!reader

synopsis: you're moving into your college apartment when a handsome guy helps you with your heavy boxes on the stairs. He turns out to be Jay, your older neighbor — a lawyer who quickly becomes part of your new life. He listens to you ramble for hours but never offers much about himself, and you tell yourself it's fine, that everyone has boundaries. Being with him feels too right to question, so you let yourself fall anyway, completely lost in him and blind to what's right in front of you until it's too late.

includes: student!reader x lawyer!jay, age gap (not specified), neighbors to lovers (?), lots of domestic fluff mixed with rough sex, slow-burn buildup before the smut, explicit sexual content (mdni), big dick jay, size kink (emphasis on thickness, length, belly bulge, stretching, etc.), cockwarning, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, praise kink, multiple orgasms, spitting in mouth, overstimulation, oral (f. & m. receiving), fingering, riding, missionary, spooning sex, car sex, doggy, spanking (punishment), manhandling, dirty talk, nipple play, soft dom!jay, brief mean dom jay, aftercare, pet names (princess & baby).

wc: 19.2k ─ a/n: ngl i'm so insecure about this... it took me forever to finish because i was running out of creativity and kept giving up, but i finally did it! really hope you guys like it anyways. i'd really appreciate any feedback! happy reading <33

comment here to join the tag list! .𝜗𝜚 ݁˖

You have been waiting for this moment for months, even years. You are finally moving out. It is because of college, but still, it is a new beginning far from home — a brand-new chapter in your own space. A mix of excitement and nervousness settles in your chest, because living alone requires a lot of responsibility, and you are not sure if you are ready to handle it all.

For the past five minutes, you have been staring at the mountain of boxes crammed into the trunk and backseat of your car like a game of Tetris. You are wondering how you are going to carry so many boxes up to the third floor where your apartment is. With a deep breath, you finally grab one of the boxes, and immediately stagger under its weight.

"Maintenance. Sorry for the inconvenience" reads the sign taped to the elevator doors.

Drops of sweat form on your temples, down the back of your neck, and pool on your spine, making your shirt stick to your skin. Of course it would be hot as hell on the day of your move, and of course the elevator wouldn't be working — talk about lucky.

You take another deep breath, hug the box against your chest, and begin climbing the stairs slowly, careful not to lose your balance.

Your arms are trembling and your breathing is almost as heavy as the box by the time you finally reach the first floor, forcing you to set it down for a moment to rest. But just as you pick it up again, mentally preparing for the next flight of stairs, the sound of footsteps coming down from above catches you off guard.

A man is coming down the stairs. He’s tall, wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the prominent veins on his forearms. His jaw is sharp — probably sharper than any knife you’ve ever seen. He looks so put-together that you suddenly feel embarrassed by your sweaty face and disheveled state.

Seeing you, he stops immediately, his eyebrows furrowing with mild concern. "Whoa. Let me help you with that." His voice is low and smooth, the kind of voice that sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it.

You blush, heat rising from your neck to your cheeks. "Oh, you don’t have to. I can manage—"

"I insist," he replies gently, waiting with his hands hovering, giving you the choice. You let him take the box, and the relief is immediate — your arms practically sing in gratitude. He lifts it as if it weighs nothing, cradling it against his chest with just one arm — the same box you were struggling to carry with both. "I’m Jay, by the way."

You quickly wipe the sweat from your forehead and try to fix your hair because you want to look at least a little presentable for the incredibly good-looking man helping you. "Thank you so much. I’m y/n. I’m moving in today, to apartment 3B."

Jay’s expression softens, and a warm smile spreads across his face. "3B? That’s interesting. I live right next door, in 3A." He nods toward the stairs. "Looks like we’re neighbors." He gestures ahead. "After you."

You both climb the remaining stairs together and your heart still pounding. You can’t tell if it’s from the physical effort earlier or from his company. Because of the nerves, the words start tumbling out before you can stop them.

"I’m starting college this week. I got accepted and everything, and I was so excited when I found this apartment. It’s the first time I’ve ever lived away from home, so I’m really thrilled… but also kind of terrified? Like, what if I get lost on campus? What if my classes are way harder than I expected? I brought way too much stuff, I’m kind of attached to my things, you know?" You let out a breathless laugh. "Sorry, I’m probably talking too much. I get really chatty when I’m nervous."

Jay glances at you as you walk, the box still balanced effortlessly in his arms. He doesn’t look annoyed — in fact, he seems amused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You’re not talking too much. It’s a big change, but you’re doing great."

You bite your lower lip, watching him as you climb. There is something intriguing about him that sparks your curiosity. "And you? Are you a student too, or…?"

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "No, I’ve already graduated. I work at a company downtown." He says it casually, offering no further details — which only makes you even more curious.

You reach the landing of the second floor and have to stop to catch your breath, while Jay doesn’t even seem slightly winded — it’s honestly impressive. "My parents helped me pack my bags, but they’re hours away now. It’s exciting, though. New city, new people. I just hope I don’t ruin everything."

"You won’t," Jay says gently. "Everyone feels like that at the beginning. The nervousness is normal. Besides, you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. You’ll find your rhythm." He sets the box down carefully in front of your door. "Ready for another round?"

The words hit you like a spark. "Ready for another round." And before you can help it, your mind immediately drifts, imagining Jay on top of you, his strong body pressing you into the mattress, that same low voice murmuring the question against your neck while his hands pinned your wrists above your head. Heat flooded your face and settled lower in your belly.

You quickly shake your head, trying to push the thought away, desperately hoping your blush isn't too obvious. "Yes, let's do it."

He carries the rest of the boxes for you, going up and down the stairs multiple times. Meanwhile, you keep rambling nonstop about what you are studying, where you are from, and how you are feeling about this new phase of your life. He listens as if he genuinely cares, and even though you can’t quite place the age difference between you two, you feel surprisingly comfortable with him.

When the last box finally makes it through the door, you stand in the hallway with a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, Jay. Honestly. I don’t know what I would have done without you."

"Glad I could help. Moving is a big step. If you need anything else, I’m right next door." With that, he returns to his own apartment, leaving you surrounded by a sea of boxes that will clearly take hours to unpack.

A few days pass. You unpack — not everything, just the most important things. Your first classes are overwhelming. You get lost twice, accidentally walk into the wrong lecture hall, and sit through an entire lecture on quantum physics before realizing your mistake. But as embarrassing as it was, that mistake ended up leading you to a guy named Jake, who turned out to be incredibly nice and cute.

Now you are standing outside Jay’s door with a plate of cupcakes in your hands, ready to properly thank him for helping you with the move. The thing is, you can’t really bake; you tried making the cupcakes yourself but ended up burning the batch, so you had to go to the bakery on the corner to buy a box of them instead. They look a bit too professional, but since he doesn't know about your complete lack of kitchen skills, you're confident he won't suspect a thing — especially since you took them out of the box and arranged them nicely on a plate just to be extra safe.

You knock on his door, your heart pounding hard in your chest. He opens it a moment later, and his face lights up when he sees you. "Hey, neighbor," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "How are classes going?"

"Good," you reply, pushing the plate forward with a little too much force. "Great, actually. I only got lost twice today, which is an improvement." Your smile widens. "I brought these for you. For helping me with the move. I made them myself."

He looks at the cupcakes, then back at you, this time raising an eyebrow. "You made these?"

"Yes," you say, nodding firmly with your chin held high, trying to look confident. "From scratch. All by myself. I’m pretty good at baking."

He picks up one of the cupcakes and examines it, narrowing his eyes as he brings it closer to his face. You feel your determination starting to crumble.

"Really?" he asks with a smile, clearly testing how long you will keep up the lie. "From scratch?"

You hold his gaze for three whole seconds before you look away in embarrassment. Your shoulders drop and your face turns as red as a tomato. "Okay, fine. I bought them at the bakery on the corner. I took them out of the box so you would think I’m a functional adult who knows how to bake." You laugh at yourself. "I tried making them the other day, Jay. I set off the smoke alarm. I’m a danger to this entire building."

He throws his head back and laughs — not mocking you, but with a genuine, warm laugh that makes you feel less embarrassed about pretending you had baked the cupcakes. "Oh my God, you actually burned them?"

"I once burned noodles. I’m a total disaster in the kitchen."

He steps aside, still smiling, and gestures for you to come in. "Alright, come in. I’ll split one of these ‘homemade’ cupcakes with you. It’s the least I can do for someone who put so much effort into the task."

Your mom’s voice whispers in the back of your mind: "Don’t talk to strangers and definitely don’t go into their apartments, sweetheart." But is he really a stranger? He is your neighbor who carried all your boxes without complaining, and the way he stands there holding the plate of cupcakes with that smile makes you not hesitate at all.

You follow him inside. He leads you to the kitchen, grabs two small plates, and carefully unwraps a vanilla cupcake, splitting it in half before sliding one piece toward you.

"Have a seat," he says, pointing to the stool by the kitchen island.

"So, you mentioned you work downtown? What exactly do you do?" you ask as you sit down.

"I’m a lawyer," he replies, taking a bite of his half and nodding in approval. "Good choice of bakery, by the way."

You laugh, biting into yours. "A lawyer. That makes a lot of sense. You have this… I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird, but you have this organized vibe. Like you’re really good at arguing without even raising your voice."

His smile widens. "People have definitely told me that before that I have a ‘courtroom voice.’ It’s just my normal voice, only lower and slower. People tend to listen when you don’t yell."

"You’ll have to show me someday. If I ever get in legal trouble, I’ll know exactly who to call."

"Please don’t get in legal trouble. But if you do, I’m your guy."

The conversation flows just as easily as it did on moving day, and before you know it, you’re venting about your annoying professor, how massive the campus is, and all the times you’ve already managed to get lost. Between all the talking, the cupcakes completely disappear, leaving the coffee he made to sit cold and barely touched in your mug. There’s just something about him that instantly puts you at ease.

Despite the age gap, he never talks down to you or makes you feel small, which makes talking to him completely effortless. It’s just so comforting to have someone around who listens to you with that much care and attention — especially when he happens to be incredibly good-looking, leaving you totally hooked since the very first day.

As he walks you to the door when you finally get up to leave, he snatches a pen and a post-it note to scribble something down. Before you know it, he’s pressing the paper into your palm, his fingers brushing lightly against yours and sending a sudden warmth to your cheeks as he says, "Here’s my number, in case you ever need anything."

"Thank you," you say, smiling a little too wide.

He nods. "Anytime. Seriously. Don’t be a stranger."

────────

The grocery bags dig painfully into your fingers as you stand in the lobby, staring at the elevator doors that are still under maintenance. You look at them as if a miracle might happen — maybe if you stare for one more second, God will take pity and finally fix it. Nothing happens, of course, which makes you let out a long sigh of frustration. It has been days since you moved in and the elevator is still not working.

Your arms already hurt from carrying way too many bags. You definitely should have made two trips, but stubbornness won.

Reaching the second floor is pure torture; your arms are burning, those plastic handles are digging right into your palms, and the bags keep swinging awkwardly against your legs. Trying to stop and adjust your grip only makes things worse, to the point where you're seriously considering just sitting right there on the stairs and crying.

You finally collapse against the wall at the third-floor landing, letting the bags slide to the floor just to catch your breath. Right then, the door to 3A clicks open and Jay steps out — perfectly dressed for work with that annoyingly handsome lawyer look that instantly makes your stomach do a little flip.

He sees you immediately. For a second, his eyes take in the whole scene — your flushed face, the many overloaded bags, and the way you are leaning against the wall breathing heavily. A light, amused laugh escapes him. It is not mocking, just genuinely entertained, as if he expected nothing less from you.

"Carrying heavy stuff again?" he asks, walking toward you. "You really don’t learn, do you?"

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he is already reaching for the bags, picking them all up at once as if they weigh absolutely nothing. His strong arms support the weight so effortlessly that his biceps press against the fabric of his dress shirt, making it completely impossible for you not to stare.

He turns and walks toward your door, carrying everything like it is nothing.

At your doorstep, Jay sets all the bags down carefully against the wall and turns to face you. His expression is calm, almost unreadable, but there is something more in it. You understand it the moment he starts speaking in a gently scolding tone. "You really shouldn’t carry so much at once," he says, crossing his arms. "It’s not safe and it’s clearly too heavy for you. Make two or three trips next time. Look at your hands, they’re all red. You were hurting yourself. Why? Because you’re way too stubborn, huh?"

You glance down at your palms, and they are red where the plastic handles dug in. "I was fine," you say, though even you do not believe it. "I almost made it."

"Don’t be stubborn."

"You sound exactly like my dad," you reply, crossing your arms to mimic him. "He’s always telling me I’m too stubborn for my own good."

Jay’s lips curve into a small smile. "Because you really are," he says with so much certainty that you cannot even argue back. "I’m serious. Next time, make multiple trips or just text me. I’d rather help than watch you struggle like that."

There is a protective tone in his voice that makes your cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and something else stirring low in your stomach. He is lecturing you like a child, but somehow it sounds kind of hot coming from him.

Then he glances at the grocery bags again. Now that the scolding is over, he seems to actually pay attention to what is inside them. He picks one up and looks inside — it is full of frozen meals, instant noodles, ultra-processed food, and canned goods. "Look, I know you’re in college now, but that doesn’t mean you have to live on processed food. It’s quick, sure, but you need real fresh stuff, not just things that come out of a can. Eating like this long-term isn’t good for you. You could get sick."

You blink, caught off guard by the extra lecture. He is fully in dad-mode now, and there is something strangely attractive about how seriously he takes it, like he is genuinely worried about you. "Okay, okay. I get it… I already told you I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so I just grabbed whatever is easiest so I don’t starve."

Jay’s expression softens a little. "I’m not trying to scold you. I just know how easy it is to fall into bad habits when you’re living on your own for the first time." He pauses and adds in a gentler voice, "If you ever need help in the kitchen, you know where to find me. I’m not exactly a chef, but I know how to make real meals."

Your mind wanders again because you can’t help it — you picture him in your kitchen, standing right behind you while teaching you how to cook, his hands guiding yours, the warmth of his body against your back…

"I’ll try to do better, I swear. Thanks for helping again. I think I owe you something now. How about brownies as a thank you this time?"

Jay shakes his head, chuckling softly. "You don’t owe me anything. Just be more careful next time." He glances at the heavy bags one more time. "Need help carrying these inside?"

You shake your head quickly. "I can handle it from here. I bet you’re busy, you look like you’re heading to work."

He checks the watch on his wrist. "Yeah, I have a meeting soon, but the offer stands anytime." Before turning to leave, he gives you one last firm look. "Take care of yourself."

After he leaves, you drag the bags inside, one half first and then the other, just like Jay suggested.

That night, you are sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you open your contacts. You saved Jay’s number, of course, but you have been telling yourself you don’t need to text him. It is an emergency-only number, but then you think about him carrying your groceries, the effortless way he took them from you, and the gentle scolding in his voice. Before you can overthink it, you are already typing a message to him.

────────

It is already past midnight and you have been staring at the same page of your textbook long enough for your vision to blur. Your brain has officially given up — it is impossible to absorb a single word more after hours of studying.

You are about to slam the book shut to take out your stress on it and drag yourself to bed when a soft knock sounds at the door. Your heart jumps slightly because you were not expecting anyone, especially not at this hour.

Another knock.

You get up slowly, stretching your sore muscles, and walk to the door. When you open it, Jay is standing there, looking different tonight without his formal work clothes and lawyer posture. He is wearing a simple white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and is barefoot. He looks relaxed, holding a bottle of red wine — as if he made the sudden decision to knock on your door and came straight over without even putting shoes on.

"Hey," he says, his low voice making your stomach flip. His eyes scan over you, taking in your tired face, messy hair, and pajamas. Something in his expression softens.

"Hey," you reply softly, matching his tone.

"Hey," he repeats, then laughs when he realizes what he just did.

"Hey," you answer again, this time with a small smile. "You already said that."

"I know." He laughs again, shaking his head. "I just… it’s late."

"Very late."

"I know." He lifts the bottle slightly. "I bought this earlier today but… it’s no fun drinking alone."

You look at the wine, then back at him. The way he is standing there — messy hair, ridiculously handsome, and a little too soft — makes going back to bed suddenly seem like a very stupid choice. "Are you inviting me to drink with you?"

"I’m asking if you want to take a break. From everything."

The way he looks at you with those inviting eyes makes the decision easy, but you decide to tease him first. "I don’t usually drink with strangers."

"We’re not strangers," he says, his voice soft. Your teasing does not seem to faze him.

"We’re not exactly friends either," you reply, tilting your head and studying his reaction.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a small, almost lazy smile. "Then let’s change that."

You pretend to consider it for a moment, even though you were already fully committed the second you saw him at your door. "Mmm, okay. But let’s do it at your apartment. Mine is a mess."

His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Alright, whatever you want."

You grab your keys and follow him, also barefoot, to the door next to yours. His apartment is clean and organized as always, which makes the space feel strangely comforting. In the kitchen, he pours two glasses of wine and hands you one, his fingers brushing against yours for half a second and sending a spark through your body.

"Cheers," he says, raising his glass.

"Cheers," you repeat, gently clinking your glass against his.

You take a sip and let out a small, involuntary hum of appreciation — it is much better than you expected, probably the most expensive wine you have ever tasted. He gestures toward the living room. "Come on, let’s sit," he says, leading the way to the couch. You follow and settle onto his couch, trying to look more relaxed than you actually feel.

"This is nice," you say, taking another sip.

He sits on the other end of the couch — close enough to talk comfortably, but far enough to be polite. "It’s just wine." He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his glass.

"I mean relaxing… not thinking about classes for the first time."

He nods, understanding. "You think about classes a lot."

"It’s pretty much my entire life right now," you admit with an awkward little laugh, taking another sip.

"I remember going through that too. Everything revolving around exams, assignments, and exhausting responsibilities."

You tilt your head, studying him. "You make it sound like ancient history."

"Sometimes it feels like it." He takes a sip, not breaking eye contact. "I still remember when I was in college. I used to think a bad grade would ruin everything." A dry laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. "There’s so much pressure."

Suddenly you find yourself wanting to know more about him, drawn by the experienced tone in his voice and posture. The wine is already loosening your tongue, so you ask. "How old are you, anyway?"

A small, playful smile appears on his lips. "I’m old enough."

You narrow your eyes, trying to hold back a smile. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting." He takes another sip.

"That’s annoying," you say, leaning forward slightly and resting your elbows on your knees.

"Maybe I am annoying." He shrugs, but there is a sparkle in his eyes that tells you he is enjoying this.

"You’re avoiding the question," you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

"I’m protecting my privacy."

"From what? Your neighbor?" You laugh, raising an eyebrow.

"Especially from my neighbor."

You pout, pretending to be hurt. "Fine. Keep your secrets."

"Everyone has secrets," he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone.

"I don’t." You are not even sure why you say it. Maybe it is the wine, or the way he is looking at you right now.

"Everyone does." He holds his ground. "You have secrets too."

Your pulse quickens. "I don’t."

"Yes, you do."

You swallow hard. The air between you feels thicker now, charged with something you can’t quite name. You shift slightly on the sofa and notice how easy it would be to reach out and touch him. "So you have a lot of secrets, huh?" you ask, curious.

"Yes. Quite a few."

"Like what?" you press, wanting to see what he will give you.

"If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore." His lips curve into a slow, almost predatory smile.

"Touché." You raise your glass in an ironic toast, making him laugh.

A comfortable but heavy silence settles between you for a moment, thick with tension as you exchange glances and take slow sips. The wine is definitely doing its job — making your words come out slower, your laughter easier, and your body warmer.

"How old are you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You blink, caught off guard. "Me?"

"Yes, you." He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You asked me, so I’m asking you back."

You smile, deciding to play his game. "I’m old enough."

A low, surprised laugh escapes him — rich and genuine. "That’s my line."

"I know." You take another sip to hide your smile.

"You stole my line."

You just shrug. "I borrowed it."

"That’s not how borrowing works."

"Yes, it is."

He laughs again. "You’re impossible."

"Am I? What else?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging him.

"You’re something," he says, his voice dropping again.

"What?" You are not sure what he means by that.

"I don’t know yet." He keeps his eyes fixed on you. "But I’m figuring it out."

You feel your cheeks heat up and take another sip of wine to try to hide your reaction. Jay, however, keeps watching you, and you can tell he noticed.

"You know what I’ve noticed?" By now your voice is a little slurred, so you have to be careful with the words that come out of your mouth.

"What?" His wine glass is almost empty. He sets it on the coffee table and turns all of his attention to you.

You lean back on the couch, turning to face him more directly. Your knee brushes against his thigh, but neither of you pulls away. "You don’t talk much about yourself."

He tilts his head, frowning slightly. "Don’t I?"

"No. You listen, but you don’t share. Like, you’re dodging right now. You give answers, but you don’t really answer."

"Well, I’m trying to protect myself," he says simply.

"Protect yourself from what?" You lean forward, genuinely curious now.

"From getting too attached." The words are honest, and you definitely were not expecting them.

You stare at him, your hand frozen halfway to taking another sip. "From what?"

"To you." His voice is almost a whisper, making your pulse race and your skin flush.

"Why would you get too attached to me?"

He stays silent for a moment, his eyes tracing over you as if he wants to memorize every detail. "Because it’s easy to get attached to you."

"No, it's not," you say, shaking your head as a small, incredulous laugh escapes you.

"It is." His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "You just don’t see it."

You look away, feeling your entire body grow warmer. "You’re dodging again."

"I’m being honest." He leans forward slightly, and you can smell him now — a masculine scent mixed with the light sweetness of the wine.

You set your glass on the coffee table and turn to face him completely, the wine making you bolder. "You’re giving me half-answers. You’re telling me just enough to make me curious, but not enough."

He stays quiet for a moment, thinking. "What do you want to know?"

You hold his gaze. "Something real. Truly honest."

Silence stretches between you, thick with something heavy and suffocating that you can't quite name. Then he whispers, "I think you’re beautiful."

Your breath catches, and for a second you are not sure you heard him correctly. "That’s not—" you begin, but he interrupts you.

"It’s honest."

"You can’t just say that," your voice barely comes out as a whisper.

"I just did." His gaze doesn’t leave yours for even half a second.

"It’s too… direct."

"You asked for it." He says it simply, like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re a tease," you say, not sure if you are complaining or not.

"Wait until you find out what else I am. You want to know me? Then make sure you’re ready."

You do not know what to say or what to do, so you look away, your face burning.

When he finally walks you to your door, you are a little unsteady on your feet. He steadies you with a gentle hand on your waist, and the touch is enough to send shivers through your body. "I’m fine," you murmur, even though you are swaying slightly.

"You’re drunk," he says, smiling at your messy state.

"I’m a little tipsy," you reply, giving him a blurry-eyed look.

"You’re drunk."

"It’s the same thing," you mutter dismissively.

"No, it’s not." He is looking at you with that warm, steady gaze that makes your knees feel weak.

You smile, light and tipsy. "Yes, it is."

At your door, you miss the lock twice. He laughs softly before helping you. "Thank you," you whisper. "For this, for the wine, the company, and everything."

His lips curve into a small, warm smile. "Good night, old enough.:

You smile again — you seem to always be smiling when he is around. "Good night, old man."

You step inside, close the door, and lean against it with your heart racing and your whole body warm from the wine and his words — still smiling like an idiot.

A few minutes later, you are curled up in bed when your phone buzz on the nightstand.

────────

You have been tossing and turning on the mattress for what feels like hours — shifting positions, turning to the other side, but nothing helps. You can’t fall asleep — you mind refuses to stop, racing with thoughts about exams, deadlines, and the weight of all your responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. You need air, you need to feel like you are not suffocating in that apartment, surrounded by boxes you haven't even had the time to unpack yet. There are several unfinished notes on your desk that constantly remind you that you are not doing enough, no matter how hard you try.

So you go up to the rooftop. The cool night air hits your face and lets you breathe again.

The city is an endless sea of lights — countless tiny glowing points in the darkness that remind you how small you really are. You sit on the old bench near the edge of the roof, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them like a shield.

Your thoughts slowly begin to calm as the minutes pass, and the knot in your chest loosens just a little.

Then the door creaks open behind you.

You turn quickly, your body instantly on alert and your heart racing. And there he is — Jay. He is wearing sweatpants and a black shirt, something about this casual, almost domestic look makes your heart skip a beat. He sees you immediately and stops. Surprise flashes across his face for a second before it turns into that familiar half-smile.

"Can’t sleep either?" His voice is low, almost intimate in a way that makes you shiver.

You shake your head. "I have too much on my mind right now…"

He nods as if he completely understands — and he really does. Walking toward you, he stops at a respectful distance before sitting on the bench beside you — close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, but not so close that he invades your personal space. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." You shift over a little even though there is already enough space.

He leans back, looking up at the sky, which is beautiful tonight with a full moon and stars shining brightly. The silence stretches between you. He doesn’t force conversation; he simply sits there observing the sky and the city with you. The silence is not awkward — it is actually comforting, especially when you are with him.

"I can’t sleep," you admit, breaking the silence with words that slip out before you can stop them. "I try, but my brain just won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking about all the things I have to do, all the things I haven’t done, and all the ways I’m probably going to mess everything up."

"What’s on your mind?" His voice is gentle and patient as always, showing that he is ready to listen.

"Everything." You let out a shaky sigh. "College, exams, being away from my family for the first time… It’s a lot. I thought I was ready, that I could handle it. But sometimes it feels like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim. Literally."

"I know how that feels," he says after a long moment of silence. His eyes stay fixed on yours, and there is something raw in them — something honest. "I remember feeling exactly like that. Like everything was too much and I was too small to handle it."

"You’re talking about yourself. That’s new," you say softly. "You always ask about me, but you never—"

"You already have enough on your plate," he cuts in gently.

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"You’re stressed about college, adjusting to a new city, and far from your family," he keeps his gaze steady on you, his expression sincere. "You don’t need to hear about my problems too."

"That’s not how it works." You shake your head as something warm and confusing blooms in your chest. "We’re supposed to share things. That’s what—" You pause, searching for the right word. "That’s what friends do."

"I don’t want to burden you when you’re already dealing with so much, and I certainly don’t want to make it worse."

You stay quiet for a moment, his words stirring something you cannot quite name — but it feels good. "That’s really… kind," you finally say.

"I try." He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

The silence settles again, and you sit together quietly for a while longer. Then, out of nowhere, he tilts his head and asks, "How’s your succulent doing?"

You laugh at the unexpected question. "You’re asking about my plant?"

"I remember you mentioned it." He turns toward you — fully turning his body — with a small playful smile on his lips. "I bet you gave it a name."

You shake your head, still smiling. "I haven’t named it yet… but it’s still alive, which is honestly impressive."

"You’re supposed to water it," he says in a gently scolding tone.

"I know." You look away, feeling a little guilty about slowly killing a plant.

"But you forget." There is no judgment in his voice, only warm amusement.

"I forget." You laugh — something you always do when you are with him. "I have a lot on my mind, okay?"

"You’re a plant killer." He smiles, making you grin even wider.

"I’m not a plant killer! I’m just… forgetful. It is surviving, which is more than I can say about myself sometimes."

Something in your words changes his expression. It is still gentle, but now there is a hint of concern. "You’re doing better than you think."

You don’t know what to say, so you just look at him, with the words stuck in your throat.

"Does the succulent at least have company?" he asks after a moment, his voice light as always.

You blink, confused by the sudden question. "What?"

"Other plants, maybe some flowers, something to keep it company. Plants get lonely too."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think it gets lonely. It’s just a plant, after all."

"All living things have feelings. It definitely feels lonely," he says with so much conviction that you almost believe him.

"That’s not scientifically accurate," you reply, not entirely sure if what you are saying is accurate either.

"I never said it was." He shrugs. "I’m a lawyer. I deal with arguments, not facts."

"They’re the same thing."

"Not at all." He shifts closer to you on the bench, making sure you are listening. "Facts are objective. Arguments are subjective. I make a living turning subjective arguments into something that sounds like objective facts."

"That’s… something. And you’re so weird."

"I’m just concerned about your plant’s loneliness." His voice is incredibly serious, showing that he is taking this very seriously.

"You’re worried about my plant," you say, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, just like I worry about you."

You don’t know what to say again — Jay has a way of leaving you speechless. Your cheeks flush and you look away. "I’ve never received flowers before, anyway…" you say softly, the secret slipping from your lips.

Jay is not sure he heard you correctly. "What did you say?"

Even though you hesitate, you repeat it, louder this time. "I’ve never received flowers." You look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. "I had a boyfriend before, but he was an idiot. He never did anything romantic like giving me flowers or taking me for dates."

He stays silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on you while your heart pounds loudly in your ears. He is thinking about something — you can tell by the way his jaw tightens. "Would you want to go on one? With me."

You stop breathing the moment you hear his words and everything around you seems to freeze. "What?"

"A date. A real date where I pick you up, open doors for you, and take you somewhere nice. It doesn’t have to be romantic if you don’t want it to be. It can just be two people spending time together. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

Your heart is beating so hard you are sure he can hear it, your mouth is dry, your palms are sweaty, and the words feel stuck in your throat again. Jay is asking you out on a date — a real date. The age gap has been on your mind since the day you met — he is a lawyer and you are still trying to figure out how to live on your own, but every interaction with him feels safe, like he truly sees you.

"Jay, I—" You stop, taking a shaky breath.

"You don’t have to answer right now," he says gently, giving you time to think.

"No, I—" You take another deep breath, and this time the words come out steady. "Yes. Yes, I want that."

His face transforms — a slow, warm smile spreads across his lips and reaches his eyes, making your stomach flip and your heart race just like always.

"Great," he says softly. "I’ll plan something."

A shy laugh escapes you as the reality of it sinks in. "What do you like to do on dates? I’m sure you’ve been on plenty."

He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on his knee. "I want to know what you like. That’s what matters right now, tell me your preferences so I can plan something good for you."

As you think for a moment, you suddenly feel embarrassed by how limited your preferences are. "I’m kind of picky, honestly. I like pasta, I hate anything too spicy, and I don’t like overly sweet desserts. Oh, and I’m not a big fan of seafood unless it’s fried. Is that too much?"

Jay listens attentively, nodding as if he is absorbing every detail. "Not at all. Being picky isn’t a problem, it actually makes it easier to get it right." He pauses, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. "You know, for someone who’s a disaster in the kitchen, you have very specific opinions, princess."

The nickname lands softly between you — affectionate and teasing, with a hint of warmth. Your breath catches, your face flushes instantly, and you lower your head to hide the redness in your cheeks and the smile forming on your lips.

"I… You can’t just say that," you murmur, looking at him through your lashes.

"Why not?" He is smiling even more now, clearly enjoying your reaction. "It suits you. You have high standards and you know exactly what you want, even if you pretend you don’t."

You cover your face with both hands for a second, peeking through your fingers. "You’re going to make me regret saying yes."

"Too late," he murmurs, his voice low and affectionate. "You already said yes."

You lower your hands and meet his gaze, your heart racing in the best possible way. Jay stands up suddenly and offers you his hand. "Come on, it’s getting late and you have class tomorrow. Let’s get you back inside before you freeze."

You take his hand — which is so much bigger than yours — and let him help you up. He doesn’t let go afterward, his fingers stay intertwined with yours as you walk together toward your floor. The elevator is no longer broken, but you both take the stairs anyway, wanting to prolong the moment a little longer.

Stopping at your door, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his free hand. “I'll text you about the date,” he says softly. "We’ll pick a night that works."

You nod, still feeling a little shy about everything. "Okay… Good night, Jay."

"Good night, princess."

────────

The next day, you are more nervous than you have ever been. Every notification on your phone makes your heart skip a beat, terrified that it is Jay confirming the date. Your stomach is in knots with a mix of panic and hope, even though you want to go on this date, you are still incredibly nervous about it.

Your phone buzzes while you are in the library trying to study. "Friday at seven? I’ll take care of everything. Just be ready for a proper night out."

The words "proper night out" send a shiver through you. He is taking this seriously, treating it as something special, even though he said it didn’t have to be romantic. Still, it means something. Smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt, you text back agreeing.

When Friday finally arrives, the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. In fact, they become even more restless as the time of the date gets closer. Hours before, you start getting ready — taking your time as you choose an outfit that makes you feel confident and beautiful. You spend extra time on your makeup, keeping it natural but enhancing your eyes and lips, making sure everything is perfect.

Exactly at seven, you take the elevator down. Jay had insisted on waiting outside the building instead of knocking on your door. "I want you to have the full experience," he had texted earlier, and the gesture made you smile despite your nerves. The moment you step out onto the sidewalk, you see him leaning against his sleek black car parked at the curb. He looks unfairly handsome in a tailored dark shirt and pants.

For a moment, he simply looks at you — slowly scanning from your face to your dress and back up again as his smile widens. "You look beautiful," he says, taking a step closer. "Really, truly beautiful."

Your cheeks flush quickly and a smile forms on your lips. "Thank you. You look really handsome too."

Before you can say anything else, he reaches inside the car and pulls out a beautiful bouquet of flowers. "I remembered what you said on the rooftop…"

The bouquet is perfect, wrapped so beautifully that it makes your chest tighten. "Jay…" you whisper as you reach out to take the flowers. "They’re beautiful. I don’t even know what to say."

Without thinking, you give him a grateful hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, one hand resting on your lower back while the other gently caresses the nape of your neck. "You don’t have to say anything. Just enjoy tonight. That’s all I want."

When you pull away, still smiling widely, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and asks, "Ready to go, princess?"

You nod, holding the flowers like a lifeline. He opens the car door for you, waiting until you are settled before closing it gently. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he looks at you with a playful smile. "Seatbelt, please. Safety first."

You laugh and buckle up. "Such a gentleman."

"Only for you."

The drive starts peacefully, soft music playing in the background as you talk. He asks about your day and teases you lightly when you admit that you spent half of your class daydreaming about tonight and that it took you forever to choose what to wear.

You can’t stop stealing glances at him — the way his hands rest easily on the steering wheel, those large hands with long fingers, and the way he looks at you at red lights as if making sure you are still real.

After a few minutes, you notice the city lights fading and buildings giving way to trees. "Where are we going?" you ask curiously, realizing he has been driving for a while — much farther than you expected. "This is pretty far from our building. Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?"

Jay laughs, keeping his eyes on the road. "I’m not going to kill you. I’m just taking you to a place I love, and I think you’ll love it too."

The drive takes about thirty minutes, but when you finally arrive, the restaurant leaves you breathless. You immediately understand why he chose it — it is cozy and elegant, with a stunning view of the city. He reserved a intimate corner table with the perfect view.

He pulls out the chair for you, and as soon as you sit down, he leans in slightly to whisper in your ear, "Relax, okay?"

The dinner unfolds perfectly. You order pasta — creamy, exactly the way you like it — and he chooses a steak dish, offering you a bite from his fork with a raised eyebrow that feels far more intimate than it should. You talk a lot, and he listens as always, head tilted and eyes focused only on you.

You tell him about the friendships you are making in college, about the strange noise your AC is making, and absentmindedly mention the doorman. "He’s nice, I think… but sometimes he looks at me like he knows something I don’t."

Jay’s expression shifts with something unreadable for half a second, but he quickly covers it with a soft chuckle. "He’s probably just in a bad mood. Or maybe he sees how much you’re distracting your poor neighbor."

You laugh. "Poor neighbor? You seem to be handling it pretty well."

His foot brushes against yours under the table. "Barely."

In the middle of the conversation, Jay’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, frowns, and silences it, slipping it into his pocket.

But a few minutes later, it buzzed again. Jay sighs. "I need to take this. It’s probably an emergency with a client. I won’t be long. I’m really sorry."

"Go ahead. I’ll be here judging the dessert menu."

He leans in and gives you a quick kiss on your temple before standing up. "I’ll be right back, princess."

The casual display of affection makes your heart race as you watch him walk away. While he is gone, you take a sip of your wine, observe the people around you, and study the dessert menu.

He returns after about five minutes, sliding back into his seat with an apologetic smile. "All sorted. Where were we?"

When the check arrives, Jay pays without hesitation, even though you offered to split it. Outside, the night air is cold, so he drapes his jacket over your shoulders when he notices you shivering. Then he pulls you closer for a moment, wrapping his arms around you. "Thank you for saying yes," he murmurs against your hair.

You look up at him, smiling. "That was the best decision I’ve made in a long time."

The drive back feels shorter than the trip there, unfortunately — you wish this moment could last forever. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. You arrive at the building sooner than you would like, but instead of stopping at the curb, Jay drives into the underground garage.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you, Jay. For everything, the flowers, the dinner, the evening… I had a really great time."

He turns to you, that slow smile playing on his lips. "I’m glad, princess."

You reach for the door handle, but his hand moves quickly, wrapping around your wrist and stopping you. Your breath catches at the unexpected contact. "Wait, aren’t you going to thank me properly?"

You blink, confused. "I just did? The hug outside the restaurant and just now."

Jay chuckles, and his gaze shifts into something hungrier. "That was sweet, but I was thinking of something a little more fitting for the end of a perfect night."

Without overthinking it, you lean across the console and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," you whisper again, pulling back to see his reaction.

His smile widens. "Still not enough, princess. Come here."

He cups the back of your neck and pulls you closer. The kiss starts soft, his lips meeting yours hesitantly, and you quickly melt into it, which makes him deepen the kiss while still keeping a slow, deliberate pace. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you part for him with a small sigh.

What begins as one kiss turns into many, you lose count as they grow more intense, hungry, and urgent.

Somehow, you end up climbing over the console. His hands guide your hips until you are straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. The space is tight and the steering wheel presses against your back, but you couldn't care less right now. His hands roam along your sides, sliding up your dress until they rest on your thighs, his thumbs drawing circles that make you whimper against his mouth.

You kiss him again and again, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging gently, which draws a low groan from him. That only encourages you — hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you. The friction makes you gasp, and Jay clearly loves the sight — he squeezes your thighs, encouraging your movements.

"God, you’re incredible," he whispers against your mouth between kisses. "So responsive… so perfect."

Jay pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, breathing hard. "You deserve better than this, princess. Our first time shouldn’t be in a car like a couple of impatient teenagers."

You kiss him again, more intensely, nipping at his lower lip. "I don’t care, I want you right here."

He groans, sliding his hand into your hair to pull you into another hungry kiss. "You’re so eager, princess… and so perfect grinding against me like this."

His mouth moves down to your neck, sucking lightly and drawing more whimpers from you. Your movements become restless, rubbing harder, chasing friction. "Jay…" you whisper between kisses. "I need you, please."

His hands find the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it up inch by inch with clear appreciation until he discards it onto the passenger seat. "Beautiful," he murmurs reverently as he stares at your tits. "So beautiful." He leans down, pressing hot, wet kisses along the soft skin, then his tongue circles one nipple before sucking it deeply into his mouth.

You arch your back, a moan escaping your lips. He gives the same attention to the other tit, licking, sucking, and grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth while his hand massages and caresses the first. “You taste so good,” he praises, his voice muffled. "These perfect tits in my mouth… you’re already trembling. So sensitive for me."

He kisses lower, along your sternum and ribs, then back up — worshipping every inch of you while you keep grinding against him. Your panties are soaked, and the friction against his hardness only turns you on more.

He waits until you’re trembling in his lap before he finally moves. Reaching between you, he lowers his pants and boxers just enough to free himself, and when he does, your eyes widen. He is big — thick and hard. The sight makes your mouth water and heat pool low in your belly.

Jay reaches into the glove compartment, fumbling for a condom. He tears it open and rolls it down his length with surprising skill while you watch, hypnotized and a little intimidated by his size and thickness. "You’re… really big," you say softly.

Jay notices your nervousness and caresses your cheek, trying to soothe you. "We’ll go slow, princess. I’ve got you. My good girl can take it."

He helps you shift your panties to the side, guiding you as you sink down onto him. The stretch is intense but delicious — you take him inch by inch, breathing deeply as he fills you completely, murmuring praises nonstop. "That’s it, princess… so tight, so good for me… so fucking perfect around me."

You bury your face in his neck as you sink all the way down, taking him completely until your ass is pressed firmly against his lap. "Oh God… you’re so, so big," you moan, still adjusting to the intense stretch.

The age difference flashes through your mind — he is older, more experienced, probably used to women who knew exactly what they were doing. You want to be good for him, so once you feel ready, you start moving — bouncing with almost frantic energy, desperate to please him. Your hips move and grind fast, determined.

"Easy, princess," Jay groans, gripping your hips to slow you down. "Slow… just like that. You feel incredible, but there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere."

You moan, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "I just… you’ve probably been with so many others who were better at this. I want to make it good for you. I want to be the best—"

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, then pulls back to look into your eyes while still guiding your movements into a slower, deeper rhythm. "Hey, none of that. It’s just you right now, and you’re already the best, baby. Look at how perfectly you take me." He thrusts up gently to emphasize his words, drawing a moan from you. "You’re my princess."

You relax into his words and the rhythm he sets, moving your hips in deep, grinding motions instead of frantic bouncing. It feels even better this way — his thickness brushing against every sensitive spot inside you. "Like this?" you ask breathlessly, your voice shy but needy.

"Just like that," he praises, his voice rough. "So good for me. So wet… so tight. You’re perfect, listen to those pretty sounds you make."

You keep whispering to him the whole time — shy confessions and soft, breathless questions. "You feel so good, Jay… I feel so full. Does it feel good for you? Tell me if you’re enjoying it."

He groans, his hands roaming over your back, squeezing your ass, then returning to your tits so he can lick and suck them while you ride him. "I love it. I love everything you do. The way you squeeze me… the way you say my name. You’re ruining me, princess."

The pleasure builds uncontrollably, intense and overwhelming, leaving both of you sweaty and breathless. He slides a hand between you to your clit, circling it with his thumb in time with your movements. You tremble hard, moaning and gasping, telling him how close you are, how good he feels, and how much you have wanted this since the day you moved in.

When you come, your walls pulse tightly around his thickness and your body shakes as you cry out his name. Jay follows right after, holding you firmly against him as he finishes into the condom with a deep groan, murmuring endless praises. "That’s it, come for me… so beautiful giving yourself to me completely… my perfect girl."

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. He wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing your temple while his hands gently caress your back. "You okay?" he whispers after a while. "Was it too much?"

"It was perfect," you murmur, nuzzling into his neck. "Better than I imagined. Thank you for slowing me down when I got too excited. I probably embarrassed myself, right?"

He shakes his head lightly and laughs, then he gives you one last kiss on your temple and helps you climb back into the passenger seat, watching as you slip your dress back on. "Don’t forget these," he says, reaching for the bouquet.

You take it with a happy smile. "I wouldn’t dare."

He walks around the car to open your door and intertwines his fingers with yours as you walk toward the elevator. Once inside, he pulls you close and kisses you the entire way up to your floor.

"Your place tonight?" you ask against his lips.

Jay’s hand slides to your lower back, pulling you even closer. "Yes, because I’m not done with you yet. I need you in my bed. The thought of you in my sheets, smelling like me when you wake up… it drives me crazy."

The elevator doors open and he pulls you down the hallway toward his door, unlocking it effortlessly. The moment you are both inside, he takes the flowers from your hand, sets them on the counter, and turns to you with hungry eyes. "Come here," he growls, pulling you into a deep, desperate kiss. His hands cup your face first, then slide down your body. "Let me take care of you properly this time."

He leads you to the bedroom and there, he undresses you slowly, admiring and kissing every inch of exposed skin. When you are completely naked, he steps back and looks at you with pure admiration and desire. "Fuck, look at you… so perfect. Every curve, every inch… all mine tonight."

He removes his own clothes and guides you onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. His warm palms caress them, spreading you open even more. His mouth is on you immediately, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit before circling the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue, savoring you. "Mmm, already so wet," the vibration of his voice makes you gasp. "You taste so sweet, princess. Like you were made for my mouth."

You let out a shaky moan, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. "Jay… that feels incredible. Oh God—"

He slides a finger inside you, curling it against that sweet spot while his mouth continues sucking and licking. The suction around your clit, the rhythm of his finger stroking that perfect spot deep inside — it all turns the pleasure into something deliciously overwhelming. He adds a second finger, then a third, carefully stretching you as he pumps them in and out.

Your hips move against his face as the pleasure intensifies. "Don’t stop… please, Jay, just like that," you moan, your voice breathless and desperate. He eats you out like a starving man — licking, sucking, and thrusting his fingers into you until your thighs shake around his head and you fall apart with a long, loud cry. You clench and pulse around his fingers as the orgasm crashes through you.

Jay doesn’t stop right away, he keeps licking and fingering you through it, prolonging every sensation until you are limp and panting. Only then he drags his mouth up your body, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, and up your neck. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "I could do this all night, make you come on my tongue until you go stupid."

He grabs a condom from the nightstand and rolls it on quickly over his hard, leaking cock. You reach down, wrapping your hand around his thick, hard length — stroking him slowly, feeling the weight, the pulsing heat, tracing the veins with curiosity. "I want it raw, Jay… I need to feel you, please."

He groans deeply, his hips pushing forward into your fist. "Baby… protection first, remember? I’ll still make you feel good even with the latex between us, I promise." After kissing your forehead, he positions himself at your entrance and pushes in inch by inch, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. You feel a burning stretch as your walls slowly give way to him, every thick pulsing vein dragging against your sensitive insides. When he’s halfway in, you look down between your bodies and see the clear bulge pressing out against your lower belly.

He notices it right after and quickly slides a hand down to press against the bulge, feeling it move under his palm as he sinks deeper. "Fuck, look at that. You see how deep I am? My cock is rearranging your insides, princess. Stretching this tight pussy so you can see it from the outside."

Your hand joins his, pressing against the visible outline, feeling him move inside you from both the inside and the outside. He teases you mercilessly, thrusting slow and deep so the bulge shifts under your combined touch. "You’re taking me so well, like this pussy was made for my cock. So greedy, swallowing every inch."

He sinks the rest of the way in with a guttural groan, bottoming out completely. "Shit… so tight, so hot. You’re already milking me."

His thick cock fills you so completely that every movement presses against sensitive spots that steal the breath from your lungs. His thrusts start controlled and incredibly gentle instead of brutal force. One hand stays intertwined with yours above your head, while the other caresses your cheek, squeezes your breast, and lightly pinches your nipple before soothing it with his thumb. "You look like pure sin wrapped around me… My beautiful princess, creaming all over my cock, taking every inch like a good girl. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jay… it feels so good. You’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere." He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as his hips move faster in a devastating rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

You come hard around him, your walls fluttering and clenching tightly as you cry out. He does not stop, thrusting deep and steady, prolonging your orgasm until you are shaking. "Fuck, that’s it, come on my cock, baby."

Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a long, broken groan of your name as he cums, pulsing inside you. He stays buried deep for long moments afterwards, holding you close and covering your face, neck, and shoulders with soft kisses until both of your breathing steadies.

Eventually, he pulls out carefully, discards the condom, and returns from the bathroom with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you both gently, murmuring more praises the entire time. "You were perfect, princess. So responsive, so beautiful when you come for me." He pulls the sheets over both of you and wraps you in his arms.

Your head rests on Jay’s chest while his fingers trace a lazy path along your spine, down to the curve of your waist. Without a word, you shift, turning onto your side. Jay follows naturally, molding his body against yours from behind in a perfect spoon. His chest presses against your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. You can already feel him half-hard again against the curve of your ass, sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

He nuzzles into the back of your neck, placing soft kisses there. "You okay?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough in the quiet room.

"More than okay," you whisper back, pressing lightly against him. "I like feeling you close like this."

Jay reaches for another condom from the nightstand. You hear the faint rustle as he puts it on, then his hand returns to your body, tenderly caressing your side and hip. He lifts your top leg slightly, hooking it over his, opening you up for him. The thick head of his cock brushes against your entrance before he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he is buried completely inside you.

"So good," he whispers against your neck, sliding a hand up to caress your breast. His fingers massage gently, his thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch.

He starts moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips, thrusting unhurriedly so you can feel every inch of his thick cock dragging against your walls. While he fucks you, his hand on your breast never stops worshipping it — squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, occasionally pinching lightly before soothing it with gentle caresses. And his mouth keeps placing open-mouthed kisses along the back of your neck, back, and shoulder.

You reach behind you, running your fingers through his hair as you move with him. "Jay… deeper like that feels so good."

His thrusts become a little deeper, but still controlled. "You take me so well every single time. Look at how perfectly you fit around me. I could stay inside you forever." His mouth finds the sensitive spot on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while he continues playing with your breasts — pinching, rolling, and caressing until your nipples are deliciously sore. Only then he slid his hand down to your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The combination of sensations is overwhelming and pushes you closer and closer to the edge. "You’re so close… I can feel you squeezing me. Come for me again, princess."

And you do. Your walls contract rhythmically around his thickness as you moan his name, your body trembling in his arms. Jay follows right after you, burying his face in your neck with a deep groan as he comes, filling the condom.

You turn your head slightly to capture his lips in a lazy kiss. "I feel so safe with you," you whisper. "And so wanted."

He stays inside you until the aftershocks fade, then carefully pulls out, discards the condom, and cleans you both once again with gentle care. He pulls the sheets up around you both and draws you back into his arms, spooning you again.

Jay’s hand rests tenderly on your stomach, tracing small circles there. You feel deeply in love and completely at peace as you start to drift off to sleep, safe in his arms.

Sunlight is already filtering through the curtains by the time you slowly wake up the next morning —.only to realize the space beside you is empty, even though the warmth of Jay’s body and the faint scent of his cologne still linger around. You stretch and sit up to look around the room, noticing one of his shirts draped over the back of a chair. Slipping it on, you pad barefoot out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee and food already filling the air.

Jay is at the stove, flipping eggs while a plate of toast and cut fruit waits for you on the counter. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. "Good morning."

He turns off the stove and turns around, settling his hands on your hips. His gaze softens instantly when he sees you wearing his shirt. "Good morning, princess. You look way too good in my clothes."

You laugh softly and tilt your face up, expecting a kiss. He leans in but pauses with a playful look. "Ah, but you haven’t brushed your teeth yet. No good-morning kisses until after breakfast."

You pout and dramatically pull away. "Not even a kiss on the cheek? You’re so cruel."

With a sigh, he gives in — pressing a long kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead. Before you can say anything, he effortlessly lifts you and sits you on the edge of the kitchen counter, standing between your knees. "There. Now I can look at you properly while I finish this."

As he moves around the kitchen, your eyes wander until they stop on the refrigerator. Something catches your attention — photos are held up by magnets, but one in particular stands out: a Polaroid of Jay smiling with his arm around a woman’s shoulders. You hadn't noticed it on your previous visits to the kitchen — you had been too focused on him. "Who is that?" you ask curiously, nodding toward the fridge. "The woman in the photo with you?"

Jay glances over while sliding a plate toward you. "That’s my sister. We don’t look much alike, I know. We’re actually half-siblings."

You tilt your head, studying the photo for another second. They really do not look very similar, but that is not unusual for half-siblings. "She looks nice," you say lightly, accepting the plate he offers. "Breakfast looks delicious, by the way. You really didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he replies, stepping between your knees and stealing a quick peck. "After last night, it feels right to take care of you this morning… and maybe every other morning too."

You smile shyly. "Speaking of last night… it was incredible. You made everything feel so good, so right. I keep replaying every part of it in my head."

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "You were perfect, baby. I loved every second of it." He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth. "You’re so beautiful when you let go for me."

"You’re going to make it really hard for me to focus in class today." You take a bite of the toast, savoring it. "Oh, by the way, I’m going out with some new friends from college tonight. They invited me to a party, it’s a chance to get to know each other better outside of class."

Jay nods, resting a hand on your thigh and stroking it lightly. "Sounds fun. Just be careful, okay? Text me when you get there and when you’re heading back."

"I will," you say, stealing another quick kiss from him. "I won’t stay out too late anyway. I have an early class tomorrow."

He picks up a piece of fruit from the plate and brings it to your mouth, brushing his fingers teasingly against your lips. "You deserve to have fun… I’ll be here if you need anything when you get back."

You stumble out of your friend’s car a little after 1 a.m., waving goodbye as you sway on your feet. You make your way toward the building entrance and suddenly remember that you promised to text Jay — which you didn’t. So you call him to let him know you arrived and are heading up. In response, he says he is waiting for you.

When you reach the third floor, Jay’s door is already open and he is waiting for you. "Heyyy," you say cheerfully, immediately wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face against his chest. "I’m back. Just like I promised."

Laughing Jay’s arms wrap around you automatically as he looks at you more closely. "You’re pretty drunk, princess. How was the party?"

"So much fun," you ramble, clinging to him tighter as he guides you inside and closes the door. "We danced, there was a shot game, and my new friends are so funny. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt." You tilt your head up, puckering your lips. "Kiss?"

Instead of a proper kiss, he gives you a quick one on your forehead. "You smell like a distillery and your shirt is soaked, what happened?"

You look down at the sticky stain on your shirt and pout. "Someone spilled on me. It’s gross. But I still want kisses, real kisses." You try to pull his face down, standing on your tiptoes. "I missed you all night. I kept thinking about you during the party… about how nice you were last night. We should do that again right now."

Jay gently holds your wrists to stop you. "Not tonight, princess. You’re drunk."

"But I want you," you beg, pressing closer, but he doesn’t give in at all. "You’re so hot, so gentle, and… big. Please?"

He shakes his head and guides you toward the bathroom. "No. Only when you’re sober and can remember everything clearly. Right now, I’m just taking care of you, okay?"

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he says gently once you reach the bathroom. Reaching for the hem of your wet shirt he carefully pulls it off, followed by the rest of your clothes.

"You’re always so gentle with me," you murmur, watching him adjust the shower temperature. "No one has ever been this gentle. I really, really like you, Jay."

He smiles softly and helps you into the shower, joining you still fully dressed so he can take care of you. Jay keeps one hand on your waist to steady you while the other runs soapy over your shoulders and arms.

The alcohol in your system makes your emotions spill out easily before you can stop them. "I think… I think I’m falling for you," you confess, your tongue loose, making your cheeks flush. "Is that crazy? It feels too fast. I know I’m younger and still figuring everything out, but being with you just feels right. You make me feel safe, wanted, and special."

Jay pauses for half a second, processing what he just heard, but then continues washing you carefully — lathering the floral-scented body wash over your skin. "This smells like… girl stuff," you say, a little curious. "Is it yours?"

He looks away for a moment before answering. "It’s my mom’s. She left some things here the last time she came to visit."

"Ah," You rest your forehead against his chest as the water runs over both of you. "I meant it, though. About falling for you. Even if it’s too soon… I can’t help it."

Jay wraps his arms fully around you under the spray of water, holding you close — voice is full of affection when he finally replies. "Hey… look at me, princess." He gently lifts your chin. "What you’re feeling… I feel it too." Softly, he kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose. "We don’t need to rush or label anything right now. Just know that I’m here and I care about you a lot."

Even in your alcohol-fueled haze, his words calm the part of you that was worried you were moving too fast. "Really? You feel it too?"

"I do." He continues washing you carefully — your arms, your back, your sides — just taking care of you. "Being with you is easy. Natural. So let’s just enjoy it, okay? One day at a time."

Jay finishes rinsing you off and helps you out of the shower. Wrapping you in a towel he dries you gently before dressing you in one of his shirts. By the time he guides you to bed, you are already sleepy. He helps you lie down and you snuggle into the sheets, murmuring one last "I really like you" before falling asleep.

────────

The following days feel almost too good to be real.

You wake up in Jay’s bed, wrapped in his arms and wearing one of his shirts. He always wakes up before you to make breakfast and greet you with a good morning kiss and that smile that still makes your heart flutter. But on some mornings, you pull him back into bed to cuddle before classes and work, and without any argument, he makes time to make you feel loved.

When you get home from class, tired, Jay is already there to greet you cheerfully despite his own exhaustion. He texts you during the day, asking how your classes are going and reminding you to eat. When you are together, he pulls you in for slow, affectionate kisses — the kind that make your legs weak. Some nights you cook together as he tries to teach you how to make proper meals. Other nights he orders takeout and you eat on the couch while you tell him every detail of your day. He still doesn’t share much about himself, always dodging the subject, but you do not push — you don’t want to be invasive.

The sex is frequent — sometimes slow and worshipful, his mouth and hands adoring every inch of you until you are trembling and coming apart. Other times it is faster and more urgent — against the kitchen counter, in the shower, on the couch, in his home office. One night you try baking cookies together, ending up covered in flour and laughing as he kisses the mess off your cheek. Another night you start watching a movie cuddled together, but the movie is forgotten halfway through when clothes come off and he fucks you right there on the couch.

Suddenly everything feels so domestic — he now keeps an extra toothbrush for you, your notebooks are on his coffee table, and some of your clothes are scattered around his apartment. It is undeniable that you are falling deeper and deeper in love.

On a Sunday afternoon, you are studying on his couch while Jay is in his home office, working on a complicated case that demands his full attention. After hours buried in books and notes, concentrating is almost impossible. At this point, your mind keeps wandering to him without permission. When your brain finally gives up, you close the book with a dramatic sigh.

You walk down the hallway and peek into his office. Jay is sitting at his desk with his sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly attractive as he concentrates on reviewing some papers. "Jay?" you call, walking in without waiting for an answer.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes meet yours, the tension in his shoulders softens. "Hey, princess. How are the studies going?"

Boring." You take a few steps closer and don’t ask for permission — you simply climb into his lap, settling on his thighs and wrapping your arms around his neck. You leave a trail of kisses along his jaw, then his cheek and lips. "I missed you. Pay attention to me? Just for a little while?"

One of his hands rests on your waist while the other continues organizing the documents. "I’d love to, baby, but this case is a nightmare. There are documents everywhere. I’m going crazy with these."

You nuzzle into the curve of his neck and kiss him there. "You’ve been in here for hours… you deserve a break." Your hips move subtly against him, restless, the friction sending a spark through both of you. You feel him twitch beneath you, already starting to respond to your movements.

Jay’s grip on your waist tightens. "Princess…" There is a warning tone in his voice, bordering on frustration. But as you grind against him, you can feel him beginning to harden, and that gives you hope — you think he might give in.

"You’re really testing me today." He pulls you into a kiss, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. When he pulls away, it is with a frustrated sigh.

"That's the point," you whisper, smiling proudly against his lips as you continue grinding, slower this time, feeling him get even harder.

Jay curses under his breath, gripping your hips more firmly. No matter how hard he tries to hold back, he can’t, the desire is uncontrollable. He reaches between you and unzips his pants. "Fine, but you’re going to behave." He frees his hard, throbbing cock and pulls your panties and shorts to the side. This time there is nothing between you — no latex barrier, just him.

You sink down onto him slowly, and the new sensation hits you immediately — it’s different, hotter, more intimate. Every ridge and vein is raw against your walls, the skin-to-skin contact sends a shiver through your entire body and makes you moan as you settle fully onto him. The stretch feels deeper and more overwhelming than ever.

For a moment, it feels perfect — connected, raw.

But then his hands close firmly on your hips, holding you completely still. "Don’t move," he commands, his voice noticeably deeper and rougher. "Stay just like this. No grinding, no whimpering. I’m serious."

His cock pulses hot and heavy inside you, and you can barely focus on what he said. "Jay… oh my God, you feel—"

"I said don’t move," he interrupts, repeating it more harshly this time. His free hand returns to the stack of papers while the other arm stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place.

At first, you try to obey — resting your head on his shoulder and breathing deeply every time his cock twitches inside you, but the longer you sit there, the harder it becomes. You let out a soft moan as your hips twitch involuntarily. "Jay… please, just let me move a little bit."

"I told you not to move. Jesus, you’re really pushing it today." The irritation is clear in every word now, and his grip on your waist tightens even more. "I have a deadline. I can’t afford to get distracted like this."

Again, you try to stay still — you really do, until frustrated tears prick at your eyes — but your body betrays you with small, involuntary movements of your hips. "I’m sorry… I can’t help it. This is driving me crazy. I need you to move, please."

Jay’s jaw is tense and his breathing comes in heavy bursts — clearly fighting the urge to thrust up into you. "You think I don’t want to? You’re so tight and wet around me right now, but I can’t. I have work to do and you’re not letting me focus." His tone grows even harsher. "Stop squirming. Be a good girl for me and just sit there.”

But you do not listen — you roll your hips again, letting out a moan as he rubs against that sensitive spot inside you. "Jesus Christ. I told you I have work and this is fucking important."

"But I missed you and this is torture. Please, please just fu-"

He cuts you off sharply. "You always miss me, always need something. Kisses, hugs, my cock, my fucking attention. You practically live here now, your things are all over my apartment, you sleep in my bed like it’s yours. Isn’t that enough attention? You know what? I need you to get off so I can actually finish this case."

The words hurt, making your chest tighten — tears of frustration turn into something heavier and spill down your cheeks. "I didn’t mean to be annoying… I just wanted to be close to you."

"Yeah, well, wanting to be close to me doesn’t magically make my deadline disappear. I’m already behind because of distractions like this." His hand on your hip tightens even more, holding you completely still, the pressure bordering on uncomfortable. "You have your own apartment right next door. Just give me a few hours alone, for once."

You stare at him in disbelief at what you just heard. Suddenly the intimate position feels humiliating — the way you are still stretched around him while he looks at you like you are nothing but am annoyance. "You want me to leave? Like this… right now"

"I’m telling you to give me some space." With no patience left, he lifts you off him, leaving you empty and trembling. "Go to your place, take a nap, study, whatever. Just let me work."

You stand there with shaky legs, wiping away your tears, feeling small, vulnerable, and unwanted. With a quiet, trembling breath, you whisper, "…Okay."

It's past 9 PM when Jay finally steps out of his office, having finished dealing with that pile of papers. The silence hangs heavy now, normally you would be humming, curled up on the couch waiting for him, or laughing at something silly on your phone. Without you, the space feels too empty. He had been rude — way too rude — and he sees that now. He owes you an apology, so he walks over to your door, but just as he is about to knock, he notices the door is not fully closed — it’s slightly ajar, allowing him to hear low murmurs of voices.

Frowning, he pushes the door open a little more and steps inside, finding a guy standing right at the entrance to your living room, putting on a jacket. The guy turns at the sound of the door, his expression quickly shifting to surprise. "Ah, hi. You must be Jay. She talks about you a lot."

He looks over the other guy’s shoulder toward the couch where you are sitting with your knees pulled up. The guy cleans his throat, sensing the tension between the two of you. "I was just leaving… It was really nice talking to you." He gives you a small wave. "Text me if you need anything else, okay?"

You smile and wave back. "Yeah. Thanks, Jake. Drive safe."

As Jake heads for the door, Jay blocks his path. "Wait. What exactly were you doing here?"

Jake blinks, surprised by the sudden question. "She seemed pretty down when we texted, so I decided to stop by and check if she was okay. Anyway, I’m heading out. Nice to meet you, man."

He steps aside, letting Jake pass. The door closes behind him, leaving just the two of you in the suddenly too-quiet apartment.

You stand up, hugging yourself. "Jay… what are you doing here?"

The regret he felt for being so harsh with you is quickly replaced by jealousy and irritation. "I came because my place was too quiet without you. I started thinking maybe I was too hard on you earlier, but clearly you didn’t waste any time finding company."

You frown, confused by what he means. "He’s just a friend. I told you about him before, we met during my first week on campus when I accidentally walked into the wrong lecture hall. I was upset after you basically kicked me out, so I texted him. We weren’t doing anything, just talking."

Jay lets out a short, bitter laugh and steps closer. "Talking late at night like it’s a casual visit. You mentioned him before, of course, but I didn’t know you two were close enough for house calls."

The hurt from earlier mixes with frustration now. "You were so rude, Jay. You made me feel like I was an annoying pest who can’t function without your attention. I understand you’re stressed with work, but you didn’t have to push me away and kick me out like that. I felt embarrassed."

He closes even more of the distance between you, standing close enough that you can feel the jealousy radiating off him. "You’re the one who can’t sit still for five minutes without demanding something, climbing into my lap while I’m trying to meet a deadline, whimpering and squirming like a spoiled brat because you ‘missed me’."

You take a step back, but the couch hits the back of your legs. "I just wanted to be close to you."

"But the world doesn’t revolve around your need for attention. I love having you around, but today? You made it impossible for me to concentrate, and the second I ask for a few hours to actually get things done, you run straight to this Jake guy?" Jay doesn’t care that nothing happened — the image of another guy in your space, late at night, while you were upset, makes his blood boil.

"I didn’t run to him! I was crying when he got here and he just listened. Unlike you, who basically told me to leave because I’m too much."

Jay’s laugh is harsh this time, completely humorless. "Too much. Yeah, that’s one way of saying you’re a spoiled brat who demands attention every second, and the moment things get difficult, you replace me with whoever is most convenient."

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. You look away, Jay’s jaw clenches, and soon his gaze drifts from your face to the way you are hugging yourself, then lower, lingering on your bare legs. The jealousy is still burning in his chest, mixed with the memory of you sitting on his cock earlier, demanding attention, all needy.

"Come here," he says, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitate, biting your lip, which makes Jay exhale sharply and close the distance. His hand wraps around your wrist, guiding you toward the couch. "We’re not done talking about this."

He sits on the couch and pulls you closer until you are lying across his lap, your stomach pressed against his thighs. Your shirt has ridden up naturally, but he is not satisfied. "This is in the way." His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down and tossing them aside — leaving your ass completely bare for him.

Jay’s palm rests on one of your cheeks, squeezing the flesh possessively. "You’ve been pushing all day… needing attention, teasing me, and then Jake shows up at your place, and I’m supposed to just swallow that?" His fingers dig harder into the flesh. "You’re mine, and it’s time you learn what happens when you piss me off this much."

His hand makes slow circles over your skin, almost soothing. "How many spanks do you think you deserve for acting like this?"

Your heart races as you try to process his words — head turning slightly to look at him. "What? Are you serious?"

He meets your eyes with a firm, dark expression — one you have never seen from him before. "Very serious. You’ve been spoiled all day, teasing me on purpose. So tell me, how many do you think you deserve?"

You swallow hard, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I don’t know… Five? Maybe?"

Jay lets out a mocking laugh. "Five? That’s way too low, baby. You’re going to take twenty, and you’re going to count each one out loud. If you lose count or mess up, we start over. Understood?"

You hesitate but eventually whisper, "Yes… okay."

"Good girl." His hand lifts and the first spank comes without warning — firm and sharp, the sound echoing through the silence. You jolt, a surprised moan escaping you — heat spreads instantly across your bare skin, the sting stronger than you expected.

"One," you gasp.

He immediately rubs the spot in slow, soothing circles, calming the hot skin where he struck.

"Two," you say after the next spank lands on the other cheek.

Jay keeps a steady rhythm — delivering hard spanks followed by almost tender caresses. Then his fingers slide lower, tracing your wet folds, spreading them teasingly, brushing against your entrance, lightly circling your clit before pulling away.

"What a spoiled little brat," he murmurs during one of the pauses, rubbing your reddened cheeks while two fingers tease your slit again. "You’re already getting so wet… You like this, don’t you?"

You moan instead of answering, which earns you another sharp spank. "Five."

He continues, the spanks leaving marks and building heat across your ass. Now his fingers are dip inside you, moving with slow, shallow thrusts, curling just enough to brush that sensitive spot and make you clench around him desperately. But he always pulls back before you can get close to the edge.

"Six… seven… ah!"

By ten, tears prick your eyes, your thighs trembling as the sting turns into a pulsing heat.

Jay pauses longer this time, massaging your sore ass and spreading your cheeks so he can tease your entrance again. "You’re mine. When you need attention that badly, you come to me, even if I’m stressed, even if I tell you to leave." A finger pushes deep inside you, staying there while his thumb brushes your clit.

You lose track amid the overwhelming sensations and he makes you start over, just as he warned. "Back to one." During the restart, two more fingers slide inside you, moving in a torturous rhythm. "You feel how wet you are? This is what happens when you forget who you belong to."

"You’re mine. Your time, your attention, this body. I don’t share it." Spank. Soothe. Tease. "Say it."

"I’m yours," you moan.

"Louder." Another spank.

"I’m yours, Jay!"

When he finally reaches twenty, you are a trembling mess with tears streaming down your face. Jay finally pulls you up and turns you so you are sitting in his lap. His hands stay on your ass, carefully massaging the sore flesh and you press yourself against the hard bulge in his pants, burying your face in his shoulder. "You did so well, my good girl."

Jay lifts your chin, meeting your eyes. For a moment, he just looks at you — really looks at you — taking in your flushed cheeks and tear-streaked face. Then he leans in and kisses you. One hand remains on your sore ass, squeezing gently, while the other slides into your hair. He kisses you like he needs to claim every part of you — hungry, insistent, his tongue tracing your lower lip before sliding inside. You melt into him, moaning against his mouth as you start slowly grinding your hips.

He pulls back just enough to trail his mouth along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear. "Still so needy… even after all that." Then he kisses you again, deeper and hungrier, tongues sliding together with fervor. The hand on your ass slips between your bodies to tease your wet folds with light circles and shallow dips — keeping you right on the edge.

When he pulls away, a thin string of saliva connects you for a second before breaking. "On your knees, princess."

Obediently, you slide off his lap and kneel between his spread thighs. Jay looks down at you, one hand lazily stroking your hair as he frees himself from his pants — his cock springs out, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip.

"Open. Tongue out," he says, tapping your lower lip with two fingers. You open your mouth and obediently stick your tongue out. He leans forward and spits directly into your mouth. The warm, viscous saliva lands on your tongue, degrading in a way that makes you shiver. "Swallow that first," he instructs. You swallow while keeping your eyes locked on his. He nods with a satisfied hum. "Now show me how sorry you are for pushing me today."

You start with kisses along his length before dragging your tongue from base to tip. Jay groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but he doesn't force you — not yet. His thickness stretches your lips as you finally take him into your mouth. He is big enough that you can only take about half before he hits the back of your throat. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking what does not fit in a steady rhythm.

"Fuck… that’s it," he murmurs, tilting his head back for a moment before his gaze returns to you. He doesn't want to miss a single second of this. "Look at me while you suck it."

You do, looking up at him with teary eyes, and the sight makes his cock twitch in your mouth. When you pull back to catch your breath, he slaps his cock against your tongue a few times, leaving strings of saliva connecting you, before guiding you back down. "Yeah, just like that… good girl."

Between bobs, when you pull back to breathe, you say breathlessly, "I’m sorry for distracting you and for Jake being here." Then he guides you down again.

Jay’s hips start moving, pushing a little deeper and testing your limits. Tears continue to prick your eyes from the stretch, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks and moaning around him.

When he finally gets close, Jay’s grip tightens, his thighs tense, and his breathing becomes ragged. "I’m going to come. Don’t waste it, swallow everything." You nod around him, doubling your efforts and with a deep groan, he comes down your throat — thick, hot pulses that you swallow eagerly, not letting a single drop escape.

He pulls out slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to the tip before it breaks. "Open your mouth. Show me."

You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to prove you swallowed everything. “That’s my good girl.”

He helps you up, pulls you back into his lap, and kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. Your hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you that makes Jay groan into your mouth, one hand sliding down to grab your bare ass and guide your movements.

"Still not satisfied? Such a greedy little thing." Even though he just came, his cock is already stirring again, hardening beneath you as your wet pussy slides along his length.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Jay… I need you so bad."

He answers by kissing you again, but soon pulls back to meet your eyes. "Then take what you want."

You don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Rising on shaky knees, you reach down and align the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and slowly you sink down, gasping at the stretch and every inch that fills you. The lack of a barrier makes him feel impossibly thicker than the last time in his office — hotter, more intimate. The spanked skin of your ass burns as you settle fully against his thighs.

"Fuck," Jay hisses, his head falling back against the couch for a moment as his hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you fully impaled on him. "So wet… so fucking tight like this."

You start moving, rolling your hips in a slow, deep rhythm, the angle letting you feel every ridge and vein raw inside you, pulling broken moans from your throat. One of his hands slips under your shirt to caress one tit while the other stays on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in time with your movements. The mix of pleasure and stinging burn makes everything more intense.

"That’s right," he growls, thrusting up to meet you. "This is what you wanted all day, isn’t it? My attention. My cock." You lean forward, kissing him messily while you bounce, moving your hips faster.

With a low curse, he wraps his arms around you and suddenly flips you, laying you down on the couch cushions, driving him even deeper which pulls a sharp cry from you.

Now he is on top, pinning you beneath him — one of your legs hooked over his shoulder as he starts thrusting into you with deep, powerful strokes — hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt each time and the lack of a condom lets you feel every raw inch.

Clinging to his back, your nails dig in as the pleasure borders on overwhelming. Jay’s face hovers above yours, his hair damp with sweat falling into his eyes. Rhythm falters for a second as he looks at you, something darker flashing across his face, the jealousy from earlier — the image of Jake leaving your apartment — has not disappeared. "Are you on the pill?"

You shake your head, breathless, barely able to form words between moans. "No, I’m not."

He thrusts harder, hitting deep against your cervix as if to emphasize the point. "Good," he growls, eyes locked on yours. "Actually, fucking perfect. Maybe I’ll knock you up tonight, put a baby in you so you won’t even think about another guy like Jake. You’ll stay right here with me, we’ll have a beautiful family, me, you, and our kids. No more distractions."

The words should have shocked you, but in the heat of the moment — with him fucking you raw, his body claiming yours completely — they only send a fresh wave of arousal through you. Moaning loudly, your legs tightening around his waist. "Jay… fuck—"

He groans at your reaction, his hips moving harder. "You like that idea, don’t you? My cum deep inside you, getting you pregnant so everyone knows you’re claimed." One of his hands slides down to press lightly against your stomach, as if he can already imagine it.

The couch creaks beneath you both, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the wet noises of him fucking you filling the room. Jay’s earlier irritation fuels every deep thrust, but so does possessiveness — the need to claim you completely after the stressful day. He presses you deeper into the cushions, his hips moving in a way that grinds against your clit with every stroke.

When you finally come, it is intense — your walls contracting tightly around his cock as you scream his name. Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel the hot pulses of his cum filling you, thick and warm.

For long minutes, Jay simply holds you — kissing your neck, your jaw, your swollen lips — his cock softening slowly inside you, but as the minutes stretch on, you feel him coming back to life, pulsing against your sensitive walls. "Already?" There is a playful tone in your voice.

"I can’t help it." He moves, pressing one last kiss to your mouth before slowly pulling out. You moan at the loss, feeling his cum start to leak out of you, but his hand quickly reaches down to push it back inside you with two fingers. "Don’t waste it."

He leans back on the couch, stroking himself until he is fully hard again. "Turn around. Hands on the backrest."

You obey, your body trembling as you shift position, kneeling on the cushions, gripping the top of the backrest and arching your back slightly while Jay moves behind you, his gaze fixed on the evidence of the earlier spanking — your cheeks still red with visible handprints — as one of his palms smooths reverently over the heated skin before squeezing firmly.

"Fuck, look at this… Still so red from your lesson." His cock brushes against your entrance before he thrusts deep inside you in one powerful stroke, the new position letting him sink even deeper as the head of his cock presses against spots that make your toes curl drawing a loud moan from you while you grip the backrest tighter as he bottoms out.

Jay starts fucking you with firm, powerful thrusts — deep and deliberate, the couch creaking beneath you both — as every thrust makes your sore ass bounce and the red marks darken even more with the impact, his eyes unable to leave them while his thumbs press into the soft flesh, pulling you back onto his cock repeatedly.

"These marks… they look so good on you." Without warning, he lands a hard, stinging spank on your right cheek, the already sensitive skin making you cry out and clench hard around his cock as Jay groans at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he resumes his deep rhythm.

He gives your left cheek another spank, making you writhe and moan again as you push back against him desperately despite the burn — or maybe because of it — the mix of pain and pleasure making you even wetter, the previous creampie turning everything obscenely wet and messy.

"That’s it," he praises, smoothing his hands over the fresh marks he just added. "Squirm for me. I love how sensitive you are right here." He gives you one more spank, lighter this time but still enough to make you shudder, and immediately soothes the area with his hands, massaging the sore flesh while he continues thrusting deep and hard from behind.

Jay leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside yours while the other reaches down to rub tight circles on your clit. His chest presses against your back, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks between thrusts. "You’re going to take every drop again, princess. I’m going to give you my babies, keep you so full you won’t even think about anyone else."

When you come again — hard, your vision blurring from the overwhelming sensations — Jay follows right behind, burying himself deep with a groan and flooding you with another load of hot cum. He stays inside you for a long time afterward, thrusting slowly through the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls out carefully and pulls you into his arms, stroking your back in slow, gentle movements. "You’re a mess, princess. Come on, let me take care of you."

He stands up with you in his arms and carries you to the bathroom. Once inside, he turns on the shower, adjusts the temperature, and removes the rest of both your clothes before guiding you under the hot spray with him where the water cascades over you both. Jay takes his body wash, lathers it between his hands, and runs them over your skin — being extra careful around your sensitive ass, massaging the foam in light circles that ease some of the sting.

"Maybe I was a little too rough tonight," he says, his hands moving along your thighs, cleaning away the evidence of the many rounds. "Work stress got to me, and then seeing Jake… I took it out on you more than I should have. You handled it really well, but I’m sorry if it was too much."

You lean back against his chest, letting the water rinse off the soap as you tilt your head to look at him. "It hurt… but it also felt good. In a weird way. I just hated feeling like I was bothering you earlier. I didn’t want to annoy you while you were working. I just… missed you a lot."

After rinsing you, he turns off the shower, wraps you in a towel first, then himself and dries you carefully, paying extra attention to your ass and rubbing some soothing lotion he finds in the cabinet. "There. Better?"

"Much better," you admit, reaching up to touch his face. "Thank you for taking care of me like this."

He leans down and kisses your forehead. "You make it easy to want to take care of you." Pulling you closer, his voice shifting to something even calmer and more sincere. "I don’t know what I’d do without you around. I can’t imagine coming home and not having you here like this. You just… fit. Right here with me."

You hug him tightly, burying your face in his chest. "I feel the same. I always want to be close to you because you make everything feel better."

Smiling against your hair, Jay guides you to the bed and pulls the covers back, lying down beside you to pull you close against his chest. One arm wraps around you securely, his hand rests gently on your ass — not squeezing, just warm and protective over the sensitive skin.

You snuggle even closer, your leg draped over his as exhaustion finally takes over completely. "Stay the night?" you ask sleepily.

"Wouldn’t dream of leaving," His fingers trace lazy circles on your back until your breathing evens out and you fall asleep.

Next morning you stir slowly, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles and Jay’s heavy arm draped over your waist, his body curled protectively against your back. He feels you waking up and trails lazy kisses along your shoulder before moving up the side of your neck. "Good morning, baby," he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep as his hand slides to your stomach. "Sleep well?"

You turn in his arms, smiling despite the slight soreness when you move, and reach up to brush the messy hair from his forehead. "Yes… thanks to you."

He leans in and kisses you properly — slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that makes you melt. At this point, he couldn't care less that neither of you had brushed your teeth yet. "You were incredible last night. Let me make it up to you a little more with breakfast."

Jay borrows a pair of your sweatpants that look comically tight on his incredibly nice ass, making you laugh as he models them. In the kitchen, you work side by side like so many mornings before — he cracks eggs for scrambled eggs while you toast bread and slice fruit. Small touches are stolen throughout: a hand on your lower back as he reaches past you, a quick kiss on your temple when you hand him the salt shaker, a playful bump of his hip against yours.

"You’re in a good mood today," you tease, leaning against the counter while he plates the food.

"I can’t help it when I wake up next to you." He sets the plates on the table and pulls you in for another kiss before you both sit down.

After eating, you start getting ready for college and he for the office. Jay kisses you one more time before heading back to his apartment next door to get ready for work. You take a long shower and, once dressed in jeans and a comfortable blouse, you step out into the hallway at the same time he does, looking impeccable in his work clothes.

He quickly pulls you in for a proper goodbye, hands gently cradling your face as he kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Have a good day at class. Text me when you’re done." With one last soft kiss on your lips, he pulls away with a smile. "See you later, princess."

College passes in a whirlwind of classes and notes, but your mind keeps drifting back to Jay — the way he holds you, the sweet words, the kisses. He has not sent many messages during the day, which is a little unusual, but you figure he must be busy at work.

When you finally get home in the early evening, you step into the elevator and press the button for the third floor. Just before the doors close, a woman you have never seen in the building before enters, but something about her face seems vaguely familiar.

The woman smiles politely as the elevator starts moving. Curiosity gets the better of you and before you can stop yourself, you ask, "Hi… do you live here? I’ve been in the building for about two months and I don’t think I’ve seen you around."

She nods, laughing lightly. "Yes, I do, but I’ve been away on a work trip. I’m a lawyer and a complicated case kept me out of town longer than expected. I actually got back this morning."

"Wow. That sounds intense… By the way, my name is y/n. Nice to meet you."

The woman’s smile widens. "Nice to meet you too. Jay has already told me about you. He’s mentioned his sweet neighbor a few times."

Your heart flutters with joy — Jay talked about you to the neighbors. It feels special, like proof that you are really becoming a bigger part of his life. "He did? That’s nice to hear."

The elevator dings on the third floor and you both step out together. A small flicker of confusion crosses your mind — she is going the same way — but you don’t think much of it. Maybe she lives farther down the hall.

Then you see Jay standing there and your face lights up immediately. He hadn't texted you all day, and seeing him now makes excitement bubble up inside you. You walk toward him with a radiant smile.

At the same moment, the woman also walks straight up to him. When she reaches him, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him — a deep, familiar, affectionate kiss. Jay’s hands settle on her waist automatically as he eagerly kisses her back.

The world stops.

Your feet freeze mid-step and everything inside you turns cold and numb. It takes a moment for your brain to process what you are seeing, but then the pieces fall into place with painful clarity. That was Jay’s wife. The woman in the Polaroid photo he casually said was his "sister." The late-night calls he claimed were from the office. The feminine body wash he said belonged to his mom. The distant restaurant he took you to on your first date, probably so no one nearby would recognize him. The way the doorman sometimes looked at you with that judgmental expression, like he knew something — he did. All the small inconsistencies you had ignored because you were so blinded by how gentle and attentive he seemed.

Every sweet word, every touch, every promise of "you’re mine" had been built on lies. He was married. His heart already belonged to someone else, and you had been nothing but a convenient distraction from the apartment next door — blind, eager, and so in love with the version of him he showed you that you never saw the truth.

Jay’s eyes meet yours over his wife’s shoulder, and for a fraction of a second, something like panic or guilt flashes across his face. The shock turns into pure pain, making you practically run to your door as you fumble for your keys while hot tears blur your vision.

You lean against the door, sliding down to the floor as sobs begin to escape you. Your chest hurts as if someone had ripped a hole in it. All the cute moments — the kisses, the touches, the date, the bouquet — turn ugly and humiliating in your memory.

You cry hard, knees pulled up to your chest, as disappointment turns into shame for having fallen so completely for the man who made you feel special, desired, and loved… and it was all a lie.

The thin walls allow you to hear muffled voices — his wife asking about his day, the normalcy of their conversation only making everything worse. You press your hands over your ears, trying to block out the sound, but the damage is already done. Your heart is shattered.

The man you had grown so attached to — the one who held you so tenderly after sex, who made you breakfast and promised more comfortable days like that — was someone else’s husband, and you had been the other woman without even knowing it.

thank you for reading.

[0210sjy]

࣪ ˖ 𖦹°⋆ nishimura riki “this is so fucked."

━━ HOMEWRECKER

𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.

西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader ˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni ! wc: 20 766 p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)

Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards. 

He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.

That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts. 

Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed. 

He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little. 

Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.

So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.

You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him: 

you: hi you sell right

The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.

Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this. 

Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

you: js tell me if its a no i have money

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.

And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.

You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.

Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”

The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”

Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”

A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says. 

You bristle. “So?”

“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”

Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”

This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.

Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“

“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”

When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.

And it makes it worse.

You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 

He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”

You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.

Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years. 

But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.

And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy. 

Also, he’s 6’1.

“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.” 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that. 

Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”

He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.

“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount. 

You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”

That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.

“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.

He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.

“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”

For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.

“Oh,” you say.

Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.

“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”

Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”

He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.

You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.

The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings. 

He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —

Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”

Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.

He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.

Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them. 

Until he bumps into someone.

For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.

But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing. 

“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.

You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.

“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say. 

He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”

Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”

You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him. 

“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.

When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.

Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”

Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”

Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.

He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”

You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”

Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching. 

Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t.

Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.

You: bathroom upstairs

The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.

“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”

He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”

You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.

He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”

“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”

You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.

You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”

You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”

He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.

He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.

Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”

He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”

Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.

You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.

You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.

Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”

“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”

“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.

“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.

He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”

You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.

“Is that so bad?”

The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet. 

For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.” 

You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”

He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”

The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.

You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable. 

“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”

That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.

“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”

He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.

Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”

Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”

“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.

You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”

He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.

You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.

You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.

You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.

You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.

He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.

“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.

He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.

He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall. 

Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.

You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.

“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.

He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.

Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”

He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.

But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.

He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.

After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks. 

That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.

He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after. 

Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.

It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.

You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.

No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”

Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.

“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”

Riki blinks. “No.”

“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”

Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”

Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”

Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught. 

Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”

Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.

Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”

Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”

Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”

Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”

It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.

You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.

Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.

The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.

“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”

You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.

You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.

Well, you push the door open.

Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.

For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”

His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”

This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.

“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”

Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”

You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”

That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint. 

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap. 

“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.” 

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.

You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.

He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.

Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”

When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s. 

You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.

-

McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.

Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.

He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.

Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”

“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.

“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.

Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”

He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all. 

Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution. 

He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.

“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.

He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”

While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.

“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.

“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Outside,” he says easily.

The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.

He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too? 

Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”

You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something. 

Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.

What the fuck is happening?

It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.

No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.

Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”

You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.

He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”

You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.

That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.

“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”

You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”

You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.

Because this is new information.

Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.

You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.

“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.

Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?)  cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.

It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.

So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”

He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low. 

The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.

“Thanks. For caring.”

He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.

Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual. 

If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.

Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.

He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”

You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”

He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”

You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.

You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”

Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.” 

You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand. 

He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”

You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”

“You tell me.”

The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts. 

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know.”

Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.

“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”

Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.

You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”

He looks at you for a moment.

Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”

He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”

“How?” he snickers.

You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”

He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”

Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.

“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”

You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. 

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.

The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out. 

You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it. 

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.

You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat. 

He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.

So you take control of things you can handle.

You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.

You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”

You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat. 

“Are you a virgin?”

The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.

He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.

“You always ask things like that?”

“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”

He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.

“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”

Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”

He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”

That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.

Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”

He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.

“Not really,” you agree.

You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.

“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”

Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.

You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.

When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away. 

Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt. 

“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.

You frown. “Why not?”

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.

“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.

You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”

He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about. 

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.

His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.

“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.

When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long. 

His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.

“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.

You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.

When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.

His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.

“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw. 

So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples. 

You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.

After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.

From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all. 

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”

You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”

His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

tl: @wobblymug @s1mp4jaeyun @gyuguys @woninlove

[heedisk]

cw: dead dove do not eat. taboo themes , incest , olderbrother!jungwon , dryhumping , voyeurism , praise kink , they are both legal just lots of infantilization , slight coercion , size difference , slight degradation , #justthetip except jungwon straight up lies , jungwon biggest damn perv out there , ends abruptly but ending is up to you! , NO USE OF AI.

an: hihihi thanks for all the love on my first post🥹 THIS IS SO SHORT and gross… i am finishing up the other evan fic im writing and that one is so much longer so it’s taking forever but it will be worth i swear :p

olderbrother!jungwon who quietly dragged you into the dark pantry and whispering “wanna help wonnie again, baby?” you noticed jungwon left a small crack in the door, you seeing a glimpse of your parents in the dining room. either way, you nodded. you wanted to be the best little sister for your older brother! “now… wonnie needs you to be really quiet, princess. our parents are right outside the door and if they hear you, i can get in big trouble… and we don’t want that right?” jungwon’s large hands were on your tiny hips, slowly rubbing up and down on the dips. his were lips pressed into a kiss against the back of your head as you nodded again. jungwon hummed in satisfaction. “mm, good girl. doing so well already.”

olderbrother!jungwon who’s bulge was pressed against your back as he made you lean back to touch your small tits. “oh princess… they’ve gotten much bigger since last time, yeah?” jungwon slowly kneaded your breasts while he thrusted his hips upwards onto your clothed bottom. he slid his hands back down to your hips. his grip was firm, but not too rough. “so warm for me, i bet it’s so wet and tight too. wonnie wishes he could fuck you here, but he can’t yet… too risky.” you heard the sad pout in his voice, but you can tell he didn’t falter. “you can let wonnie take your panties off today, right? please? your brother really needs this…” jungwon slid your small panties off and tossed them somewhere it didn’t matter. “remember what i wonnie said about being quiet baby. you don’t wanna get in trouble, hm? i’ll cover your mouth if i have to.”

olderbrother!jungwon who’s hand is covering your small face while he thrusts into the middle of your wet thighs. “oh that’s it baby, just like how i taught you.” your cunt is warm and slick against his bare cock— it making filthy sounds every time jungwon thrusts. you look through the small crack in the door. your parents are engaged in conversation about something you can’t even comprehend because of what you’re doing with jungwon. the thought of your parents being outside the door and can easily hear and see you making your head dizzy. jungwon notices your gaze on them. “you like knowing that they’re out there, princess? imagine if they saw me fucking into your cunt, hm? you’d like that, don’t you? i knew you would, that’s why i brought you here. my baby is so gross. little head of yours needs to be fixed”

olderbrother!jungwon who really does love his sister so much. “my beautiful girl. wonnie loves you so much, you know? cmon and let wonnie put the tip in… just a little. wonnie won’t spill inside, i promise.” jungwon aligns his tip with your small hole and pushes in slightly. your eyes roll back at the unfamiliar feeling. “that’s it, my good girl. f-fuck… thank you baby. only the tip, wonnie promises.” jungwon lies straight through his teeth and smiles to himself. “you feel just like how i imagined. shit, y-you’re milking me, sweetheart. cmon just the tip, oh fuck…” jungwon pushes in a little deeper, despite all his promises. “almost ready to take my whole cock, aren’t you? next time you’re gonna take it all. every single inch.” jungwon’s head is dizzy from the feeling of your gummy walls clenching with every thrust. he’s so close to climax— of course he doesn’t wanna hurt his girl, but he can’t help himself, and you know it too. “gonna cum, princess. wonnie’s trying not to be so rough but he—he really wants this y’know? fuck— oh fuck… wonnie might cum inside baby… wonnie’s so sorry…”

[blvnt1e]

教 teach me — p.js au 我

黑穗病 ─── "I'm not drunk enough to answer that tonight." after months of fantasizing about your best friend, he finally teaches you what real sex with him feels like.

ⳇ 𝓟 airing ╸ bff!jay x needy!f!reader

ⳇ w/c: 12.5k

㰙꯭ؚۣۙۗ㰛꯭ؚؔ 𝓦arnings: MDNI, overstimulation, unprotected sex, edging, mild ass play, rough sex, fingering, oral sex (f!rec), orgasm denial, hair holding, creampie, tipsy sex, lmk if moree

𝓡ina's note: firstofall, want to apologize bcuz i think theres a repeated part bcuz tumblr froze on me, n even though ive read it twice i cant find it and im going crazy... second... i wasn't quite sure how to write Jay's personality, n im taking a little longer with Sunoo's, so in between ig i'll do a smau asked for n if u want to request something, go ahead, headcanons or smau for u«3 reblog or life if uliked ittt

总清单之家 check my ::⠀ ⠀، ⠀ ── 𝓜asterlist 𝓗ome

You had been in love with Jay Park since the second year of high school.

It started as something quieter than a crush — a slow, warm pull every time he leaned over your desk to show you a riff on his phone, or when he'd wait for you after class with one earbud dangling, offering the other so you could listen to the same song.

He was always cool, a little sharp with his humor, but never cruel.

He remembered the small things: how you liked your coffee, the way you fiddled with your sleeves when you were nervous, the fact that you secretly wanted to learn guitar even though you were convinced your fingers were too clumsy.

Two months had passed since graduation, and the two of you had slipped into this strange new version of adulthood.

No more uniforms, no more bells dictating your day. just late nights, cheap takeout, and the growing tension that neither of you had named.

You told yourself it was just a silly, accumulation of caring over the years.

But lately it had become something heavier. needier.

Because it wasn't just his smile or the way he looked at you like he could read every thought behind your eyes.

It was the guitar lessons.

Every few nights you ended up in his room — that warm, low-lit sanctuary at the back of his aparment.

Soft golden lighting, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with wood polish and whatever bottle of wine he'd opened that evening.

He'd sit behind you on the bed or on that worn leather stool, chest brushing your back as he guided your fingers along the fretboard.

His voice would drop low when he corrected your posture, breath warm against your ear.

And every single time, you left that room wet, aching, and painfully aware of how badly you wanted more than just his hands on yours.

Tonight, that ache felt louder than usual.

The restaurant was still buzzing when you all stepped outside.

The four of you had taken over a corner table for nearly three hours — pasta plates half-empty, bottles of soju and beer scattered like evidence.

Heeseung had been the calm anchor as always, laughing deeply at Jake's ridiculous stories about his latest failed attempt at cooking.

Jake, true to form, had been loud and playful, teasing you about how red your cheeks got after your third glass.

"Alright, i'm tapping out" Heeseung said, stretching his arms above his head. he grinned at you and Jay. "you two heading back too?"

Jake slung an arm around your shoulders for a second, giving you a quick squeeze. "don't let Jay bore you to death with more guitar talk."

You laughed, the sound a little loose from the alcohol. "too late. i think i'm officially addicted."

Jay stood a step behind you, hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, watching the exchange with that trademark half-smirk.

He hadn't drunk much — maybe one beer the whole night. he never did when he knew he'd be the one making sure everyone got home safe.

"Get home safe, hyung" Jay told Heeseung, bumping fists. "Jake, stop burning your kitchen down."

Jake flipped him off playfully as he and Heeseung headed toward the main road to catch a cab. you waved until they disappeared around the corner, the streetlights catching their silhouettes.

And then it was just you and Jay.

It was barely past 9 PM, but the city had already slipped into that quieter, darker version of itself.

The restaurant sat on a side street lined with closed shops and a few scattered people hurrying home.

Neon signs flickered softly in the distance. your cheeks felt warm, the alcohol humming pleasantly in your veins, making everything feel a little softer around the edges.

Jay glanced at you, dark eyes scanning your face.

"You good?" he asked, voice low and steady. "you look a little flushed."

"I'm fine" you answered, maybe a touch too quickly.

You smiled up at him, feeling bolder than usual. "just… warm. and i don't really want to go home yet. my brothers are probably screaming at some video game right now. your place is quieter."

He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. that familiar mix of amusement and something unreadable.

"You sure? i can drop you off. you drank more than usual tonight."

You stepped a little closer, the alcohol loosening your usual shyness. "i'm sure. i'd rather be with you."

The words came out softer than you meant them to, almost flirty. Jay's gaze lingered on you for a beat longer than normal before he nodded.

"Alright. let's go."

The walk to his place wasn't long.

Jay kept pace beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed every few steps. he didn't say much, but he was always like that — comfortable in silence.

Every once in a while he'd glance over to make sure you were steady on your feet.

When you finally reached his apartment, you stepped into his room, the familiar warmth settled over you like a blanket.

The lighting was exactly how he liked it: soft, gold tones from the tall floor lamp in the corner.

His acoustic guitar rested on its stand beside the electric one. a half-finished bottle of red wine sat on the low wooden table next to two clean glasses.

The small leather couch had a couple of blankets thrown over it, and the walls held photos — some of the group, some of just the two of you from random outings over the years.

It smelled like him: wood, faint cologne, and that subtle hint of wine that always seemed to linger here.

Jay shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the back of his chair.

"Sit" he said, nodding toward the couch. "i'll get you some water first. you're going to thank me tomorrow."

You dropped onto the couch, watching him move around the room with that effortless confidence.

Even after years of friendship, you never got tired of looking at him. the sharp line of his jaw, the way his black hair fell across his forehead, the casual way his shirt stretched across his shoulders.

He came back with a glass of cold water and handed it to you before pouring himself a small amount of wine.

"You're really not that drunk, are you?" you asked, teasing lightly as you sipped the water.

Jay chuckled, settling beside you on the couch. not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat of his body.

"I'm sober enough to know you're tipsy" he replied, voice smooth. "and sober enough to know you get chatty when you are."

You laughed softly, pulling your legs up onto the couch.

The alcohol made your thoughts swirl — memories of all those guitar lessons mixing with the deeper, filthier ones you tried to push down.

You'd been in love with him for years.

But lately, the need had grown teeth.

It wasn't just romantic anymore.

You wanted him.

Wanted his hands on you for reasons that had nothing to do with chord positions. wanted to know what his mouth felt like. wanted to taste him.

To have his cock in your mouth, heavy and warm, to hear the way his voice would break if you took him deep.

Not anyone else's. just Jay's.

Those thoughts had been getting louder since the lessons started two months ago.

Every time his fingers covered yours on the strings, every time his chest pressed against your back and he murmured instructions against your ear… you left his room throbbing, panties ruined, fingers slipping between your legs the second you got home.

And now here you were again, in his room, a little drunk, heart racing.

"Now you're quiet" Jay observed, tilting his head. his dark eyes studied you carefully. "what's going on in that head of yours?"

You bit your lip, feeling heat rise to your cheeks that had nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Just… thinking about how long we've been friends" you said, keeping your voice light. "feels weird sometimes. like we're actual adults now."

Jay hummed in agreement, taking a slow sip of wine. "yeah. but some things don't change." he glanced at you, a small smirk playing on his lips. "you still suck at guitar."

You gasped dramatically, shoving his shoulder. he laughed — that low, rich sound you loved — and caught your wrist gently before you could pull away.

"See? still easy to mess with."

His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, just once. the touch sent electricity straight down your spine. you didn't pull away.

The air between you felt thicker than usual. the golden lighting cast soft shadows across his face, making him look even more unfairly handsome. you could smell his cologne again, warm and familiar.

"Jay…" you started, not even sure what you wanted to say.

He raised an eyebrow, still holding your wrist loosely.

"Yeah?"

You swallowed. the need you’d been carrying for years — the filthy, aching want — sat heavy on your tongue. but you weren't brave enough yet.

Instead, you just smiled, shy but warm, and leaned your head against his shoulder like you'd done a hundred times before.

"I'm glad you're my best friend" you whispered.

Jay was quiet for a moment. then his hand shifted, resting lightly on your knee.

"Me too" he murmured.

But his fingers stayed there, warm through the fabric of your jeans, and neither of you moved to change the subject.

The night was still young, and the tension that had been building for years felt dangerously close to spilling over.

The water helped a little, but the alcohol still buzzed warmly through your system, making your limbs feel loose and your thoughts dangerously unguarded.

You watched Jay move across the room with that effortless grace he always had. he reached for one of his guitars, and your breath caught.

He picked up the acoustic — his prized custom-made gibson Vesper.

The instrument looked beautiful under the soft café-gold lighting: dark wood with elegant black binding, sleek and modern with a vampire-inspired design he'd once explained to you in detail.

It was his baby, the one he played when he wanted something intimate and warm-toned.

"I've been working on a new melody" he said casually, settling on the stool across from the couch. his long fingers wrapped around the neck of the Vesper like it was an extension of himself. "want to hear it?"

You nodded, maybe a little too eagerly. "yeah… show me."

He strummed a few soft chords first, then launched into the short piece. just five or six seconds of a smooth, melancholic melody that shifted into something warmer, almost seductive in its simplicity.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly in concentration, lips parted just a fraction as he focused. the way his fingers moved — precise, confident, pressing and sliding along the frets — made heat pool low in your stomach.

God, you didn't even know if you actually cared about learning guitar anymore.

Was it the music? or was it just him?

The way his forearms flexed, the focused set of his jaw, the way the warm light caught on his sharp cheekbones and made his dark hair look softer.

You wanted him so badly it embarrassed you sometimes.

Especially tonight, with the alcohol making your skin feel too hot and your inhibitions paper-thin.

In your head, the thoughts were already spiraling: kneeling between his legs, taking his cock into your mouth, tasting him, hearing that low voice of his break while you sucked him deep. not just any dick. his.

Jay finished the short melody and looked up, smirking when he saw your expression.

"Not bad, right?" he asked.

"It was beautiful" you said honestly, your voice a little breathy. "i love how it sounds on the Vesper."

He stood and walked over, offering you the guitar. "you know the basics now. let's try teaching you your first real short melody. nothing too crazy."

You took the Vesper carefully, the wood warm from his hands.

On the outside, you looked focused and innocent, adjusting the strap and sitting up straighter.

"Posture." Jay reminded you.

He moved behind you on the couch, one leg on either side of your body so he could reach around. his chest pressed lightly against your back as he corrected the angle of the guitar on your lap.

One hand settled on your shoulder to straighten your back, the other sliding down to adjust your left hand on the fretboard.

His touch was warm. deliberate.

You bit your lip hard without thinking, a quiet little sound escaping as his fingers covered yours, guiding them into position. the alcohol made it impossible to hide your reaction — your cheeks burned, your thighs pressed together instinctively.

Jay paused. you could feel him smirk against the side of your head.

"Easy there" he murmured, voice low and teasing near your ear. "don't break my strings with that death grip. or is the Vesper too much for you tonight?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "shut up. i'm trying."

He didn't move away immediately. his fingers stayed over yours a second longer than necessary, then he pulled back just enough to watch but remained close.

"Go ahead. start with the first four chords i showed you last time. slow."

You tried.

Your fingers felt clumsier than usual from the drinks, but you managed to hit the notes — not fluid, not pretty, but recognizable. better than a total beginner.

The Vesper's rich tone filled the room even with your imperfect playing.

Jay hummed approvingly. "not terrible. you're improving."

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped the bomb.

"So… how was that blind date with Sunghoon a week ago?"

Your fingers slipped. a horrible, discordant twang rang out from the guitar. you winced.

"Why are you asking about that?" you said quickly, glancing over your shoulder at him.

Jay shrugged, leaning back against the couch but still watching you closely. his expression was casual, but his eyes were sharp. "just curious. Jake mentioned Sunghoon told him you two… hooked up."

The room felt suddenly warmer. you stared down at the guitar, fingers frozen on the strings.

It was true.

You'd gone on that blind date desperate to convince yourself that your insane attraction to Jay was just horniness. just lack of sex.

Sunghoon was good-looking, you'd slept with him after a couple of drinks. the sex had been… fine. mechanically okay.

But it left you emptier than before. because all you could think about during and after was Jay. how you wished it was Jay's hands, Jay's mouth.

It had only made your filthy fantasies about your best friend worse.

You tried to play it off, strumming a few awkward notes that sounded completely off-key. "Jake needs to mind his own business. why is he such a gossip?"

Jay chuckled, that low, amused sound that always sent shivers down your spine. he reached over and gently corrected your finger placement again, his touch lingering.

"Because he's Jake. and you're avoiding the question."

You huffed, the alcohol making you bolder even as embarrassment burned your face. "it happened, okay? it was… whatever. not life-changing."

Jay raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by how flustered you were getting. "not life-changing? damn. poor Sunghoon. but ifeel like details are missing."

You shot him a look, trying to sound defensive. "i've grown up, you know. i'm not that irresponsible girl from high school who told you every dirty detail about her first time in graphic, disgusting detail anymore."

Jay laughed outright at that, leaning closer again. his breath brushed your neck.

"Oh yeah? because i remember that conversation very clearly. you did not hold back. 'it felt like a sad hot dog in a hallway' was the line that still lives rent-free in my head."

You groaned, covering your face with one hand while still awkwardly holding the guitar with the other. "i was drunk and stupid! and like… seventeen."

"You're still a little drunk tonight" he pointed out, voice teasing but softer. "and still oversharing, apparently."

The conversation hung between you, heavy with years of history. you tried to play again, but your notes kept clashing — messy, out of rhythm, completely unfocused.

Jay didn't stop you. he just watched, eyes dark and thoughtful under the warm lighting.

You sighed. "it was just an escape, Jay. i thought maybe if i… did something, it would quiet my head. but it didn't. it was okay, but… it wasn't..." you trailed off, not brave enough to finish that sentence.

It wasn't you.

Jay was quiet for a long moment. his hand came to rest on your lower back, a casual but intimate touch as he leaned in to adjust your right hand strumming position.

"You're thinking too hard" he said eventually, voice low. "that's why it sounds like the guitar is in pain."

You laughed despite yourself, the sound shaky.

Being this close to him, drunk, with his hands on you and your mind full of filthy thoughts about sucking him off right here in this room… it was torture.

The lesson continued like that for a while longer.

Jay guided you through the simple melody, patient even when your playing fell apart. every correction involved him touching you — fingers on yours, hand on your waist to fix posture, knee brushing your thigh.

Each touch sent sparks through your body.

At one point you shifted on the couch, and your thigh pressed firmly against his. you didn't move away. neither did he.

"You're really warm" he commented after a while, almost absentmindedly. "still feeling the drinks?"

"Yeah" you admitted, biting your lip again as his fingers guided yours into a new chord. "everything feels… a lot right now."

Jay hummed. his voice dropped lower. "i can tell."

The air in the room felt thicker.

And as Jay leaned in once more to correct your hand, his lips accidentally brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured instructions, you wondered how much longer you could keep pretending this was just about learning guitar.

The warmth of his breath sent a shiver racing down your spine. you froze, fingers stiffening on the frets of the Vesper.

The rich, dark wood of the guitar felt heavier in your lap now, like it knew the real reason your heart was hammering.

"I… i think i can't keep playing right now" you admitted, voice softer than you intended. the alcohol made your words feel thick on your tongue. "i'd love to, though. your Vesper sounds so beautiful. it's honestly such a pretty guitar. the tone is just… perfect."

Jay pulled back slightly, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. that sound — God, that sound — always did dangerous things to you.

He reached around you to gently take the guitar from your hands, his fingers brushing over yours one last time.

"Yeah? she's my favorite for a reason" he said, standing up with the instrument.

He walked over to the stand and carefully placed the custom Gibson Vesper back in its spot, adjusting it with the same care he always showed his things.

You watched him move, the soft golden lighting casting gentle shadows along his shoulders and arms.

The room felt smaller now. cozier. the faint scent of wine still lingered in the air, mixing with his cologne and the wood polish from his guitars.

He turned back to you, hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. "it's getting late anyway. past eleven already. you're pretty drunk, and i'm not letting you go home like this. you can just stay over. saves time, and your brothers are probably still up causing chaos."

You let out a bright, tipsy laugh, the kind that came out a little too loud because of the alcohol. "yeah? okay. i'd like that. a lot, actually."

Jay's smirk deepened, but there was something softer behind it. "didn't even think twice, huh?"

"Nope" you said, popping the 'p' playfully.

He walked over to the built-in closet near the back of the room and pulled out clothes. two oversized t-shirts — one black, one dark gray — and a pair of soft black pajama shorts.

He held them out to you.

'Here. you can wear these. that dress looks cute but it's not exactly sleep-friendly. too cold in here at night if you're not covered up properly."

You stood up, a little unsteady, and took the clothes from him.

Your fingers brushed his, and you felt that familiar spark again. "thanks, Jay."

Before he could say anything else, you grabbed the bundle and slipped behind the heavy cream-colored curtain that separated the small changing corner from the rest of the room.

It was something he'd put up after one too many late-night study sessions when you'd crash here.

You heard him laugh quietly on the other side.

"Drunk you is way shyer than sober you" he teased, voice warm with amusement. "usually you just strip down in front of me like i'm not even here. claiming 'we're best friends, it doesn't matter.' but the second alcohol hits… curtain time."

You fumbled with the zipper of your dress, cheeks burning. "shut up. i'm being responsible."

"Responsible" he echoed, clearly not buying it. you could hear him moving around, already changing too. "sure."

"I am!" you called back, laughing as you pulled his t-shirt over your head. it smelled like him — clean laundry, faint cologne, and that comforting warmth that always made your stomach flip.

The shorts were a little loose on your hips, but they were soft and comfortable. "i've grown up. i'm not that chaotic high school girl anymore."

You stepped out from behind the curtain, adjusting the hem of the oversized shirt. and then you stopped dead.

Jay was in the middle of pulling his own shirt on.

He already had the gray pajama shorts on, hanging low on his hips, but his torso was still bare. the warm lighting highlighted every line of muscle on his chest and abdomen — the result of casual gym sessions.

His skin looked smooth, shoulders broad, that sharp V-line disappearing into the waistband of his shorts.

You let out a soft, involuntary exhale, almost a gasp. your heart skipped hard.

Jay noticed immediately. he tugged the shirt down quickly, but not before you got a full view.

His eyebrow arched, that signature smirk returning.

"Damn. you really are wasted tonight" he said, voice low and teasing as he stepped closer. "if you want, i can tie you up so you can control yourself better. keep those wandering eyes in check."

Your brain short-circuited for a second.

Yes. God, yes. tie me up. use me. anything.

The filthy thought flashed through your mind so fast it made you dizzy. but on the outside, you just let out a nervous laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly.

"Stop it" you mumbled, still smiling. "i'm fine. perfectly fine. just… surprised you're changing in the middle of the room, that's all."

He chuckled, running a hand through his dark hair. "this is my room. and you've seen me shirtless plenty of times. at the beach last summer, remember? or when we went swimming at Sunoo's parents' pool?"

"That was different" you muttered, walking over to the couch and dropping down onto it, pulling one of the soft blankets over your legs.

Your face felt hot. the alcohol wasn't helping you hide anything.

Jay followed, sitting on the other end of the couch but turning toward you. the room felt even more intimate now — just the two of you in comfortable clothes, the golden lights dimmed slightly, the faint sound of the city outside barely audible.

"So" he said after a moment, grabbing the half-empty bottle of water and taking a sip before offering it to you. "you really didn't enjoy it with Sunghoon?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. "we're back to this?"

"I'm curious" he said simply. "you're my best friend. if some guy didn't treat you right or couldn't make it good for you, i need to know. i'll kick his ass if necessary."

You peeked at him through your fingers. he looked genuinely relaxed, but there was that focused intensity in his eyes again — the same one he got when he was trying to read you.

"It wasn't bad" you said slowly, lowering your hands. "he was… nice. polite. good-looking, obviously. but it just felt… mechanical. like we were both going through the motions. i thought maybe sleeping with someone would help clear my head about certain things, but it only made it worse."

Jay tilted his head. "worse how?"

You shrugged, tracing patterns on the blanket with your finger.

Your mind was still swirling with images you couldn't say out loud —his low groans filling this exact room.

"Just… confirmed some stuff" you said vaguely. "that i'm probably not built for casual stuff. my brain gets too loud."

Jay was quiet for a beat. then he shifted closer, stretching his arm along the back of the couch until his fingers lightly brushed your shoulder again.

"You've always been like that" he murmured. "even back in high school. you overthink everything. except when you're telling me way too many details about your personal life."

You laughed, the sound breathy. "i was young and stupid. and you were the only person i trusted enough to say that stuff to."

"Still am?" he asked, voice quieter now.

You met his eyes. the tension between you felt alive, humming under the surface. "yeah. still you."

The silence stretched comfortably. Jay eventually stood up. he grabbed another blanket and tossed it over you before settling back down — closer this time, so your legs were almost touching.

"Remember when we first became friends?" he asked suddenly, staring at the ceiling. "you used to sit there during lunch, pretending you weren't listening to me play. i thought you were cute. shy, but cute."

Your heart fluttered. "i had the biggest crush on you for like… two years before i even admitted it to myself."

Jay turned his head to look at you, surprise flickering across his face for a split second before that cool mask returned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah" you whispered, the alcohol making you honest. "but you were always so… you. cool. talented. out of reach. so i settled for being your best friend instead."

He didn't answer right away. instead, he reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch lingered.

"You're not out of reach to me" he said softly.

The words hung heavy in the air. your body felt warm all over — from the drinks, from his proximity, from years of wanting.

You turned onto your side to face him better, the blanket slipping down slightly.

"Jay… can i ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Have you ever… thought about me like that? more than just a friend?"

He was quiet for a long moment, dark eyes studying your face. then he gave you that half-smirk again, the one that made your knees weak.

"I'm not drunk enough to answer that tonight."

You laughed, but there was nervous excitement bubbling inside you. "coward."

"Maybe" he said, chuckling. "or maybe i'm just responsible. one of us has to be when the other is this tipsy."

You spent the next hour talking like that — about old memories, stupid fights you had in high school, the group chats with Heeseung and Jake that always got chaotic, how weird it felt to be actual adults now.

Eventually, you both were in bed under thin blankets.

Jay's voice was low and soothing. every once in a while his hand would brush your arm, casual touches that felt anything but.

At some point you shifted, and your head ended up resting against his chest.

He didn't push you away. instead, his arm came around you, holding you loosely.

"You're warm" you mumbled sleepily, the alcohol finally catching up to you fully.

"So are you" he replied, voice barely above a whisper.

Your mind kept drifting back to filthy places even as sleep pulled at you — imagining sliding your hand under the waistband of his shorts, tasting his skin, hearing him say your name in that deep tone.

But for now, you let yourself enjoy the closeness. the safety.

Jay's fingers traced slow patterns on your back through the t-shirt.

"Get some sleep" he murmured against the top of your head. "we'll talk more in the morning. when you're sober."

You nodded, eyes already closing.

But even as you drifted off, safe in his arms in the soft golden light of his room, you knew one thing for certain:

Pretending was getting harder and harder.

You lay there for what felt like forever, curled against his side under the soft blanket, but sleep refused to come.

The alcohol had loosened your body, but your mind was wide awake, buzzing with years of suppressed feelings and the heavy warmth of Jay's arm draped loosely around you.

Every small shift of his body, every steady breath he took, made your skin prickle with awareness.

Jay wasn't sleeping either. you knew him too well — he never could fully relax until he knew you were safe and asleep. it was one of those quiet protective habits he'd had since high school.

With a soft sigh, you sat up slowly, the oversized t-shirt slipping slightly off one shoulder. you stayed close, your thigh still pressed against his.

Jay shifted beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. his dark hair was slightly messy, and his eyes scanned your face with that familiar sharpness.

"Can't sleep?" he asked quietly.

You shook your head. "too many thoughts."

He hummed in understanding but didn't push. for a moment, comfortable silence settled between you again. then you spoke, the alcohol still giving you just enough courage.

"You know… i doubt Jake would've randomly told you about Sunghoon unless you asked him first." you turned your head to look at him directly. "so why the curiosity, Jay?"

Jay let out a slow sigh, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the ceiling for a second. when he looked back at you, his expression was calm but serious.

"Because you're my best friend" he said simply. "it's my job to look out for you. to make sure no dickhead hurts you, gets your hopes up, or leaves you feeling like shit afterward. i've been doing that since we were in secondary school. nothing's changed."

You fell quiet, processing his words.

The weight of them sat heavy in your chest. his protection had always felt safe… but lately it felt like something more. something that made your stomach twist in confusing, needy ways.

Jay noticed your silence. he tilted his head slightly. "why are you thinking about all of this right now? you know i worry about you. that's not new."

You bit your lip, fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. "i guess… i've been wondering lately if i've ever mistaken your protection for something else. like… possessiveness."

Jay stared at you for a beat, then let out a low, genuine laugh — the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

He sat up fully now, swinging his legs so he was facing you directly. the movement brought him much closer, your knees nearly touching, his presence suddenly filling your space.

"Possessiveness?" he repeated, still chuckling in disbelief. "you're way too drunk to be throwing words like that around."

You met his gaze, your heart beating faster. "i'm drunk, but i'm sober enough to notice that you're the one acting weird tonight."

Jay laughed again, softer this time, shaking his head. "me? weird?"

He leaned in a little, voice dropping. "you're the one whose breathing keeps changing every time i get close. the one who keeps pressing your thighs together when my hand brushes your arm or when i fix your posture during lessons. you think i don't notice?"

Your mouth went dry. heat flooded your cheeks.

He was right — painfully right. you'd been doing exactly that for the past two months during every guitar session. and tonight, with the alcohol stripping away your filters, it was impossible to hide.

You stayed silent for a long moment, just looking at him. then you put on that fake-innocent expression you knew he could see right through — wide eyes, slight tilt of your head.

"If you know all of that… why don't you do anything about it?"

The question hung in the air like smoke. Jay's smirk faded into something more intense, more focused. his dark eyes searched yours carefully.

"Because i'd never do anything you haven't asked for" he said, voice low and steady. "not with you. never."

Your face grew hotter. you could feel the blush spreading down your neck.

The tension in the room thickened, wrapping around both of you. you were hyper-aware of everything: the way his bare arm looked under the golden light, the faint scent of his skin mixed with the laundry detergent on the t-shirt he was wearing, how close his mouth was if you just leaned forward a few inches.

You swallowed hard, your voice barely above a whisper. "and if i did ask… would you give it to me?"

Jay didn't answer with words right away.

Instead, he reached out slowly, his fingers gently brushing your hair away from your face before tucking it carefully behind your ear.

The touch was light, but it sent electricity racing across your skin. His hand lingered there for a second, thumb grazing your cheekbone.

Then he nodded. once. slow and deliberate.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

The simple gesture and that quiet confirmation made your stomach flip violently.

In your mind, the thoughts rushed in unfiltered — filthy, desperate images of his hands on your body, his voice in your ear, finally giving in to what you'd wanted for years. but you stayed still, letting the tension stretch.

Jay's eyes stayed locked on yours, calm but burning with something deeper. he didn't move closer or pull away. he just waited, giving you the space to decide what came next.

"You're really going to make me say it out loud, huh?" you murmured, a nervous little smile tugging at your lips.

He smirked again, that trademark Jay confidence returning. "i'm not assuming anything with you. i've known you too long. if this is what you want, you're going to have to be clear."

You let out a shaky breath, shifting slightly on the bed.

Your thigh pressed more firmly against his. neither of you moved away.

"I've wanted this for so long" you admitted quietly, the alcohol and years of repression loosening your tongue.

"Not just tonight. since we were in high school. every time you taught me guitar… every time we'd end up here talking until 3 a.m.… it's been driving me crazy."

Jay listened without interrupting, his expression unreadable but his body language open.

He moved one hand on the bed near your leg, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

"You hid it well" he said eventually, voice rougher than before. "most of the time."

"Guess i'm not hiding it anymore."

He chuckled softly. "No. you're really not."

Another stretch of heavy silence. your eyes dropped to his mouth for a second before flicking back up. Jay noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

"You're nervous" he observed, not teasing this time. just stating it. "your pulse is going crazy right here." his fingers lightly touched the side of your neck, feeling your heartbeat.

You didn't deny it. instead, you leaned into his touch just slightly.

"I'm nervous because it's you" you whispered. "because if we do this… it changes everything."

Jay's thumb brushed slowly along your jaw. "it doesn't have to. not unless we want it to."

His words were careful, responsible — so typically Jay.

Even now, when the air between you crackled with years of built-up desire, he was still thinking about protecting what you had. it only made you want him more.

You stayed like that for a while longer, talking in low voices.

Every small movement — your fingers brushing his arm — felt loaded.

The tension was thick enough to taste. your body ached with it, a deep, warm need that had been growing for years, sharpened by every guitar lesson, every late-night conversation, every moment you'd spent pretending.

But still, you didn't cross the line. not yet.

The silence between you stretched, thick and electric. your heart hammered so hard you were sure he could hear it.

The soft lighting in Jay's room wrapped around both of you like a secret, making every small movement feel heavier than it should.

You shifted closer on the bed, moving until you were on your knees beside him.

Jay was leaning back against the pillows in a way that left space — deliberate space. if you wanted to climb on him, kiss him, do anything… he wouldn't pull away. his dark eyes followed you calmly, patient as always.

"You don't have to feel any pressure" he said quietly, voice low and steady. "even Heeseung and Jake noticed. they've been telling me for weeks how obviously into me you are. i couldn't exactly deny feeling it too… but i didn't want to make things weird between us."

His honesty hit you hard. you leaned in slowly and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a second. his skin was warm under your lips.

"I don't want things to get uncomfortable either" you whispered against his cheek. "if we do this… if something happens… i promise i can pretend it never did. until we figure out how we really feel. no pressure on you either.”

Jay nodded once, then shifted back until he was leaning against the headboard of his bed.

The blankets were rumpled around you both.

You hesitated only a moment longer before swinging one leg over his lap and settling yourself straddling him.

The oversized t-shirt you wore rode up your thighs slightly as you sat down. Jay's hands came up naturally to rest on your waist — steady, supportive, but respectful.

His fingers didn't wander lower. he simply held you there, giving you balance without pushing for more.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. you were both breathing a little heavier. your hands rested on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under the thin fabric of his shirt.

You traced small, nervous circles with your fingertips, exploring the firm muscle you'd stared at so many times during those guitar lessons.

Jay watched you closely, that cool, observant expression still on his face even now.

"You've been thinking about this for a long time, haven't you?" he murmured.

You nodded, biting your lip. your hands slid slowly up his chest to his shoulders, then back down again, feeling the warmth of him through the shirt. "yeah… especially during those lessons. every time you sat behind me… every time your hands were on mine…"

You leaned forward and kissed his other cheek, then the corner of his jaw. your fingers kept moving, sliding over his collarbones, down his arms, learning the shape of him like you'd wanted to for years.

Jay's grip on your waist tightened just slightly — not enough to control, just enough to show he was affected.

"You have no idea how hard it's been keeping my hands where they belong during those lessons" he said, voice dropping lower, a little rougher around the edges.

"Sitting that close to you, feeling you react every time i touch your fingers… knowing you're getting wet just from that. it's been driving me fucking crazy too."

Your breath hitched at his words. the slight dirty edge to them — so rare from him — sent heat rushing through your whole body. you pressed your palms flat against his chest again, feeling how his breathing had changed.

"I want you to teach me what good sex feels like, Jay" you finally whispered, the words spilling out shy but honest.

Your face burned as you said it, but you didn't look away.

Jay's eyes darkened, but he still held himself back. his thumbs brushed slow, soothing circles on your waist over the t-shirt.

"You're sure?" he asked, even now checking. "we can stop anytime. this doesn't change anything if you don't want it to."

"I'm sure" you breathed.

You leaned in and finally kissed him properly.

The first kiss was soft — tentative, testing.

His lips were warm and surprisingly gentle against yours. then you tilted your head a little more, deepening it, and Jay responded with a low hum that vibrated through his chest.

One of his hands stayed firmly on your waist while the other came up to cup the back of your neck, not pulling, just supporting.

You kissed him again, slower this time, savoring it. your hands grew bolder, sliding under the hem of his shirt to touch bare skin.

You traced the lines of his abs, feeling the way his stomach tensed under your fingertips. Jay let out a quiet breath against your mouth when your nails grazed lightly over his skin.

"Fuck..." he muttered between kisses, voice husky. "you've been holding back a lot, haven't you? all those times you sat in this room acting innocent while your mind was somewhere filthy…"

You smiled shyly against his lips, still that mix of timid and needy. "Maybe."

Your hands kept exploring — running up his back, feeling the muscle there, then back to his chest.

You could feel how hard his heart was beating. you shifted slightly in his lap, not grinding, just adjusting closer, and Jay's fingers flexed on your waist.

He kissed you again, a little deeper this time, his tongue brushing yours carefully. when you pulled back for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

"You're shaking" he observed quietly, always noticing everything. "still nervous?"

"A little" you admitted, your fingers still tracing patterns on his chest under his shirt. "but i want this. i've wanted it for so long."

Jay's hand slid up your back in a slow, comforting stroke. "then we take it slow. i'm not rushing anything with you."

His voice dropped again, that slight dirty tone returning. "even if i've thought about bending you over that guitar stool more times than i should admit."

Your face flushed hot. you kissed him again to hide your embarrassment, hands cupping his face now.

The kiss grew heavier, more urgent, but Jay kept control — never letting his hands move lower than your waist, never pushing your hips down against him.

You broke the kiss and pressed your face into his neck, breathing him in as your fingers continued their slow exploration of his torso.

You could feel him getting hard beneath you, but he made no move to do anything about it.

"Tell me what you've thought about" you whispered against his skin, shy but curious.

Jay let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek. "you really want to hear that right now?"

You nodded, kissing his neck softly.

He exhaled slowly. "a lot of nights after you left these lessons… i thought about how pretty you look when you're concentrated. how your breathing changes when i get close. thought about what sounds you'd make if i finally touched you properly instead of pretending it was just about guitar chords."

Your thighs squeezed instinctively around his hips. Jay noticed but didn't comment on it, just kept talking in that low, controlled voice.

"I've wondered how you'd taste" he added, almost casually. "how you'd look sitting on my lap like this, trying so hard to stay quiet because your brothers might hear if we were at your house."

You let out a shaky breath, your hands tightening on his shoulders.

The tension was almost unbearable now — heavy, aching, delicious. you kissed him again, deeper, your body pressing closer against his chest while your hands roamed freely under his shirt.

Jay kissed you back with the same measured intensity, one hand still steady on your waist, the other gently threading through your hair. he was hard beneath you, you could feel it clearly, but he remained the same Jay — cool-headed, teasing even now.

"You're going to kill me if you keep touching me like that" he murmured against your lips, a hint of a smirk in his voice. "those hands have been driving me insane for months."

You smiled, a little breathless, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "good. because you've been doing the same to me every single lesson."

The two of you stayed like that for a long time — kissing slowly, touching carefully, talking in low voices between heated moments.

The world outside felt far away. years of friendship and hidden desire were finally cracking open, but still slowly, still safely.

Jay pulled back after one particularly long kiss, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

"Still okay?" he asked, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, leaning in to kiss him again.

Neither of you were ready to stop yet. the night was young, the tension was perfect, and for the first time, you weren't pretending anymore.

You kept kissing him, deeper now, with a hunger that surprised even you. despite the innocent, pure look on your face — wide eyes, flushed cheeks — any shyness had melted away under the heat of the alcohol and years of built-up need.

Your hands moved with purpose, sliding down Jay's chest, over his stomach, until you boldly palmed the obvious bulge straining against his gray pajama shorts.

Jay let out a sharp breath against your mouth, then another low sigh as your fingers rubbed him slowly through the fabric. je was hard, thick, and warm under your touch. you didn't hesitate, stroking him with more confidence, feeling him twitch under your palm.

"Fuck…" he muttered between kisses, his voice rougher.

He finally broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to look down between your bodies.

There you were — straddling him, hand shamelessly rubbing his erection right beneath where you sat. his dark eyes darkened further.

"You're not playing around tonight, huh?" he said, voice low and slightly amused, but clearly affected.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear, your voice needy and breathless. "i need you so bad right now, Jay… please. i want you to fuck me."

Jay let out a short, surprised laugh, the sound husky. "then take all your clothes off" he said, half-joking, half-challenging, that signature teasing tone still there even now.

But you were too far gone.

Without hesitation, you sat back on his thighs and pulled the oversized t-shirt over your head, revealing your bare chest. then you lifted your hips and slid the pajama shorts down your legs, kicking them aside until you were left in just your panties.

Your skin felt hot under his gaze.

Jay cursed under his breath — a low, impressed "shit…" — as his eyes raked over your body. his hands stayed respectful on your waist for a moment longer before he helped steady you.

"Come here" he murmured, pulling you back onto his lap properly.

The kissing resumed, hotter this time.

Your hand returned to stroking him through his shorts while his mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then down your neck.

He sucked lightly on your skin, not enough to leave marks yet, but enough to make you whimper softly.

You ground against his bulge slowly, feeling the friction through the thin layers separating you. Jay's breathing grew heavier, his hands finally sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts.

"You've been hiding this body from me during all those lessons?" he said against your neck, voice low and a little dirty. "sitting there acting all innocent while i was trying not to think about how you'd look like this… straddling me, touching my cock like you own it."

You moaned softly at his words, your hand squeezing him firmer. "i thought about it every time."

Jay kissed you hard again, then shifted both of you. he moved you off his lap gently and stood up, quickly pulling his own shirt off and dropping his shorts.

His cock sprang free — hard, flushed, and bigger than you'd imagined in your filthiest thoughts. he was smooth, well-kept, the head already glistening.

He sat back down against the headboard and pulled you back on top, but this time he guided you into a different position.

He turned you so you were facing away from him, your back to his chest, straddling his lap in reverse.

"Like this" he said quietly, voice steady but thick with want. "i want to feel you."

His hands settled on your hips, guiding you as you lowered yourself.

He didn't enter you yet — instead, he pulled your panties to the side and slid his cock between your folds, letting you grind along his length. the heat of him against your wet pussy made you gasp.

You leaned back against his chest, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you steady while his other hand reached down to rub slow circles on your clit.

His mouth was right by your ear, breathing warm against it.

"Slow" he reminded you, always in some control. "we've got all night."

You rocked your hips, sliding along his cock, coating him with how wet you were.

Jay groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your back. he kept rubbing your clit with practiced fingers, occasionally squeezing your breast with his free hand, rolling your nipple gently.

"Feel how hard you made me?" he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "all those guitar lessons… you sitting between my legs, biting your lip every time i touched you. i wanted to pull you back against me just like this."

You moaned, moving faster against him. Jay adjusted his grip, lifting you slightly before finally guiding the head of his cock to your entrance.

"Ready?" he asked, checking one last time.

"Yes" you breathed.

He lowered you slowly onto him, inch by inch.

The stretch was perfect — full, deep, overwhelming in the best way.

When he bottomed out, both of you let out shaky breaths. he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, his arm tight around your waist, the other hand still between your legs rubbing your clit.

Then he started moving.

He thrust up into you in a steady rhythm, deep and controlled.

You braced your hands on his thighs, leaning forward slightly as you rode him in reverse, matching his pace.

The position let him hit deep with every roll of his hips, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you.

Jay's breathing was ragged now, but his voice stayed low near your ear. "that's it… just like that. you feel so fucking good."

His hand on your clit never stopped, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

The other hand gripped your hip, guiding you down onto him harder.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the warm room, mixed with your soft moans and his occasional low groans.

You leaned further forward, hands on his knees for leverage, bouncing on his cock while he thrust up to meet you. Jay cursed again, the view from behind clearly affecting him.

"Look at you" he said, voice strained but still teasing. "taking me so well after wanting it for years…"

The pleasure built fast — the angle, his fingers on your clit, the deep thrusts.

Your thighs started trembling. Jay noticed, as always, and wrapped his arm tighter around you, holding you close as he fucked you through it.

Your back arching against his chest, a broken moan leaving your lips. Jay kept moving, slower now, drawing it out, murmuring quiet praise against your neck.

He didn't stop completely. after you caught your breath, he guided you to lean all the way forward, chest almost to the bed, still connected.

He sat up straighter behind you, hands on your hips as he thrust deeper, faster, chasing his own release.

The position was intense — you face down, ass up, Jay behind you thrusting with controlled power. his hands roamed your back, occasionally gripping your hair lightly to pull you back against him.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight" he groaned.

You pushed back against him, meeting every thrust. Jay's pace grew more urgent, but he never lost that cool edge — always making sure you were okay, his hands soothing even as he fucked you harder.

You kept moving on him, rolling your hips in a slow, needy rhythm as you rode Jay in reverse.

Your back was pressed against his chest, his cock buried deep inside you with every downward motion.

The stretch felt incredible, and the position let you feel every inch of him. your hands gripped his thighs for balance while his arm stayed wrapped around your waist, the other hand still teasing your clit with slow, deliberate circles.

But Jay had other plans.

His hands slid to your hips, gripping firmly but not harshly.

With a low murmur against your ear — "let me take over for a bit" — he guided you forward. you leaned down, hands bracing on the bed as he smoothly shifted your body off his lap and onto all fours. the transition was fluid, his cock slipping out for just a second before he positioned himself behind you.

Your hips stayed high, ass up, while your chest and face pressed down into the mattress.

The soft sheets muffled your heavy breathing as Jay knelt behind you.

He reached forward, gathering both of your arms gently but decisively, pulling them behind your lower back. he held your wrists together with one hand, limiting your movement without being overly restrictive.

His grip was secure, controlling, but still careful — classic Jay.

"Fuck… Jay…" you moaned loudly, the sound shameless and needy.

Your voice echoed in the warm room, much louder than you'd ever been with anyone else. "it feels so deep like this…"

He rubbed the head of his cock along your soaked folds for a moment, teasing, before pushing back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust.

You cried out, face buried in the mattress as your ass stayed arched high for him.

Jay started moving — deep and fast, but not brutal.

Each thrust was powerful and controlled, hitting that perfect spot inside you with precision. the sound of skin slapping skin filled the room, steady and rhythmic.

"Shit, listen to you" he said, voice low and slightly amused even now.

"You're so loud tonight. all those years pretending to be shy during our lessons… and now you're moaning like this with your face in my bed."

You whimpered loudly in response, unable to hold back. "i can't help it… you're so deep— ahh!" another loud moan tore from your throat as he thrust particularly deep, holding it there for a second before resuming his pace.

Jay kept your wrists pinned at your lower back with one hand while his other hand reached up and gathered your hair.

He didn't yank it — he simply held it firmly, using it as leverage to keep your head down against the mattress while he fucked you. the gentle tug on your scalp sent sparks through your body.

"That's it" he murmured, breathing heavier but still composed. "keep that ass up for me. you feel incredible like this… so wet. been thinking about this view for months every time you left my room."

Your moans grew louder, unrestrained. every deep thrust pushed a new sound out of you — high-pitched whimpers mixed with desperate gasps and full moans.

Your hips pushed back against him instinctively, meeting his rhythm as much as his grip on your wrists allowed.

"Jay— oh god, right there— fuck" you cried out, voice breaking. Your face stayed pressed into the sheets, cheek turned to the side, eyes half-closed in pleasure.

He leaned forward slightly, chest closer to your back, changing the angle just enough to make you see stars.

His thrusts never faltered — consistent, deep, fast enough to make your thighs shake but never rough enough to cross into discomfort.

"You're squeezing me so tight" he groaned near your ear, voice rough but still that familiar Jay tone — teasing underneath the lust. "all that tension from the guitar lessons finally coming out, huh?… you were this wet thinking about me fucking you like this?"

"Yes— fuck" you moaned loudly, almost sobbing into the mattress.

Your body rocked forward with each thrust, but Jay's hold on your wrists and hair kept you exactly where he wanted you. "i need more… please don't stop—"

He didn't.

He kept the pace steady, fucking you thoroughly.

Minutes passed like this — long, drawn-out, filthy minutes filled with the wet sounds of your bodies connecting and your increasingly loud moans. Jay would occasionally slow down to grind deep inside you, letting you feel every inch, before picking up speed again.

After a while, he released your wrists but only to adjust your position further.

He gently pushed your upper body fully down onto the bed, guiding you into a prone-bone angle — your hips still tilted up, legs slightly spread, chest and face pressed flat against the mattress.

He moved with you, covering your back with his chest as he slid back inside.

This new position felt even deeper. Jay's weight pressed you into the bed as he thrust down into you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other braced beside your head for support.

"Still good?" he asked between thrusts, voice low and caring even as he fucked you harder. "tell me if it's too much."

"It's— ah... it's perfect— Jay, fuck" your voice was loud and broken, moans spilling out continuously now.

The mattress muffled some of them, but not enough. you were loud, needy, completely lost in the sensation.

Jay let out a low chuckle that turned into a groan as you clenched around him. "you're going to wake up the whole house if you keep moaning like that. not that i mind… i like hearing how much you need this."

He kept the rhythm deep and fast, hips snapping against your ass with controlled power.

The angle made his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot with every stroke. his hand in your hair kept you grounded, his lips occasionally brushing your shoulder or the back of your neck as he fucked you.

"You're doing so well" he murmured, voice husky against your ear. "my best friend moaning my name while i fuck her exactly how she needs."

"Jay— please…" you whined loudly, pushing your hips back as much as the position allowed. your hands gripped the sheets tightly, body trembling from the sustained pleasure.

He kept going, deep, fast, relentless but never rough.

Always observant — adjusting when your moans pitched higher, slowing for a few strokes when your thighs shook too much, then building the pace again.

Jay kept his steady, deep rhythm, fucking you thoroughly from behind while you stayed pressed into the mattress. your loud moans continued filling the room without filter — raw, needy, and unrestrained.

But he wasn't done changing things up.

He slowed his thrusts gradually, then pulled out carefully.

Before you could protest the sudden emptiness, he flipped you onto your back with strong but gentle hands.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was between your legs again, spreading them wide and settling on top of you.

This time, though, he hooked both of your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

Your hips lifted off the bed as he leaned forward, bringing his face close to yours. the new angle made everything feel impossibly deeper.

"Jay— fuck—" you moaned loudly as he pushed back inside you in one smooth motion.

Your voice cracked with pleasure, eyes fluttering. "it's so deep like this… i can feel everything—"

He braced his hands on either side of your head, his dark eyes locked on your face as he started moving again. deep, fast strokes that made your breasts bounce with every thrust.

Your legs trembled over his shoulders, ankles near his ears.

Jay's expression stayed focused — that cool, controlled look mixed with clear desire.

He wasn't being rough, but the way he drove into you was relentless, hitting that perfect spot over and over.

"Look at me" he said, voice low and a little strained. "want to see your face while i fuck you."

You tried, but another loud moan tore from your throat as he ground deep inside you, rolling his hips in a way that made your toes curl. "ah— Jay, right there— don't stop—"

Your hands flew up to grip his arms, nails digging into his biceps as he held you folded beneath him.

The position left you completely exposed, hips tilted up, taking every inch of his cock with each thrust.

You were so loud now — moaning, whimpering, gasping his name repeatedly.

The sounds bounced off the walls of his warm-lit room.

Jay leaned down further, almost bending you in half, and kissed you messily.

His tongue slid against yours as he kept thrusting, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder. when he pulled back, his breathing was heavier.

"You're so fucking loud tonight" he murmured against your lips, a hint of that teasing smirk appearing even now.

"I can't— ah, it feels too good—" you cried out, head falling back against the pillows.

Your face was flushed, lips parted, eyes glassy with pleasure. every deep thrust pushed a new moan out of you. "Jay… Jay, please— it's so much—”

He kept the pace fast and deep, hips snapping forward with controlled power.

The angle made his cock drag perfectly against your g-spot on every stroke. one of his hands moved down to rub your clit again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation.

You were a mess beneath him — legs over his shoulders, body folded, moaning shamelessly loud with every movement.

Your hands roamed his back, scratching lightly down his skin as pleasure built higher and higher.

"Fuck, you feel perfect" Jay groaned, voice rough but still composed.

He kissed your neck, sucking lightly as he continued thrusting. "been wanting to have you like this for so long. all spread out, taking me so well… moaning my name like you can't get enough."

"I can't— i really can't—" you sobbed-moaned, voice breaking. your hips tried to move to meet his thrusts, but the position left you mostly at his mercy. "it's so deep, Jay… i'm so close already—"

He immediately slowed his pace just enough to keep you on the edge without pushing you over, drawing out the moment. His thrusts became long, deliberate strokes — pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in deep and grinding against you.

"Not yet" he said softly, almost teasing. "we're not done."

He changed the angle slightly, pressing your thighs further back as he leaned over you.

The new depth made you cry out even louder, your voice echoing in the room. Jay's hand stayed on your clit, rubbing slow circles while he fucked you with those deep, fast strokes.

Sweat glistened on both your bodies under the soft brown-gold lighting. Jay's hair fell messily over his forehead as he watched your face, always observant, always checking your reactions.

"Every time I hit this spot right here—" he thrust deep and ground against you to emphasize, making you moan loudly again. "—you get even wetter. you really did want this bad, didn't you?"

"Yes— god, yes— i've wanted you for years—" you gasped, voice loud and broken.

Your hands gripped his shoulders tighter as another wave of pleasure washed over you, keeping you right on the edge.

Jay kept going, deep and fast, but always controlled. he would lean down to kiss you messily every so often, swallowing some of your loud moans before pulling back to watch you again.

His hand never left your clit, building the tension higher without letting it break.

After a while, he lowered your legs from his shoulders but kept them spread wide. he stayed on top, chest pressed to yours in a more classic missionary, but still deep and intense.

His hips rolled against yours in a steady rhythm, grinding deep with every thrust.

"Still okay?" he asked between strokes, always the caring one even now.

"So okay— fuck, Jay, it feels amazing—" you moaned loudly, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

The room filled with the sounds of your loud, needy moans, his low groans, and the wet rhythm of your bodies moving together.

Jay kept the pace deep and fast, drawing it out, making the pleasure last as long as possible.

He kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips — mixing tenderness with the raw intensity of how he was fucking you.

His hand occasionally slid up to hold one of your wrists above your head, not pinning hard, just keeping you in place while he drove into you.

"You sound so pretty when you're this loud" he whispered against your ear, voice rough. "moaning for your best friend like this… after all this time."

Your response was another loud, broken moan as he hit that perfect angle again.

The tension kept building, higher and higher, but Jay expertly kept you both teetering right on the edge — not letting either of you fall over just yet.

You were right on the edge.

Your body was shaking underneath Jay, legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he fucked you deep and steady. your moans had become desperate, broken cries that filled the entire room.

"Jay— i'm so close— please, i'm gonna cum—" you gasped loudly, your voice cracking with need. your nails dug into his back as the pressure built unbearably tight inside you.

But Jay suddenly slowed down, then stopped moving completely, buried to the hilt inside you. he held perfectly still, breathing heavily against your neck.

"Not yet" he murmured, voice low and composed, that teasing control still fully intact. "you're not cumming yet."

You let out a loud, frustrated whine, trying to roll your hips up desperately, but he pinned you down with his weight, refusing to give you the last bit of friction you needed.

"Jay… please…" you begged, voice needy and loud. "i was so close—"

He kissed the corner of your mouth softly, then slowly pulled out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness.

Your pussy throbbed painfully, slick and desperate.

Jay moved down your body with deliberate calmness. he spread your legs wide, settling between them on his stomach.

His dark eyes looked up at your flushed, innocent-looking face as he wrapped his strong arms around your thighs, holding you open for him.

"Since you're being so loud and impatient" he said, voice husky but still teasing, "i'm going to taste you instead. but you still don't get to cum until i say so."

Before you could respond, Jay leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your soaked folds.

You moaned loudly, back arching off the bed at the sudden intense pleasure.

"Fuck— Jay—"

He took his time, exploring you with his mouth like he had all night. his tongue moved in slow, broad strokes from your entrance up to your clit, savoring how wet you were.

Then he circled your swollen clit with the tip of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge without pushing you over.

You were loud — extremely loud. your moans echoed shamelessly in his warm-lit room as he ate you out.

"Oh my god— Jay… that feels so good—" you cried out, one hand flying down to grip his hair. your hips tried to buck against his face, but his strong arms kept your thighs firmly pinned down, controlling your movements.

Jay hummed against your pussy, the vibration making you whimper even louder.

He alternated between long, slow licks and focused sucking on your clit, occasionally dipping his tongue inside you. his technique was precise and confident — typical Jay, even in this.

"You taste even better than i imagined" he murmured against your wet skin, voice slightly muffled. "all those guitar lessons… and i had no idea how sweet this pretty pussy was."

You moaned brokenly, head thrown back against the pillows. "Jay— please— i need to cum so bad— i can't take it—"

He ignored your begging and continued devouring you.

His tongue flicked rapidly over your clit for a few seconds, then slowed down again, edging you mercilessly.

Every time your thighs started trembling harder and your moans pitched higher, he would pull back slightly, kissing your inner thighs or blowing cool air on your sensitive folds until the orgasm threat faded just enough.

You were a complete mess — loud, desperate, and dripping.

"Ah! Jay— your tongue feels too good—" you sobbed, voice hoarse from how much you'd been moaning. your free hand gripped the sheets tightly beside you, knuckles turning white.

Jay slid two fingers inside you slowly while his mouth focused on your clit, curling them upward to press against that sensitive spot. the combination made you cry out even louder, almost screaming his name.

"Jay— fuck— i'm so close again— please let me cum this time—"

But he pulled his fingers out and slowed his tongue once more, denying you for the third time.

You let out a loud, frustrated whimper, tears of overwhelming pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"Not yet" he repeated calmly, kissing your clit softly. "i want you shaking for me first."

He buried his face deeper between your legs, sucking your clit into his mouth while his tongue flicked rapidly.

The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out mixed with your loud, broken moans. he kept you spread wide, completely exposed, as he worked you over with expert patience.

Minutes passed like this — long, torturous minutes of Jay's mouth on your pussy.

He would bring you right to the brink with fast, focused licks and suction, then slow down to lazy, broad strokes that kept the pleasure simmering without exploding.

Your body was covered in a thin layer of sweat, thighs trembling uncontrollably around his head.

"You're dripping all over my chin" he murmured, voice low and slightly dirty. "such a messy girl tonight. and still trying so hard to be quiet when we both know you can't."

"I'm not— i can't be quiet— Jay, please—" you moaned, almost incoherently now.

He slid his fingers back inside you, fucking you slowly with them while his tongue circled your clit.

The dual sensation had you seeing stars, right on the edge once again.

Your voice was getting hoarser, your moans desperate, needy sobs as he continued edging you with his mouth for what felt like forever.

Jay between your spread legs, focused and in control, while you writhed and moaned loudly beneath his skilled tongue.

He was clearly enjoying himself, occasionally humming in satisfaction against your pussy or glancing up to watch your innocent face contort with overwhelming pleasure.

"You're doing so well holding it for me" he praised softly between licks. "just a little longer…"

Your body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming for release, but Jay kept you right there — teetering, desperate, and completely at his mercy.

Now you were shaking uncontrollably, your thighs trembling around Jay's head as he continued working you with his tongue.

Jay sucked your swollen clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue rapidly while his two fingers curled deep inside you, pressing firmly against that sensitive spot.

His dark eyes flicked up to watch your face as he pushed you over.

"Jay— fuck— i'm cumming—!" you cried out loudly, voice breaking into a high-pitched moan that echoed through the room.

The orgasm crashed over you hard.

Your back arched violently off the bed, hips jerking against his face as waves of intense pleasure ripped through your body.

You moaned shamelessly loud, almost screaming his name as your pussy clenched around his fingers and flooded his tongue.

But Jay didn't stop.

He kept his mouth on you through the entire orgasm, licking and sucking gently but consistently, drawing it out and immediately pushing you toward another peak.

"Jay— oh my god, it's too much... i just came— ah" you wailed, one hand gripping his hair tightly while the other twisted in the sheets. your legs shook uncontrollably around his shoulders.

He hummed against your pussy, the vibration sending aftershocks through you.

"I know" he murmured, voice low and slightly smug against your wet folds. "but you sound too pretty when you're falling apart. i'm not done with you yet."

He continued eating you out with focused determination — slow, broad licks mixed with quick flicks on your oversensitive clit.

His fingers kept moving inside you, curling and thrusting steadily. the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on your dripping pussy filled the room alongside your loud, hoarse moans.

After several long minutes of this delicious torture, Jay finally pulled his mouth away, his lips and chin glistening with your arousal.

He looked up at your flushed, wrecked face with that signature cool smirk.

"On your stomach again." he said quietly, voice rough with want.

You barely had the strength to move, but he helped you, flipping you onto your belly with strong, careful hands.

He pulled your hips up so you were in doggy again — ass high, chest and face pressed down into the mattress, exactly how he liked you.

Jay knelt behind you and rubbed his hard cock along your soaked folds before pushing back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust. you moaned into the sheets as he filled you again.

"Jay— nggh—"

He started fucking you again with those perfect deep and fast strokes, his hips snapping against your ass.

One hand gripped your hip firmly while the other slid up your back. Then you felt it — his thumb circling your tight rim teasingly before slowly pressing inside.

The dual sensation — his thick cock stretching your pussy while his thumb gently worked inside your ass — was overwhelming.

"Shit... Jay" your body trembled as he pushed his thumb deeper, moving it in slow, careful thrusts in time with his cock.

"Relax for me" he murmured, voice low and steady even as he fucked you harder. "just a little. i've got you."

He kept the pace deep and rhythmic, cock driving into your pussy while his thumb gently fucked your ass.

The feeling was intense but not painful — just enough stretch and fullness to make your loud moans turn even more desperate.

You were a wreck — face down, ass up, moaning shamelessly loud with every thrust. Jay's free hand reached around to rub your clit again, pushing you toward another orgasm while he continued the double stimulation.

"Listen to how loud you are" he said, voice husky with arousal but still teasing. "you love this, don't you?"

"Yes... ngf... fuck yes, i love it—" you cried out, pushing back against him desperately. "don't stop... please."

Jay kept going, deep and controlled.

His cock dragged perfectly against your g-spot with every thrust while his thumb moved gently inside you, stretching you just enough to heighten everything.

The room was filled with the wet sounds of sex, skin slapping skin, and your continuous loud moans.

He leaned forward, chest pressing against your back as he fucked you, his mouth close to your ear.

"You're squeezing me so fucking tight" he groaned softly. "both holes. such a greedy girl tonight."

You could only moan in response, completely lost in the pleasure.

Jay's rhythm never faltered — deep, fast strokes in your pussy, steady movements of his thumb in your ass, and his fingers still working your clit.

He kept you right on the edge of another orgasm, drawing it out just like before.

After several long, intense minutes, he pulled his thumb out carefully and focused entirely on fucking you deep from behind, both hands gripping your hips as he drove into you with powerful, controlled thrusts.

Jay leaned down again, kissing the back of your neck as he continued fucking you thoroughly.

"You're doing so well" he said quietly, voice warm despite how hard he was driving into you. "taking me so deep… being so loud for me. my perfect girl."

He kept the pace going, switching between deep grinding and faster thrusts, always keeping you full and stimulated.

He gripped your hips tighter and drove into you harder, his cock sliding in and out of your soaked, sensitive pussy with wet, obscene sounds.

"Jay, fuck... it's too much—" you cried out, voice breaking as he hit that perfect spot over and over.

He leaned forward, chest pressing against your back, and wrapped one arm around your waist to hold you in place. his other hand slid up to grip your shoulder, pulling you back onto his cock with every thrust.

"You can take it" he murmured against your ear, voice rough and low. "you've been waiting years for this. take it like a good girl for me."

Then he shifted again, pushing your upper body fully down while keeping your hips raised.

The weight of him on top of you again, the way his cock drove so deep at this angle, had you moaning loudly into the sheets, almost sobbing with overstimulation and pleasure.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of him fucking you thoroughly, Jay's breathing became more ragged. his thrusts grew faster, more desperate.

This was exactly how he needed it.

He fucked you harder, hips snapping against your ass with urgent, almost frantic strokes.

His cock drove deep inside you with every thrust, the angle letting him hit as deep as possible. his breathing was heavy and labored against the back of your neck.

"Fuck— i'm close—" he groaned, voice strained for the first time that night. "you feel too good… i can't hold it anymore."

You moaned loudly in response, pushing your ass back against him as much as you could. "cum inside me, i want to feel you—"

That seemed to break the last bit of his control.

Jay's thrusts became erratic and desperate. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other gripping the sheets beside your head.

His hips slammed against you faster, chasing his release with raw need.

"Shit— fuck" he growled, voice breaking as the pleasure overtook him.

With a deep, guttural groan that vibrated against your skin, Jay buried himself as deep as possible inside you and came hard.

His cock pulsed strongly, releasing thick, warm spurts of cum deep into your pussy.

His hips stuttered and jerked against your ass as he rode out the intense orgasm, grinding deep to push every drop inside you.

He kept thrusting weakly through his climax, desperate and almost whimpering against your neck as the pleasure overwhelmed him.

His body trembled on top of yours, muscles tense, breathing ragged and hot against your skin.

He stayed pressed against you, hips twitching, making sure you took every single drop.

The desperation in his movements — the way he held you so tightly, the broken groans, the way he couldn't stop moving even after he started cumming — was raw and intense. years of tension finally snapping in that exact moment.

He stayed inside you for a long time afterward, breathing heavily, body still covering yours completely as the last aftershocks ran through him.

His cock continued to twitch inside your cum-filled pussy, making you whimper softly at the overstimulation.

The room was quiet now except for both of your heavy breathing. Jay's warm, sweaty body remained pressed against your back, his face hidden in your neck as he tried to catch his breath.

No words yet.

Just the heavy, satisfied silence and the feeling of him still deep inside you, having cum exactly where he needed to — deep, desperate, and completely lost in the moment.

The room felt quieter than it had all night.

You stayed there — face down, body spent and trembling — trying to process the overwhelming wave of emotions crashing over you.

The pleasure was still echoing through your limbs, but something deeper was settling in. something terrifying and warm at the same time.

Jay finally let out a long, shaky breath.

He pressed a slow, almost hesitant kiss to the back of your shoulder before carefully pulling out of you.

The loss of him made you whimper softly. you felt empty.

Exposed. raw.

He rolled off you and lay on his side, facing you.

For a few seconds, he just looked at you — dark eyes searching your face with that familiar intensity. his hair was messy, lips slightly swollen, skin glistening with sweat under the soft brown-gold lighting.

He looked beautiful. and suddenly, painfully real.

You turned your head to face him, cheek still pressed against the bed.

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest.

"Jay…" you whispered, voice hoarse from how loudly you'd been moaning.

He reached out and gently brushed damp strands of hair away from your face. his touch was careful now, almost reverent.

"Yeah?" he answered quietly. his voice was lower than usual, a little rough.

You didn't know what to say. there were too many things at once.

I just slept with my best friend.

I let him cum inside me.

I've been in love with you for years and now i'm scared.

Instead of speaking, you shifted closer and tucked yourself against his chest.

Jay didn't hesitate — he wrapped his arms around you immediately, pulling you in.

One hand rubbed slow circles on your bare back while the other rested at the nape of your neck.

The silence stretched again, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

It was heavy.

"I…" you started, then stopped.

Your fingers traced small patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowly begin to calm. "i don't know what to say right now."

Jay let out a soft breath that was almost a chuckle. "me neither."

He tilted his head down to look at you.

His expression was calm on the surface, but you knew him too well. there was something vulnerable behind his eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked. the question was simple, but the way he asked it — gentle, serious — made your chest tighten.

You nodded against him. "yeah. just… a lot."

He was quiet for a moment, then spoke again, voice low. "i know. for me too."

You pulled back slightly so you could see his face better. "did you… want this? like, really want it? or did i just—"

Jay cut you off by pressing his forehead against yours.

"I wanted it" he said firmly. "i've wanted it for longer than i probably should admit. but i never let myself think about it too much because… you're you. my best friend. the one person i didn't want to risk losing."

Your eyes stung a little.

You swallowed hard.

"I've been in love with you since second year" you confessed in a whisper. the words felt scary to say out loud, but after everything that had just happened, they also felt necessary.

"Not just… wanting you. loving you. for years. and tonight i just… i couldn't pretend anymore."

Jay's hand stilled on your back for a second. then he pulled you closer, tucking your head under his chin.

"I figured" he murmured. "i'm not blind. the way you looked at me during those guitar lessons… how you'd get quiet sometimes. i noticed. i just didn't know if acting on it would fuck everything up."

You let out a shaky laugh. "and now?"

He was quiet for a long time. his fingers resumed their slow movement on your back.

"Now i don't know" he admitted honestly. "but i don't regret it. not even a little." he paused. "do you?"

You shook your head quickly. "no. God, no. it felt… right. even if it was intense. even if i was so loud i probably woke up your neighbors."

Jay chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest.

The familiar teasing tone returned just a bit. "you were really loud. i didn't know you had that in you."

You hid your face in his neck, embarrassed but smiling. "shut up. you were the one edging me for like an hour."

He laughed again, but it faded into something softer. his arms tightened around you.

"I just… i needed to know you really wanted it" he said quietly. "all of it. not just because you were drunk or horny. i needed to hear you fall apart for me."

You stayed silent, absorbing his words.

The vulnerability in his voice was rare. Jay was always the cool one, the one who had everything under control. hearing him admit that he'd been holding back too made something warm bloom in your chest.

"I've never felt like that with anyone else" you whispered. "not even close. it wasn't just sex, Jay. it was you."

He exhaled slowly, like he'd been holding that breath for a long time.

"Yeah" he said finally. "same here."

The two of you stayed tangled together like that for a while.

You traced a finger along his collarbone. "are you scared?" you asked softly.

Jay was quiet for a few seconds.

"A little" he admitted. "i don't want to lose what we have. the friendship. the late nights. the stupid arguments about music. you're important to me. really fucking important."

You nodded, throat tight. "me too. but… i also don't think i can go back to pretending i don't feel this way."

He tilted your chin up gently so you were looking at him. his dark eyes were serious, but there was warmth there too.

"Then we don't pretend" he said. "we figure it out. slowly. no pressure. you're still my best friend first. everything else… we'll see."

You felt tears prick at your eyes again, but this time they were different. not sad. just overwhelmed.

Jay noticed immediately. he wiped the corner of your eye with his thumb.

"Hey" he said softly, that teasing smirk returning just a fraction. "don't cry on me now. i just made you cum so hard you almost forgot your own name. this is supposed to be a victory lap."

You laughed wetly and shoved his chest lightly. "you're such an asshole."

"Your asshole" he corrected, smirking.

The joke helped. it reminded you that even after everything, he was still Jay.

Your Jay.

You snuggled closer again, legs tangling with his. His hand resumed rubbing your back, soothing and steady.

The emotional weight of the night settled over both of you — the relief, the fear, the hope, the deep affection that had always been there underneath the tension.

It wasn't simple. it wasn't clean. but it was real.

Jay held you tighter, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

"Get some sleep" he murmured eventually, voice soft. "we'll talk more in the morning. when your brain isn't fried from all the orgasms i gave you."

You smiled against his skin. "cocky."

"Accurate" he replied.

Even in the emotional aftermath, the teasing remained. it felt safe. familiar.

As your eyes grew heavier, wrapped in his arms in the warm glow of his room, you realized something important:

Whatever happened next — whether this became something more or complicated everything — you didn't regret a single second.

And from the way Jay's fingers kept tracing gentle patterns on your skin long after you thought he'd fallen asleep, you suspected he didn't either.

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[enchive]

COME KISS ME [AND BITE ME]

sunghoon just wants to bite you, so why is the universe making it so complicated for him? alternatively-- the five times where sunghoon wants to bite you + the one time he actually does.

vampire!park sunghoon x f!!reader, ft. jake fluff/comedy(?), smut, minuscule angst wc: 28.9k cw: MDNI, mentions of biting, violent language that comes with aforementioned biting, eating people in a vampire way, lots of blood talk, first times, mention of poor eating habits, p in v, unprotected sex, handjobs, fingering, i lowkey trolled on the smut ngl

enchive's lttr: im not gonna lie everything i had planned for this fic went out of the window LOL i changed a lot from my initial idea. but nevertheless i hope u enjoy i lowkey felt like i trolled on this too much… ALSO SMALL SPOILER ABT WHAT'S HERE but should clarify . i love sangwon he's my ult but i saw a pic of him on twt where the light made it seem like he had fangs and i got soo dizzy thinking about vamp sangwon too…

Being a vampire was so tedious.

Sunghoon always had to wear sun protection no matter where he went, constantly sporting long sleeves and jeans despite the weather. His face always had a white cast on it from the constant layers of sunscreen he reapplied on his skin. He could never sit near the windows in his classes either, always having to choose the seat farthest from the light. And when the sun began to pierce through the glass and creep across the floor, he would have to quietly gather his things and move before the delicate rays would even get a chance to brush against his (heavily guarded) skin. Summer was miserable for him, and he could never enjoy the beach like his friends did. He always had to obsessively monitor the UV index like a wannabe “alpha male” checking their stocks and bitcoin.

He’d always have to drink his human blood in class, too, always cautiously sipping on the viscous liquid from his black thermos and pretending like it was coffee. The metallic scent lingered in his nose for hours afterward no matter how quickly he swallowed it down, and he’d constantly have to lap at his lips to hide the faint burgundy stains before someone noticed.

Eating normal food was equally annoying. Technically, vampires could consume human food if they wanted to, but it tasted like damp cardboard at best and expired garbage at worst. Still, pretending to eat was necessary when he was around other people, which meant Sunghoon had spent the last several years mastering the art of pushing food around on a plate while nodding through conversations. And not only was it annoying, but Sunghoon genuinely had to fight for his life during lunch whenever his classmates or friends had garlic in their food, which was nearly all the time considering how much garlic Koreans used on a day-to-day basis. (He hadn’t lived long enough to evolve to where he was immune to garlic. Curse immortality.)

Everything was such a hassle. Not to mention the sheer internal humiliation he was facing. Vampires used to be feared once as creatures of the night, blood-sucking ravagers that made people light incense at their doors and hang garlic wreaths on their windows. But that was centuries ago, and now, Sunghoon spent most of his immortal existence trying to pass his university classes and buying bulk sunscreen at the Costco that was so busy he had almost let himself wilt in the sun one day. Don’t even mention the fact that vampires were so romanticized that nobody could take them seriously— he had a real bone to pick with Robert Pattinson.

Despite that, surprisingly, that wasn’t the vampire’s biggest problem.

No, the biggest problem that Sunghoon was facing was you.

His biggest problem sat three seats away from him every Friday from 11 AM to 11:50 AM. His biggest problem smelled so fucking good that it nearly made Sunghoon moan out loud the first time he ever walked past you in class. His biggest problem was the cute little human that was so nervous and meek that not once had you spoken up in class. Sunghoon didn’t know if he hated being around you because it made him almost go feral, or if he liked you because you smelled so delicious that Fridays were genuinely the only thing he looked forward to.

He couldn’t help but always stare at you during class, his brain throbbing with how fucking tasty your blood smelled from under your skin. Sometimes, Sunghoon caught himself imagining what it would feel like to sink his fangs into your throat– to break through your epidermis, taste warmth, dig his fangs into your veins and drink until your pulse finally slowed beneath his mouth. The thoughts were intrusive, violent, and embarrassingly frequent. 

And sometimes, when you sat close enough, Sunghoon could practically hear your blood throbbing and rushing through your veins– so hot and tempting. You had to be AB+, Sunghoon could just smell it lingering in the air, the scent of the protein-rich blood type. It made him feel like how he was when he first turned. Back then, even a mere paper cut would send his tastebuds into turmoil. He had never reacted this strongly to a human before, let alone someone in a random university discussion section.

He just wanted to bite you so fucking bad that it made his sharp fangs ache with desire.

“Alright, everyone,” your TA, Heeseung, called out from the front of the classroom. “Since the midterm project is due in a month, I’m assigning partners today.” Everyone’s expressions flickered with disappointment and annoyance, but Sunghoon barely looked up from his laptop. Why were people complaining when it was literally in the syllabus…

Usually, group projects didn’t bother him. Humans tended to avoid him naturally anyway– something about his permanent blank expression and tendency to stare too long made most people keep their distance. It worked out well for him. The less interaction he had with humans, the less likely he was to accidentally reveal his identity. He didn’t care if he ended up with most of the work anyway; he was infinitely more competent than the rest of his peers.

But when Heeseung opened his mouth to reveal the first pair, the two names that he didn’t expect fell from his lips. “Sunghoon and Y/N?” the TA looked at the both of you with satisfied smiles.

Sunghoon’s entire body went rigid, and if he had any blood flowing through his system, then it would’ve flooded his entire face with a flush. Slowly, carefully, the vampire lifted his head to glance at you, mustering up all of the courage he could. And of course, you met eyes with him. You looked equally surprised, blinking at the TA before your gaze awkwardly shifted back toward him. You sent him a small and awkward smile, accompanied with a tiny wave of your hand. Sunghoon could only stare back before he realized he was being kind of rude, so he offered you a nod of his head to acknowledge your greeting.

After class, he planned to approach you after everyone filed out of the classroom, but you surprised him as you came up to him. “Hi,” you said quietly, clutching your notebook against your chest as you approached him. “Uhm, I’m Y/N. I guess we’re partners now...”

Sunghoon stared at your face. Your pulse fluttered immediately beneath your skin, bumping rapidly under your points. He could hear and feel all of it. The steady rhythm of your heartbeat, the smooth flow of blood moving through your veins, the warmth radiating off your body in waves strong enough to take him under. He wanted to thank Heeseung for giving him the best opportunity to drain your blood– fuck, he should treat the TA to a meal or something for giving him the tastiest meal possible.

“Uhm, Sunghoon?”

His eyes snapped back up to your face as he swallowed the drool accumulating in his mouth. “Yes?” he answered quickly. He heard your heartbeat speed up, pounding even harder at his response.

“Uhm, uh… do you want to exchange numbers and text about the project later? I have to go back to my place before I have work…” You shyly smiled. Sunghoon nodded, fumbling his cellphone out of his pocket. You gently took it from his cold hands, punching in your number and saving your contact under your first and last name with “(ethics discussion)” at the end of your name. “Uhm, I’ll see you later!” You waved cheerfully before skedaddling off, your sneakers squeaking against the tiled floors.

Oh, he was so going to eat you.

You texted back at 9 PM, when Sunghoon was comfortably lounging on his couch with a blood bag in his left hand and the television remote in the other.

He perked up, opening your chat box to see you diligently asking about the project.

y/n l/n (ethics discussion): hi sunghoon! i just got out of work, sorry for the late text. y/n l/n (ethics discussion): do u want to meet up this weekend to start the project? Park Sunghoon: Yes. My schedule is free this weekend. Park Sunghoon: We can do tomorrow if that is not too soon. y/n l/n (ethics discussion): YAY awesome! ur so hardworking y/n l/n (ethics discussion): uhmm do u want to meet at the library? Park Sunghoon: Yes. I will be at the library. What time? y/n l/n (ethics discussion): UHMM maybe liek uhmmm 4pm if that’s not too late? I wanna sleep in hehehe Park Sunghoon: Okay. We can meet. I will get there early to reserve us a table. y/n l/n (ethics discussion): oke but don’t feel like u have to get there early!! thanks sunghoon n gn! Park Sunghoon: Goodnight.

The next day, Sunghoon arrived to the library at 3:15 PM sharp.

He really didn’t mean to come that early– but he was just so fucking hungry, he just couldn’t wait to sink his fangs into you.

He walked around the library, trying to find a secluded area. He scored the jackpot when he found a table nestled in the corner of the vast library, away from any open windows and private enough that most people wouldn’t walk by it. He had already organized all of the materials they needed for the project into neat piles: his ethics textbook, laptop, notes, printed sources, and color-coded sticky tabs.

He sat for the next 35 minutes, leaning back and staring at the project guidelines. Nobody walked past in the last half an hour, making Sunghoon even more giddy. He was gonna bite you, and you were going to be sooo tasty. He was practically drooling at the thought of ingesting your delectable blood, squirming in his seat as his body caught up with the excitement

Sunghoon paused. His eyes slowly drifted around, examining his surroundings once more. He spotted at least three cameras, the lens practically staring him down and winking at him with a red light every couple of seconds. He frowned. What was he thinking? Dracula, he was being so stupid.

He couldn’t just eat you here, especially when he was just assigned to be your project partner. Humans were annoyingly investigative nowadays, too. If you suddenly disappeared after meeting him alone for the first time, he would immediately become the prime suspect. Heeseung assigned you both to be project partners just yesterday in front of at least 19 other witnesses. And even worse— your text messages were sitting right there on his phone, immediately pointing him as the culprit.

Fuck, murder was so complicated in the modern age. Sunghoon missed it when he could simply go in, suck some blood, and disappear into the night to become a village legend.

The vampire grimaced, clicking his tongue irritably and leaned back into his chair with a sigh. Maybe he’d just take a little blood instead…? Ugh, but even though Sunghoon had lived for wayy too long, he still couldn’t find the proper balance between “just a little bit more” and “certain death.” And he was sure that if he didn’t take enough, you’d remember and report him for being a weird cannibal pervert.

Sunghoon’s overthinking was interrupted as his nose caught the whiff of something familiar and enticing.

His tongue instinctively darted out, as if he could taste it in the air. It sat exquisite, heated, and heavy on his senses. He sniffed, trying to hide the fact that he was really smelling the aroma of delicious blood. Soon, you stumbled into his sight, holding an Iced Americano with your sneakers squeaking against the floor. His grip tightened on his mechanical pencil, and he instantly covered his mouth. He felt like Edward Cullen in that science class.

“Sorry, Sunghoon! Were you waiting long?” You pouted, making quick work to set down your Americano on the table and pulling out all of your things.

“It is fine,” he coldly dismissed, looking at his things before looking back up. He was momentarily stunned when he finally looked at you properly. You looked… endearing. You wore an oversized hoodie that swallowed the top of your legs, your hair slightly messy like you had rushed to get ready, and your lips were glossy and plump. He could hear your heart pumping wildly, trying to supply oxygen back to your muscles. You definitely ran here.

“Are– are you mad? I’m sorry…” You meekly mumbled again. He felt a bit sad, honestly, at how pathetic you seemed. You looked like a kicked puppy. Sunghoon sighed, reluctantly reassuring you once more. After all, blood tasted worse when emotions were sullen, and he wanted to optimize your flavor.

“I’m not mad, I promise,” he tried to lay it on thick, a tone of reassurance that he was sure to placate you. And placate you, it did. You instantly perked up, a smile stretching across your lips.

“Yay, okay. Uhm, should we get started?” You asked. He nodded.

“Yes, I already have the guidelines pulled up–”

“Really? Can I see?” You cheerfully cut him off, immediately invading his personal space as you pulled your chair next to him, your head craning to look at his laptop. He caught a whiff of your shampoo, so soft and clean and melding into the fragrance of your perfume. “This looks hard– can I scroll?” You peered up at him with sparkling eyes, and Sunghoon couldn’t say no.

“Sure,” he replied. You smiled and scrolled through the PDF, groaning silently.

“A 10-pager? Seems like it’s not gonna be too hard, but I hope Heeseung isn’t strict. He’s grading it, right?” You looked at him for silent approval. He gave you back a nod in response, his jaw clenching at your close proximity. His gaze naturally drifted down to your neck, where he could almost see through your skin the beats of your pulse throbbing against the junction of your neck and under your jaw. He swallowed and looked back at your eyes, where you looked a bit confused. “Uhm, okay, I’ll share a document, and then we can get started!”

Sunghoon watched as you went back to open your laptop, decorated in cute stickers messily with the remnants of old glue still sticking to the case. “Sunghoon, should we do an ice breaker before we start?” You asked shyly. He raised an eyebrow. An icebreaker? “Like– ya know, to know each other better… I think it’ll make our synergy better!”

“Sure, we can do an ice breaker. What should we do? Name, year, major?” He asked, going along with your wishes. If he did, you’d probably like him better, right? Maybe it’ll help him suck your blood faster…

“Sounds good! Uhm, my name is Y/N, I’m a second year, and then I’m an Philosophy major! How about you?” You chirped, looking up at him eager, your cheeks.

“My name is Sunghoon, I am a third year, and I am a Business major,” he parroted the template. You looked satisfied with his response.

“Oh, I didn’t know you were older than me!” You giggled, clicking something on your laptop. “Sunghoon, what’s your email?” You pouted.

“Here, give me your laptop, I will type it in for you,” he smoothly replied. You slid the laptop towards him, allowing him to punch in his email so that you guys could share the document. You clapped, only your palms hitting together while your fingers outstretched, resonating a silent smacking sound. Meanwhile, he was struggling to type his email, pressing in the line key-by-key with slow fingers. You didn’t seem to notice, too distracted by rose-colored glasses apparently.

“Awesome! I’m so grateful we’re partners, Sunghoon. You seem like such a diligent worker,” You unexpectedly praised him. Sunghoon’s eyebrows raised in surprise at your sudden compliment. Nonetheless, he responded politely with a steady thanks. He opened the shared document, already seeing that you had pasted down the project guidelines to the empty sheet.

“Uhm, let’s see… So, let’s pick a specific argument first! Since our project is about the ethics of human interaction, uhm… let’s see…” You hummed, and Sunghoon nearly mistook your vocal projection for the sound of your blood humming in your veins. He stared at you directly, the contact never wavering from your face. For some reason, your BPM became rapid, and he could sense the warmth of your blood travelling to your face. You kept glancing between him and your laptop screen, your expression seemingly awkward.

“Oh, how about uhm, intent vs. impact! I think it’s prevalent enough everywhere to be easy, but if you think about it enough, you could really get in there!” You suggested, your posture straightening as you looked at Sunghoon.

“Hm? Could you tell me about it more?” He coaxed you gently with a low voice. You pursed your lips, your arms coming up and tensing in front of your chest before you nodded.

“Well…” You tucked your legs beneath your chair thoughtfully, tilting your head to the left and glancing at one of the library shelves before looking back at him, “Like, if someone wants to hurt another person but chooses not to, does that still make them a bad person?” You smiled, eyes silently seeking for his approval yet again, and when you didn’t get it, you continued to ramble, “Because technically, everyone has intrusive thoughts sometimes, right? But I think restraint matters more than the thought itself.”

Restraint. Sunghoon almost laughed. You had no idea, you really had no idea.

“I think intent matters,” you continued softly. “Like… if someone is trying really hard not to hurt another person, then they probably care about them, right?”

Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment before quietly asking, “And if they still want to?” You blinked, a little taken aback.

“Want to what?” You asked, your voice coated thicky with sweetness and innocence.

Hurt you, devour you, sink teeth into your throat until the coppery smell and metallic taste drowned out every coherent thought lingering.

Instead, Sunghoon simply gestured vaguely toward the assignment sheet. “Cause harm,” he answered smoothly, as if his thirst didn’t make his head ring.

“Oh.” You nodded slowly. “I dunno… I think wanting something isn’t immoral by itself.” You shrugged, your voice shrinking, “It’s more about whether they act on it…?” Your voice trailed off, waiting for Sunghoon to approve of what it was saying before further explaining. The older man nodded with you.

“Sure– I think it is a good argument to make.” He smiled. Your entire body seemed to have relaxed when he finally showed you a semblance of his approval.

“Okay, yay, great!” You cheerfully responded, beginning to messily construct an outline of your shared paper. Sunghoon silently watched you as you worked. Your brows furrowed slightly as you began to concentrate, your bottom lip getting trapped between your teeth every few seconds while you typed. Every time you slightly leaned forward to read something on the screen, the neckline of your hoodie shifted just enough to expose more of your throat.

It was genuinely becoming difficult for him to think. Even more so when you casually began suggesting more ideas to him, as if you were mocking his situation.

“Maybe we can talk about how restraint itself is a form of care?” you proposed absentmindedly. “Like… choosing not to hurt someone even when you really want to. Ah, wait but… if you really think about it, if you really want to hurt someone, that could make you like… an asshole or something, right? I dunno…” Your thoughts seemed to flurry out of your mouth. “I’m experiencing so much cognitive dissonance right now thinking about our arguments…”

Sunghoon’s fingers tightened around his mechanical pencil hard enough for the plastic to creak. You looked up at the sound immediately. “You okay, Sunghoon?” You tilted your head with a furrow of your eyebrows and a confused little pout. He nodded, sharply inhaling.

“My mind is crowded.” He breathed out. “Just thinking about ethics too hard, you know?”

“Mmm, I get ya!” You giggled, and Sunghoon was beginning to think you were a little oblivious to your surroundings. Meanwhile, he could hear everything. The soft inhales of your breaths, the tiny swallows in your throat after each sip of coffee, and especially the steady pulse beneath your skin. Your body and organ complexes were disgustingly loud. “Oh!” You suddenly perked up again. “We should probably divide the workload.”

“Okay,” he nonchalantly responded, trying to steady his own breathing, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as you continued to babble on.

“You seem smart, so maybe you can handle the philosophical theories?” You smiled sheepishly. “And I can do the case studies and formatting?” Smart? He supposed living for over a century did give him a slight academic advantage.

“That works.”

“Yay.” You clapped softly again. “Oh, and we should probably exchange schedules too.”

He nodded once more while you reached for your phone, sending him a quick text with a picture of your schedule. He slowly worked through his phone, trying to find a picture of his schedule and scrolling on the screen with a single, determined finger. You watched, curious as the supposed third year university student struggled to find one simple photo. He cursed in his head. Samsung phones have been out for 38 years already, shit– how am I still bad at this?

Sunghoon grumbled under his breath, thumb hovering uncertainly over his screen while he tried to figure out how to attach the image. You stared for a moment before quietly laughing.

“…You don’t know how to send photos, Sunghoon?”

He jumped, not even realizing that you crept up to be beside him. His senses were dulled with the sheer amount of concentration he was using to try to send a photo to you. “I do,” he immediately defended. You tilted your head, looking like you didn’t exactly believe him.

“Sunghoon, you have your brightness at maximum.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” He retorted, his voice sharper than he intended.

“Oh my God.” You dissolved into another laugh, shoulders jumping up and down as your whole body was wracked with the sounds of your amusement. “Give me your phone.”

Sunghoon reluctantly handed it over, and your fingers brushed his briefly. Warm. So warm. His throat tightened instantly, and he swallowed down the bubble of hunger that was creeping up his throat. Meanwhile, you blinked down at his phone before gasping quietly. “Wait.” Your body froze.

Sunghoon stiffened. Shit, did you accidentally find his masterlist of every vampire who went to your university? Did you stumble upon the website he used for discreet blood bag shipping? Oh my Dracula, you probably found that stupid video Jake took on his phone when they were mixing blood packets with cranberry juice to make that stupid Vampire’s Kiss cocktail–

“Your font size is HUGE.”

The vampire breathed a sigh of relief. “What?”

“I swear, my grandma’s phone looks like this too.” You giggled, squinting at his screen. “Why is everything the size of a billboard?”

“My eyes are bad,” he defended flatly, crossing his arms, noticing the way you were momentarily distracted at the motion. He looked down briefly to see his muscles bulging, amused at your reaction. You quickly snapped out of it.

“Aren’t you like– 20 something??”

Sunghoon paused. Technically, he was closer to one hundred and 20 something, but you didn’t need to know that. “My eyes are still bad,” he repeated stubbornly. You dissolved into laughter beside him, the sound startlingly bright in the quiet library. Sunghoon stared at you, momentarily distracted from his hunger by the way your nose scrunched as you laughed so hard.

Cute.

The thought appeared so suddenly in his brain that it genuinely irritated him.

You were supposed to be food. Not cute.

You worked through his phone more, adjusting the brightness to a lower setting. “Dude, your phone probably dies in like– three hours with the screen this bright.”

“I like seeing my screen.” He raised up his hands, the urge to defend himself with every attack on his phone getting stronger and stronger.

“You’re kind of like an old man.”

Sunghoon narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are very talkative.”

Your laughter instantly died. “Oh.” You shrunk a little into yourself. “Sorry.” Your pulse dipped sadly beneath your skin, and Sunghoon immediately regretted speaking. He was beginning to notice that your emotions affected your scent more than other humans. He knew that emotions could affect the taste, but he could literally inhale and digest the aroma of sulkiness permeating off of your skin. Happiness made your blood smell sweeter somehow, relieving like ice cream on a hot sunny day. Meanwhile embarrassment and sadness dulled the fragrance into something muted.

“No,” he corrected awkwardly. “I did not mean it negatively.” You blinked at him. “I just mean…” He paused. Dracula, social interaction with humans was awful. “I do not mind listening to you.”

The silence afterward was deafening, and Sunghoon was almost afraid that he said something wrong when suddenly, your heartbeat abruptly skyrocketed. “Oh,” you squeaked softly. Sunghoon frowned slightly. Why were you reacting like that? You quickly looked away from him, pretending to fix his phone settings while your whole body seemed to rush with blood. “Uhm, okay! I fixed your brightness and your font size a little.”

“A little?”

“Yes. I left it a bit big because apparently, you’re eighty years old.” Close enough, he supposed.

“You are mean,” he deadpanned.

You gasped dramatically. “I’m literally helping you!” 

“Yeah? By calling me old?” He poked his cheek with his tongue. You huffed, handing his phone back to him with both hands. Sunghoon took it from you carefully, and yet again, your fingers brushed. So fucking warm, even at your fingertips. He was so distracted that he almost didn’t pick up on how fast your heart was pumping again, and how the blood was hustling towards your cheeks. 

You had already turned back toward your laptop, entirely oblivious to the internal warfare happening beside you. “Okay!” You chirped. “Back to ethics before we both fail!”

You pulled your chair closer to him without asking and seemed to have relaxed, because you continued to ramble on about literally anything. Your voice grew louder with every passing minute, words spilling out easier and easier the more comfortable you became around him. He was impressed with the way you multitasked– typing and babbling off as if words simply generated from your throat. Sometimes you’d randomly trail off topic entirely, rambling about your coworkers, complaining about your professors, or making dramatic comments about how hard the paper was (even though you were hard carrying the articulation of each sentence.)

Hours had passed, and before he knew it, the front desk worker’s voice crackled over the speaker. “It is now 10 PM, the library is now closed. I repeated, it is now 10 PM, the library is now closed.”

“It’s already 10 PM? Wow, I didn’t even notice. We’ve been here for six hours!” You gasped, quickly slamming your laptop shut and shoving everything into your backpack. Sunghoon was pleasantly surprised too. Time had gone by so fast that he didn’t realize that 6 hours had already passed since you’ve guys started. He glanced down at his laptop, amused as he only saw one page of the 10-pager written.

“Seems like we have gotten a lot of work done,” he joked. You giggled, nodding as you stood up. You nearly tripped, and he heard your heartbeat spike as you almost slipped on the wooden floor. “Careful now,” he said lowly, watching you with keen eyes as he packed his own bag. You smiled shyly and nodded. He stood up, and you both began to walk together out of the library.

“I’m hungry,” You complained. “Uhm— so, I’ll text you later and we can meet another time this week? Sounds good?” You smiled, giving him a thumbs-up.

“Yes, that works for me.” He nodded. “I will see you later. Text me when you get home so I know you arrived safely.” And yet again, your blood began to splotch on your cheeks.

“Okaayy, will do! Get home safe~” you chirped, before prattling off to the parking garage. Sunghoon waited, looking around discreetly to see if anyone was nearby. He tucked himself into a blind spot, before his figure dispersed into bats, leaving only a shadow of a vampire behind.

“Hi Sunghoon!”

Your bright and cheery voice was something that he had gotten used to over the past week, seeing you at the library almost everyday. Sunghoon didn’t expect to work with you so often, but it just happened naturally, your “hard working days” escalating as each day passed until they became so consistent that it was sort of an expectation to see you so often. Throughout the week, he seemed to get to know you more and more–

Not enough to stop viewing you as his potential blood bag, obviously.

But he wasn’t exactly finding out useful things either, which he feels is somewhat of a step-up. Maybe he’ll earn good karma points for being a sympathetic blood-sucker. He knew you actually hated Iced Americanos, but only ordered them to “fit in.” He found out you gnawed on your little fingers when you were stressed, biting off the dead skin that bordered your nails when things got especially tough for your brain. He also knew you worked too much, slept too little, and apologized every time you spoke for longer than thirty seconds.

Maybe Sunghoon was just getting weirder the more he hung out with you. He didn’t know– as long as he got what he wanted out of it. 

“Hello, Y/N,” he greeted back, already situated at a table. The library was too crowded these days with midterms approaching, so instead, you guys found a cozy little cafe to study at in the city. You offered him a ride, but Jake was already going into the city, so he hitched a ride with his roommate.

“Am I late again?” You pouted, your hair frazzled and hoodie haphazardly dangling over the expanse of your head. He shook his head with a charming smile.

“Just on time, I promise.” He gave you a quick nod.

“Wait— you know what? You’re right. You’re the one who’s always early. Why do I always feel late?” You grumbled, sitting down. You looked so delicate, so fragile. The undertone of your skin was slightly off, not as warm as usual. There were dark bags under your eyes, hollowing out your face and making you look gauntly. Sunghoon grumbled under his breath– if you were sick, then how else would he get his protein from your blood?

“Are you okay?” He asked.

You blinked at him, almost surprised by the question. “Hm?” You quickly smiled quickly, as if it was an instinct. “Yeah! Why?”

Your heartbeat was slower than usual, pumping sluggishly as if doing the bare minimum to keep you alive. Your movements were too, even the way you reached for your laptop seemed to not be as hyperactive as you usually were. “You look tired,” he answered simply.

You laughed weakly. “Really? Do I?”

“Yes,” he answered. Your shoulders dropped. It was like finally being seen was alleviating a weird pressure from your body.

“I had two shifts back-to-back yesterday.” You sighed. You pulled your sleeves over your hands, nervously rubbing your wrists together. “And then I stayed up finishing another paper for one of my philosophy classes…” Sunghoon frowned.

Humans were strange creatures, indeed. You required sleep, food, water, sunlight, emotional support, and apparently eight million hours of studying just to survive through the perilous journey of university. How exhausting– he could just stay up all night until his brain felt ready to take an exam, or work on a paper until it was revised to perfection. Being a vampire did have its perks.

“You should have rested,” he stated obviously. You smiled, trying to hold back a snarky remark. Sunghoon seemed to have noticed the resistance in your expression, because he added a very short, “I am serious. You should rest and take care of yourself. This is not good for your wellbeing or health.” Sunghoon suddenly became aware of how blunt he sounded. Most humans usually found him cold when he spoke like that, so he sort of expected a weird reaction from you, but instead, you only stared at him for a moment before a soft giggle escaped your lips.

“That almost sounded like you were worried about me, Sunghoon.” Your voice was almost teasing. 

He was, because if you collapsed from exhaustion, your blood quality would worsen heavily, and all of the medicine that would be pumped into you if you fainted from exhaustion would make it taste like shit. “I just need my project partner functioning,” he replied smoothly. Your smile widened at his words.

“Mhmm.” You hummed, your tone indicating to him that you didn’t exactly believe him. He narrowed his eyes, perplexed at the subtle gauge.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Your heartbeat sped up. It seemed to do that a lot around him, and he didn’t know why. All that he knew was that it was making him start drooling a little–

Sunghoon blinked once, forcing himself to focus. Your heartbeat was doing that thing again. It was pumping faster in uneven beats. It was noticeable, and he almost considered asking you if you had a family history of heart conditions or heart palpitations or something along those lines. As you were typing on your laptop, he suddenly picked up on something. It was barely visible to the eye, but of course, his keen pupils locked onto it. Your hands were shaking, trembling delicately at the tips and moving down to wrack at your digits. He inhaled sharply, pretending to take a deep breath when his sharp nose caught a whiff of something unusual– your blood wasn’t as sweet as usual. Were your glucose levels down?

“Did you eat today?” he asked suddenly. You looked up suddenly at his abrupt question.

“…What?” You replied dumbly.

He frowned slightly, wrinkles forming in between his thick eyebrows. “Food. Did you eat.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You laughed weakly. “I mean, uh, yeah, kind of? I had a granola bar– it was really good! It had chocolate chips, those are my favorite types of granola bars!”

Sunghoon exhaled deeply through his nose. A granola bar was not food. That was, at best, a suggestion of food. “That is not enough.”

That got a real laugh out of you this time. “Sure it is, Sunghoon! Don’t worry, I’ll be fine! Why are you so particular about my breakfast anyway?”

Because if you collapsed or passed out or fainted, it’d be so inconvenient. You’d taste bland, just like the hospital. And then for the sake of optimizing your blood (and morally, he guessed), he’d have to wait until you were in your prime health condition. Because–

“Because you are my project partner.” You hummed like you accepted that explanation, but your eyes lingered on him a second too long, like you were trying to decipher if there was something else underneath it.

“You should order something,” he added after a moment.

“I’m fine,” you said automatically.

Your stomach betrayed you immediately after with an embarrassing grumble. You snapped your head towards him, eyes as wide as saucers. You looked around before slowly sinking into your hoodie so you could disappear inside it. “…That was not me,” you whispered, tightening the strings around your hood. Sunghoon’s lips twitched, amused at your sudden, cute behavior. He abruptly stood up when your stomach made another rumble.

“Where are you going?” You asked, a hint of concern laced in your voice. Your body tensed as you sat up properly.

“Food,” he answered, grabbing his wallet off the table.

“For you?” You raised an eyebrow, your body relaxed at the answer he gave you.

“For you,” he corrected, “We are at a cafe. You should have ordered something before starting your work.”

“That’s not– you don’t need to do that,” you rushed out immediately, already reaching for your bag. “I can just–  I’ll go grab something–”

“You will sit.”

His commanding voice left you stunned, and Sunghoon paused for half a second, as if he himself was surprised by his own tone too. He then adjusted his coat as if nothing had happened. “I will return.”

His weird, formal tone made you chuckle under your breath. You watched his back as he left to order something from the table. He looked so endearing as he leaned in, nose nearly pressing against the glass as he carefully read the description. Huh, maybe his eyes were really that bad. But your attention was more focused on the cashier, who was giggling and blushing as Sunghoon pointed out a few pastries. You pouted, a weird sulking feeling in your chest. The older man seemed to sense it for an odd reason, because he looked around with a confused expression before looking back at the cash register.

When he came back, he put down a white paper box filled to the brim with pastries. There was pain au chocolat, a few different fruit danishes, and a Dubai Chocolate mochi donut. You raised an eyebrow at the last choice, to which he shrugged.

“I heard it is trendy amongst young people nowadays,” he explained, also settling down a cup of refreshing iced tea for you. You looked at him, then at the food, then back at him before a shy smile spread across your lips. A quiet breath of laughter escaped your lips. It was so Sunghoon to act so old.

“You didn’t have to go out of your way to do this for me,” you softly said, “I’m sorry… thank you, Sunghoon. I’ll pay you back—“

“No.” He firmly shook his head as he sat down.

“No?” You whimpered out, confused. He crossed his arms and laid back in his chair, which was unnatural for him. Usually, you noticed that he had a perfect upright posture all of the time.

“No, do not apologize, do not pay me back. I did not go out of my way for this. I wanted to eat something too.” He gingerly picked up the Dubai Chocolate mochi donut, breaking off a doughy ball and plopping it in his mouth. You stared at him, gauging the taste based on his reaction. His jaw and mouth didn’t move at all, and it seemed to be stuck for some reason. He then tentatively chewed down, his jaw clenching with every bite.

“Is it bad?” You asked cautiously.

“Very much so,” he honestly answered, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed down the dessert. You giggled. He watched as you picked up the pain au chocolat and take a bite, the crispy pastry wrinkling under your teeth and producing a satisfying crunch. Your body relaxed slightly, and he felt your pulse even out and smelt your blood sweeten. For some reason, his senses were relieved as they picked up on these cues. You then took a sip of the tea, your shoulder scrunching up in satisfaction as you let out an excited hum.

“This is soo yummy, Sunghoon! What did you order?” You peeked up at him through your lashes. Sunghoon cleared his throat and re-crossed his arms.

“I believe I bought a honey-citron tea. Something along those lines. I heard it is good for your health– at least, that is what the description said.”

Yes, good for your health so that you’ll be primed to be feasted on. A nourished human always tasted better.

“You’re so kind, Sunghoon,” you confessed bashfully, your voice quiet and meek. Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his hands relaxing where they were crossed momentarily as he seemed to ingest the word slowly. He bought you tea because you looked pale, bought pastries because your pulse sounded weak, and watched the color slowly return to your face with a starving stomach. He wasn’t sure that was exactly kind of him, but if it made you think of him better, he could just take it. Why not at this point.

“Okay, let us get back to work when you are full,” he spoke up after a while, finally sitting up straight. You nodded, clumsily wiping your hands on a few napkins before reverting your attention back to your laptop. He watched as you rapidly tapped away on your keyboard, filling your shared document with more arguments and evidence. Your heart rapidly pumped, slamming against your ribs like it was trying to escape your body. Sunghoon was confused– your heart worked in such mysterious ways that not even a century-old vampire could decipher it.

By the time the café lights dimmed and your cups sat long empty, hours had somehow slipped away from both of you. It was only 4 PM, but it somehow already felt so late in the day that even Sunghoon would have been tired. He stared at you as you packed, your movements regaining their sluggish feel as you slowly slid your laptop into its pouch within your backpack.

“Do– do you need a ride home, Sunghoon?” You yawned. Sunghoon smiled, feeling a weird affection as your mouth stretched to escape its drowsiness. It was the endearment that you would feel for a pet, in a sort of way.

“It will be alright, my roommate Jaeyun can take me home.” He nodded. He looked down at his phone, only to see…

jaeyun: LOL  jaeyun: Dude I’m in Busan rn ur never gonna guess who I’m with rn jaeyun: IM WITH RIKII the vampire who tried biting u cuz he didnt know u were vampire rmbr Sunghoon: I am waiting to get picked up by you. jaeyun: WAIT SHIT I FORGOT U WERE OUT 😭😭 jaeyun: lmfaoo mb bro Ur better off flying back to the apt man My bad fr

Sunghoon exhaled. Over a century of living, and this was his most trusted friend and emergency contact. “Nevermind. I guess I will walk.”

“Eh? It’s too far, Sunghoon! Let me take you home!” You fussed. Not wanting to expend your energy arguing, he simply agreed. You looked a bit taken aback, surprised that he conceded so easily to you, but you led him to your car anyways.

Your vehicle had a cute omamori hanging off of the rear view window, some cute figurines stuck to the dashboard, receipts crinkled as they were shoved into the cup holders, and a hoodie splayed out in the backseat, little pieces of you tucked into every possible crevice in the car. Within the confines of your vehicle, the air had traces of fresh cotton and linen from your air freshener, but underneath it all was you. Your warm skin, flavored lip balm, fragrant perfume, and even the hint of your scented lotion, but most prominent to his nose was the unmistakable metallic sweetness that only you permeated.

Sunghoon felt like he should roll down a window or something, because he was practically swallowing down the scent of your blood. He stared at you as you backed out of your parking spot, before beginning the drive to your apartment. “Can– Can I roll down a window?” He gulped. You glanced at him before nodding. He practically jammed his finger trying to press down on the window button, letting out a sigh of relief as your scent washed away in the evening wind. He stuck his head out of the window like a wolf, and the thought would have repulsed him if he weren’t so desperate to prevent himself from sucking your blood right now.

If he sucked your blood and you died, you’d crash the car. Then, the police would come, and they would see the two noticeable bite marks caving your neck in. And then he’d look like a weird cannibal vampire wannabe criminal or whatever– too complicated.

“Thank you for the ride. Text me when we should meet up again. I should be free all week apart from my classes.” Sunghoon nearly barreled out of the car. “Goodnight!” You giggled and waved goodbye, watching as his figure disappeared into his apartment building before pulling off yourself.

❛❛LOVE HUNGER AT FIRST SIGHT.❞ ── 1

Another week had passed, and Sunghoon was beginning to realize that befriending was probably not the brightest idea.

The more time he spent around you, the harder it became to ignore the pulse beating beneath your skin. Not to mention, he had been rationing his portions on blood bags to truly savor the moment when he could finally relish in the taste of your iron on his tongue. He should’ve just kept a distance from you– not be around you so much because day by day, it was becoming increasingly difficult to subtly find chances to drain you dry.

Just like any other day, you both were working hard on your project. With it being finished and needing revision, you were, for the first time, slacking. Your head was buried in your crossed arms, which laid upon the wooden table. Your eyes kept blinking slowly, and Sunghoon would’ve been concerned about your blood sugar again if you didn’t smell so sickeningly sweet.

“I’m– I’m gonna take a nap…” You yawned, your eyelids pulling shut, lashes fluttering so delicately and fanning across your cheekbones. “W– wake me up, five mins…” You slurred. Sunghoon watched as you easily slipped into a slumber, your body going lax and mouth falling agape as soft huffs of air left your lips.

Sunghoon’s fingers clenched into fists, his fingernails digging into the wrinkles of his palms, forming a protective case around his calluses. Every inhale felt like a trap. If his stomach was normal, it would’ve been grumbling right now. He hadn’t had a blood pack since yesterday, and that nearly made him throw up from how fucking disgusting it was– a blood pack of pig’s blood diluted with coconut water? Give him a break. 

Your blood pressure was decreasing, dipping down. He could feel the way your circulation became sluggish and sense the lowered levels of oxygen. That means it wouldn’t pump like a water fountain, shooting out in satisfying geysers if he dug his fangs into you. That means it’ll be a slow drink. Wouldn’t that be more satisfying? Slowly draining out your blood as it filled his mouth with metal, filling his stomach milliliter by milliliter. It’ll be a bit watered down, but it’s okay– because you were so vulnerable and delicate now, an easy target for his teeth to finally sink in–

Sunghoon didn’t realize how close he was to you until he could breathe in and have your perfume practically get swallowed with every inhale. He opened his mouth, and his canines extended into sharp points, the tips of them gleaming in the bright light. So close so close so close just a little more and i’ll be so full yes yes yes

“Sunghoon?”

Your eyes fluttered open, and your mouth was so close to his. He awkwardly clamped his lips together shut, clearing his throat. His fangs instantly retracted as soon as you woke up, hiding in his gumline. You blinked, vision clearing and breath hitching at your sudden proximity. You then felt the presence of his big hand resting on the top rail of your wooden chair.

“Sunghoon?” You whispered again. “Has it been five minutes already?” You murmured. He nodded, trying his best to slowly back away and give you space. Shit– what was he thinking? He wasn’t a feral animal, like those werewolves who went crazy at a mere atom of pheromones lingering in the air. But he was surely acting like one– driven by the insane hunger that came with being what he was, a blood-sucking ravager that only cared about the smell of metal and proteins.

“Mhm.” He hummed lowly in response, his voice barely a whisper too. You blinked, still staring up at him. Silence loomed over the both of you for a moment before you spoke up, catching the vampire off-guard.

“Sunghoon… do– do you like me…?” You softly asked, your rationale still clouded by the short sleep your brain was phased into, not sifting the sudden question through the humiliation-check filter in your mind. You sounded uncertain, but Sunghoon had to give you a bit of credit– not even the bravest person he knew some 60 years ago would have the guts to ask this bold question.

“You should not say things like that when you’re half-asleep,” he replied, voice still muted. Your bottom lip jutted out into a pout.

“…Why?” you asked, eyes blinking lightly as if you were somehow amused at his response. His slight reprimand should’ve been the end of it, but of course you had to ask. You always pried into what he was thinking. “…Is it bad if you do?” you murmured, trying to solve the case. You shifted in your chair just a little, rubbing your eyes with your sleeve.  “I mean…” You added after a pause, voice still soft and gentle. “It’s not like I’d be weird about it.”

And for the first time in his 120+ years of living, he was stunned, speechless. Sure, he’s received confessions before, but this was surprisingly the first time the young vampire had been in a situation like this, where he was being coaxed into confessing.

“Where is this coming from?” He tried to change the subject. You ignored him and smiled.

“Do you, Sunghoon?” You finally sat up, revealing a mark on your cheek from your good slumber. You stretched your arms wide, your back arching to relieve your body from the tension. You leaned forward just a little, resting your cheek against your hand, and Sunghoon realized for the first time that you might be a bit more coy than he thought.

“Answer my question first.” He crossed his arms stubbornly. You giggled.

“Well, you always listen to me really well and give me thoughtful advice— and I know that’s bare minimum, but you also go out of your way to take care of me. When we walk outside, you always stubbornly make sure I’m on the inner part of the sidewalk. And you always stare at me, Sunghoon. Like— you look at me so much that I always think I have something on my face. But then I check my phone camera and I don't.” You kept pricking up a finger, counting down every “sign” that you believed indicated his growing affection from you.

“You always call me or text me, too. And then you always remember weird things about me. You always notice when something’s wrong, too,” you continued, looking up as if trying to pull more examples from your brain. “Like when I’m tired, or sad, or stressed, and then you always know what to do after to make me feel better.”

By the time you were finished rambling, you had counted past ten fingers. Sunghoon didn’t even realize there were enough instances to count an entire hand to show that he liked you, much less more than two hands. You smiled awkwardly as you outstretched all ten fingers with open palms to him, as if showing off how much he potentially liked you. 

“It’s either you like me, or maybe I’m reading into it too much… I dunno…” Your shyness came back tenfold, making your arteries pump ferociously and your cheeks warm with enough heat to set something ablaze. Sunghoon stared at the wrinkles in your hands, each running a river through the lighter skin.

Could a vampire really like someone? Especially someone that he had once calculated the blood volume of? Roughly 4.5 liters. Nine pints. That was approximately how much blood sat inside your body right now, circulating beneath your skin in endless loops. He knew because vampires were taught these things, useful things.

Sunghoon remembered the first time he met you, he wasn’t exactly wondering what your favorite color was. He was wondering how much blood loss your body could tolerate before passing out. The first time you smiled at him, he did not think about your lips. He thought about how inflamed they were with the sensitive multitude of blood vessels beneath the skin. 

Now he knew useless things, like your daily habits that you barely noticed yourself, the way that your entire face and neck would warm up with blood rushing to it, not just your cheeks. He knew what you wanted to pursue after college, the life that you wanted to live, and the stupid shit that you put on your bucket list. None of these things helped him hunt or feed like a vampire should. Does that mean Sunghoon liked you how a human would?

“I do. I like you.” He breathed out before he could give it a second thought. You smiled, your heart pumping so wildly that even he was a bit afraid it might burst through your chest. He finally understood why your heartbeat was so erratic around him. Because you liked him too, right?

You ducked your head shyly, smiling into your sleeves. “Okay,” you mumbled softly. “I like you too, Sunghoon.” You blinked slowly. “Should we go on a date after this?” You said, scratching your nape nervously. “I’ve never liked anyone before– it’s new to me…”

“Me too,” Sunghoon confessed, “It is also my first time being in… uhm…” For the first time, Sunghoon was at a loss for words. “You know…” He added, just to be safe. You giggled, shyly outstretching your hand, reaching for his cold one. You were surprised at how frigid his skin was, feeling like a porcelain piece.

“Your hands are so cold…” You murmured, wrapping his large hands into your smaller ones, permeating your body heat to transfer to his. “Sorry,” you mumbled suddenly, looking down at your intertwined hands. “I don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Sunghoon stared at your fingers hooked between his. Neither did he. He had lived through conflicts, technological revolutions, and economic booms, yet somehow, he had never experienced such an intimate and tender moment with a girl. “I do not know either,” he admitted quietly. You smiled and giggled.

“That’s okay, Sunghoon. We can figure it out together, right?” You looked at him hopefully. He nodded. Being a vampire was tedious enough already, and now, Sunghoon had to navigate dating the very girl he intended to turn into a blood bag.

Being your boyfriend might kill him before his hunger would.

❛❛MOUTHS WERE MADE FOR MORE THAN BITING❞ ── 2

The next week, you and Sunghoon scored a 92 on the paper.

Heeseung returned the paper back with only minor comments, praising the both of you guys for your in-depth argument despite how simple the topic was. You both took it gracefully, and ended the Friday off with a dinner date.

You and Sunghoon chose to continue to get to know each other more. Although it didn’t exactly feel like it for both of you, with how close you had both gotten, you had basically known each other for only a month and had already developed feelings.

“It just– I dunno. It doesn’t feel fast to me, but I feel awkward knowing that we’ve known each other for like two weeks, and we already confessed, and then the next step is dating, right? But like– I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right…” You had candidly revealed your feelings to Sunghoon one night as you sat in your car, drinking milkshakes as a reward after another day of hard work on your paper. He really didn’t understand. After all, after 120+ years of living, time had become such a feeble thing anyway. Whether it was two weeks, three, or even a year, he had all the time in the world to stick a label when you wanted it. (If you even lasted a year before he ate you, that is.)

“That is okay. We can go at your pace. I am not sure how to date either.” Sunghoon’s tongue scooped up the Java Chip milkshake, curling it into his taste buds. It tasted fucking disgusting, but you didn’t need to know that, especially since you looked so content sipping on your strawberry shake.

“That’s okay! We’re just figuring it out, right?” You chirped, your voice brimming with anticipation. He nodded, an amused smile spreading across his lips.

“I guess so.” Moreso, he’s figuring out when he should suck your blood. (But for some reason, the sentiment didn't feel sincere to him anymore.)

You started figuring it out where things were familiar. Study sessions at different cafes you wanted to try, spending countless nights in the library focusing on your respective work. These were safe places that you knew you couldn’t mess up, places that you and Sunghoon knew how to navigate each other in. You sat close to Sunghoon, constantly peeking at his laptop when he worked. He always let you into his bubble, keeping an arm available for you to tug on or hold his hand with.

And then, the familiar routines began to stretch out of your comfort zone. Instead of going to the library, you decided to do dinner. (Well, it was more of Sunghoon playing with his food while you kept gushing about the amazing cuisine.) And then these dinners turned into late-night walks where you both rumbled on about more meaningless things, sometimes meaningful as you interlocked hands and swung them on a pendulum. And then these walks turned into countless hours spent sitting in your car, burning gas because neither of you wanted the night to end.

You bridged the gap between physical touch, too, getting comfortable enough to tug on his sleeve whenever you wanted his attention or allowing him to place a firm hand on your back when navigating crowded areas. Sunghoon realized that dating a human was– it was pretty easy, actually. He didn’t understand why other humans kept complaining about their relationships.

All Sunghoon had to do was be there for you, and it was as easy as pie. He simply listened when you needed to vent, hugged you tightly when you needed to cry, and carried snacks in his bag when he sensed your glycemic index was low. And sometimes, he even used his vampiric perks, following you in a swarm of bats to ensure you got home safely and being accessible even at the worst hours of the night because he never slept.

And before both of you knew it, time had passed so quickly that three months had passed, putting you both into the Spring semester with a new label on your relationship tacked on.

Sunghoon learned way more things in those three months. Not as a person or someone who liked him, not even as a blood bag, but as a girlfriend. He discovered that your love language was words of affirmation, learned that you didn’t really make decisions until you had at least three opinions (with him being one of those three), and that even after being with him for quite a while now, your cardiovascular system never faltered in activity, only heightened.

Yet oddly enough, there was one thing that you and Sunghoon hadn’t breached.

It was his apartment.

He was always over at yours, an extra toothbrush in your bathroom, and his clothes filling your closet to the brim. Every time you wanted to have a baking date, movie night, or just wanted to chill together privately, you guys always ended up at your place. Never his.

Looking back, Sunghoon realized he had become strangely talented at redirecting you.

He’d always suggest to go to yours because you had more baking supplies, your television was bigger, and your roommate, Chowon, was never home. And on the off-chance that your roommate finally did come home, Sunghoon would insist that Jake was so loud that it’d be like having a third-wheel hovering over the both of you the entire time.

Because unlike your apartment, which smelled like vanilla candles, air freshener, and room spray, his smelled like blood. Literally. His refrigerator was currently stuffed with labeled blood bags. The pantry contained emergency freeze-dried containers of blood. It’s a miracle how the iron smell hadn’t suffused to his neighbors. Sunghoon’s bathroom was stocked to the brim with enough sunscreen to slather on a blue whale and still have extra bottles for him.

Yeah, if you went to his apartment, then he’d have to either hide half of his existence, trust you with it, or probably kill you.

As much as the last option was what Sunghoon was anticipating, none of them were ideal..

Which was exactly why, when your text popped up later that evening, his undead heart felt like it dropped to his ass. 

Y/N (girlfriend): chowon brought someone over and i think they’re… having sex Y/N (girlfriend):  :( Y/N (girlfriend): can i come to yours?

He left the text on read shamelessly, throwing his phone on the couch and mechanically going to knock on Jake’s door. “Jaeyun. My girlfriend wants to come over. Code Red,” he bluntly said, trying to hide the panic that was building up.

Jake swung the door open, racing past Sunghoon in a blurred flash, compiling all of the blood bags in the fridge into his empty arms. “What the hell are you standing around for? Go hide the ones in the pantry!” Jake shrieked, scrambling back to his own room to hide the refrigerated packs in the his mini-fridge. Sunghoon ripped open the tall, white pantry doors and began stuffing emergency blood packets into his puffer jackets winter boots in the spare coat closet and– and a rice container that… was purely there just for show, honestly.

“Jaeyun, when did we get this rice container? And why?”

“Oh, it was a gift from Jay…” Jake paused. Sunghoon stared at the Australian vampire, who had punctured a blood bag with a straw and was sucking on the dark red liquid. When the two were absolutely sure that there would be no way that you would even by chance stumble upon a blood pack, Sunghoon grabbed his phone from the couch.

Y/N (girlfriend): hoon? Y/N (girlfriend): helloo? Y/N (girlfriend): if u dont want me to come over thats ok :(  hoon (boyfieee): Sorry. I am cleaning to make the place look presentable for You. hoon (boyfieee): come Now. If you are able. Y/N (girlfriend): YAYY! Y/N (girlfriend): can i stay the night hoonie? Y/N (girlfriend): i jus dont want to have the awkward uhhh… yk… morning after convo with the random guy…

His eyes slowly lifted from his phone to Jake, who was still holding a punctured blood bag like a juice pouch. “She wants to stay the night,” Sunghoon said blankly. Jake nearly choked on the blood he was drinking.

“Your first sleepover is happening before she’s seen our apartment?” Jake hissed. “Dude, you still have your stupid UV sleeves hanging in the bathroom.” Sunghoon looked toward the hallway, where his bathroom was, and where his protective UV sleeves were dangling over the shower curtain rod. “And we don’t even sleep– what are you gonna do? Just lay there for like eight hours?”

He imagined you curled up in his bed, filling the empty space of the full-sized mattress. Your steady heartbeat would thud thud thud right up against his chest, peaceful and content. Your scent would be trapped in his enclosed space with nowhere to escape but into his nostrils. He then imagined the look of horror on your face if you opened his spare coat closet to see freeze-dried packets of blood stuffed in all his clothes, and too many thoughts about biting you as you slept over ransacked any rationale. He ignored Jake’s rhetorical question and shook his head before looking back at his phone.

hoonie (boyfieee): Yes. You can stay. hoonie (boyfieee): Bring toothbrush. I believe I have everything elese you may need. hoonie (boyfieee): else*

This was either the worst idea he’s ever had or a great milestone in your relationship.

You arrived 15 minutes later, your car keys dangling from your fingers and an overnight bag slung over your shoulder. Jake was sitting on the couch, watching television when Sunghoon opened the door for you. “Hi Hoon! Hi Jake.” You nodded your head towards the Australian boy.

“Hey!” Jake greeted back with a tense smile, his cheeks puffing up as he sunk deeper into the couch. You waved your hand again awkwardly before directing your focus back to Sunghoon.

“Where– uhm, can I put my stuff, Hoon?” You shyly asked. Sunghoon led you to his bedroom down the hall. It was fairly simple and clean, with black and white bedsheets, his full-sized bed tucked in the corner, and a black wooden desk perched up against his wall to face away from his window. He had so many candles lit, gothic white ones trailing wax down a candelabra. The room smelled just like Sunghoon, clean with base notes of musk and sandalwood. You spun around, taking in his room as you set your overnight bag on the floor.

“Your room is so…”

Sunghoon stiffened. Was it too weird? Too gothic? Too antique? Too vampire-coded? Damn it, he knew he should’ve gotten rid of that stupid iron candle holder– didn’t young people these days have simple glass holders?

“It’s so clean and nice, Hoon! It’s suits you so wel!” You gushed with a smile so bright that it rivaled the flickering flames of his lit candles. His tense shoulders dropped as he let out a small breath of relief.

“Thank you.” He nodded. Your eyes wandered everywhere with innocent curiosity. His dresser had a few, black decorations on it. His clothes were all neatly tucked away. His nightstand had a lamp on it, some hand-cream, and a box of tissues. The blackout curtains were drawn tightly over the windows despite it barely being evening.

“Hoon, you should get more Vitamin D.” You pouted. “I feel like you’re always covered up, too.”

“I take supplements,” he replied hastily. You giggled.

“One day I’m gonna force you outside. Maybe if we’re ever in the mood for it, we could take a loooong hike and watch the sunrise!” Sunghoon only hummed in response. That honestly sounded fucking awful, but he’ll let you be optimistic about your future dates.

You wandered toward his bookshelf next, fingers ghosting over the spines. His shelf was crammed with thick, old books jammed next to each other, pressing up against the sides of the wooden storage. You skimmed your fingertips over one particularly thick book, your eyebrows furrowing together as you read the title. 

“Hoon,” you carefully pulled out one hardcover. “Why do you own an Economics 101 book from the 1950’s?” You smiled.

“I like reading about the economy back then, so I do not make any poor financial decisions,” he answered perfectly. Damn, he was good at this.

“Can I pull a book out?” You asked with sparkling eyes. He nodded. You pushed a book towards you, your fingertip digging into the pages behind the spine. You opened it, smiling. “Wow, this is so old too!” You scanned the back of the cover, looking confused. “This is from a library– wow, so cool. It’s like an artifact!”

His eyes bulged out of his head. He knew what book you were looking at. He reached out to grab it from you when your finger traced the remnants of faded ink. “Park Sunghoon checked this book out in 1939?” You whispered. He winced, his outstretched hand curling into a defeated fist. “That’s so cool! You guys had the same name!” Damn, he knew he should’ve returned that library book 87 years ago.

You put the book back, sliding it in perfectly between two other thick books. Sunghoon watched you carefully, his tongue darting from between his lips to nervously lick at them. The two of you stood there awkwardly for a second before your shoulders sagged.

“Sorry,” you mumbled suddenly.

“For what?” He was confused.

“I feel like– I dunno– awkward, like I’m intruding or ruining the mood...” You rubbed your sleeves together nervously. “The roommate thing just stressed me out, and I feel like I asked you so last minute, and– and– I dunno, I feel like I pressured you.”

Sunghoon’s expression softened slightly. “You did not pressure me into anything, Y/N,” he said in that soothing, low voice of him. You looked up at him with hopeful and relieved eyes.

“Really?”

“Yes.” He nodded once. “You can stay here as long as you want.”

Your heartbeat picked up as it usually did when he said anything reassuring to you. You sat down on the edge of his bed, albeit a bit cautious and nervous. “Can we just do nothing tonight?”

Sunghoon leaned against his desk. “Just nothing?”

“Yes, absolutely nothing!”  You smiled up at him. He smiled and sat to the right of you, letting you rest your body against his. Your head immediately tucked into his shoulder, hands playing with his right hand while his left arm slung around your shoulders. Your pulse was drumming against your soft slowly, but not as quick as it usually was. It felt relaxed, and Sunghoon came to the conclusion that you were comfortable here, in his space.

Then his eyes drifted lower without meaning to. Your neck peeked out from the collar of your hoodie when you tilted your head back slightly. Warn, thin skin that he could easily pierce into. He could practically trace the route your blood traveled beneath it. He licked his lips again, his ears drowning in the sound of your blood moving in your circulatory system. It only got louder and louder.

Four months. It had been four months since he’s met you, and two since you’ve been dating, yet it’s been three months of dates, hand-holding, and falling asleep on his shoulder. Three months of carrying snacks for you and listening to your problems and memorizing your preferred cafe order that wasn’t Americano.

It made him so hungry, so fucking hungry to be next to you so long– to smell the intoxicating and metallic aroma of your blood.

Sunghoon swallowed hard, and you must’ve heard the sound, because you perked up immediately, facing him as you looked up. “You okay?” you asked quietly, “Hungry? Should we order takeout?” His eyes shifted back to yours. You were so close. You had shifted even closer to him him without him noticing. Your knees thighs were pressing up against each other, and your scent was wrapping around him immediately, washing out the clean smell of his lit candles.

“I am not hungry,” he answered, lying through his teeth.

Because right now, all he wanted to do was eat. His eyes fluttered down to your lips, so soft and red, skin almost bursting with a vermillion hue. The skin was so thin, and if he looked close enough, he could see the wrinkles and the parts where they peeled. Your blood vessels were packed so closely together, gathering enough warmth to set him ablaze. 

“We can just stay here– just the two of us,” he murmured, voice dipping into a lower octave and coating itself in a seductive honey. For a moment, a weird thought pushed itself into his mind. Do lips taste different from skin? How would your blood gush from your mouth? Would it flow down in a steady stream, or burst out into tiny jets? You were saying something, your pretty lips opening and closing to project words, but Sunghoon was too distracted with seeing rather than hearing.

Without realizing, he leaned in closer, the proximity between you decreasing. He could smell your tinted lip balm swiped across your lips, pathetically trying to mask the iron scent underneath your skin. Your breath hitched as he began bridging the gap between your faces. Useless thoughts began to surface in his mind.

One bite. Just one. Right there.

His eyes dropped to your mouth again. Your hand abruptly reached up and grabbed his shirt, crumpled up at his stomach. “Hoon,” you whispered softly, your breathy tone almost making your voice sound like a whimper. He gently let go of your hand, bringing it up to gently caress your cheek. Your pulse began drumming so hard against your skin that he was afraid it was burst through and break, and he honestly didn’t mind the sound of that.

“Can I?” he asked, a murmur deep in his throat. You swallowed, gulping down the tension as you nodded. You nodded, not wanting your voice to betray the thick want clouding your mind. He leaned in slowly, fangs instinctively protracting as hunger took over his brain, but as soon as he pressed his cold lips to yours, his canines were flat like they usually were. His mind blanked. He pulled away, leaving you with only a peck as your first kiss.

When he properly looked at your face, your mouth was parted, letting out soft and content breaths. “Hoonie– kiss– please, kiss me again.” You whispered. You didn’t have to ask him twice. He pressed his lips to yours again, firmer this time, charged with a desire to have your breath mingling with his. He understood now why Jake bragged about kissing humans so much– it was addicting. He didn’t even remember why he wanted your mouth on his anymore, all he wanted was to kiss you breathless.

Forget about feeding from you, couldn’t he just devour you like this?

(The next morning, when you went to cook breakfast, you had asked Jake who had just woken up why his fridge was literally empty. And why all of the windows were open, but the curtains were all drawn shut. And why there were enough candles lit everywhere to cause a fire hazard. You also had somehow stumbled upon Sunghoon’s limitless sunscreen stock in his bathroom. The Australian vampire merely shrugged and bolted back to his room.)

❛❛LEAVE YOUR MARK ON MY NECK THAT IT'S YOURS.❞ ── 3

After your first kiss, Jake wouldn’t let Sunghoon live it down for weeks.

Not that Sunghoon had cared, he had better things to think about. Like now, instead of greeting him with your usual shy wave, you’d grab his collar and pull him down for a bashful peck to greet him instead. Or how you looked after giving said-peck, eyes half-lidded and cheeks warm, like you wanted one more but were too shy to ask. And he learned that he might be addicted to kisses now, because all he could think about when you were both apart was how much he wish you were together.

Being a vampire was tedious, but at least it was simple in theory. All he had to think about was drinking blood, biting people, staying away from garlic, and keeping out of the sun. But now, there was a new complication laying down on all of his vampiric responsibilities, effectively crushing all of them as priorities. And that obviously was you.

You were supposed to be one of his simple vampire duties– the biting people and drinking blood part. But you were slowly beginning to be phased out of that aspect of his duties. You were becoming a new duty of your own, in fact, something that Jake liked to call “boyfriend duty.”

“Boyfriend duty?” Sunghoon had repeated slowly. Jake nodded, leaning back in their couch, sipping on a Blood Mary cocktail despite it being 11 AM on a Wednesday. (Jake swore up and down that he had invented the cocktail in the 1920s. Sunghoon honestly believed him.)

“Yeah. Instead of just suckin’ blood, you also suck face.” Jake snickered, amused at his own joke. “Seems like you got a lot on your plate now, Mr. Bloodsucker.”

Sunghoon had sent the Australian a glare, narrowing his eyes as he stood up. None of what the former man had learned firsthand being with you had been in his original “Vampire 101” lessons. There was no precedent in befriending a girl, becoming said-girl’s boyfriend, and reforming the thoughts of food to a person he cared for. 

He was still a vampire. The most vampiric vampire ever. He still drank blood from the diminishing stock in his fridge (blame Jake for his unusual recent obsession with bloody cocktails.) He still shoved his hand in the freeze-dried blood bags when he wanted to switch up his meal texture. And he even developed a weird habit of hissing at garlic. (He had no idea where that came from, but that’s for another time.) 

But when you were around, he didn’t just feel like just a vampire anymore. He felt, oddly enough, like a human again. Even though he technically died when he was 21 years old over a century ago with bite marks piercing his neck, he has never felt more alive than when you shyly pressed your lips to his with a soft whisper of his name. Sunghoon didn’t want to breach into this territory of thinking, but he was afraid that maybeeee he didn’t want to bite you that badly anymore. But as soon as he heard your heartbeat, his stomach would say differently. He was, to put it shortly, confused.

“Sunghoon, do you think I should add more of the spice packet?”

He looked at the ramen, which was a baby pink color. He snorted. “Y/N, you must have added about three drops of the spice packet.” He gently took the red packet from your hands to glide his chopsticks on either side of it, effectively spilling the entire sauce inside. You gulped nervously.

“Hoon, I dunno if I can handle all that…” You said anxiously. Sunghoon shrugged and began to vigorously stir the ramen with his chopsticks.

“If you cannot eat this, then I will just make you another one.”

You both were in your apartment, making dinner for your movie night. You wanted to order takeout, but the delivery fees almost cost as much as your utility bills, so you both opted for some ramyeon in your pantry. Cooking together sounded more fun anyways. You hovered over Sunghoon, watching as he stirred the pot with a weird precision. His chopsticks were upright, and he was going around the walls in perfect circles.

“Hoon, it looks like you’ve never cooked ramyeon before.” You giggled. Sunghoon shrugged.

“It is mostly Jaeyun who cooks ramyeon. He says he is better at it,” Sunghoon replied. You nodded with an “ahhh…”, watching as your boyfriend worked the pot.

“You look so handsome right now, Hoon. Like a househusband.” You smiled, leaning against the counter. He breathed a laugh out of his nose, incredulous at your sudden comment. His brows were slightly furrowed, shoulders squared and upright as his chopsticks moved with an unnecessary level of concentration for instant noodles.

The kitchen light cast warm tones across his face, softening his sharp features. It still amazed you sometimes– how someone who looked so intimidating in class months ago now stood in your kitchen making ramyeon while wearing a hoodie that you gave him for your one-monthiversary.

“Hoonie, can I tell you something?” You suddenly spoke up. He nodded. “Honestly, when I first saw you in class, I thought you were really cute. I’m really grateful we got to be project partners.”

The vampire was a bit stunned at your confession. He didn’t realize you perceived him before you guys became partners. “You thought I was cute?” he repeated slowly, the question mark hanging off the end of the sentence. You looked away shyly, picking at the sleeve hanging over your hands.

“Mhm.” You nodded. “Scary-cute though.” You chuckled. “It’s ‘cause you always stared at me, Hoon. I swear you did– tell me you did or else I’ll die from embarrassment.”

Your boyfriend only responded with a simple nod of his head. Well, the only reason why he stared so much was because he was always so fuckin’ hungry. Not because he was your secret admirer or anything– but he supposed he didn’t really have to say all that for the sake of preserving your feelings. “I was, Y/N,” he affirmed your suspicions. “You are strangely more perceptive than I had initially thought.”

“Heh, what can I say?” You boasted, looking smug. Sunghoon poured the ramyeon into two separate bowls. “But why were you staring at me so much?” You helped him set one of the bowls on the coffee table, settling down on the couch right in front of the television.

“Because you intrigued me,” he explained, not entirely lying. Your blood intrigued me. You seemed really satisfied with the answer, your sweatpant-clad legs jumping up and down to show how giddy his response made you. You picked up the remote, flicking through the endless options of dramas to watch. Sunghoon really didn’t like dramas at first. He had explained to you that he hated them, saying that they were unrealistic, too cheesy, and had too many logical inaccuracies.

You scrolled through title after title while sitting cross-legged on the couch, legs buried under the fluffy blanket, entirely concentrated on finding something “good enough” to please him. “Oh, how about this? It’s supposed to be cheesy! It’s called EN-DRAMA!” You suggested. Sunghoon read the description, and grew even more perplexed. But he simply shrugged and let you put on whatever you wanted.

You both began watching the drama, slurping down your ramyeon. You were able to tolerate the spice enough to finish your bowl, but it didn’t stop you from hissing. Sunghoon snickered under his breath at the sounds. You sounded like a cute little vampire, and your noises almost made him instinctively let out a hiss of his own. He left his bowl steaming on the coffee table, pulling you into his side, keeping your shoulders pressed together. He strew the blanket over his own lap, resting his head on yours.

For some reason, you were really immersed in the drama, letting out soft gasps as the seven boys in the scene tried to piece together who really confessed. You leaned in closer, your warm palm bracing your body on Sunghoon’s thigh. The vampire sucked in a breath as your body heat radiated through the blanket to his skin. With how poor your posture was in that position, your neck and back slouched, Sunghoon had a clear view of your neck. You were wearing a shirt with the collar cut, pulled down to reveal the expanse of your shoulder and neck. He gulped.

He watched as your left hand drew to your right shoulder, your fingernails scraping against the skin, leaving red marks to surface. “Are you itchy?” he asked quietly, eyes following the path your fingers carved across your skin.

“Hm?” You absentmindedly scratched again. “Oh. I think it’s cuz’ some threads are loose.” You tugged the neckline lower to adjust it. Sunghoon wished you hadn’t done that. More skin peeked through, exposing your upper arm. He could feel the crimson liquid pooling underneath to where you had scratched.

He was starving, and he didn’t even realize it until your precious skin was exposed to his leering eyes. He licked his lips, instinctively leaning forward, his fanged mouth drawn to warm epidermis. “Hoon?” You suddenly looked at him. When you did, you could feel his breath fan across your lips. You instantly covered your mouth.

“Does my breath smell?” Sunghoon pulled away, almost offended. You shook your head vigorously.

“Mine probably does, Hoon! What’re you doing, trying to kiss me after I ate this spicy ass ramen?” You whined. He chuckled at your cute reaction, his palm cupping over your fingers, gently prying it away from your mouth.

“Do you think I care about ramyeon breath?” he asked quietly. Not at all. What he cared about was the plump, swollen, and sheen with the reddish-hue of the broth skin of your lips. “I want to kiss you, even if you have ramyeon breath. Can I kiss you, Y/N? I want to kiss you so bad.”

You nodded eagerly to his plea, feeling a heat curl up in your lower tummy at how calm yet desperate he sounded. He placed a soft kiss to your knuckles, before cupping your cheek and leaning in to press soft pecks to your mouth. You reciprocated, your breathing turning ragged as he kept capturing your mouth with no time to catch up. With every soft kiss, he hesitated, as if thinking whether or not to kiss you again– yet every time, he conceded, meeting your lips with his as if he couldn’t convince himself to stop in the split second he pulled away.

His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck, fingers wrapping around the back of it, pulling you in closer. Warm. Your skin was always so warm. You pulled away to properly catch your breath, fingers twisted in the material of his hoodie. “You’re always so cold…” You whispered. “Hoonie, should– should I warm you up?” You shyly asked. He nodded, eyes stared shamelessly down at your lips as he licked his own, tasting the disgusting flavor of the spicy ramyeon. His hands moved to your shoulders awkwardly, patting them firmly as if he were congratulating you for something. You laughed, endeared by his cute action.

“Sunghoon, you can touch me… down here…” You gently held his hands, dragging them to your waist. “Is– is this, okay?” Your voice was barely audible to his ears. Sunghoon nodded.

“Yes–” he gulped, “is– is this okay for you, too?” He murmured. You nodded with a nervous giggle. The position was, admittedly a bit awkward, with his torso contorted to face you as he continued to sit and his hands clumsily placed on your waist. Your body was also angled weirdly into the couch cushions, the blanket crumpled up in your lap. 

“Are you comfortable like this?” you asked, soft chuckles spilling your lips from how jittery you were. He looked around, then looked down at your bodies, distantly touching each other. He wasn’t exactly content like this.

“Not really,” he honestly confessed. You adjusted yourself on the couch, your knees bumping up against each other and a muttered apology coming from your mouth. Sunghoon’s lips curled into a confused and intrigued frown as he watched you shuffle, your leg throwing its knee over his thighs. He froze as he realized what you were doing. You had either leg settled on both sides of his own before you gently lowered your weight onto him.

“Is– is this fine too, Hoon?” You mumbled. Your hands instinctively grabbed his shoulders for balance while his own reflexively tightened around your waist to steady you. He nodded eagerly. Your warmth was entirely surrounding him now, and your face was inches away from him once more.

“Hi.” You breathed out, your body trembling from nerves.

“Hello,” he greeted back, his frown flipping into a soft smile, so utterly endeared by how bold yet nervous you were. “Do you feel awkward, Y/N?”

“A little, Hoonie. Am I doing too much?” You bit your lip. As your teeth indented the thin skin, blood drew to where it was pressing, reddening your soft mouth even more.

“Not enough, Y/N,” he responded, surging forward to kiss you again. Sunghoon thought for a moment that, instead of those stupid blood bags, one of these days he could live off of these warm lips, packed with the blossoms of blood vessels that narrowed as his cold lips pressed against them. You kissed back, retiring the silly cute pecks that you did. Sunghoon devoured your mouth, trying his hardest to prevent his fangs from protracting.

He found out a bit funny how much effort he was exerting not to stick out his fangs, considering months ago, he would’ve taken the first chance to sink them into your mouth. But now, all he was focused on was eating you alive in a completely different way— memorizing the shape of your smile between kisses, the tiny breaths you let out when he pulled you closer, and the warmth that kept permeating to his cold skin as you instinctively leaned closer into his body.

His hands tightened at your waist, settling more confidently as his muscular arms snaked around them. The angle was, admittedly still a bit uncomfortable. His hips were beginning to hurt, and your knees kept bumping against the couch cushion, but neither of you bothered to readjust, too caught up in each other’s lips. He pulled away, pupils dilated and entranced on the way your mouth was looking now. They were swollen, slick with the amount of spit you were swapping. They were so pretty looking, almost beguiling him into just fucking swallowing them until the both of you couldn’t breathe anymore. But you were still letting out cute pants, so instead, he sufficed with pressing his mouth to your cheek, before leaning towards your jaw. You squirmed around, bringing your shoulders to the side of his face as the ticklish sensation overwhelmed your instincts.

“Hoon, that tickles…” You whined. He let out a breathy laugh, his kisses trailing down to his neck. As if mocking him, he felt the beats under your jaw drum faster, beckoning him to come near. He licked his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your pulse point. He couldn’t stop– his mouth kept attacking that one specific area, pressing so many kisses to it that you thought he was about to imprint the shape of his lips onto that piece of skin.

His fangs were protracting– he could feel the ache in his gumline signaling to him that his teeth were sharpening. But he didn’t want to bite you anymore. He was sure of it with the way anxiety pricked his nerves with the thought of actually draining you dry to the point where you were cold and sickly.

So instead, his cold lips came together, suckling on your pulse point. You let out a gasp, but the vampire could barely register it. He was sucking on your skin, and for a moment, his irises flashed red. It felt like sucking your blood, without the satisfying flavor of the metal on his tongue. But with the way he was devouring your skin was close– so close so close it almost drew him back to his vampiric instincts of drawing blood. And in a way, he was. He could feel how, under his mouth and below your skin, how your blood vessels crackled and exploded, releasing the tiniest amount of blood to the surface.

He pulled away when you nudged his head gently, only to see a bright purple mark adorning your neck. He looked nervous when you finally made eye-contact. Did he hurt you? Did you not want it anymore? Did he go too far? But all of his apprehensions were washed away as the tide brought in a wide smile. “Hoon… It– it feels really, good, more?”

Sunghoon let out a sigh of relief. “More?” He murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You nodded. His lips curled into a sweet smile. “Okay– but tell me if you want to stop.”

And by the time you told him to stop, your neck was a canvas painted with his love bites, a beautiful artwork of his growing adoration for you.

Days later, Sunghoon and Jake were sitting at the island of their apartment kitchen. 

“You know, vampires can’t get hickeys.”

Jake was lapping at a bloodsicle, the frozen hemoglobin staining the Australian vampire’s lips and teeth. “Really?” Sunghoon asked, surprised.

“Yeah, we don’t have blood, genius,” Jake retorted, “Dude, I’m a genius. This popsicle is so damn good. I need to start patenting my recipes or else some other dickhead vampire is gonna claim my shit again.” Jake let out a satisfied moan at the taste of his ice bar.

“Well, is there a next step to our relationship that I must take, Jaeyun?” Sunghoon asked, looking down at his notebook. These days, Sunghoon had been trying to take lessons on relationships. He supposed this was good for stimulating his brain– learning something new and unfamiliar, breaching a territory he was sure that no other vampire had. It had been a while since the hickey incident, and now he was opening up to Jake, wanting to explore more in the vast unknownness of dating.

“Sex, duh.”

“Sex?” Sunghoon looked surprised. “Like– mating?”

“Yeah, sex, man. Y’know? Fuckin’, copulating, making love– that sort of stuff.” Jake bit off a chunk of the popsicle. “But you know, sex isn’t just about reproduction, right? You’ve been alive for like, 120 years already man. Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.”

Sunghoon would’ve blushed if he had blood. Jake’s mouth fell agape. “No way.”

“Well, I was busy with other things, Jaeyun. Like not burning alive and all of that,” Sunghoon grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. Jake sighed, pointing his half-eaten bloodsicle at the slightly-younger man.

“Well, take notes, Sunghoon. Sex isn’t just about mating or feeling good. It’s also about intimacy, trust, and communication. This is a major step for relationships, you know?”

“So, I ask Y/N if she wants to do sex?” Sunghoon asked. Jake seemed thoughtful for a moment before he bit off another chunk of his bloody ice bar.

“Yes– you should breach the thought, but don’t force the topic. Just ask her if she’s ready– well. Okay, hold on.” Jake seemed to be gathering all of his thoughts to formulate a concise explanation and plan for Sunghoon, which the man was patient to receive. “Okay so– first, you guys are like– you guys gotta get in the mood, right? Let’s say you guys are kissing and making out and whatnot. You gotta ask how she feels, ya know? Check in and read the mood, then ask really carefully.” Jake waved his frozen treat around dramatically. “And if she says no, then cool. You just kiss, cuddle, do whatever you two lovebirds usually do.”

Sunghoon wrote down this advice ferociously, nodding his head to everything that Jake said. Everything sounded like common sense– just make sure that you’re comfortable and you both do things you want to do. “Oh, and another thing— don’t think of your relationship as like– having checkpoints. It’s not like, you kiss, then make out, then have sex, you know. I mean, it is lowkey like that for you guys, but don’t dwell on it too much. Relationships don’t have a linear timeline.” Jake expressed. Sunghoon nodded once more.

“Thank you for the advice, Jaeyun,” The vampire sincerely said. Jake smiled and patted the other’s back.

“Dude, of course.”

That night, Sunghoon was laying awake in his bed. (What else would he be doing? Sleeping?) He was scrolling through his phone, watching plenty of Youtube videos about relationship advice and how to get to the “next level.” He somehow found himself in a rabbit hole of niche internet blogs, countless articles flooding his screen about How to Have Sex for the First Time and A Virgin’s Guide to Pleasure.

Although humans were complicated, he was glad that at least he had these guides to help him through his struggles. He read through pieces telling him how to set the mood with candles and roses, editorials about how to properly perform foreplay to prepare someone for sex. It was almost an information overload for his brain– too many possibilities of how your first time could go was actually making the vampire nervous. If it did go at all, of course. He’s been a vampire for over a century, so surely he could wait as long as you wanted to wait before your first time.

Suddenly, a notification swiped down on his phone.

Y/N (girlfriend): hoonieeee!!! WYD!!! hoon (boyfieee): Hello Baby. I am just reading. Do you need something?

Sunghoon felt a bit smug as he called you a pet name. He had recently learned in a stupid KDrama you guys watched that boyfriends commonly called their girlfriends pet names, and he wanted to apply what he just learned.

Y/N (girlfriend): heheee not much baby <3 Y/N (girlfriend): anyways wanna come over after my final next fri and cook din? been craving sum real food… Y/N (girlfriend): like steak?

Steak sounded good. Steak had iron in it.

hoon (boyfieee): Yes. I cannot wait to be there. Y/N (girlfriend): yayyy!! Y/N (girlfriend): missin u already lol

Sunghoon exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over the screen.

hoon (boyfieee): I miss you too. Do not fret. You will see me soon. hoon (boyfieee): Do well on your final. I will reward you.

He stared at his own message for a second. It didn’t exactly feel like himself. A reward? Was that the right word? But before he could overthink it, you replied.

Y/N (girlfriend): omg are you gonna kiss me when i’m done Y/N (girlfriend): i’m gonna ACE THIS EXAM!!!!

Sunghoon laughed. So cute. You were always so cute.

hoon (boyfieee): Focus on studying, needy girl. hoon (boyfieee): But yes, I will. :)

In a way, it was a reward for himself too, right?

❛❛I'LL EVEN PLUCK THE SUN, THE MOON FOR YOU❞ ── 4

“Hoonie, hi! I bought a meannn cut of ribeye!”

Sunghoon entered your apartment like he owned it. (It almost felt like he did with how often he was over. Maybe he should start offering to pay rent or something.) “Did you, now? Was it expensive? Show me the receipt, baby, I will pay for it.”

“Eek, so dreamy, Hoon, you’re making a woman swoon! But don’t worry, this is on me! And I bought rosemary and thyme and some fancy Kerrygold Irish Butter, but you’re allergic to garlic right? So I didn’t buy any!” You triumphantly said, as if it were the greatest achievement in the world to remember your boyfriend’s food sensitivities. Sunghoon smiled.

“Thank you, Y/N. I appreciate it.” He entered the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. He hugged you from behind, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. “What sides do you want, baby?”

“I was thinkinggg…. maybe just mashed potatoes or asparagus or something?” You suggested, “Look in my fridge, Hoonie, you can pick!”

The vampire begrudgingly unraveled his arms from your body to wash his hands before he opened your fridge. The cold air hit him in the face so hard that he backed up. He looked through your very normal groceries: eggs, milk, bacon. He scrunched his nose at your terrible way of hiding garlic, tucked away in a bunch of paper towels secured with a rubber band in a deep corner behind your juice carton. It was endearing to see how much you cared for him.

He opened your drawers to see lettuce, bell peppers, cucumbers and– ah, there it was. A bunch of asparagus. He pulled it out and began rinsing the vegetables under the sink as you salted the steak. The steak was bloody, with red juices leaking onto your wooden cutting board and soaking through the splinters. But it was strangely unappetizing. Animal’s blood always was, but for some reason, the smell of it was pungent and repulsive. Sunghoon sniffled, rubbing a finger under his nose.

“Hoon, wash your hands,” you gently chided. He listened to you, moving the vegetables to the counter to rest in a bowl while he washed his hands. He then broke off the thick, fibrous stalks off the asparagus to get rid of the bitter stems. He learned that they were bad for humans. “How do you want to prepare the asparagus, Hoon?” You hummed as you leaned forward on the counter, watching as your boyfriend started snapping the asparagus.

“What do you think is good?” He responded, not really caring because it would taste shitty no matter how well it was prepared.

“Uhmm~ lemon and parmesan? Seared on a pan is really good…” You murmured. Sunghoon nodded half-heartedly, tossing the stalks in the trash. He pulled a pan from your cabinets, flipping it and settling it on the gas stove. You watched intently as he turned on the stove, pulling his phone in his other hand to look up a recipe. He looked effortlessly sexy, with his (oddly transparent) veins emphasized through his skin and his sleeves rolled up to expose his built forearms. You wiped your mouth to get rid of the drool you were about to trail in your mouth.

“Wash your hands, baby,” he chided in the same tone you used earlier. You bounded to the sink and did as told.

“Hmph. Acting like we don’t swap spit every time we see each other. What’s a little drool, anyways?” You huffed. He seemed a bit scandalized at your response, with his eyes wide and mouth slightly agape.

“That is a bit— a bit vulgar…” Sunghoon muttered. You laughed and skipped back towards him, leaning over his side to look at the recipe he was watching. You helped him oil up the pan before he carefully picked a couple of asparagus to settle inside, letting the vegetable sizzle in the liquid fat.

While the asparagus were searing in the pan, Sunghoon was slicing up lemons while you shredded parmesan. “This is so fun, Hoon. I’m so excited to eat– I’m literally drooling,” you rambled. The asparagus hissed in the pan, letting the smokiness of its natural flavors fill the air. You turned on the hood fan as Sunghoon flipped them carefully with tongs. “Oooh, my boyfriend is a chef…! Make room, I’m putting the steak on.”

He pulled out another pan for your steak while you seasoned the meat with freshly cracked black pepper. Your fingers rubbed the spice into the lean cut, your other hand reaching to oil up the pan with a neutral oil. “You like your steak medium rare, right?” You hummed. Sunghoon nodded, letting out a half-hearted sound for an answer. He didn’t like his steak any sort of way.

“Yes, as do you, right?” He looked at you for confirmation. You nodded, letting out a sound of awe as you dropped the steak into the pan. Sunghoon took the asparagus off the stove once he deemed it perfectly seared, pulling out two plates to start the curation of a beautiful dinner display. When you pulled your steak off the pan, it had a beautiful crust and smelled utterly divine. And when you sliced it open, it had a a perfect wall-to-wall cook, the center a gorgeous pink with a gray band lining the edges. 

You carefully plated the steak alongside the asparagus, astounded by your once-in-a-lifetime perfect cooking ability. Maybe your boyfriend’s presence buffed your skill a little bit. You snapped a quick pic, a candid one with Sunghoon’s hand blocking a bit of the plate. “Ugh, Hoon, your hand was in the way!” You whined, but when the picture appeared on your phone, his hand was gone. “Oh, I guess not.” You shrugged, completely missing how tense he had gotten at that small exchange. “Well, let’s eat dinner, Hoon!”

Sunghoon obediently took the plate to the small dining table. “Should we watch a movie after, Hoon?” You squealed, clapping your hands eagerly as the seductive aroma of the amazing steak and asparagus filled your senses. Sunghoon nodded. He couldn’t lie, even as a vampire, the steak dinner was tempting him. 

You both dug into your meal, you way more ecstatic about it then him. Humans were funny– Sunghoon only needed blood to sustain him, physically and mentally. But seeing you get so excited over a steak dinner compared earlier in the week where you constantly complained about having instant ramen for dinner the fifth time in a week during finals felt more nourishing than even having your blood in a packet. You were chewing eagerly, your cheeks puffing with every bite and muted satisfied sound escaping your mouth.

After dinner and dishes, you both ended up collapsed in the couch with your fluffy blanket entangling both of your bodies together. You were sitting comfortably in his lap, your back pressed against his chest as you watched a random American movie. You were fiddling with Sunghoon’s thick and pretty fingers, rubbing your thumb against his pale knuckles. His chin was resting on your shoulder, mouth buried in the crook of your neck as he absentmindedly pressed kisses to it.

You weren’t really focused on the movie much. How could you be when your irresistible boyfriend couldn’t get his mouth off of you? You squirmed as his lips landed close to your ear, tickling you. “Hoon, the movie…” You mumbled, though you could give less of a shit about it at this point.

“I am watching…” he said, clearly not watching. You snorted softly, leaning further back into him. His arms tightened around your waist instinctively, keeping you settled comfortably in his lap. The television continuing streaming your shitty movie, but neither of you have been paying attention to the plot at this point. (That was barely even there, in the first place.)

Your fingers continued tracing over his pale hands as his lips continued to wander. His arms loosened so his hands could hold you, his large hands splaying across the expanse of your sides. “So clingy…” you muttered.

“Finals stole you from me,” he said, matter-of-factly. He continued to litter your skin with his soft kisses, and eventually, you couldn’t help yourself from meeting his mouth. He smiled as you both kissed, teeth clacking against each other as the innocent kisses evolved into a needy claim of each other. The pace became rapid as you contorted your body, setlting in his lap so that you were properly facing him. Your arms circled around his neck, pulling you closer. Sunghoon could tell you were still being clumsy, but that made it even more endearing. You were acting so needy, and it was igniting a new feeling in the vampire.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jake’s voice became present.  “Okay so– first, you guys are like– you guys gotta get in the mood, right? Let’s say you guys are kissing and making out and whatnot. You gotta ask how she feels, ya know? Check in and read the mood, then ask really carefully.” Sunghoon pulled away, a hand moving to gently cup your cheek, his thumbpad gently stroking your soft skin.

“Baby, are you feeling okay?” He mumbled. You nodded. “Okay– you need to tell me if it is uncomfortable,” he murmured. Your fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck as you nodded, pulling him back into you. His eyes fluttered shut as he got lost in the feeling of your sweet kisses, devouring him more than he could have ever done to you.

You shifted your hips over his, trying to get comfortable, but the movement pulled out a strangled groan from Sunghoon’s throat. You shifted away, alarmed. “Hoon? Does it hurt?” You softly asked. He shook his head, steadying your body by gripping onto you. His kisses moved down to pepper onto your neck, leaving hickeys in its wake. He was getting so hungry, so hungry… But it wasn’t the typical hollowness that left his stomach growling. It was a flame that kept flickering, pooling an unfamiliar heat in his body that left him shivering.

He bit down onto your neck instinctively despite his fangs not protracting, leaving only safe indents where his teeth were. You whimpered, squirming your head away. He bit again– Oh? This almost felt like the real thing. He was tempted to draw his fangs, but a pressing question had taken priority in his mouth.

“Baby, do– do you want to take the next step?”

The question startled you. You stilled, gripping his buff shoulders to pull him away from you, looking him in the eye. Sunghoon smiled comfortingly, trying to show you that he was completely relaxed, even though he was consumed with anxiety. If he had a functioning heart, it would be rapidly thumping just like yours.

“Uhm– Hoon, I– I dunno…” You confessed nervously, trying to widen your distance out of fear. “Uh– Hoon, I– I’m still a virgin and– and I don’t know if I’m ready yet…” You were stumbling over your words, heavy breaths escaping you as you tried to regulate your nerves. Sunghoon gently rubbed your hip, trying to soothe you.

“That is okay, Y/N,” he said softly, “I am one too. A virgin, I mean,” he added in an attempt to pacify your worries. “And we do not have to do anything you do not want to.” He nodded confidently. You smiled, and he could feel your heartbeat level out as your shoulders relaxed.

Vampirism was inherently about taking, taking, taking. Taking blood, taking lives, and taking apart people from the inside. But nothing about this relationship was about taking, not the way he intended. He was supposed to take your blood, drain your veins dry for all that they could give– but now he was in your space, making you feel comforted, denying his own instincts just to preserve every bit of you.

“I love you,” Sunghoon abruptly whispered. “I love you, Y/N.” He was suddenly overwhelmed with his emotions– guilt and adoration. The idea of him eating you before getting to this point filled him with so much shame that it was choking him. A few months ago, you were just considered a mere blood bag, reduced down to food and fuel. But now, the thought of it made him sick, the thought that he would’ve simply gotten over you in seconds with a deep pitch of his fangs. That you wouldn’t be here, your heart beating for him and only him. That you would just be another cold body without any blood and another unsolved case. Oh. Sunghoon felt like he was going to seriously throw up. He’s not even sure if vampires could throw up.

“You make me feel…” Alive, human, mortal. “... you make me feel so happy.” Is what he finalized with.

You gently grabbed his jaw, turning his face back toward you. “I love you too,” you said. “I love you so much, Hoon. And you make me happy, too.” You nodded. His throat tightened. Of course you loved him, because you only knew his good sides, not the sides that thought about indulging in your crimson proteins or planned to date you just to fucking consume you.

You leaned forward first this time, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before curling back into his chest. Sunghoon wrapped the blanket tighter around both of you, keeping the both of you warm. The movie credits had long begun rolling, nearing the end. You yawned quietly, mouth stretching as a signal of your drowsiness settling in. 

“Tired?” he asked.

“Mhm.” You nodded. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

“Of course, baby.”

Your breathing eventually evened out against him. And while you drifted closer to sleep in his arms, Sunghoon stayed awake. Well, mostly because he was a vampire, but he was sure that even if he wasn’t, he’d remain awake. You looked so calm and peaceful and vulnerable that he felt obligated to stay awake and watch over you, making the most minuscule movements of his life. And Sunghoon would have revelled in that stillness of yours if he was still craving to eat you, but instead his hunger was swallowed down, suppressed by the love he had for you.

Summer came, bringing in a blistering heat. You didn’t go back to your hometown like you usually did. Instead, you stayed in your apartment during the three months off of school, choosing to remain with your boyfriend.

Over the 17 weeks that you guys stayed within proximity of each other, dates lined your calendar nearly every single day. Normally, you would’ve gotten sick of spending so much time with someone, but Sunghoon’s presence in your life settled right where it belonged that it felt like he had always existed alongside you. Your roommate had subletted her room to someone who was barely ever there, giving Sunghoon the perfect opportunity to basically move in with you. He was still officially living with Jake, his name still on the lease. But he practically became your new roommate with how often he was at your place.

The sunny season shined a new light upon your boyfriend. You came to find yourself endeared and amused by how much he cared about UV protection. After you told him you found his stock of sunscreen in his bathroom, he gave up hiding it and began piling his supply in your place as well. You always had an umbrella ready for when he finally obliged to take walks in the morning and long protective sleeves and leggings for whenever you guys went out while the sun was.

Summer left as soon as it came, and suddenly fall was beginning to settle in as a new semester begun.

You admittedly cried a little. Sunghoon was now in his fourth year and you were a third year, meaning that graduation would fall upon him. It felt like you met him too late, you had cried to him one night. But Sunghoon knew both of you had all of the time in the world. He was a vampire after all, he had centuries to kill, and he could spend eternity with you if he wanted to. (He said that to you, minus the whole vampire shtick. You had laughed and smacked his arm, but he meant it entirely.)

Time continued moving despite your protests and tears. Soon, your laptop was flooded with assignments and your notebooks were filled with redundant philosophy and sociology jargon. Even though you said for the third year in a row that you would finally get your shit together, your color-coded journal became increasingly empty and your working hours began to bleed into dawn.

A part of you feared that you would unintentionally find distance with Sunghoon, with how your workloads had nearly doubled since last year. But he found a way to weave himself into your daily life. He walked you to class, waited for you even at the dead of night, and showed up at your apartment with takeout whenever you texted him that you were hungry. (He had simply began putting the hours of the day into you while night time became his productive space. Being a vampire did have its perks.)

Stressful was an understatement to describe your semester, and even Sunghoon couldn’t deny that it was creeping into him too. So when Jake appeared with a wide, anticipatory grin and a Doorlist notification on his phone, the slightly-younger vampire felt like he was genuinely going to punch the Australian.

“I am not going to a party,” Sunghoon deadpanned.

“Dude, it’s Jay’s party. We have to go. It’s his last rager!” Jake whined.

“You and I both know that is not true. We are also a bit too old to be attending parties now.”

“You are never too old to attend a party, Hoon.” Jake nodded. “Matter-of-fact, we’re supposed to be at the legal drinking age right now. We should be at that party. And it’s Jay, man! Remember when he found out that we were vampires, and he was soo chill about it too.”

“Firstly, he found out that you were a vampire, and then you revealed my identity as one under no pressure.” Sunghoon gritted his teeth. “And what if we are in a situation where Jay is intoxicated, and then he says something like, ‘Oh, by the way, these are my two vampire friends!” Sunghoon was blubbering for the first time in his life, his eloquent manner of speaking vanishing.

“Hoon, who is going to believe that?” Jake groaned.

“Drunk words are sober truth,” Sunghoon replied solemnly, “Plus, there will be other girls there. And I do not want Y/N to get the wrong idea.” He nodded, crossing his arms. It was the perfect reason, and he’s sure Jake knew it. So when the Australian vampire spoke up, Sunghoon nearly choked.

“I heard from Y/N’s roomie that they’re going.”

Sunghoon froze, stunned as Jake dropped the final bomb that he knew would make the slightly-younger vampire explode. He ignored the fact that Jake knew your roommate to press the older vampire. “Y/N is going? Y/N did not tell me.” Sunghoon gritted his teeth. He knew he sounded like a possessive boyfriend, but he didn’t care about his tone.

“Oh? Really? She RSVP’d as going on the Doorlist, though?” Jake showed Sunghoon for proof. Sunghoon felt like he was about to explode.

“RSVP me too,” Sunghoon conceded. Jake pumped his fist.

“Yes, bro, let’s go!” He cheerfully said. Sunghoon checked his phone when a notification slid in.

Y/N (girlfriend): babeeee my roomie is dragging me to jay’s party this weekend. can u come with me plsss? hoon (boyfieee): YES. hoon (boyfieee): I mean. Yes. Let’s go together. Jaeyun and I will pick you up, okay? And your roommate too, I suppose. Y/N (girlfriend): yay!! oki, c u hoon <3

❛❛THREE PEOPLE, TWO SETS OF FANGS❞ ── 5

Sunghoon waited outside patiently of your apartment complex, sitting in the passenger seat of Jake’s car. His fingers drummed impatiently on the window switch, just wanting you to come out already.

“Bro, chill, lover boy.” Jake snorted. Sunghoon let out a small hiss, watching the door, waiting for the hinges to creak and the fortified wood to swing open. His leg jumped up and down as he counted the seconds until he’d see you bound down the stairs with a cute smile on your face. Maybe in a cute outfit, too. He’d never really seen your party getups, and you both have never been to the bars together.

The vampire’s breath hitched as the door to your complex swung open, revealing two women. It was you and your roommate and Dracula– you were absolutely stunning. Wearing an outfit that would bring any mortal, and immortal, to their knees. It wasn’t even that revealing or particularly sexy, but you brought out the best of it. Your hair was styled beautifully, bouncing with every step you took. You were smiling widely while talking to your Chowon, radiating a brightness that could rival the sun and scar his vampiric skin.

Jake let out a low whistle. "Damn." Sunghoon's head snapped toward him.

"What?" He growled.

“Not Y/N, dumbass. Chowon. Damn, she’s so pretty.” Jake fixed his hair in the mirror again. The backdoor suddenly swung open, and the noisy sounds of two girls clamoring into the back of a car filled the atmosphere.

"Hoonie!" you beamed. Immediately, every trace of irritation disappeared from the vampire’s face.

"Hello, baby,” he greeted back casually, turning around to look at you. You leaned forward with a small giggle, your knees bumping into the center console as you reached to kiss his cheek. Sunghoon practically melted. Your perfume was intoxicating, and it was almost accentuating your natural smell. Your lips were painted a deep color, and he’s sure that your kiss just left a lipstick mark on his face.

Yeah, Sunghoon wasn’t sure he would survive this party.

You spent the entire ride leaning forward between the seats, chatting animatedly with Jake and Chowon while Sunghoon sat quietly in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at you whenever he thought you weren't looking. (You caught him staring every single time he thought he was being subtle, and it always brought a small smile to your lips.)

By the time Jake pulled into the crowded street outside the party house, music was already rattling the windows and Sunghoon was sure he spotted some guy already yakking in the neighbor’s bushes.

"Oh my God, it's packed," you gasped excitedly. Sunghoon immediately wanted to go home. The front lawn was crowded, Red Solo cups already littered on the grass. The bass from the speakers was so loud that he could feel it vibrating through the asphalt of the street. There was so many people that Sunghoon was picking up on enough pulses to have his head ringing.

"Fun," he deadpanned. Jake parked on the street, a bit away from the party so that nobody would yak on his tires. The four of you walked to the venue, with your Chowon hitting it off with Jake while you swung your hands with Sunghoon. As soon as you entered the venue, you were sucked into another world with strobing lights to replace the night sky and loud EDM music in place of the chirping crickets. Sunghoon was already regretting his decision. He should’ve just asked if you guys could stay in and have a nice little comfortable date to yourself that didn’t involve over 100 people cramped into a two-story house.

“Be careful. Men are wolves.” Sunghoon said seriously. You giggled.

“Aren’t you a man?” You teasingly asked.

“I’m not a wolf.” He was genuinely repulsed at your question. He was a vampire, a respectable vampire. Werewolves were all instincts and impulses, pheromones and whatnot. Vampires were supposed to be creatures of restraint, sophistication, and control. (Whether that was actually true was up for debate, considering Jake was already losing his mind on the Bloody Mary’s he snuck into the party.)

“Hoon? Should we get a drink too?” You asked, glancing at Jake who was downing his homemade cocktails like he had just found water in a desert. Sunghoon looked around. Everyone else was drunk off of their minds, and the place stunk of booze and body odor. He scrunched his nose.

“Do you want one? I will not get one,” he replied, crossing his arms. You pouted.

“You’re so responsible, Hoon. I’ll try a cup of jungle juice!” You cheerfully spoke. He held your hand, letting you drag him to the bar where Jay’s friend, Sunoo, was standing. He poured a cup that looked like it was wayyy too big of a serving for one gal before sending you a thumbs up.

You took a sip, your eyebrows raising in satisfaction. “Oh? This is dangerous. It tastes like pure juice.”

“Jay’s secret recipe!” Sunoo yelled over the hard bass. You turned around to laugh at Sunoo’s remark when you heard Jake cheer.

“Yoo, Hoon, man, I found Jay! Come say hi!” The Australian rambunctiously yelled, an arm looped around Chowon’s waist. For a brief moment, Sunghoon’s attention shifted to look at the older man. Then, he felt a body press up against him, muttering an apology as it squeezed past. Then another person followed, and then an entire group of freshmen guys yelling about the jungle juice slipped past. And suddenly, you weren’t in his line of vision anymore.

Sunghoon’s head snapped around, trying his best to locate you. He even tried to sniff you out (maybe he was part-werewolf), to no avail. He couldn’t even single out the aroma of your sweet blood with the large crowd, the musty smell of sweaty bodies filling his senses instead. His nose scrunched up in pure disgust.

"Y/N?" He raised his voice, but nobody answered back.

Meanwhile, you were being swept in an entirely different direction. "Hoon?" you called out nervously, standing on your toes to try to get a glimpse of his familiar black hair amongst the seat of people. But the crowd had completely swallowed the both of you up into different currents. "Great." You rolled your eyes, pulling out your phone, only to feel a pang of frustration from the lack of bars.

"Looking for someone?" A voice asked. It was way too soft to be heard above the crowd, yet somehow, you had distinguished it amongst the screams, singing, and EDM. You turned around, your nose nearly bumping into the chest of a stranger. You looked up. He had a gentle and easygoing smile on his lips, an amicable sign that looked like it could put anyone at ease. Yet for some reason, it made you a bit unnerved.

"Yeah," you laughed awkwardly. "I lost my boyfriend." The pale man licked his lips, raising an eyebrow in surprise and vague disappointment.

"Boyfriend, huh?" He replied.

"Mhm." You hummed, a bit weirded out.

"Lucky guy,” he commented. His eyes drifted briefly toward your neck and wrist, before slowly looking back at your face. His smile never left. He leaned in to speak into your ear, "My name's Sangwon."

A chill crawled down your spine. When he stepped closer, his eyes looked exactly like how Sunghoon’s used to when he stared at you during class.

“Yeah, I’m pretty lucky too. Nice to meet you Sangwon.” You nervously chuckled, taking a cautious step back, trying your hardest to put at least some semblance of distance between the both of you despite the packed party. You intentionally didn’t give your name, feeling more and more creeped out the more you looked at him. Sure, he was attractive, but he was giving you the heebie-jeebies for some reason. “Uhm– I’m going to find my boyfriend, yeah.”

“Do you need me to accompany you? It’s really crowded,” he murmured, his voice blaring sirens in your ear despite how soft-spoken he was.

“No– oh no, that’s really okay… I mean, I’ll be fine.” You swallowed. Sangwon tilted his head.

“Your boyfriend wouldn't want you wandering around alone, would he?” His voice lulled almost into a purr. You scoffed, now getting a bit angry at the sheer audacity of this man. Alright, now he was just being downright freaky. Before you could decline again, a wave of people pushed through the room. Someone bumped your shoulder, sending you stumbling slightly. Sangwon's hand immediately shot out to steady you. His grip was cold, almost as cold as Sunghoon’s usual body temperature and way too cold for the hot and heavy-air atmosphere you were in. You stared at him, but made a point not to thank him.

His pointer and middle fingerpads brushed against the inside of your wrist before he let go of your wrist, his digits slowly unfurling around your bone and skin. His smile seemed to widen as he brushed up against the epidermis. “Your heart's beating really fast,” he whispered.

“Uh... what?”

“Probably the music.” He laughed lightly. “And the crowd.”

“Riiiight…” You drawled out. What a freak! You inched away, backing up. Sangwon seemed to follow, as if you had him on a fishing line that magically pulled him. His eyes dropped down, and for a second you were disgusted to see it fall to your lips, but then it dropped lower. You were about to smack him, thinking he was staring at your chest or something, but his gaze shifted slightly to the right. You could see as the red and white lights flashed on his face that his pupils were dilating, his focus seemingly on one thing:

Your neck.

His mouth fell agape, and you could see his canines protruding, thinning of into sharp peaks. Your breath hitched. The pleasant smile he had been wearing all conversation suddenly looked strained, as if he were forcing it into place.

"Are you okay?" you asked cautiously. Suddenly, the breath was knocked out of you as you were pulled back into someone’s chest. You didn’t have to look behind you to know who it was, because the cold and broad muscle was one that you had been slotted up against for endless nights. A firm, left arm wrapped around the top of your chest, locking you into a protective embrace.

“What are you doing with my girlfriend?” Sunghoon hissed. Sangwon's eyes flickered from Sunghoon's face to the arm wrapped around you. Then, slowly, a real and oddly amused smile spread across his lips.

"Oh." The single syllable carried a strange understanding, and it felt like you were suddenly on the outsider of an inside joke. "She's yours." Sangwon raised both hands, as if surrendering. "I'm not trying to cause any trouble."

"You were staring at her neck." The accusation left Sunghoon immediately. You blinked, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. What an oddly specific thing to say. You looked at Sunghoon, and suddenly you didn’t recognize him anymore. When you looked back at Sangwon, it felt less like two strangers meeting and more like two predators sizing each other up.

“So?” Sangwon sighed. "You know how difficult it is to find good donors these days,” he complained, almost whining. Your mouth fell agape in pure discombobulation. Donors? What the hell was he talking about, and why does it seem like Sunghoon understood?

“She is not– She is not a donor.” Sunghoon swallowed, almost sounding pained. “She is my girlfriend, and I love her.” You would’ve cooed if you weren’t so fucking scared and confused. Sangwon looked you up and down before glancing at Sunghoon again.

"How long?" He licked his lips.

Sunghoon's jaw clenched. "That's none of your business,” he spat out.

"Months?" Sangwon guessed. “Months, and you haven’t fed?

FED???

"What does that mean? Hoonie– baby– what does that mean?” You asked, his protective grip on you suddenly feeling suffocating, the weight of his muscular arm now feeling too heavy for your liking. Sangwon barked out a laugh.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"Stop. Talking.” Sunghoon didn’t know why he didn’t just pull away. He was so caught up in his anger and disgust

"No, seriously." He pointed between the two of you. "You mean to tell me you've been dating her for months and you're still surviving off bagged blood?"

The color drained from your face. What the fuck does he mean bagged blood. It was like your head was on a swivel with the way you kept looking at your boyfriend and the random stranger.

"...What? Babe, what the hell is he talking about–” You began to nervously ramble. Sunghoon looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Unfortunately for him, Sangwon seemed to be having the time of his life, a cheshire-like grin spreading on his lips as he kept talking.

"Dude, that's insane. You're telling me you've been sleeping next to this girl every night and haven't taken a single sip?" The words were beginning to form a horrifying picture. Was your boyfriend a fucking cannibal or something? Sunghoon's eyes flashed dangerously.

"One more word and I'll rip your throat out." He snarled. The threat came out so naturally and so unlike your delicate boyfriend who was always precious smiles and soft words. 

The EDM was pounding your ear drums, and your heart rate was accelerating. You nervously began to paw at Sunghoon’s arm nervously, your throat closing up and breath stuttering with every heavyset inhale. "H-Hoon..." you whispered. Your voice was barely audible. For the first time since you'd known him, his touch didn't comfort you. It felt like a trap. Sunghoon immediately loosened his grip, hurt flashing across his face.

Sangwon laughed, his eyes wrinkling into gentle crescents despite his mocking demeanor. "See?" He said in a whiny tone. "Now you've gone and scared her. It’s okay, you should feel special. Do you know how hard it is for vampires to love?”

As you looked back at Sangwon, for a split second, your eyes caught something gleaming in the light. A sharp pair of fangs. Your breath caught. You turned around to face your boyfriend.

And when you looked at Sunghoon, he was baring the same set of sharp teeth.

Your boyfriend was a fucking vampire.

You stumbled forwards, out of his grip and towards Sangwon. Realizing you were in between two fucking vampires, you stumbled out to the side, letting your feet lead you away. You heard faintly hear Sunghoon call your name, and hear his footsteps pounding against the floor as they followed after you. By the time you got outside, you thought that the fresh air would let you breathe again, but every inhale seemed to weigh more down on your lungs.

“Baby, please– just listen to me, please, baby.” Sunghoon continuously begged behind you, his voice following you like a loyal puppy.

“Sunghoon– you–” You didn’t even know what to say. What could you? You were standing outside a frat house at midnight after discovering your boyfriend was apparently a vampire. Like the mythical creature that wasn’t supposed to be fucking real, vampire.

“Baby, please,” Sunghoon repeated. You spun around. He nearly bumped into you, his chest nearly slamming against your nose. You backed up, putting some distance between the both of you.

“Are you a vampire?”

The question sounded ridiculous. It wasn’t a sentence that you’d ever thought you’d say. You couldn’t even fucking imagine what situation you would ever use it in, yet here you were, in front of your supposed vampire boyfriend. The second the question left your mouth, Sunghoon's face crumpled. He couldn't even deny it now that he was confronted directly, and his silence was answer enough.

Your stomach dropped. “Oh my God.”

“Y/N—”

“Oh my God.” Your hands flew into your hair. Everything suddenly made sense. The sunscreen, the garlic allergy, the weird staring and formal way of speaking. His fucking books from forever ago and his odd fascination with the Victorian and Gothic eras. His cold skin, his weird fixation with giving you hickeys, and the way he never seemed to get tired. And oh my goodness this is why you could never use the bathroom with him because he doesn’t even show up in mirrors– Your knees nearly buckled, your mind getting crushed with the sheer amount of realizations in your relationship thus far. “Is it true, Sunghoon?” You whispered, “That you’re really a vampire?”

“Yes.” The answer came quietly.

“You lied to me.” Your voice cracked. Sunghoon looked like you'd stabbed him with a wooden stake.

“I know, baby–”

“For months!” You added.

“I know.” He exhaled.

“You let me think you were normal!” Sunghoon’s heart was physically aching, a feeling that he hadn’t experienced a century ago. His heart couldn’t ache. It wasn’t even pumping. But of course, it was you who had pulled out such a strong emotion out of him.

“I wanted to be, Y/N. Please– I really wanted to be normal. For you,” he murmured. For the first time since you’ve met Sunghoon, he looked scared. “I did not mean to lie to you forever,” he said quietly. “I just— I was just waiting for the right time!”

“And when was that?” you demanded. “When we graduated? When we got married? When I was eighty, on my deathbed, while you still look as young as ever, Sunghoon?” Each question made him flinch.

“I do not know,” was all he could say. The music from inside the house pulsed faintly through the walls, but all you could feel was the silence that was lingering over both of your heads.

“Were you really going to drink my blood?” You quietly asked. Sunghoon froze. The question clearly wasn't the one he'd been expecting, but he couldn’t lie to you anymore. He nodded slowly once.

“A long time ago,” he whispered, “But not anymore. Not anymore,” he mumbled. Your question sent him off into a bizarre, desperate, and incoherent rambling. He was muttering to himself, his gaze focused on the hard grass beneath your feet. He took a cautious step forward. “I would rather starve. I promise you, baby.” He sniffled, and when he looked up again, he was crying.

“Sunghoon…” you mumbled, unable to resist cupping his cold skin and wiping away his tear. He nuzzled his cheek into your warm palm, his eyes fluttering shut. He wasn’t the scary bloodsucker that Sangwon made him out to me. No, he was still your sweet boyfriend Sunghoon.

“I–” He choked out. “I– Your blood smelled so good when I first met you…” He confessed. “The first time we became project partners, I wasn't happy because I liked you. I was happy because it made it so much easier for me to just drink you up. But you are sweet– you are so so sweet, Y/N, just like your blood. And every time we met up, we got closer and– and you made me feel something I haven’t felt in over a hundred years. I don’t know when it happened, Y/N, but I didn’t just want your blood anymore. I wanted you.” He was breathless as he rambled on and on, and he would continue until there was no more air in his lungs as long as you were convinced and you didn’t leave him.

“Hoon, I’m– I’m really mad still…” your voice cracked, your fingers clumsily coming up to rub away as a tear slipped down your cheek. “You– you still lied to me… and– and you wanted to suck my blood. I dunno how I feel about that, Hoon…” you murmured, “but I can’t deny that I haven’t been at my happiest with you. And admittedly, I don’t think I can say that I hate you…”

Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled with the tears that lined his ducts. He sniffled, his pale hands rubbing against each other at the palms to help soothe himself. "You do not have to forgive me tonight," he said quickly, as if the words had been waiting behind his teeth. "Or tomorrow. Or next week." His gaze dropped to the pavement. "Honestly, I do not know if I would forgive me." He laughed weakly, wiping at his tear-stained face.

"I understand if you are scared of me, too,” he spoke lowly. You couldn’t deny it. You were scared. Not exactly of Sunghoon, but of everything you had just learned. It was too much for a college student to process. That vampires apparently existed. And your boyfriend was one. And that same boyfriend who kissed your forehead before exams and made you your favorite instant ramyeon when you were sick had once looked at you and thought about draining all your blood.

It was way too much.

"I’m sorry, Hoon– I– I think… I need a second. Away. From you,” you hesitantly said. Sunghoon nodded in understanding. “I’ll– I’ll call an uber. And I’ll call you eventually, Hoon. When I’ve sorted everything out.”

Sunghoon spent a week in absolute misery.

The first day, he kept staring at all of the pictures of you he had on his phone. The second day, he went through your social media, stalking your account to see your minimal amount of photos posted and to see if you had put anything on your stories. The third day, he was contemplating whether or not it’d be worth it to bake himself in the Sun. He wasn’t even sure how he made it through the rest of the four days without actually dying.

"For the love of Dracula, man." Jake threw a throw pillow directly at his face. Sunghoon didn't even flinch. The pillow hit him square in the fact before it slowly slid off. "Get up, you’re embarrassing our entire species. Vampires don’t sulk, we smolder, man." Jake looked at the untouched blood packets littering the coffee table. "And when was the last time you ate, dude? You’re making our apartment look like a fucking crime scene in the making. And you look paler than usual, man, damn. You look like Nosferatu.”

"I am not hungry. And do not compare me to him. That feels blasphemous.”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Have you texted her at least?”

“I am waiting for her to text me. She is the one who said she needed space, so I must wait for her.” Sunghoon sighed, rubbing his forehead despite himself. Jake winced.

“Man, it must be really bad if you’re touching your face..” He gave a firm pat to Sunghoon’s back. “Well, look on the bright side, man. She probably won’t break up with you if she just said she needed space, right?” Jake tried. Sunghoon nodded, but there were no emotions on his listless face.

“But what if she decides to after a week?” Sunghoon sniffled. Jake rolled his eyes.

“Man, I think if anything, if I found out my boyfriend was a vampire, it would make him hotter!” Jake tried once more. Sunghoon nodded again, but there wasn’t exactly a positive or negative reaction. He wasn’t exactly scared of being dumped. He was more terrified of the fact that he could have scarred you. He was terrified that instead of picturing him as your boyfriend, all you would see is a set of fangs, ready to dig into you and kill you at any moment.

He felt like throwing up. It was probably because of the malnourishment, but he felt sick at the thought of you thinking that he would kill you. And the truth was that he did at one point, but even though he changed his mind about it, the concept had still existed at one point. And for you, every perspective and sweet memory the two of you shared was probably now stained by his foolish intentions. He wanted to rip his hair out. He was nearly about to actually when his phone began to ring.

He lunged for his phone on the coffee table, his heart feeling lighter as he read the contact. It was yours. He picked up before the second ring could even happen. “Y/N? Babe? Is that you?” He meekly spoke.

“Hoon? Can you come over?” You asked through the phone. His heart felt like it was breaking into two as he heard your soft sniffles that you tried so hard to suppress.

“Yes. I will be there. I–” He let out a defeated sigh. “I will be there in five minutes. I am going to fly,” he honestly admitted as he walked to the balcony door. His fingers pulled back the black-out curtains for a moment to reveal the weather outside. The Sun was almost mocking him, shining brightly despite his gloomy mood, and he hissed silently as the ray caught on his exposed arm.

“What? What do you mean fly, Hoon? Like– fly with your vampiric powers?” You fussed. He winced.

“Yes. I love you. Five minutes, babe.”

And as promised, he was outside the door to your apartment in five minutes. He was about to knock on the door when it suddenly swung open, revealing you in all your glory. You looked, well, like a mess to be honest. Your eyes were puffy, lips pouty, and you were drowning in an oversized sweatshirt that Sunghoon was sure belonged to him. He would’ve felt upset at your condition if you didn’t wear his clothes, because to him, it was a sign that you still loved him some way.

Sunghoon missed you so much. He missed you so much that it felt like his skin was peeling off. Oh, maybe it was. He was standing a little bit in the Sun. You gently wrapped your fingers around his wrist and pulled him inside your apartment. The curtains were drawn shut, and the living room was illuminated by a warm standing lamp at the end of your couch. The dark atmosphere made him swallow. Were you really sulking in such a dim environment, just as he was?

“I missed you.” He breathed out without thinking. You looked stunned that he spoke up first, but soon, a soft smile spread across your lips.

“I missed you too, Hoon…” you responded, “Let’s– Let’s talk in my room, okay?” You proposed. He nodded obediently. He’d walk into incoming traffic if you asked him in that sweet tone. He followed you and noticed immediately that his sunscreen brand was still on your dresser and that his phone charger was still plugged into the wall. A ghost of a grin haunted his expression.

“Can I just– ask you something?” You exhaled. “How much of our relationship was real? How much of it did you really feel?”

“All of it.” The answer came immediately. You were taken aback at how fast he replied. “I think… for the most part, I was in denial about my feelings. You were my first everything, Y/N,” he confessed, his hands beginning to tremor with the intensity of his passion. “My first girlfriend, my first kiss, and my first love.” He nodded. “Even after over 120 years of living.”

“120 YEARS?” You yelped. He winced, his broad frame curling into himself. He looked less of a vampire and more of a frightened kitten.

“Yes… I am around 120 years old… Give or take?” His shoulders shrugged up with a sheepish look on his face. “But that is not relevant right now…?” He waved his hands dismissively. “All that matters is that I, Park Sunghoon the vampire, am sincerely in love with you.” He nodded, before twisting his expression. “Was that too cheesy?”

“A little bit.” You laughed wetly. You slowly opened your arms, and Sunghoon hesitantly allowed himself to fall into it. Even though he was a muscular vampire, he felt so small in your warm embrace. “I’m still mad, Hoon…” you admitted. “But I can’t lie and say that our relationship doesn’t mean anything to me. Because you’ve been my boyfriend first for a while now, and to me, being a vampire is a secondary thing. Does that make sense?” You kissed his forehead softly, and you could feel the muscles ease under your lips.

“Yes…” he murmured softly. You smiled.

“Although I’ll probably be a little mad for a while. Just ‘cuz you lied to me. And I think I can get past the part where you wanted to suck my blood because you said you don’t want to anymore, I guess. It’s a little muddy there.” You scratched your head. He nodded against your chest.

“I am sorry. I can apologize a million times until you are not mad anymore. On my knees, too. Or you can hang me upside down by my feet like a bat if that makes you happier.” He added. You smiled and gently smoothed down the back of his sleek, black hair before cupping his pale face.

“Maybe later, baby. I just think I want to spend some missed time with my boyfriend right now.”

❛❛THIS SWEET SCENT, FANGS GLOWING RED❞ ── + 1

“Baby, are you okay?”

It had been a while since you and Sunghoon had made up, but somehow looked even sicker than he did when he first appeared on your doorstep. Your boyfriend was already naturally cold and pale, but his white skin somehow turned greyish and practically translucent enough to see the outline of his bone structure. He couldn’t even go out, his skin becoming even more sensitive to UV rays no matter how much he covered himself up. Even a puffer jacket couldn’t stop the sunlight from penetrating through to his skin.

“I am fine,” he said weakly. He was currently bundled up in all of your blankets, laying down in your bed with a hot pack on his forehead. You weren’t sure this would heal him up, and Sunghoon honestly wasn’t sure himself, but he reassured you that it was the thought that counts and that ,“he’s a vampire, so he’ll probably live.”

After three days of his sickness and still no sign of recovery, you called in professional reinforcements.

“Yeah, I dunno man.” Jake shrugged as he casually sucked on his blood pack. He offered some to Sunghoon, who shrugged with a repulsed scrunch of his nose. “Are you hungry, man? You didn’t eat for a like– a week when you guys didn’t talk. Maybe it’s like his stomach shrank or something.” Jake tried to find a reason.

“I have not had a blood pack since before our fight,” Sunghoon admitted honestly, “I tried to, but they taste repulsive for some odd reason.”

“Ohh…” Jake’s mouth formed into a surprised circle. “Have you tried drinking Y/N’s blood?”

“Are you crazy!? That is why we did not speak in the first place, you lunatic!” Sunghoon growled before bursting out into a fit of coughs.

“I mean, you haven’t had any form of sustenance, and you’re disgusted by other blood. If she’s your girl, and you wanted to drink her blood before, logically wouldn’t it be better if you just drank her blood?” Jake suggested.

“What if– what if I hurt you, Y/N?” Sunghoon swallowed, wincing as the dry lining of his esophagus itched. 

“I can always push you off, you know?” You smiled. “I’m not that weak and fragile, Hoon.” Your words were firm, but apparently not firm enough to convince Sunghoon. He was gnawing at his bottom lip anxiously, but you could see how his canines looked sharper than they usually were.

“Okay…” Sunghoon finally conceded. Jake left, taking a bottle of his roommate’s sunscreen that he forgot on the coffee table as “payment” for his help. After the Australian vampire left, you settled into bed with Sunghoon. He sat up properly, letting you sit in his lap. The blanket that had covered his long legs was now strewn across your bed, bunched up on the side against your wall.

“If it hurts, just please slap the immortality out of me.” Sunghoon nodded firmly. You laughed, gently cupping his gaunt face so that he could look at you properly.

“I trust you, baby, just trust yourself too, hm?” The pads of your thumb rubbed up against his cheeks. He let out a small breath before burying his nose into the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply, as if he could breathe you into your lungs and keep you locked in there forever. A small pleased grunt left his lips, the sound raspy and dry.

“You smell s’good…” he mumbled. You kept looking at his face, taking note of every microexpression he made. His thick eyebrows twitched together, the muscles forming wrinkles at the center. His nose fluttered up and down like a bunny sniffing out for carrots. And then he opened his mouth, and your heart felt like it stopped. (Sunghoon knew it only paced faster.)

Past his plump lips and lining his red mouth was his two sharp fangs, gleaming with how sharp they were. “Gonna sink them into your neck, baby… right here…” Sunghoon’s voice whispered as his jaw hinged wide open. Your fingers instinctively curled, gripping his t-shirt into your clammy grasp. You squeezed your eyes shut, body tensing to brace for the impact of his teeth. Sunghoon immediately felt the tension ripple through your muscles. He gently skimmed his delicate fingers up and down your sides to soothe you. The gesture was so sweet and gentle compared to the threat posed by his pointed canines.

His touch coaxed the stiffness from your muscles bit by bit. The room seemed to narrow until there was nothing but his cold fingertips, your booming heartbeat, and the warmth of his breath ghosting across your throat.

The second you finally relaxed–

CRUNCH! 

The sound exploded through the bedroom. You bit your bottom lip so hard that it drew blood from the thin skin. Your back arched into a rigid bow, chest pressing against his and shoulders coming together to pull into your sides. Sunghoon’s grip on your waist tightened to stabilize your trembling body. He couldn’t speak, too busy with his mouth buried in your neck, but he gently squeezed at your sides to show you that he was there for you.

You felt his lips come down to surround his open mouth before he began to suck. A pleased groan left his mouth as your blood flooded his tastebuds. It was sweeter than anything he could’ve imagined, and for a second, he wondered if Eve felt this way beneath the tree, staring up at the apple before biting into it, only to discover that temptation had never done it justice.

And as soon as that second was over, every thought became incoherent to him, flushing away in a whirlpool. His eyes fluttered shut as he continued to suckle on your neck, his enclosed lips forming a hickey around the two prominent holes pierced in your skin. Sunghoon had spent months trying to convince himself that he didn’t want it anymore because it just wasn’t right, but as soon as the first drop of blood hit his tongue, he was sure he could get drunk purely off the taste alone. You really were AB+, huh.

Every beat of your heart pulsed beneath his lips steadily like a metronome, and every tremor that ran through your body reminded him that you trusted him enough to be this close. Sunghoon’s body was beginning to get flooded with a dizzying warmth that didn’t originate from your blood– no, it was all rushing to his head.

Your boyfriend tightened his grip on your waist, a shaky breath escaping him. If he wasn't careful, he might become addicted to this– the tantalizing cocktail of devotion and satiation that only drinking his girlfriend’s blood could mix up. He drank you down in in slow, greedy pulls, as if trying to savor everything flowing into his mouth. You could feel the faint movement of his Adam’s apple against your skin, each bobbing motion grounding him deeper, as if he were taking more than just blood—like he was taking pieces of your warmth, your heartbeat, your very presence.

Eventually, a dull buzz crept into your head and your strength began to slip from your muscles. Your fingers loosened their hold on his shirt, moving up to curl into fists and weakly rap at his broad shoulders.

He hesitated before pulling off, his breath hitching as he slowly lifted his head from your neck. You took in his expression as his face came back into your focal point. His lips were parted, thinly stained with the crimson tint of your blood, and his eyes were glowing a dark red. Yet, his pupils were unfocused and hazy, as if he was just abruptly woken up from the best dream he’s ever had in his life. As he blinked himself back to reality, his gaze focused on you.

You looked sickly, almost as sick as he was before he drank your blood. You were swaying slightly, your eyes fluttering open and shut like you were learning how they worked for the first time. He licked his lips to gather the remainders of your blood into his mouth. So fucking warm. So sweet. Sooo good, too good. It was everything he dreamt of and more. His eyes flickered to where he punctured your neck. Sunghoon had to bite his lips to suppress an audible groan from escaping his mouth. He abruptly dove back into your neck, but not to drink from you even more. He flattened his tongue and laved it over the two open wounds to seal them with his saliva, effectively cutting off any more blood flow and any more temptation to steal his rationale away.

“Hoon– Hoon, baby…” You whimpered. He pulled back, afraid at the way you sounded almost wounded. But then, he felt it. He glanced down to see your legs, spread and bordering his firm thighs, and in between, your heated core pressed against his prominent bulge. He bit his lip, trembling at the new and pleasurable sensation. “Hoon– did you get hard from drinking– drinking my blood?” You whispered. You sounded flattered and flabbergasted all at once.

Sunghoon felt dread wash upon him. As sexy as the situation was, the explanation was not. He sucked down the humiliation as he opened his mouth to rationalize his sudden spike of arousal. “Vampires do not produce blood. Therefore, when we intake blood, it may rush to certain parts of our bodies. I believe that, with such a– a desirable situation… it effectively decided to trail to my…” He didn’t finish his sentence, letting his newfound virility complete his explanation for him.

You giggled. “Do you– do you want to put it to use, Hoonie?” Your voice dipped down into a velvety purr, and Sunghoon was sure that if he wasn’t a vampire, his dick would’ve been instantly up the moment you looked at him with those hooded eyelids. 

“Yes– fuck, yes.” He groaned out, gripping your hips tightly. Your hand tentatively reached down to grope his bulge through his sweats in order to truly feel what you were working with. A small gasp slipped past your open lips as your hand wrapped around his girth– and for the first time that you’ve met Sunghoon, he wasn’t frigid.

“It’s so warm, Hoonie…” You mumbled, your fingers laying over the soft material of his trousers, not quite gripping his clothed cock properly. “I– Can I see it?” You whispered. He nodded, pushing down his sweats and boxers down to his thigh. You gasped as his erection sprung up. It was red, leaking, and full of life.

“Do– do you like it?” He asked, trying to steady his voice so he didn’t seem nervous. You nodded slowly. Your brain was still trying to keep up with the situation– got your blood sucked, now should you suck his dick or…– But your thoughts became useless and all tied down to one thing. Sunghoon’s impressive cock bobbing up and down with every breath he took.

“I like it a lot, Hoonie…” you giggled. You cupped your palm under your chin to spit in it before gliding your enclosed palm down his length. He shuddered, his hips jolting up as soon as your warm hand made contact with his heated shaft. Everything he had learned went out the window– There were no candles or roses prepared, no kissing or making out beforehand either. But if he got to this position, where your delicate hand was stroking him so eagerly, then he guessed he didn’t really need those articles anyways, right?

“Your hand is so soft, Y/N. So warm too– almost as warm as your blood,” he muttered, “You are doing so good…” He hissed through his teeth as your grip tightened on his cock. Even though your spit wasn’t as a sufficient enough lubrication and there was still a bit of friction, he was in his most euphoric state. Sunghoon realized for a second that he would’ve never gotten to experience something so so good and utterly divine if it weren’t for you.

“Love you, baby…” Sunghoon suddenly said to remind you of his genuine affection. You smiled bashfully up at him.

“I love you too, Hoonie…” your voice was so sweet that he could taste it in his mouth. Or maybe it was the taste of your blood still lingering. Regardless, his heart was swelling. He leaned back against the headboard, one large hand flattened on your hip and the other hand bracing his body on the mattress. He was admiring your face, looking at the way you had small indents on your bottom lip from where you bit it and the noticeable flush coming back to your faces. Sunghoon could feel your heartbeat reverberating against your bones– could feel himself within your heartbeat. And he never wanted to feel anything else than this.

“Can I touch you too?” Sunghoon asked softly. You nodded silently, eyebrows wrinkling in concentration as you continued to stroke him. You were more playing with his cock at this point, squeezing your hand in random intervals and intently watching the way precum was beading at the tip with every upward stroke. While you were concentrated, his free hand smoothly made its way to your shorts, pressing two curious fingers up against your clothed cunt. You whimpered, lips curling up in a sensitive pout as your legs twitched together. He pressed harder, observing the way you reacted to his gentle touch.

He jolted as you found your rhythm with your hand, your erratic strokes becoming steady pumps. Your soft palms, slicked with your saliva, was making him dizzy. He felt like all the blood that he sucked out of you was rushing to his dick instead of circulating throughout his body. His hips were gyrating upwards as he absentmindedly chased the pleasure surge. Fuck, it felt like he was about to faint– or die. He’d be fine as long as you kept that firm grip on his cock and kept staring at him so prettily–

“Oh, Hoon!” You gasped. Bursts of his cum erupted from his slit, landing to coat the back of your hands and the sides of your fingers. He swallowed, panting as your hand slowly kept dragging up and down to help ease him from his high.

“Fuck– Oh my Dracula.” He breathed out raggedly. “I did not know that– that it could ever feel this good.”

“You’re telling me you never masturbated in your century of living?” You snorted. He nodded.

“My dick has not been hard since a century ago, babe.” He reminded with a cheeky smile. You giggled, shimmying out of your shorts and pulling down your underwear. You were still a bit shy, but after making Sunghoon fall apart once with just your hand, you were gaining a newfound confidence to pleasure him even more. As soon as you sat back on his thighs to part your legs, it was like all time had stopped for him. His pupils dilated as they stared at your most sacred parts– beautiful and warm and so wet. He licked his lips as a new hunger drummed through his veins. Not a hunger for your blood, but a sudden craving for the sweet nectar your body was producing. He tentatively brought up a finger to rub at your clit, once again recalling what he read in those articles.

“Hoonie– it feels good when you touch there…” You whispered. He swallowed and nodded to acknowledge your words, before extending a second finger to circle your precious bud. You bit your lip as you watched Sunghoon explore your body, his keen eyes trying to catch every single microscopic movement you were making to gauge what was most pleasurable to you. It was endearing, in a way, that a vampire with a century’s worth of knowledge was still able to learn new things.

He daringly used his two fingers to spread your lower lips, revealing your inner parts. You were just wet, so wet that Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with himself. “Going inside…” he muttered as he slowly dipped a finger inside of your hole. He sucked in a breath as your heat sucked in his finger. His digit was wrapped in a warmth so much more heated than your blood. You squirmed, prompting him to keep his left hand firm hand on your knee so that you couldn’t shy away.

“What does it feel like, baby?” He crooned.

“Feels weird– just feels like something is inside, Hoon…” You admitted honestly. With as light as a touch he could possibly muster up, he slowly sunk his finger in deeper until your folds were surrounding the base of his digit. You let out a shaky breath as he pumped in and out– in and out. “Oh– it feels kinda good, Hoon… your finger is so long…” You smiled, feeling his fingertip prodding around inside of you. He eased in a second finger before realizing that he hasn’t even kissed you yet. He awkwardly craned his neck to peck your nose before placing a soft and tender kiss to your lips.

“Tell me how it feels– if it feels good or bad. I want to know everything about what your body likes.” Sunghoon’s breath fanned out against his lips before it disappeared as he pulled back. You nodded, a hiccup stuck in your throat as his fingers twisted around and curled upwards.

“Feels good, Hoon. Your– your fingers feel really good… and it feels even better because it’s you,” you mumbled, your hips beginning its chase towards his hand. “I love you…”

“I love you too,” he responded instantly. It would be a major offense if he let you say it with even a millisecond between his own affirmation of affection. “I want you to– to finish for me. Just as you let me for you.” He licked his lips, thick eyebrows furrowing towards his nose bridge as he pressed in a third finger. “Can you do that for me, please?” He smiled with all of his teeth, showing off his sharp fangs. You swallowed and nodded, letting out soft pants as your body rocked up and down, essentially grinding down on his three fingers.

“Yes– yes, I can, Hoonie. I can…” You whimpered. You sounded so delicious, soft whines escaping your lips that rang melodious in his keen ears. Your tight heat was clenching around his fingers, choking them with how much you were clenching down. It was odd and overwhelming all at once, a sensation that Sunghoon internally promised to explore more. “Hoonie– I think ‘m gonna come.” You breathed out, high in your throat. “I’m coming– Hoonie– ah!” You shrieked, nimble fingers gripping at his wrists as your hips gave one last jolt. He kissed your cheek gently, using his plump lips to ground you as you came. He gave you one, two, three more pumps of his fingers before easing them out of you.

“Are you okay? Is it good?” He eyed the way your legs were trembling, and your hips were still twitching with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You smiled and nodded. He looked at his fingers, coated in your viscous release. Your natural, musky scent was enticing. Enticing enough to eat. He lapped at his fingers, groaning as the delicious taste of your fluids spread across his tongue. You let out a whimper at the sexy sight, your hole clenching as a new spike of arousal hit your core.

“Sunghoon, can– can you go inside…?” Your eyes drifted down to your boyfriend’s hard cock, ready to go again.

He nodded, whispering out a few, “Yeah, yes– yeah…” as if trying to soothe himself before the final entree of your three course sex meal. “Do you think it will be easier for you to sit on it? Or on your back?” He asked, skimming his fingertips across your bare thigh. You licked your lips. It would’ve been easier to take it on your back, but really, you wanted to be on top of Sunghoon and make him lose control, just as he almost had when his face was buried in your neck.

“Can I ride you, Hoonie?” You asked sweetly. He closed his heads, his head slumping forward with a more audible groan.

“Yes– fuck, yes. You can do anything you want to me,” he muttered. You sat up with your knees, adjusting your body until your dripping heat was hovering over his erection. You bit your lip as you gripped his impressive size by the base, steadying it so that you could sloooowwwlyyyy sink down. You winced as your hole began stretching around his thick tip, causing his hands to shoot up and grip your hips.

“Are you okay, baby? Does it hurt?” He tried not to panic, but you could tell he was worrying by the tremor in his voice.

“A little– it’s okay, Hoon. I just have to get used to it,” you said through shaky breaths. He steadied your trembling body, allowing you to lower yourself at your own pace.

“There we go, baby… It is okay… you are doing so well…” he leaned forward to whisper praises in your ear, breath hot against your sensitive skin. “There we go, taking me so good. Just go slow– little by little. I am here for you. We can stop at any time…” he mumbled, trying to ease your body so it could relax and open up even more for him. Airy moans slipped past your parted lips as you gradually got adjusted to his size, your tight cunt taking one inch, then two, and then another until eventually, you were seated on his lap and filled to the brim with his fat cock.

“Oh, fuck. Fuck.” Sunghoon thought he’s never cursed this much in his life up until this moment. Your warm insides were wrapped around him so tightly that, if his body had proper circulation, he was sure that your pussy would have cut it off by now. Your inner walls were massaging his length, feeling up against the ridges of his translucent veins and bringing him a pleasure greater than intaking blood.

“Sunghoon!” You kept gasping out chants of his name, your thighs quivering so much that he he didn’t know what to do. Your two palms kept themselves steady on his chest, bracing your entire body as it adjusted to his cock.

“It is okay, baby. You’re doing so well…” He kissed the side of your cheek, peppering the expanse of skin with soft pecks. “There we go– just sit still. Move when you are ready.”  He cooed. You nodded, tears pooling in your waterline as you squirmed around, trying your best to get used to the overwhelming and new feeling of being so fucking full. Soft grunts spilled from your lips as you slowly ascended, and Sunghoon felt like he was being turned again with how much was hitting every part of his nerve. Your slick walls gripped him as you pulled up, sucking him in as if they never wanted to get off of him. He hissed, a hand flying to rest on your hip.

“Hoon– Hoonie, kiss please…” You whined, sounding so utterly undone and pathetic that, as if by magnetic force, his lips immediately attracted themselves to yours. Your hips rolled forward, prompting a groan to pass his parted mouth. You moved slowly, feeling Sunghoon’s girth press up against your walls, moving around to map around every single bit of your insides.

Your kisses became uncoordinated, your lips moving from his mouth to its corners, before falling down to his jaw until you eventually latched onto his neck. Your sweet pecks turned into harsher sucking, and then Sunghoon felt something oddly familiar. You were biting down on his neck, as if you had fangs of your own. The thought made him impossibly harder, imagining your tiny mouth crowded by sharp canines and glaring back at him with red irises. He huffed as he craned his neck back to allow you to mouth at his skin. He smoothed down your hair as he felt you try to suck a mark to imprint your touch– it was in vain, but it was so endearing to him.

A foreign tightness began to coil up in his lower gut. Your movements were becoming erratic now– your hips running towards your peak like a chicken with its head cut off. Your fingertips weren’t holding his biceps anymore, instead your fingers curled until your nails were indenting crescents into his muscles. “Hoon– Hoon…” you mewled incessantly, as if it would kill you if you stopped making such lewd sounds. Your vision was blurring again, and you could feel the wetness of a tear rolling down your cheek. Sunghoon’s thumb gently came up to wipe it away before his large palm encompassed the expanse of your cheek.

“There we go… My baby is so pretty, chasing her pleasure. That is it– come on.” He choked out, his breathing heavier than he wanted it to sound. He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped before letting out a loud exhale as you clenched around him. Fuck it. Sounding seductive and in control was the least of his concern. Not when his beautiful girlfriend was riding him like a champ.

Everything was so fucking warm– your bodies, the air, and especially your blood. When Sunghoon breathed in the hot and heavy atmosphere, the aroma of your sweet, sweet elixir of life made him dizzy. His mind was clouded. Nothing could ever come close to this intoxicating feeling– not even having a second taste of your blood could compare to the feeling of your insides fucking milking him for everything he had. With a load grunt, Sunghoon lurched forward, burying himself into the deepest parts of your insides as he came.

You gasped his name, but Sunghoon could barely register it. His head was ringing as more warmth spurted from his cock, coating your insides white. He hissed, a thumb drawing to your pretty bud to rub you, wanting you to follow him to the finish line. And with a few uncoordinated circles, your arms wrapped around his neck, bringing him into your sweaty embrace as you came around his cock.

“Hoon– Hoon, fuck, I love you so much!” You squealed, nearly incoherent. He didn’t care that you were nearly suffocating him with your tight hug because all he wanted was to feel your tight heat come around him– again again and again. But against his desires, he pulled out, leaving his cum to drip out of your cunt.

“Oh– I was not supposed to finish inside,” he muttered, eyes blown wide. You giggled and pressed a sloppy, wet kiss to his cheek as you sat against his thighs.

“It’s okay, Hoon.” You hummed, cupping his face gently. The warmth from his skin slowly began to dissipate, leaving behind the pale boyfriend that you were so accustomed to. You caressed his soft, cold skin with a loving smile on your lips before pecking his own. “I love you,” you whispered against his mouth, leaving a grin in its wake.

“I love you too…” he murmured back.

Being a vampire was tedious.

But if this is where immortality had led him to– a sweet girlfriend with even sweeter blood– then he guessed he could live with it for another century or two.

[cherry-lala]

There’s a Man in My Mirrior

Pairings: Mirror Entity!Jay X Fem!Reader

Genre:Psychological Horror, Supernatural Thriller, Angst

Wordcount: 7k+

Summary: After a night of wine and work, you wake to find your reflection isn’t yours. At first he mimics you perfectly, but soon his smiles linger too long, his eyes follow when yours turn away, and he appears in every reflection you can’t escape. By the time you realize you’ve invited him in, it’s too late. The man in the mirror doesn’t want to watch anymore—he wants out.

Warnings: Psychological Horror, Obsession, Supernatural Themes, Gaslighting (self-doubt), Voyeurism, Paranormal Stalking, Isolation, Creeping Madness, Body Horror (dimensional distortion), Breaking of Reality, Yandere/Obsessive Behavior, Power Imbalance, Mirror Entity Fixation, Delusion vs Reality, No Comfort/No Rescue, Non-Consensual Pursuit, Paranoia, Possessive Behavior, Loss of Autonomy, Fractured Dimensions, Claustrophobic Themes, Disturbing Imagery. A/N: Yayy its out! Likes, Comments, and Reblogs always make my day! Taglist: @kristynaaah, @won1yoiz (LMK if you want to be added to the taglist!)

More from this Anthology: Phantoms & FairyTales

The hangover hits like a hammer. Not a gentle throb — a full, merciless pounding that makes you groan before you even open your eyes. Your body feels like it’s been left out in the rain, every limb heavy, head thick with regret.

Your living room looks worse than you feel. Laptop open and humming on the coffee table, a half-finished bottle of wine slumped beside it, papers scattered like you lost a fight with them. One shoe by the couch. The other, who knows.

“Great,” you croak. “This is the look of success.”

You stagger to the bathroom, bare feet slapping against the cool floor, and flick the light on. The fluorescent bulb buzzes to life, too bright, too sharp. You twist the faucet, splash your face with water so cold it makes your teeth ache.

The chill revives you a little. You blot your cheeks with a towel, drag it across your forehead, then lift your gaze to the mirror.

And freeze.

That’s not your face.

It’s a man’s.

His skin is smooth where yours is blotchy, his jawline sharp in a way yours has never been. Black hair falls just enough into his dark eyes to make them look deeper, sharper. His lips part in the same shape yours do, breath fogging faintly against the glass.

The towel slips from your hand, lands in the sink with a wet slap.

You stagger backward, heart ricocheting against your ribs. “No—no, no, no—”

The man stumbles back too. Not delayed, not slow—exact. Every twitch of your hands, every jerk of your body, he matches like a reflection.

Except he isn’t you.

Your throat goes dry. You raise your hand, just a little, fingers trembling. He raises his too, palms lining up perfectly against the glass.

The world feels like it tilts sideways.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper. The sound cracks in your throat.

He mouths it back, lips forming the words at the same time.

You slap the light off and bolt out of the bathroom. Your pulse doesn’t settle until you’re halfway down the hall, pressed against the wall like the flimsy drywall could save you.

You don’t go back in. Not that night. You brush your teeth at the kitchen sink, muttering excuses to the empty apartment.

“Just drunk. Still drunk.”

But the wine haze is gone. The pounding in your head is pure hangover clarity, and you know it.

The next morning, you stand outside the bathroom door like it’s a crime scene.

You spent the whole night dreaming in flashes—eyes in the mirror, hands against glass, the faint shape of a smile you swore you didn’t make. You told yourself a hundred times that it wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

But now you’re here, and the door is just a door, and your skin prickles with goosebumps anyway.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Round two. You’ve got this.”

You flick the light on.

The mirror shows your face.

Messy hair sticking up at odd angles, pillow-crease stamped into your cheek, dark circles so bold they could be designer. You almost laugh in relief, sagging against the sink.

“See? Normal. Totally—”

You stop.

Because when you reach for your toothbrush, eyes flicking up just to check—he’s there again.

The man.

Black hair, eyes locked on yours. He raises his toothbrush too, matching you.

Your chest tightens, but you don’t run this time. You stay frozen, testing him. You tilt your head left. He tilts left. You blink three times, fast. He blinks three times.

Your hands are trembling, but your feet won’t move. It’s terrifying, but… not violent. Not wrong in the way you expect. He’s only mirroring. Exactly.

A nervous laugh bubbles out of you. “What the hell are you?”

His lips form the same words. Perfect sync.

Your stomach knots.

You watch him for too long, toothbrush limp in your hand, until your nerves give out and you shove everything back in the cup. You shut the light off, step out, and this time you don’t slam the door.

You just leave it ajar, as if keeping an eye on it will change anything.

The third time is worse, because you know he’s going to be there.

All day, the thought gnaws at you — through meetings that drag, emails you don’t read twice, and the hum of office gossip that usually distracts you. Every idle moment, you see him in your head. That face. Those eyes. How exactly they lined up with yours, how impossible it was.

By the time you’re home again, the bathroom door feels like it’s pulsing with something alive behind it.

You tell yourself not to look. Just go to bed. Wash up in the kitchen. Normal people don’t go hunting nightmares.

But then you’re standing in front of the mirror anyway, hands gripping the counter so tight your knuckles ache.

You tell yourself it’s stupid. It’ll just be you. It has to be.

And there he is.

The man.

Exactly in sync, toothbrush already lifted when you lift yours. His gaze is calm, almost indifferent.

You let out a shaky laugh that dies too quickly. “You’re not real.”

He mouths it back.

“You’re not—” Your voice cracks. “You’re just me.”

He’s silent, but his lips form the words with you. The disbelief curdles into something worse: what if this is real?

You shut the light off mid-brush, finish rinsing in the dark. Your heart races like you ran a mile, but you still peek once more before leaving.

He’s gone. Just you.

You walk out on trembling legs, whispering, “Still drunk. Still drunk.” Even though you know you aren’t.

The fourth time happens by accident.

You wake in the middle of the night, throat dry, stumbling for water. The kitchen light is harsh, making the shadows longer. You glance at the microwave door while waiting for the tap to run cold, and for a second you swear you see him there — faint, distorted in the dark gloss of the surface.

You spin, breath caught in your throat, and it’s only your own reflection.

“Jesus,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your chest.

You don’t go near the bathroom that night.

By the end of the week, disbelief is all you have left to cling to. You don’t tell Amaya, your friend. You don’t tell anyone. What would you even say? Hey, there’s a guy living in my reflection, but don’t worry, he’s polite about it.

Instead, you avoid the mirrors when you can. Glance just long enough to brush your teeth, scrub your face, swipe on mascara for work. Never linger. Never stare.

And still, every time, he’s there.

Black hair, dark eyes. Moving when you move. Calm. Watching.

You don’t believe it. You can’t.

But your stomach knots tighter every time.

The heat kept you restless all night. Even with the window cracked, the apartment felt suffocating, heavy with summer air that refused to move. Sometime after 3 a.m. you gave up, kicked the sheets down, and slept in nothing but your underwear, sticky with sweat.

When you wake, the sun is already spilling pale light across your bedroom floor, striping the rug in soft gold. You groan, stretch, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. The air clings damp to your skin.

You rub at your eyes, yawning, and glance toward the tall mirror propped against the far wall.

Your stomach drops.

There he is.

Not you. Not your face. Him. The man.

And this time, he’s not just wearing what you wore last night.

Your black panties are mirrored as black boxers on his hips. His chest is bare, lean and defined, muscles shifting as he moves exactly with you. Black hair mussed from sleep, lips parted with the same yawn you just gave.

You nearly scream, the sound catching sharp in your throat. Instead, you lurch forward and snatch the blanket from your bed, clutching it to your chest like armor.

In the mirror, he reacts instantly — dragging a sheet up against himself, covering the same way you do.

Your pulse slams so hard it makes your vision blur. “No. No, no, no…”

You can’t stop staring. He mirrors your terror, the same wide eyes, the same frantic clutch of fabric against bare skin.

For a few beats, you’re locked like that — both half-hidden, both breathing hard, both pretending this is normal when every nerve in your body screams it isn’t.

Finally, you squeeze your eyes shut. “This isn’t happening. This isn’t—”

You peek again. He peeks too. His dark eyes hold yours like he knows something you don’t, like he’s waiting for you to believe it.

The blanket slips a little, baring your shoulder. In the mirror, his sheet slips too, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone, the slope of his chest.

You yank the blanket higher, heat burning your cheeks. He mirrors the motion.

“God,” you whisper, half a laugh, half a sob. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”

He mouths it with you, lips shaping the same denial, as if the words belong to him too.

You can’t stand it. You turn away, clutching the blanket, heart pounding like you’ve run for miles.

But you feel him still — behind you, inside the glass, watching.

And for the first time, you’re not sure which one of you is pretending harder.

You don’t touch the floor mirror for the rest of the morning.

After wrapping yourself in a robe, you yank the blanket off your bed and drape it over the glass. The fabric falls unevenly, corners sagging, but it’s enough to block the sight of him. You tell yourself it’s just so you won’t accidentally scare yourself again — like leaving the TV on static overnight — but your hands are trembling the whole time.

Even covered, the mirror feels alive. You keep catching yourself glancing at it, like you’re waiting for the blanket to twitch or slip on its own.

When you brush your teeth in the bathroom, you don’t look straight at the mirror. Just at your mouth, your hand, enough to get through it. The entire time, the thought burns behind your eyes: what if he’s there again? Shirtless. Watching.

By the time you leave for work, you feel raw, exposed, like your skin is thinner than it should be.

The office hums the way it always does — the low chatter of phones, the clack of keyboards, the stale perfume of reheated coffee. You bury yourself in a spreadsheet until your eyes blur, the mindless numbers almost enough to quiet the pounding in your chest.

Almost.

At lunch, you sit with Amaya and James in the café down the street, the one with too many chalkboard menus and not enough seating. The table is sticky, your sandwich limp, but their voices keep you anchored.

Until Amaya narrows her eyes at you.

“You’re off again,” she says, pointing her straw like a weapon.

James snorts. “She’s always off. It’s part of her charm.”

You laugh — too loud, too fake. “I’m fine.”

“No, seriously,” Amaya presses. “What’s going on? You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Your throat tightens. You weren’t going to tell them. It sounds insane. But the words claw their way out anyway, trembling and thin.

“Okay, don’t laugh,” you start.

“We’re absolutely going to laugh,” James says, already grinning.

You exhale hard. “Fine. It’s just—lately… every time I look in the mirror, it’s not me I see. It’s—” You falter, glance at Mia. “It’s a guy.”

James nearly chokes on his soda. “What?”

“A guy,” you repeat, cheeks heating. “Dark hair. He does everything I do, like he’s my reflection, but… he’s not me. He’s him.”

For a heartbeat, they both stare. Then Amaya bursts out laughing.

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “You’ve been working too hard. This is literally the plot of every creepy pasta ever.”

James leans across the table, smirking. “No offense, but if my reflection turned into some hot guy, I’d be thrilled. Send him my way.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around your cup. “I’m serious.”

“Yeah, and I’m serious too,” Amaya says, still grinning. “It’s probably just lack of sleep. Or—you know what it is? It’s alternate reality you. But, like, a hot boy version. He’s probably just as freaked out seeing you instead of him.”

James wiggles his brows. “Soulmates. Through mirrors. Netflix, call us.”

They laugh, the sound bright and easy. You force yourself to laugh too, the sound brittle in your throat. “Yeah. Right. Totally.”

But when the laughter fades and the conversation drifts to something else, you sit there with your sandwich half-eaten, stomach turning.

What if they’re right?

What if he isn’t some ghost, some trick of your brain?

What if he’s you — from somewhere else. Somewhere real. Just as shocked as you are.

The thought clings to you like static, even as you walk back to the office, even as you sit down at your desk. You can’t shake it.

And for the first time, the idea doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like a warning.

The first few days after you tell Amaya and James feel like trudging through quicksand. Their laughter echoes in your head, their jokes replaying: alternate universe you, hot boy reflection. You cling to it because it’s easier than the other possibility.

But every time you pass a mirror, your throat tightens.

You start moving differently in your apartment, hyper-aware of every reflective surface. The bathroom mirror is unavoidable, but you brush your teeth with your head tilted down, avoiding your own gaze. The floor mirror in your bedroom stays covered with that blanket, a silent ghost in the corner. Even your laptop screen unsettles you when it goes dark, showing a faint double-image in the black.

Still, you can’t help looking.

It starts small—quick glances to check. But the more you see him, the less you run.

Day 5.

You linger at the sink longer than necessary, toothbrush hanging from your mouth. He mirrors you, toothbrush balanced at the same angle, lips foaming with toothpaste.

You frown. He frowns. You lean forward; so does he.

Your hand hovers, and his hovers too. Perfect symmetry.

Your stomach twists, but your feet don’t move. Instead of running, you narrow your eyes. “Who are you?”

His lips shape the same question.

A nervous laugh bubbles out of you, half hysterical, half sharp. “Okay, freaky.”

Your reflection laughs with you—same timing, same soundless shape of joy.

The laugh dies in your chest. You shut off the light and walk out, heart hammering, but you don’t slam the door.

Day 7.

The fear is still there, but now it comes mixed with something else. Curiosity.

After a long day at work, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, hands gripping the counter. The light hums overhead. The mirror waits.

And so does he.

You stare at him for a long time, long enough that the clock in the hallway ticks audibly through the silence. He’s handsome—too handsome, you think bitterly. Black hair falling just right, skin smooth, eyes steady in a way yours never are.

It’s uncanny. But it’s also… magnetic.

You tilt your head. He tilts his.

You raise your hand, fingers splayed. His meet yours against the glass.

For a moment, you swear you can feel something, a phantom warmth where the glass should be cold. You flinch back, shaking your hand out like you’ve been burned.

But you stay. You don’t leave until your phone buzzes in the other room, breaking the spell.

Day 9.

You catch yourself doing it on purpose now—standing in front of the mirror when you don’t need to, testing him like a scientist observing a subject.

You pull faces: tongue out, lips pursed, exaggerated frown. He matches every time.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” you whisper.

He whispers too.

The soundless echo makes goosebumps race across your arms.

You lean forward until your forehead almost touches the glass. He leans forward too, the closeness dizzying. His eyes lock with yours, dark and unreadable.

For one insane second, you wonder what it would feel like if he weren’t behind the mirror. If he were here.

The thought makes you jerk back, breath shaky.

Day 12.

The heatwave continues, nights too sticky to sleep. You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, every creak of the building amplified.

The blanket still hangs over your floor mirror, a dark lump against the wall.

You stare at it until your eyes burn, until you can’t resist. You get up, tug the blanket down.

He’s there instantly, as if he’s been waiting.

White boxers instead of your white lace panties. Black beater instead of your tank top.

You freeze, blanket bunched in your hands. He freezes too.

Your heart races, but you don’t cover it again. You stand there, staring, breathing hard.

Finally, you whisper, “Why me?”

His lips shape the words too.

You grip the blanket tighter, fighting the urge to throw it back over him. But instead… you sit on the edge of your bed, facing him.

You watch each other until the sun starts bleeding into the room.

Day 15.

It’s lunch with Amaya again. She rambles about her cousin’s wedding drama, James complains about deadlines. You nod, smile, even laugh in the right places.

But inside, your head is full of him.

Why me?

The question doesn’t leave.

Day 17.

You stay late at work. By the time you leave, the sun’s gone and the office windows show only reflections. Your stomach knots as you pass one, fighting the urge to glance.

You do. Of course you do.

And there he is.

Not delayed. Not wrong. Just there, in the glass of the window, matching your steps. Shirt, bag, tired eyes—only it’s his face.

You stumble, heart lurching. When you blink, it’s just you again.

You walk home fast, every pane of glass a threat.

Day 19.

The mirror doesn’t scare you as much anymore.

You stand in front of it with your coffee mug, staring. He stares too.

Your fear simmers under your ribs, but so does something else. Fascination.

You study him the way he studies you. The slope of his nose, the mole by his eye, the way his shoulders look broader than yours could ever be.

He’s you—but he isn’t.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

He whispers too.

And for the first time, the thought doesn’t scare you as much as it should.

Day 22.

You’re late for work, standing in your bedroom half-dressed with your shirt dangling from one arm. Your hair refuses to cooperate, sticking up no matter how many times you flatten it.

You glance at the floor mirror. He’s there, of course, in his own half-dressed state — black slacks instead of your black pencil skirt, his hair mussed the same way yours is.

You glare at him. “Don’t look at me like that. You look just as bad.”

He glares too, a perfect mimic.

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it. You shove your arms into the shirt and mutter, “Fine, maybe you look better.”

When you smooth your collar, his hand moves the same way. For a flicker of a moment, it feels like he’s fixing it for you.

You leave the room with your heart fluttering for reasons you refuse to name.

Day 23.

Dinner is sad microwave lasagna eaten standing at the kitchen counter. The window over the sink is dark now, reflecting the apartment back at you.

You lean against it, chewing slowly. He’s there in the faint glass, a little distorted, but still him.

You tap your fork against your plate. “So… how was your day?”

His lips shape the same words.

“Mine sucked,” you admit, sighing. “Boss was on me all day. But you probably don’t have bosses in mirror-land.”

His mouth curves with yours into a faint smile.

It’s ridiculous. You’re literally talking to yourself. But the knot in your chest loosens for the first time all day.

Day 24.

You don’t mean to do it, but you linger in the bathroom after brushing your teeth. You’re already in pajamas, hair tied up, nothing special. But when you meet his eyes in the mirror, a flutter of nerves tickles your stomach anyway.

You tilt your head, study him. He tilts back.

“Why do you have to be so… good-looking?” you murmur.

He murmurs too.

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “God, I’m insane. I’m literally flirting with myself.”

Through the gaps in your fingers, you peek at him. He’s doing the same, hands pressed to his face, peeking back.

You burst out laughing.

It feels silly. Light. Sweet.

Day 26.

Nui your older sister texts you at midnight: u up? I think mom is marrying a sociopath.

You’re already awake, sitting on the edge of your bed with the blanket pulled off the floor mirror.

He’s there, sitting like you, knees bent, hands resting on his thighs.

You smile tiredly at him. “If you really are me in another life, I hope you don’t have family drama.”

His smile mirrors yours, soft and steady.

Your phone buzzes again, but you ignore it, staring at him until your eyes burn with sleep.

Day 28.

It’s Saturday. No work. You spend the morning cleaning, music blasting. Sunlight streaks across the apartment, making the floorboards shine.

You catch yourself dancing with the vacuum, laughing. When you glance at the mirror, he’s dancing too, but somehow it feels like with you instead of as you.

You pause, breathless. “This is so stupid.”

He pauses too, chest rising with the same breath.

You grin at him, wide and unguarded. “I think I like you. Is that crazy?”

He grins too.

Your throat tightens. The room feels too quiet without your music, too full of something you don’t want to name.

By the end of the month, you’ve stopped pretending it’s just fear keeping you near the mirror.

You’ve started wanting to see him.

Wanting to talk.

Wanting… something more.

And for a little while, it feels almost safe to let yourself want it.

The apartment is quiet in the way only late nights can be. The kind of quiet where your heartbeat feels too loud, where the shadows stretch too long. You’ve been restless all evening, tossing between your sheets, twisting your tank top until it hangs crooked on your shoulder.

You shouldn’t. God, you shouldn’t.

But you can’t stop thinking about him.

The man in the mirror.

It’s been weeks of pretending — pretending you weren’t drawn to him, pretending your stomach didn’t flip every time you caught his eyes in the glass. Pretending you weren’t secretly waiting for that moment before bed when you’d see him again.

And now, alone in the dark, your body burns with it.

Your hand slides down over your stomach, past the hem of your tank top, fingers finding their way between your thighs pulling your panties off. A shaky breath leaves you as you touch yourself, the tension melting into something sharper.

You roll your hips against your own hand, eyes slipping shut—until a flicker of movement pulls them open.

The floor mirror.

Even draped in shadow, you can see him.

He’s there, shirtless in a beater that clings to the lines of his chest. His boxers are gone, his hand wrapped around himself. He moves exactly as you do, stroking in rhythm, dark hair falling into his eyes.

Your breath catches, knees weak. You should look away. You can’t.

You crawl off the bed, blanket slipping from your legs, and sink onto the floor in front of the mirror. Your panties are already gone, your tank top messy on your skin, straps sliding down your arms.

He kneels too, beater hanging loose, his hand pumping his length in sync with the desperate roll of your own fingers. His eyes lock on yours, heavy, dark, almost tender.

“God,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to the glass. The cool surface fogs with your breath.

On the other side, he mirrors you—forehead against the glass, lips parting like he wants to swallow the sound you just made, as you do too. His pace quickens, every flick of his wrist a taunt, every clench of his jaw a promise.

You rub yourself harder, gasps breaking free, the sight of him unraveling you. You’re trembling, caught between shame and hunger, between knowing this is impossible and not caring at all.

It’s him. It’s you. It’s both.

And when the heat coils tight inside you, when release rips through you with a cry you can’t hold back, his body tenses too—eyes locked on yours as he spills across the glass, perfectly timed, perfectly matched.

You collapse against the floor, chest heaving, sweat cooling on your skin. The mirror gleams faintly in the low light.

He’s still there.

Still watching.

And for the first time, you’re not afraid of it. You craved it unknowingly.

The first time it happens, you almost miss it.

You’re brushing your hair, humming under your breath, trying not to think about the night before. The mirror man matches you perfectly, as always. Each sweep of the brush, each tilt of your head.

But when you drop your arm, his lingers in the air a moment longer, the brush still caught in his hair.

You frown, lifting your arm again. He lifts his too, perfectly. You test it—lower, raise, lower. He’s flawless this time.

“Sleep deprivation,” you mutter, shaking your head.

Still, the pit in your stomach doesn’t leave.

It’s happened again, You’re flossing when the phone buzzes in the other room. You glance away just long enough to check the screen, then look back.

He’s still staring straight at you.

Not mid-floss. Not frozen in place. Just staring.

Your throat goes dry. You lift the floss, force a grin. “Gotcha.” You try to play it off.

He grins back.

But it comes too late. A half beat off.

You drop the floss into the sink with shaking fingers.

Days passed with these odd mishaps, The bathroom feels different now. Heavy. Expectant.

You stand at the counter, rubbing moisturizer into your cheeks, watching him. For the first time, it feels less like he’s copying you and more like he’s tracking you.

You lean left. He leans left. You lean right. He leans right.

But his eyes don’t move with your head. They stay locked on you.

You choke out a laugh, too loud in the small room. “Okay. That’s—no. You’re me. You don’t get to… stare at me.”

The man in the glass smiles faintly.

Your stomach flips.

By now, you don’t even try to convince yourself it’s nothing. You know something’s wrong.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed, scrolling your phone, when the corner of your vision catches the mirror. You covered it again a few days ago, but curiosity made you tug the blanket down halfway.

And he’s there.

Not copying you — you’re hunched over your phone, thumb scrolling. He’s sitting upright, back straight, head tilted like he’s studying you.

Your chest tightens. Slowly, you set the phone down and mimic his posture.

In the mirror, he doesn’t move.

Your breath hitches. “You’re not supposed to do that.”

And then, a beat late, he tilts his head the other way, smile spreading slow, deliberate.

You yank the blanket back over the glass, heart racing. But even with it covered, you swear you can feel him behind it, waiting.

You try to avoid the bathroom mirror, but it’s impossible. You need it. Every glance, every routine check, you brace yourself.

And it gets worse.

He blinks slower now, as though savoring the delay. When you sigh, his chest rises a moment after yours. When you lift your hand, his hand follows, but the curve of his fingers looks deliberate, almost testing.

Like he’s learning.

Like he’s practicing.

And the worst part?

Sometimes, when you finally look away, you catch the faintest flicker of movement in the corner of your eye. His body moving on its own.

Your reflection shouldn’t do that.

Reflections shouldn’t be alive.

You thought you could live with it. The small delays. The smiles that lasted too long. The way his eyes tracked you even when your head turned. For weeks you told yourself it was stress, lack of sleep, too much wine. Too many nights talking to yourself.

But tonight makes it clear: he isn’t interested in pretending anymore.

You stand in the bathroom with the tap running, hands braced on the counter, heart hammering like a trapped animal. His reflection looms in the mirror, sharp in the fluorescent light.

You lower your hands. He doesn’t.

You swallow. Lift your chin. He just… stares.

The weight of his gaze presses into your chest until you whisper, “Stop.”

He tilts his head slowly, like a predator deciding whether to pounce.

And then his lips move.

Not with yours. Not copying. Moving on their own.

I want you.

The words are silent, but clear.

Your breath chokes in your throat. You stumble back, slam the light off, plunge the hallway into shadow. But you see him anyway—in the black screen of your phone on the counter, in the sheen of the tile, in the faint water puddled on the floor.

Always there. Always watching.

The next morning, you keep your eyes down while dressing, but when you pass the covered floor mirror, you feel him. Like heat against your back, like pressure in your lungs.

You yank the blanket tighter, tape hissing as you slap it down.

But when you turn to grab your shoes, the dark reflection in your window slides into place. His face, pale against the glass. His hands pressing flat, leaving no smudges, no mark—just want.

Your chest seizes. You slam the blinds shut, heart rattling.

At work, it’s worse.

The elevator doors close with a heavy sigh, and there he is—sharp, not blurred, not yours. His palms flatten against the brushed steel. His lips shape the words again: I want you.

Your coworker, James, asks if you’re okay when you pale. You nod, laugh it off. But when the doors open, you rush out too fast, nearly tripping.

Even in the glass walls of the lobby, he’s there.

Everywhere.

Nights bleed together.

You cover every reflective surface in your apartment—mirrors, windows, TV, even your phone facedown—but it doesn’t matter. He finds cracks, peeks through gaps. His eyes follow you in the water left in a glass, in the chrome of your faucet.

You hear it now.

Soft at first. Faint scratching from the bathroom mirror. The sound of nails dragging down glass.

Then knocking.

Deliberate. Steady.

You press a pillow over your head, trembling.

But you still hear his voice.

Muffled. Low. Patient.

“Let me out.”

You don’t answer Amaya’s texts. You ignore James’s calls. What would you say? That you’re being hunted by your own reflection? That the man in the mirror you used to flirt with is tired of watching and wants to crawl out, to take you with him?

No one can save you from this.

Because you let him in. You watched. You entertained. You smiled back.

And now he isn’t smiling anymore.

The night it almost happens, the apartment goes silent all at once. No hum from the fridge. No tick of the clock. No street noise filtering through the blinds.

Just silence.

You stand frozen in your living room, every hair on your body lifting.

The covered bathroom mirror rattles, fabric trembling against the frame.

Your breath catches.

Then—CRACK.

A spiderweb fracture blooms across the glass, splitting his face into fragments. His dark eyes burn through each shard, overlapping, impossible.

The sound of his voice rumbles through the room, not muffled this time.

“I want you. I want out.”

The glass bulges outward, pressure warping the frame. His hand pushes through, stretching the surface like liquid. Fingers curl, almost free.

You scream, stumbling back, tripping over the couch. The blanket slips fully, the mirror bare now, and his whole body surges forward, straining against the barrier.

You cover your ears, but it doesn’t matter—the voice is everywhere. In the windows. In the TV. In the black face of your phone.

“You can’t hide from me.”

Every reflective surface in the room trembles. The windows quake. The picture frames rattle. Even the puddle of spilled water on your table shimmers with his face, lips curling into a furious grin.

“I’m coming for you.”

The glass cracks deeper, shards raining onto the floor. His arm is almost through, muscles straining, veins dark with effort.

Your chest seizes. Tears blind you. You press yourself against the farthest wall, whispering, “Please, no. Please—”

The mirrors answer with a chorus of his voice.

“You let me in.”

“You wanted me.”

“You’re mine.”

Your apartment becomes a cage of reflections. No matter where you look—window, faucet, picture frame—he’s there. Always him. Always wanting.

And now, you know, nothing can stop him.

Not blankets. Not hammers. Not prayer.

He’s tired of watching.

He wants you.

He wants out.

Even if he has to break through the walls between worlds.

And he is coming.

The apartment feels alive.

Every reflective surface hums faintly, as though the glass itself has a pulse. You sit curled on the floor, knees hugged to your chest, rocking with every shallow breath. The lights are off, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Darkness doesn’t hide him.

You can feel his eyes through the blanket-covered bathroom mirror, through the black of the television, through the glossy frames on your walls. He’s waiting. Always waiting.

But tonight is different.

You hear it before you see it—the crack of glass splitting under pressure, sharp and hungry. The sound rips through the silence, makes your teeth ache.

You lift your head.

The bathroom door shudders on its hinges. Light leaks through the cracks where the frame meets the wall, but it isn’t the yellow glow of your ceiling bulb. It’s silver. Cold. Like moonlight spilling from somewhere it doesn’t belong.

Your breath trembles. “No…”

A deep groan echoes through the apartment, the sound of something ancient bending. The bathroom mirror fractures. You hear it, feel it in your bones.

CRACK.

The blanket falls away.

Through the jagged spiderweb of broken glass, you see him.

Not as your reflection. Not mimicking.

Standing on the other side.

His black hair hangs damp over his forehead, his chest rising fast, his lips parted in a smile that makes your stomach twist. His hands press against the mirror, palms flattening until the skin whitens.

The cracks spread beneath his touch like veins, racing across the surface.

“I want you, and now I can finally have you.” his voice vibrates, not muffled this time. It shakes the walls, rattles the floor beneath you.

You scramble back on your hands, feet slipping against the hardwood. “Stop! Please—”

But the mirror bulges outward, bending like liquid. His fingers push through first—pale, sharp, too real. They curl in the open air, dripping with light.

He pulls.

The surface stretches, distorts, until his whole arm emerges. Then his shoulder. Then his head, black hair falling across dark, unblinking eyes.

You scream.

He doesn’t flinch. His grin widens, teeth gleaming in the silver glow.

The apartment convulses.

Every piece of glass in the room begins to shatter—not outward, but inward, pulling reality into itself. Windows warp, picture frames collapse, the dark screen of your television ripples like water. Each surface shows him, dozens of him, hundreds of him, reaching, pressing, clawing to get through.

The air thickens with a sound like whispers layered over whispers.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

You stumble to your feet, but there’s nowhere to go, there never was. Every wall is covered in his face, every shadow dripping with his voice.

The bathroom mirror finally explodes outward, shards raining like knives. You shield your face with your arms, but when you lower them, he’s there.

In your apartment.

Not a reflection anymore. Flesh and bone and something else.

He’s taller than you expected, broad shouldered, the white beater clinging to his chest. His bare feet press into your floorboards, leaving no prints. His gaze locks onto yours like a predator sighting prey.

For a moment, the world tilts. You can’t breathe.

This is what you thought you wanted once. To see him. To know him.

But the hunger in his eyes makes your stomach lurch.

“You can’t hide,” he whispers, though his lips don’t move. The sound comes from everywhere—your ears, your skull, the marrow of your bones.

You bolt for the door.

It locks before you touch it. The surface ripples silver, and his face bursts through the wood, grinning.

You stumble back, sobbing.

Every surface is alive now. The glass on your stove, the dark screen of your phone, the puddle of water you spilled hours ago—they all show him. Each version twisted, fragmented, yet all staring straight at you.

The apartment walls split with light. Reality bends, breaks, folds in on itself. You see yourself reflected a thousand times, but never alone—always with him, standing too close, breathing down your neck.

“Why me?” you choke, voice cracking.

He steps closer, his bare feet silent, his shadow stretching across the floor. His smile fades, replaced by something worse—longing. Obsession.

“Because you wanted me.”

His words hit like knives. Your knees buckle. “I didn’t—I—”

“You looked for me,” his voice hisses from the walls, the ceiling, the floor. “You watched me. You let me in.”

You shake your head violently, tears blurring your sight. “No—”

His hand cups your cheek before you can move. Warm. Too warm. You flinch, but the grip is iron. His thumb drags slowly across your skin, smearing your tears.

“You’re finally mine,” he murmurs.

Then the world splits.

The floor beneath you fractures into endless shards, each reflecting a different angle of yourself. One shows you kneeling, terrified. Another shows you running. Another shows you clawing at your own skin.

And in every shard, he’s there too.

Sometimes behind you. Sometimes beside you. Sometimes already holding you, lips pressed to your throat.

You scream, but the sound is swallowed by the collapsing dimensions.

He pulls you closer, and suddenly you’re in the mirror again. On the other side. Looking out.

Your body freezes, horror sinking into your bones.

Because in the glass, you see yourself standing in the apartment—your real body—still sobbing, still screaming. And he’s behind her. Behind you. His hands around your waist, his lips pressed to your ear.

The two realities bleed together until you can’t tell which one is real.

Are you the reflection?

Are you the one being held?

Or are you both?

The last thing you see before the world collapses entirely is his face—dozens, hundreds of them—smiling from every angle, every surface, every possible version of reality.

And his voice, wrapping around you like chains:

“You can’t hide.”

“You can’t escape.”

“You’re mine.”

There is no happy ending.

Only glass.

Only his hands.

Only the certainty that you are his, in every dimension.

Forever.

Happy Fictober. Hope you enjoyed this. Again Likes, Comments and Reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[kissued]

END OF THE LINE ✦ 박성훈 PARK SUNGHOON [ PART 02 ]

if you're gonna break me in two ⋆ masterpost ⋆ do what you gotta do GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader ⋮ PART 02 WC 31.4k

SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes INCLUDES SMUT so +18 ONLY. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen + yeonjun of txt slowburn pining NSFW TAGS ⋮ dom!sunghoon, condescending remarks, piv, dumbification, creampie, unprotected sex (don't), degradation, spanking, praise, dry humping, fingering, edging, sunghoon puts reader into a mating press halfway, breeding kink, sunghoon says i love you while in it, reader is so down Bad save her.

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋮ heeelloo i'm back again less than a week later TT up until this point i've had a huge draft to work from, but i wrote this part mostlyyy recently (like in the past 2-3weeks). i can't wait to see what everyone thinks of the fic as a whole and i'll be lurking in ur blogs... watching... also stream dwygd by the band camino the song sparked me back into finishing this fic and it's where the titles r taken from :7 ENJOY !!!! #hoonynforever

REBLOGS APPRECIATED ⋆ THANK YOU FOR READING

you know this version of yourself very well. it’s the one that immediately starts accounting for error before drawing conclusions, and the one that treats uncertainty as concrete evidence you’ve got everything wrong. by the time you reach your car, you couldn’t even pull your stupid phone out of your stupidly tight jeans, because the pocket seemed vacuum sealed to your thighs once you sat down.

the drive home is full of revision. memories, mostly, on the phone: did you dream all of lee heeseung up? who the hell started those conversations? who called you last night?

was this all one-sided?

every turn at every corner feels excruciating. the green lights are too slow and every second that passes makes you want to reach for your phone, call him immediately, and ask just what the fuck that was. your palms stick against the steering wheel and the thought of hearing his response makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.

it just can’t be possible. there is just no way that you’re this unlucky.

the rest of the journey is blank. you didn’t even turn on the radio, nor did you bother to plug in the carplay. it’s almost pathetic how fast you slide out of the leather seat, how hard you slam the door to the driver’s, and how desperately you punch in the code to your apartment. you mess it up once, which earns a small cuss under your breath, but none of it overshadows the confusion.

you can’t possibly text him like this. ringing him would only lead to something even worse. you might say something you don’t mean, or fuck things up in that signature way of yours.

so, you settle for the same routine as always: shower, lunch, nap, and try not to lose your mind throughout the day. at some point, you think it cannot possibly be this serious—you’ve never met the man like this, never spoken to him in person, and not once have you heard his voice utter your name in real life. it is absolutely ridiculous that your knees almost buckle in the shower, at the mere thought that this truly might have meant nothing. just nothing.

there is an attempt to move through the day without acknowledging the hundred pound weight on your shoulders. perhaps it’s because you’ve spent weeks with your brain at full power that it’s starting to swirl with all kinds of things now.

you’re dragging your feet against the floorboards as you make your way to the kitchen. caffeine might help, maybe. there’s no logic or sound reasoning behind the decision, but you reach for your favourite mug and position it under the coffee machine anyway. your bottom lip is swollen from biting down on it, a habit you never really got around to unlearning from middle school, and for a fleeting, pathetic moment, you think that this is your fate.

your knuckles almost go white, grip tightening on the edge of the marble island, like it’ll help regulate your feelings any better. an annoying chime plays from the coffee machine a few seconds later—hot ribbons of steam curling into the air—but you don’t even feel like drinking it at all, really.

half-heartedly, you take the mug and head straight for your bedroom. your hair is still damp against your neck, the apartment smells like your shampoo, and for a moment, you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke from the neighbour above your unit. your things are still in a mess from last night—from when you were still on the phone with him, falling asleep with a sour mood and paper notes crumpled at the foot of your bed, books still flipped open to important pages that you conveniently wiped from your memory an hour ago.

and, your phone. face down, on your night stand, plugged into the wall and far too quiet for your comfort, as if lee heeseung could sense what was wrong with you from miles away.

“hello?”

you end up calling.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders slouched and back hunched over like it’ll do anything to ease the emptiness in your stomach. a screen is pressed up to your cheek, and you swear your nails might snap off if you hold your phone any tighter than you are now; the phone’s been ringing for a while, and now that he’s finally picked up, every thought decides to somersault out of the fucking window—straight down and plummeting into the concrete pavement outside.

“hey, y/n.” he says. “i’m… fuck—sorry. i’m with some friends right now. are you okay?”

he’s out of breath.

yelling in the background. plastic on plastic, some whistling, someone else calling yeonjun’s name.

you swallow thickly, but it gets caught in your throat halfway. your voice comes out more defeated than you intended. “why did you look at me like that?”

silence. you can hear his heavy breathing through the speaker, and all it does is make you pick at the skin around your nails. ears picking up everything, there’s voices layered over each other, the sound of something sharp cutting against snow, or ice. it stops momentarily when he finally understands the question, soft, but loud enough for your heart to pound.

“what?”

“like you didn’t know me,” you almost fucking whimper, and all you can think is: god, how much more humiliating can this get? “why?”

your free hand comes up to rub at the bridge of your nose, until little bursts of pressure bloom behind your eyes. all of this is giving you a headache, and there’s a split second where you think you should just hang up and save yourself the trouble. this is just how it is. your luck. your fingers knead, and knead, and knead—but it’s no use. all you can hear is him.

“y/n,” he mumbles. “can we meet? tonight?”

“you can’t just do that,” you breathe shakily. “tell me why. please.”

time has been moving wrong all day. everything feels delayed and stretched and slow in this awful, unbearable way. five seconds between responses starts feeling like whole afternoons, and minutes feel like centuries. you spent weeks getting used to talking to him whenever something happened—sending him stupid pictures and complaining about classes and saying things before thinking because there was always tomorrow, and that’s exactly what you did last night.

but now that tomorrow is here… shit, it doesn’t even matter anymore.

“y/n,” his voice breaks just a little—not very sure if it’s the horrible connection on campus, if he’s even still there. you imagine, just for the sake of your sanity, that he’s running his hands through his hair, breathing wrong, panicking. anything like those movies where the guy realises he’s going to lose it all. “i know it doesn’t make any sense—”

“what do you think, huh? do you think any of it does?”

“i know—shit, i know.”

your fingers keep kneading at your skin because the headache’s spreading now, radiating into your temples in slow pulses. you keep pressing harder like pain somewhere else will make this one smaller. it doesn’t work.

“i think we should meet in person,” he answers, calm again, like it’s how he’s always been. somehow, it pisses you off even more, when you know he can hear the shake in your voice. “i gotta go. i’m sorry.”

he’s never apologised to you before. not even for missing your calls.

“what the fuck are you sorry for, heeseung?”

you hear him breathe in, then out. he sounds exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“i’m just…” his voice catches faintly, before smoothing back out. “i’m sorry.”

the line goes dead.

you stay, just for a while, phone still pressed against your ear like the warmth of your skin might coax him back and force an explanation out of him. your shoulders fold further into themselves until your spine starts to ache, but moving would mean admitting the call is over, and you’re not quite ready to do that yet.

your eyes remain fixed on nothing in particular—the opposite wall, maybe, where the late afternoon light stretches unevenly across the paint and catches the tiny imperfections in the plaster that you’ve somehow never noticed despite living here for months.

your stomach really hurts. sour and hollow, underneath your ribcage, compelling you to lower your phone and lock your screen before you can over-analyse the messages from last night.

you draw a deep breath through your nose, falling back against the mattress until your shoulder blades scratch against your duvet.

you are not crying over a man you’ve technically never even met.

this is absolutely fucking ridiculous, you mutter under your breath, but you still wipe under your eyes and try to blink all the salt out of your eyes anyway. your phone dies eventually because you forget to plug it back in, and now, all that’s left is you, the tear-stained sheets and meaningless pieces of paper.

─────────────────────────

two weeks ago, park sunghoon was on the brink of losing his shit.

it was purely emotional. probably more emotion than anyone on the team has ever seen him display, and lord, was it utterly humiliating. he wonders if anyone on the team still thinks about it, given how the locker room goes dead silent every time he steps in—and it’s literally like he just got named captain all over again.

practice ended badly. not disastrously, because no one broke anything, and maki didn’t start a petty argument between the goalkeeper and him. yeonjun barely screamed at the little freshmen, and only one of them cried post-cool down—so by all technical definitions, it had been productive enough.

and still, he was irritated.

it had been building for days now, in that same slow, ugly way tension knots all your muscles before becoming pain. finals always fucked everyone over, but not enough to stop them from showing up—mentally, though, they’re elsewhere. sunghoon had been there, before he had decided he was tired of making shitty excuses for his terrible performance.

shortcuts irritate him. he’s watching people cut corners before his very eyes because they assume he’s as tired as them—well, he is, but that’s besides the point.

he hated it.

metal lockers slammed shut one after another while conversations overlapped in every direction. someone was laughing too loudly, and sunghoon was almost certain the obnoxiously loud carly rae jepsen echoing through the room belonged to maki’s fucked up speakers again. the locker room was humid in that unpleasant post-practice way—the air thick with damp towels, deodorant and sweat drying into fabric, hot enough that stepping in after the rink always felt vaguely suffocating.

sunghoon walks further into the space and, while it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world, conversations shift around him in tiny ways he’s learnt to recognize over the years. a few voices lower, someone moves their legs in so he can pass. one of the freshmen instinctively straightens up halfway through pulling his shirt over his head.

his duffel hangs off one shoulder. sweat drips slowly from his temples, sliding down the side of his neck before disappearing into the dark collar of his shirt. his whole body feels heavy today, and not even in the satisfying way—just fucking heavy. his shoulders ache in that deep, irritating way that suggests recovery isn’t catching up anymore, and lately sleep hasn’t been doing much except making him conscious again.

it’s fine. everything had been feeling vaguely wrong for a while now, anyway.

yeonjun’s already on his way out when he brushes past him, shoulder bumping his with enough force to be annoying but not enough to start anything. “have a wonderfully peaceful night,” he mutters with that unbearably cocky, punchable grin.

any other day, sunghoon might’ve shoved him into a locker.

instead, he dropped his bag beside the end of the bench, and listened to the wood creak underneath his weight. the freshmen lingering nearby begin moving almost immediately. one shifts two lockers down, and another grabs his things and suddenly remembers he has somewhere else to be. by the time sunghoon looks up from his phone properly, half of them have disappeared entirely.

he watches one hesitate after accidentally making eye contact. the kid immediately looks away, picks up his shit, and leaves.

sunghoon looks back down. god, his shoulders hurt.

the muscles between his shoulder blades have been tightening more lately. sleep’s been shit. practice feels slower. finals are making everyone stupid. nobody can pass properly anymore, or communicate once they’re on the ice. everything seems held together by routine and whatever miscroscopic amount of discipline he can force onto everyone else.

whatever. it’s manageable, he thinks. everything always is, if you’re strong and willing and miserable enough. eat properly, sleep properly, train properly, study properly. repeat until wanting anything else becomes inefficient or a distraction, until it’s ordinary and until enough days pass that discomfort isn’t discomfort anymore, and simply morphs into the default.

maybe that’s why the past few weeks have felt stranger than anything else—nothing has gotten easier. his schedule has been become even more hellish than before, his muscles still ache and everyone expects more from him; but there’s been this stupid, absurd sense of anticipation stitched quietly into the gaps of his day.

he’s excited for something. for someone.

he checks his phone when he has nothing to do. sleeps later, thinks about conversations while stretching or when someone says something that you mentioned in passing. none of it means anything, at least individually, but it feels so a embarrassingly noticeable once he becomes aware of it together.

“…i’m serious, though.”

his thumb stills over his lockscreen. sunghoon doesn’t look up immediately, because the sentence barely reaches his ears at first. locker room noise tends to sound a lot like static after practice, but then your name slips, and suddenly every other sound becomes painfully irrelevant.

there’s a burst of laughter from somewhere to his left.

“y/n? yeah, i know. she’s prettier than i thought.”

sunghoon’s hand had been unlocking his phone without thought, thumb dragging upward automatically before freezing halfway. his forearm rests against his thigh, veins standing out faintly beneath skin flushed warm from practice, and he only notices after a second that his wrist has gone rigid enough to make the tendons ache.

the fabric of his jersey sticks unpleasantly against the centre of his back, where it hasn’t dried yet.

“fuck, i still remember that dress.”

“she’s fine as fuck, seriously,” someone snorts. “wonder if she’d let me tap. you think?”

“don’t be a fucking asshole,” sunghoon hears, the laughter echoing and bouncing off the walls suggesting that nobody is really bothered by this except him. “you’re not in her league, man.”

more laughter. sunghoon doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off before, truly, because now his fist is balled so tight that his knuckles are starting to pale. his ears are beginning to ring, and all his body decides to do is amplify the voices of his teammates who decided you’d be the centre of their attention tonight.

someone tosses their towel onto the bench he’s on. maki’s finally out, he notices, quieter now that he’s packing his things up.

“who knows if she’s desperate… might have a chance.”

“shut the fuck up!”

sunghoon rolls one shoulder once and immediately regrets it. something pulls underneath his shoulder blade where he took a hit earlier. his body feels strangely swollen after practice—muscles tight and full and unpleasantly warm under skin that suddenly feels too small to sit comfortably in. his thighs ache where they press against the edge of the bench, palms still feeling vaguely raw from his gloves.

the conversation goes on, and he tries not to listen. realistically, these men would never get anywhere near you. he wouldn’t let them, but that’s besides the point. willingly giving this his attention would only lead to something he can’t take back, and he knows it.

“you got her number?”

“think i do. we were in the same freshie group.”

wonderful.

his tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, and his jaw is ticking. he swears if he bites down any harder that a tooth might shatter, but sunghoon does his best to keep his eyes trained on the screen in his hands.

someone says something else, but he doesn’t even remember what. he only remembers the feeling of his jaw hurting, the edge of his phone case digging into his palm, and the slow, annoying feeling of anger coursing through his veins.

it’s hot in here. sunghoon feels it all—anger, resentment, the guilt and embarrassment, too, because he really wants it to stop. he really, really needs it to. there’s something deeply unpleasant in having to listen to a group of people talk about you like this is all you are, that your face and body, no matter how gorgeous it may be, is your most interesting feature.

do these people know you the way he does?

they don’t. they never could.

park sunghoon’s throat suddenly feels dry in a way water won’t, can’t fix. his shoulders stay tense while his gaze drags over your messages and something inside him twists. it’s obvious that this was never supposed to become anything, and that a relationship built on a lie would crumble before he could begin enjoying it.

it’s just… one late-night call becomes another, then another, and another. somewhere between protein shakes and assignments and practice schedules, he moves everything aside for you, and realises he wants you more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.

“could you guys just shut the fuck up?”

the words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to think about them. the social repercussions don’t even matter anymore, nor were they even factored in to begin with. his voice doesn’t come out loud, which somehow makes it worse—it stays low and level and entirely lacking in visible irritation, like he’s asking somebody to pass him a bottle instead of telling half the room to stop talking.

the effect is immediate, anyway.

conversations taper off unevenly until the entire room is quiet. somebody lets out a laugh that cuts itself short halfway through, and somewhere behind him, a locker closes gently.

sunghoon only realises he’s spoken after the silence reaches him, and suddenly, his own breathing sounds louder than before. his shoulders ease by a fraction and his fingers loosen around his phone, just enough for him to feel the imprint left across the centre of his palm from holding it too tightly.

nobody says a thing. sunghoon doesn’t even know who was speaking anymore. that detail doesn’t seem important now—not compared to the things that were said, and definitely not compared to what had slipped out of his own mouth immediately after.

park sunghoon sits in the locker room with sweat cooling against his skin, realising something he spent the next two weeks trying very hard to negotiate with.

he wants you.

slowly, surely, quietly, he wants you.

at some point, it felt easier not to think about; topped with all the things he already has to deal with, accepting this fact is not particularly beneficial for him.

fourteen days after that—today—he’s done with practice again, same old, same old; walking into locker rooms that are hyperaware of his existence, everyone treading on egg shells until he gets out of the place and into his car.

he knows people noticed. yeonjun had asked if he was alright on the walk over to the parking lot and tried unusually hard not to sound like he was asking. no grin nor stupid comment attached, it’s plain, awkward concern delivered badly enough that sunghoon knew it was real.

“you good?”

what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

that he’d heard your voice three hours ago, spent the entire session replaying the shake in your voice, and wanted to rip his heart out of his chest?

that the only time he was so sure of someone, he’s already fucked it up?

it’s his fault that he couldn’t answer and instead settled on walking away. park sunghoon heard you on the phone three hours ago and knew he’d be thinking about it the entire session—but now that he’s actually getting into his car, on the way to see you, his heart is beginning to pound harder.

his shoes scrape quietly against the asphalt of the parking lot as he walks. his duffel drags his shoulder lower on one side, dark blue hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows—sunghoon’s hand reaches into his pocket automatically and wraps around his keys before he even gets to the car.

You: where are you? 20:08

Y/n: [Shared a location] 20:08

─────────────────────────

the text came at 7 in the evening. you spent the previous 3 hours wondering where it went wrong, recalling every word exchanged, every misunderstood conversation that you dismissed in the moment. it’s incredibly easy to move past things in the heat of the things, you realise—it just seems silly now, almost childish, that you let those things slip past you.

you left the house in a random zip-up, shorts riding up your thighs with every forward step you took. there’s an annoying little hill you need to climb to get to this park, obscured by dark green trees and stray cats that rub against your legs if you stand still for too long, and you’ll usually start panting by the 2 minute mark.

once you finally reach the top, it’s unmistakable. an old playground swing, a plastic slide, and a bench that sat directly behind the big, interactive structure modelled after a sunflower. your feet feel heavy as you move, slippers scratching against the concrete, and you accidentally kick a few pebbles as you walk.

this feels like a waste of your time. heeseung messaged around thirty minutes ago, and he’s still nowhere in sight—eventually, you’re hunched over the park bench table, hands in your hair, trying to get this nausea to alleviate itself.

so what if lee heeseung decided he wanted nothing to do with you? the magnitude at which this is affecting you is starting to seem ridiculous. you keep telling yourself that a boy shouldn’t matter this much, that talking means nothing, and that modern love is nothing but a cruel endeavour that you’re constantly gambling on. so what if you lose, you think, but the feeling of your heart spilling out of your ribs is pressing so deep into your heart that it’s killing you.

your fingers are pressing into the bridge of your nose again. the streetlamps feel warm over your head, slipping through your fingers when you run them over your face. you think you must look horrible right now, but so does everyone else—never mind that the occasional parkgoer jogs past and stares you down: that is what you choose to tell yourself.

some kid walks by with her mom, pointing at the slide, and it almost makes you laugh when she hesitates before saying ‘no’.

just as the thoughts begin to tone down, swirling less and less, you catch a familiar figure in your peripheral: tall, broad, sleeves bunched at the elbows and dark brown hair falling over his eyebrows, looking as tired and miserable as the day you saw him a week ago.

this can’t be real.

the yellow light washes over his face and bathes him in a warm, almost greenish light. the moment he steps into focus, you’re already on your way up—standing next to the bench, hands shaking like you can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

“y/n—”

three steps later, you’re already on your way out.

what follows is immediate: park sunghoon, tired, red eyes, lounging a big ass bag on his shoulder, jogging towards you with a stride so big that it almost scares you. you can’t bear to look at him like this, like he’s actually hurt over what he’s done, even if you don’t specifically know what it is yet.

everything’s blurry as you move. you can’t feel your stomach, and it took you more than a reasonable amount of effort just to turn away and start walking. you can hear him, faintly—sunghoon calling out your name, as familiar as every night before this one, as sweet and genuine as it had always been—but has it really, though?

“is this some fucking joke to you?”

your voice cracks on the very last word, embarrassingly enough. as if the tears running down your cheeks wasn’t enough shame to carry around, sunghoon has to hear you like this. vulnerable and hurt and wanting answers.

“y/n, please. just stop walking away from me,” he pleads, out of breath from how far he’s been trailing you. the downhill slope isn’t that far away from here, and you can see a few couples taking a night stroll—as if the universe insists on rubbing it in your tear-stained face. “let me explain.”

“what is there to explain?”

you weren’t stupid. it feels like a cruel insult that sunghoon thinks you even need an explanation; he was heeseung. you’d been calling, texting, falling for someone completely different, and the worst part is that it doesn’t even fucking matter in the way he thinks it does.

“i wanted to tell you,” sunghoon blurts out, and the moment it leaves his lips, your feet suddenly stop working. it’s like your heels are anchored to the ground by something invisible, urging you to turn around—everything in his voice screams for you to do just that, to face him, to see how hurt he is by the lie he chose to tell. “y/n, please.”

you can’t. you just can’t.

it’s incredibly corny. this whole scene just seems like a big fuck-you from the universe, dragged straight out of a drama, because god knows you were never deserving of something so beautiful and easy. love had to strangle it’s way out of your hands, somehow. it’s to a point where there’s people staring, whispering as they pass you two.

“you know what? i wouldn’t even have fucking cared, anyway.” you sighed, blinking to get your vision to clear up. “you didn’t even have to lie to me.”

sunghoon is stunned at that. his whole body feels cold, locked in place, and his heart’s pounding so hard that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. by the time you eventually do turn around, his throat is already constricting, dry and tight, looking down at you—hand running through your hair, glassy eyes staring into his. the guilt weighs heavier now, sinking it’s claws into his neck, so deep that he can feel it nick his heart.

“what?”

he needs to rip it out.

sunghoon genuinely feels like his guts are going to spill out. your eyelashes are wet with tears and he can tell you’re trying your best not to burst into tears, and he hates himself for being the reason for it; he has to dig his fingers into his palms just so he can stop himself from reaching out for you.

selfishly, for a second, he lets himself memorise your face. he thinks it’ll be the last time he sees it. there’s something about you—even when your cheeks are red and your eyes are swollen with hurt, that he wants to see it all.

sunghoon wishes he could undo everything. perhaps, if he had just went up to you that friday night, underneath the stairs with his best smile and most polite greeting, he’d been able to hate himself a little less, and possibly not hurt you at all.

this is what he gets, isn’t it?

it’s a shame.

“i really liked you.” you sniffle. your eyes are deliberately avoiding his. sunghoon’s never leave your face. “heeseung or not, doesn’t even matter now, does it?”

for a second, sunghoon genuinely thinks he misheard you.

the streetlights blur, morphing into bright lines in your vision, and somebody laughs somewhere downhill. a bicycle rolls past, a dog barks behind you, and it is just unbearable how you have to focus on all these sounds just so you can distract yourself from the uneven breaths of your own body.

“i liked you too, y/n.”

sunghoon genuinely forgets how to breathe. his chest expands automatically, but the air never seems to reach his lungs, caught somewhere between his ribs and throat where everything suddenly feels too tight.

all this time, he thought he knew exactly how tonight would go. you’d tell him to fuck off, to stop following you, and he thought he would. it started off like that: the walking part, the not-being-able-to-look-at-him-without-crying. he prepared for it, every night, leading up to this one: imagined you laughing in his face, telling him to leave, to never call again, but this barely fits the mould.

every time he convinced himself that honesty could wait one more day because he needed more time, needed the timing to be better, needed to figure himself out first—all of it feels rotten, so useless and meaningless now.

you stand there with tears drying on your cheeks, eyes swollen and exhausted, and all he can think about is how much easier this could have been for you if he’d just been honest from the beginning. he should’ve never answered, nor should he have went with it when you started getting a little bolder. he should’ve never gone this far to feed his own selfishness.

park sunghoon doesn’t deserve to stand here and watch you cry over him.

“you could’ve told me.”

his fingers curl against his palms until his nails bite crescents into skin. he barely feels the sting. somehow, hearing you say it doesn’t feel relieving at all—not in the way he imagined it would, during all those nights where he let himself think about impossible things before forcing himself to sleep. he thought this moment, if it ever existed, would feel warm. he thought—maybe—there’d be this stupid sense of vindication buried underneath the guilt, a ugly selfish satisfaction that would prove he wasn’t completely insane for wanting you.

all he finds is more guilt, painted by a crystal clear picture of what could’ve been.

the image arrives all at once and it’s unbearable in how ordinary it is. walking up to you that first night instead of watching from a distance. introducing himself properly, and a few weeks later, he’s sitting across from you at some stupid coffee place after class. he’d be seeing his contact under his actual name and listening to you complain through his speakers without feeling his stomach drop every time you said “heeseung.” such painfully normal things that people do every day without thinking, and somehow they feel impossibly far away now, like he’d reached out and ruined them before they even had the chance to become memories.

his hand comes up to his face and presses hard against his mouth. you’re sniffling so much that your nose is beginning to redden. he notices the cuts on your lips, probably from biting down on them, and all he can see is you in the library, far away and out of reach.

“i should have told you,” he acknowledges. it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pounding headache you have. “i thought that if you didn’t know—fuck, i don’t know. i thought you would’ve liked me better like that… if you didn’t know.”

“how the fuck does that make any fucking sense?”

for the first time today, you’re looking at him. his eyes are red around the edges, the skin underneath them looking darker than normal and his lashes look damp under the streetlights. there’s something almost unbearable about it, the way he looks more exhausted than guilty, like he’s been carrying this around for weeks and would be the one bearing most of the pain.

still, despite it all, you want to wipe the tears away.

“i wasn’t lying,” his lip trembles slightly, “when i said that everyone’s scared of me. that night—fuck, i saw you, y/n. i knew you wouldn’t look at me—”

“what the fuck? really, what the fuck?” you cut him off, voice tapering off into that high, disbelieving tone. “how—just how? how did you think this would turn out, sunghoon? did you think we’d live happily ever after when i—when we spent months talking like that?”

you’re breathing wrong. everything feels so wrong. all of this feels so impossibly fucking wrong. you need to go home.

he flinches at your response. your eyes burn with all the movement in your peripheral, and your chest tightens with every passing second. you laugh, and it sounds horrible—small, breathless, like the sight in front of you is simply too baffling to process properly.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. you stare at him, expecting something, anything, but the words refuse to make it past his throat.

“what the fuck is wrong with you, sunghoon?”

there is something painfully tragic about walking away from a good thing. honestly, if you tried hard enough, you could probably forgive him. you could pretend he never lied to you, and that everything he said after that first lie wasn’t a lie, either. you could pretend he was honest and truthful and all those good things, but the thing about pushing it down is that it always bubble back up eventually.

both things can be true: that it’ll always come back, and you’ll always believe that sunghoon could’ve been it.

“y/n—”

“don’t. just don’t fucking—don’t. don’t call me, don’t do anything. i can’t, i just can’t right now.”

you never really knew heeseung at all, now that you think about it. you remember being a freshman and watching him shoot hoops by the cafeteria one sunny tuesday morning—jiwon mentioned how cute he looked, and perhaps as some act of politeness between two newly introduced friends, said that the two of you would look good together. even now, you think that if heeseung had ended up being exactly like sunghoon, you still would’ve fallen.

but that would mean you never fell for heeseung at all, doesn’t it?

with sunghoon here, standing in front of you, all you see is the hardworking, ambitious, weirdly terrified boy you got to know. you see him in front of his computer thinking too hard, and you see him looking surprised that you smiled at him. it feels strangely dissonant that this will be the last time you get to stand this close to him, or that it’ll be the final time you hear his voice.

“you’re such a coward.”

you don’t know what he says after that, because you turn and walk away so quick that anything he mumbles next falls a step too short behind you. the words feel so bitter on your tongue, and you still taste it even as you walk past that one broken street lamp around fifteen feet away, lingering by the time you step into your apartment.

when you walk into your bedroom, you stay by the door a little longer, shoulder pressed against the wooden frame.

ironically enough, you left your phone behind. face down, still plugged to the wall.

then, almost as a final act in this depressing film, you slump over and slide to the floor, crying over something that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.

it takes you a while to crawl into bed.

you blame the exams. that’s definitely why you’re too exhausted to speak to jiwon, despite the multiple texts from three hours ago detailing your predicament. now that she’s practically begging for you to pick up, three hours later, you just can’t.

instead, you scroll. scroll and scroll and scroll, through chats and messages that have nothing to do with heeseung, now that you know the truth—and as you do, a message pops up at the bottom.

lee heeseung: Get home safely, Y/n. 21:09

lee heeseung: I’m sorry for everything 21:10

─────────────────────────

the sun rises another day. it spills into sunghoon’s room in familiar strips of gold, slipping through the blinds and cutting across the walls in uneven slants that make the dust visible. tiny particles drift through the light lazily, suspended in the air and blinding enough that he has to lift a hand over his eyes instinctively, staring through the gaps between his fingers and pretending, stupidly, that if he stays still long enough, he’ll somehow fall back asleep.

he doesn’t.

his shirt is still where he threw it last night, half across the room and gathering dust in the middle of the floor. his once-superbly-clean desk is a mess, in the same way his room is lately—never dirty enough to clean, yet tidy enough not to notice.

his notes are spread all over. he’s pretty sure he should’ve stapled and organized them a long, long time ago, but he honestly could not care anymore. there’s that charger hanging halfway off the edge of his bedside table, a half-empty glass collecting warmth from the morning air, and his hockey bag remains unopened by the door from last night’s practice. he finds it amazing that he still manages to attend—just spectacular that nobody can tell how terrible he’s feeling, and even more so, miraculous that he’s able to do his job the same.

and, his curtains. left open for september’s autumn, long after that quiet summer when he still had you to call.

park sunghoon spends a little longer staring at the window once his eyes stop hurting from the brightness. the sunlight shifts slowly over his sheets as the minutes go by, reaching his hands where they rest against his stomach, and warm enough that it still reminds him of you.

the first thought he has is that he’s being selfish.

it’s embarrassing, honestly, how little he’s done in a month and how exhausting it all still feels. all he does is wake up, lie here, go to practice, come back, and sleep. heeseung’s always got someone new over, jake and jay are physically incapable of doing anything quietly, and sunoo, jungwon, and riki are too afraid to ask why he never speaks at dinner anymore—not that he did much of that to begin with, anyway. he chooses not to believe them when they say he seemed happier when the sun stayed out longer.

a month is barely enough time to break a habit, but it’s long enough that nobody asks anymore. there were those few weeks back in july where he’d let a laugh slip in front of his brothers and didn’t feel immediately disgusted by the sound of it afterwards. he supposes you brought out that side of him—the one that doesn’t need to act all perfect and gorgeous and saintful. at some point, he even let himself eat a tub of ice cream because riki asked nicely enough for him to stay and watch a movie. it didn’t feel difficult then, of course.

yeonjun stopped trying to irritate him after a while, probably realising it wasn’t possible. now, he just avoids it out of pity instead, and sunghoon knows it. nobody says it out loud, but they all look at him differently these days; like he’s become quieter in a way they can’t quite fix, and they don’t know whether to drag him out of it or leave him there in this pit he’s chosen to bury himself in.

he shuts his eyes, and it doesn’t help. all sunghoon sees is that fucking library, and you, standing between metal shelving under the evening sun—squinting and pouting, warm cheeks and messy hair from running your fingers through it all day, and back then, sunghoon wanted nothing but to do the same. that stupid expression you made, pretending like your eyes weren’t watering from all the dusty books and the harsh light hitting your irises, too.

he sees himself telling you to sit on his side, your smile, and how he almost froze up then and there.

all the brains in the world and none of it did anything for him then, and even less now. he spent years believing everything had a formula—that if he worked hard enough, controlled enough, became enough, things would eventually make sense and fall into place. but there was nothing logical about wanting to sit in uncomfortable, sticky heat because it touched your skin first, or remembering the exact way your eyebrows moved when you were confused, or missing somebody so intensely that even morning light starts feeling like fate; there was nothing sensible in falling for someone that makes him act so unpredictably.

“listen, dude. you gotta get the fuck up.”

sunghoon doesn’t realise how badly his neck aches until he turns away from the window. the movement pulls uncomfortably down his shoulders, stiff from sleeping wrong and doing absolutely nothing for days that didn’t involve practice. to his right stands lee heeseung, leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised, looking mildly offended by the fact that somebody could sleep until ten in the morning.

“this is pathetic, do you realise that?” he sighs, pushing himself off the frame and strolling into sunghoon’s room with that same easy, unaffected energy he’s always had. carefree in a way that feels irritating today, and familiar in a way that reminds him too much of you. for a brief second, sunghoon sees it—the appeal. why you looked at him first, and why it was easy to do so. “man. you don’t even run in the morning anymore.”

“get out,” sunghoon mumbles, rolling over onto his side. his skin is cold where it leaves the sunlight and the sheets feel warmer than they should, sending a brief chill down his spine. “i am not in the mood to deal with you.”

“deal with me?” heeseung lets out this dramatic breath of disbelief and sunghoon hears the familiar squeak of his desk chair protesting under sudden weight. wheels scrape softly against the floor before rolling closer and closer until heeseung’s annoyingly charismatic face enters his peripheral. “everyone’s been dealing with your moping, hoon. it gets obvious when it’s six instead of seven after, like, two days—”

“okay.”

“okay?” heeseung repeats immediately, eyebrows lifting. his elbow lands on the arm rest and his chin settles into his hand. “okay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. the silence feels like summer all over again.

“do you wanna tell me why the fuck you’re being all weird?”

heeseung’s voice softens slightly. not enough to make a big thing out of it, because god knows how bad sunghoon would freak out and punch him in the mouth for that—but it’s enough to show the concern building up over the past few weeks.

sunghoon opens his eyes again, and somehow, seeing and hearing it for himself only annoys him more. sure, he knows it’s ridiculous and childish and just unfair, but he can’t help himself.

heeseung shouldn’t be worried. nothing happened to him. he didn’t stand in the park and watch you walk away, and he didn’t spend a month replaying every conversation, trying to figure out which version of him you liked more—and he did not ruin anything.

he swallows and stares at the windows again, drifting away from heeseung’s face.

the sunlight’s moved further away.

“i’m fine,” sunghoon says—his voice comes out flatter than intended. regardless, he does nothing to make himself sound any more convincing, and even if he did, he knows heeseung would see right through it.

the chair squeaks again as his friend leans further back, an unconvincing scoff being the only thing that leaves his lips. a soft thud as the backrest hits the wall, sunghoon would’ve glared at him any other day—but now, he can’t seem to find the energy.

“y’know, for someone who spent years acting all emotionless,” heeseung mumbles under his breath, “you’re shit at pretending like you don’t have them.”

it’s a decibel too loud to be accidental. sunghoon can’t even get angry now, because he knows better. after all this time, he really does—he knows better than to get angry at anyone else but himself.

he doesn’t answer. heeseung watches him for a little longer, head tilting slightly as his eyes drift over sunghoon’s face, lingering around the redness in his eyes and the exhaustion dragging down his expression. there’s a brief moment where he looks like he wants to say something and thinks better of it.

“…you know, i still think what you did was insane. i still don’t get why you didn’t just tell her.”

sunghoon closes his eyes. he’s not trying to avoid it, believe him—he’s spent majority of his days holding the guilt against himself, on his shoulders, feeling it weigh down on his chest for days a time. he doesn’t necessarily disagree.

“you talked to someone for months, pretending to be somebody else, and expected that to work?”

sunghoon’s jaw almost shatters from how hard he’s clenching it. he imagined you saying those same words to him, at some point. your gentle smile behind his eyelids seem to be one of many things preventing him from beating the shit out of the guy.

lee heeseung notices it, and can’t help but sigh. “you looked happier, hoon. really.”

sunghoon wishes he just went back to sleep. he doesn’t know what good this is doing him, really—he’s aware of it. it’s lying everywhere, the proof scattered around like meaningless scraps: his reduced sleep, terrible appetite and unwillingness to see any girl that isn’t you.

he knows better than anyone how happy he was.

“didn’t know what it was at first,” he says. “thought you made it to the olympic lineup or something. shit’s no joke.”

he’s not even looking at sunghoon anymore. “i know it when i see it. checking your phone every five minutes, laughing more. then you came home looking like someone fucking died.”

heeseung scratches at the back of his neck, but sunghoon looks away before he can utter the last word.

“do i know her?”

“no.”

sunghoon’s answer is immediate. too quick not to raise his other eyebrow, apparently. heeseung notices, and sunghoon notices that heeseung notices—but both never look each other in the eye.

“…okay.” heeseung mutters. his eyes drift around the room instead, trying to keep themselves occupied, if only for the sake of not looking too long at his miserable, bed-ridden friend’s face. his fingers tap idly against the armrest once, twice, before stopping altogether.

“you’re making this way worse for me, heeseung,” sunghoon deadpans, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. the scene feels oddly intimate for someone who still doesn’t know half of what sunghoon’s done. “it’s getting on my nerves.”

“good.”

sunghoon shoots him a look. heeseung just smiles, soft and underpainted with concern that hurts him to even acknowledge. for all the effort sunghoon’s spent making himself difficult to read—for all the years of swallowing things whole and convincing himself that if nobody saw him, then nothing could really touch him—he’s still shocked that people notice when things go bad.

after a few, quiet minutes of sunghoon wishing for heeseung to vanish into thin air and heeseung’s incessant staring, he speaks again.

“…you going to sunoo’s thing this weekend?”

he completely forgot about that. sunghoon blinks slowly, the memories coming back to him now—he remembers, vividly, your voice on the phone, rambling about the stupid thing for five minutes.

you sounded ridiculously excited. obvious now why that was, it still feels just as bitter as it did back then. “what?”

he knows what. he doesn’t know why he’s acting like he doesn’t have a clue what heeseung’s saying.

“sunoo was freaking out yesterday,” he laughs to himself, head tipping back slightly as the chair rocks under him. one foot drags absentmindedly against the floor while his fingers hook around the edge of the armrest. “said he only needs two more people before he reaches the donation limit. i wonder how long the queue’s gonna be.”

sunghoon can vaguely predict where this conversation is going. his eyes narrow a little, and thinks he’ll genuinely kill lee heeseung if he even suggests going to that ridiculous event. if anybody came up and asked him for donations, he’d give it. fine. whatever. just not while publicly exchanging his dignity for it—

“you should go.”

of course.

sunghoon stares at him, blank-eyed with lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappear.

heeseung looks back for exactly half a second before exhaling through his nose, rolling himself backwards in the chair, spinning once and pushing himself off the wall with one foot.

“okay—listen. you need it, man. you’re acting like the love of your life just died, and shit, sitting around and waiting to stop missing her isn’t gonna fix anything.”

sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. humourless, if anything. his hand drags slowly down his face, pressing hard enough over his eyes that little bursts of colour bloom behind his eyelids, like he could wipe the exhaustion—or the irritation—straight off his skin. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ah-ah,” heeseung immediately lifts a hand and wiggles his weirdly long index finger right in sunghoon’s face. nothing productive is going to come out of this conversation, sunghoon realises, so he just decides on shutting up for the rest of the conversation. “i know you keep acting like she already decided on hating you. it’s fine, y’know, if she does.”

heeseung sighs before slapping his palms against his thighs. he gets up in one, swift motion. “don’t you think she has every right to, sunghoon?”

his throat tightens.

“i—”

“shut up,” heeseung cuts him off instantly. “you’re such a control freak, it weirds me out. how did sooha even deal with all that?”

sunghoon is already pushing himself up from the bed. he will hang lee heeseung out to dry—upside down, in nothing but his boxers on this cold, dry autumn day.

though, by the time sunghoon actually manages to sit upright, heeseung’s already halfway out the door. with his hand still clasped around the metal doorknob:

“if she hates you, you should probably let her say that herself.”

the door shuts before sunghoon gets the final word.

he sits there, just for a moment. blanket pooled at the waist, room quiet except for a heater that doesn’t work very well. outside, there’s leaves scraping against the roof and sunghoon just stares at the closed door like it might open up again, with a completely different approach or words that won’t scare him the way heeseung’s did.

it does not.

─────────────────────────

you spent most of your summer waiting.

there’s something cruel about time. unstoppable, immovable, and somehow always aware of when you want it to move faster. it stretches itself thin when you need relief and collapses in on itself when you want more.

summer had always felt like that—golden and lazy and unbearably alive through the heat—but this year, it moved strangely, like someone had pulled all the warmth out and left only an afterglow.

your routine had gone to shit.

you slept at four in the morning, most days, and woke up at around eleven. lunch only happened when there was enough to get by in the fridge, and if your air-fryer was clean enough from the night before—jiwon often had to drag you by the ear to make that happen. half your laundry stays unfolded, because god knows where you disappear to in the middle of folding it, and the books from a month ago still stay.

there are hours spent doing nothing, and yet, the exhaustion lingers. stays in your bones, fusing with you, and refusing to leave.

the worst part isn’t even that you miss park sunghoon, either. it’s how often you reached for him, that being without him feels as significant as loss.

how ironic, considering you never had him to begin with.

you’re curled up on your couch, cheek squished up against the fabric and your knees tucked to your chest. oh jiwon is somewhere in this apartment with you—you’re not exactly sure where, but the soft banging of pots is enough to make a guesstimate.

“what’re you doing?” you yell, half-heartedly because you’re still aware enough to acknowlege your neighbours. “jiwon?”

she doesn’t respond. probably something about dinner, you think. the show on tv is loud enough for her voice to fade into the background, anyhow.

summer break ended some time ago—and with it went the warmth and heat and fuzziness that came with the man on the other end of the line. autumn arrives eventually, cruel in the way all inevitable things are, forcing you and everyone else to spend a little longer indoors because of the increasing cold. september is especially vicious; the air is sharper now, thinner, and you stop walking through that park altogether because every bench and every couple under those stupid yellow streetlamps reminds you too much of him.

for a guy that claimed to be so mundane, he sure takes up an absurd amount of your headspace—even now, even after more than a month of waiting and leaving and forcing yourself not to say things you wouldn’t be able to take back, he still lingers.

your hand still hovers over your phone after seeing something stupid online. you still walk past cute cafés and think he’d probably hate this place. you still watch movies and mentally bookmark scenes because you think he’d have too much fun analysing them with you and somehow, make the whole experience annoyingly enjoyable at the same time.

you still doubt yourself, and you still hear his voice afterwards—steady, certain, monotonous and so lovingly boring—pulling you back up before you spiral too far.

the silence fills your room like a slow-moving plague, settling into corners and underneath your blankets and against your walls until eventually, you start relying on old conversations to fall asleep.

you remember his laugh before his face, and you loved him before you saw his eyes. there’s something pathetic in that, you think, almost gullible—that after everything, after all the anger and humiliation and crying and weeks spent convincing yourself that this should not matter as much as it does—you still soften at the thought of him.

you hate that. you hate that he lied to you, and somehow, still ended up becoming so woven into parts of your life—enough for it to feel impossible to pull apart.

you hate it all, but never him.

“heeello?”

you blink before seeing jiwon’s legs standing right in your line of vision. blocking the subtitles, more like it.

she stares down at you from above with one eyebrow raised, afternoon light shining behind her head, casting her face into shadow in a way that feels unnecessarily threatening for someone holding an empty pot.

“what are you doing? get out of the way.” you squint, shifting ever so slightly—and completely uselessly—to get a full view of the text on screen. your head tilts one way, then the other, as though changing the angle will somehow let you see through her body.

she narrows her eyes and tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder fluidly. she does that motion where she’s about to hit you with the pan, but you flinch hard enough for her to laugh and lower it down. “welcome back! have fun spacing out? i’ve been asking what you want for dinner, for like, five minutes.”

jiwon follows your line of sight and twists around, just enough to get a proper look at the tv, rolling her eyes before her mouth pulls strangely to one side.

“…you know you watched this last night, right?”

of course she knows that. cons of sharing a netflix account with your best friend, and co-habiting with her for the past month.

your eyes drift back to the screen and the episode progress bar, sitting near the end and there’s already that stupid little preview box hovering in the corner asking whether you want to continue to the next episode. you don’t remember a single thing that happened, and can’t find the energy to recall.

you let out a long sigh and prop yourself up properly against the sofa, blanket bunching around your waist. jiwon’s folding her arms now, a slight frown on her face, and you dislike it immensely.

“…what?”

she stares at you for another second before walking over and dropping onto the other side of the couch, pulling one leg up beneath herself.

“…okay,” she says slowly, looking at you in that way people do when they already know the answer. “are we gonna keep pretending you’re okay or am i finally allowed to ask? will you blow up on me again, or—”

“jiwon—”

“it’s fine, y’know,” she babbles on, immediately waving the hand holding the ladle, before circling around the coffee table. she drops down right next to you with enough force to make the cushions dip. pulling one leg underneath herself, she points dramatically to the apartment around her. “i can just stay here forever, cook forever, and clean forever. it’s alright!”

you stare at her, then glance at the pot, and finally, at the folded laundry sitting on the armchair.

you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“…i didn’t ask you to do all that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes dropping back to the paused show. your fingers knead at the skin there once, twice, before your hand drops into your lap. you let out another sigh and lean your head back against the sofa. “i’m fine by myself—”

jiwon turns immediately. her eyebrows pull together, and her jaw almost goes rigid. “i do it because i care about you. don’t make me regret it.”

she’s already looking away afterwards, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie, and reaching over to adjust the blanket pooled around your legs.

your head hurts. the room is too quiet, again, without that show playing, or the music blasting on the home speakers.

how is it that the missing piece in your life is shaped exactly like park sunghoon?

summer. so useless, and yet, you were so alive.

“listen.” jiwon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. you turn, and she’s twisted sideways now, one leg tucked under herself and chin resting against her palm while her other hand reaches over to steal the remote. she clicks it twice before deciding against turning anything on again.

“about that thing this weekend—”

your jaw hangs. “are you kidding?”

jiwon’s eyes widen immediately. she sighs, both hands dragging down the sides of her face before slapping against the backrest of the couch.

“okay, i know we agreed to go together to the charity event, and all the different booths and shit like that, but my dad’s finally in town again, and i just—”

you wave your hand quickly, once before she can finish, eyes not leaving the screen as your fingers start picking at the seam of the blanket. “oh, yeah, no. i’ll just skip. it’s all good.”

jiwon turns properly this time. her forehead creases. “…what? what about the money?”

you shrug one shoulder and scratch absentmindedly at a loose thread near your knee. “it comes back. it’s all good. if it’s that big of a deal to you, ask your dad to apple pay me.”

jiwon stares at you for a second too long before setting the remote down, scooting across the couch in one smooth movement until her knee bumps against yours. she squints slightly, head tilting as she searches your face. “okay,” she says slowly, one hand reaching over to pinch the fabric over your thigh. “not funny.”

you squeal, and she just grumbles.

then, she nudges your knee with hers again. “but seriously,” she says, shoulders relaxing as she turns more towards you and props her elbow against the backrest, “you need to get the fuck outside.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “you’ve been stuck with me this entire time. we need to go outside.”

jiwon shakes her head immediately and sits up straighter, her fingers slipping off the blanket and flat against your forearm instead. “no,” she says. “that’s not what i mean.”

you look away, and she notices. of course, she notices.

her thumb taps once against your skin before she lets her hand drop.

“…i know you’re avoiding seeing him,” she mutters, eyes drifting briefly around the apartment—the dishes, the curtains that haven’t been opened properly all week, the same hoodie you’ve worn thrice in a row—before settling back on you. she presses her lips together and reaches over to smooth the blanket over your knee again. “but you’re throwing everything away for that.”

you don’t say a thing. you feel like a coward. you feel like a liar. you feel like a lot of things, but jiwon’s looking at you like you’re not.

“…you’ve been talking about that stupid fundraiser since february,” she continues. “you made me pay thirty dollars to get matched with strangers…. among other things. you’ll pay me for that, right?”

she realises, a second too late, that you’re not laughing.

you look away, eyes locked on something outside the window. you can’t really tell with how your vision begins to blur. she waits for a response, but when it becomes clear she isn’t getting one:

“you wanted to go.”

your hand comes up and presses against your mouth.

you remember sitting in the library during finals with your laptop open, and your notes everywhere and thinking about it between lectures. your brain would drift whenever revision got unbearable, and suddenly, you’d be imagining what you’d wear and whether heeseung would actually come, and if he’d be as nice as everybody said he was.

it felt harmless then. stupid and harmless. a little reward waiting at the end.

you remember texting jiwon about it. making jokes, pretending not to care.

but now, you remember another thing.

you remember sitting in the exact same library with someone only two feet away. you remember somebody asking if you’d eaten, and somebody telling you to stop being perfect. somebody remembering your schedule better than you did. somebody finding you in that secluded corner, where the world didn’t exist beyond it, if only for a few hours.

you remember leaving that library and not thinking about lee heeseung at all.

your thumb presses harder against your lip. you’ve been biting at a piece of dead skin on your cuticle unconsciously. “that’s embarrassing.”

jiwon frowns.

“…i don’t think i actually wanted him.”

she doesn’t interrupt.

you keep staring at the television instead, eyes tracing shapes that stopped moving minutes ago. your fingers keep smoothing over the blanket stretched across your lap, flattening the same crease over and over until the friction starts irritating your palms. eventually, your thumb catches on loose thread and you pick at it absentmindedly, winding it once around your finger before letting it snap back. “…i think i just liked wanting something. he was hot, yeah, and people liked him.”

“thought maybe…” you bite down on your bottom lip. “i don’t know. maybe if somebody like that liked me back, then that would mean something.”

everyone’s always told you that you had terrible luck.

you remember teachers saying things like that’s unfortunate and friends joking that your life always sounded a little too dramatic to be accidental. wrong place, wrong time—missing buses. getting sick before things you cared about, liking people that didn’t like you back. liking people too late. liking people wrong. liking people at all.

“proving that i’m not all that unlikeable...” you mumble. “but i’m just as unlucky as everyone says.”

it was never that serious to complain about. it mostly served it’s purpose as comedic relief in other people’s lives, but as one knows, after the age of sixteen—everything just seems self-deprecating instead of humorous.

“you like him.”

jiwon’s voice is slightly too quiet for it to be a declaration. she says it softly enough that you could pretend you didn’t hear, or so that you could roll your eyes and say obviously not and she’d just let you.

you try to think about all the reasons why you don’t, and why you can’t. you think about lying, about the trust, about the humiliation and about standing in the middle of the park, crying like that in front of someone who played you like a puppet.

and still, you do not say a thing.

“i think…” she starts quietly, eyes dropping to where your hands meet before lifting back to your face. “it doesn’t actually change anything. the one you like is still sunghoon, y/n. no amount of this—whatever this is that you’re doing—is going to change that.”

“you fell for who he was. the name was irrelevant, wasn’t it?”

jiwon watches you for a while after that, shoulders sinking further into the couch. she studies your face, one hand disappearing into the sleeve of her hoodie while the other stays resting over the blanket draped across your legs, fingers absentmindedly playing with yours.

she glances at the television once—the paused menu, your reflection sitting small and folded into yourself against all that dead blue light—and exhales quietly through her nose before shifting closer to you.

“can i say something else that might piss you off?”

you keep your eyes forward, rubbing your thumb over the edge of the blanket. “what?”

jiwon squints at you for a second before nodding once, slowly, like she’s 99% sure you will get pissed off anyway at the statement she’s going to make.

“okay. i think you’re being unfair—not to him, though. just yourself,” she says. “i’ve been watching you do this thing for a month now. you keep saying he’s bad for you.”

you look down. she notices, of course.

“maybe he is. probably. whatever,” jiwon mutters under her breath, trying to remember what point she was trying to make. “but i don’t think that’s why you’re cancelling on m—”

“you cancelled, by the way.”

“still. you’re just scared that all those feelings will come back, or that they’ll be completely gone, and it’s scary.” she’s looking forward now, too. she finds it harder to be serious when she’s looking at you in the eye. “it was real, right? everything?”

right.

you hum in acknowledgement, low and partially absent, eyes still fixed somewhere near the bottom corner of the television where the subtitles would usually sit. jiwon watches your face for another second too long, before taking it as permission to continue. honestly, she’s a little surprised you haven’t mauled her yet. a month ago, she would’ve gotten a cushion launched at her head by now.

“the more like you pretend he isn’t real, the more it’ll hurt,” she sighs. “you can forgive him, or don’t, i’m not gonna tell you what to do like we’re fifteen again. oh, that was a really bad time for both of us—ow!”

your fingers dart out before you can stop yourself, pinching the soft skin above her knee hard enough for her whole body to jolt sideways with a startled squeal. she swats uselessly at your hand, rubbing furiously at the spot through her sweatpants before shooting you the most deeply offended look she can manage.

“could you just listen to me for once?” she groans, collapsing dramatically into the couch cushions. “i’m trying really hard to be wise here.”

you roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you anyway.

“there it is,” jiwon points immediately, grinning so wide it almost irritates you. “see? you’re capable of experiencing joy!”

“i’m about to experience violence.”

“that’s my girl!”

she laughs to herself before the smile gradually slips away again, replaced by something more serious. her fingers fold together in her lap, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly against each other as she stares down at them for a moment, gathering whatever was left of her courage. when she looks back up, there’s none of that usual teasing left on her face.

“look,” she sighs. “i’m not trying to convince you that what he did wasn’t awful, because it was. i wanted to punch him just from hearing about it, and i still kinda do.”

she wrinkles her nose. “but i also watched you spend almost your entire summer waiting for him to call. you kept pretending you were watching movies when you were really staring at your phone, and you even stopped walking through that park because every bench reminded you of him.”

your throat tightens.

“you don't have to forgive him,” she continues, shaking her head slowly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “honestly, maybe you never will. maybe you shouldn't. but i don't think hiding from the world is the same thing as moving on, y/n.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the little crack running along the corner where the paint has started to peel. “what if i see him,” you mumble, barely louder than the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, “and i still want him?”

jiwon's expression doesn't change. she takes a moment before her mouth parts slightly, just enough to answer. “then you'll know.”

"and if i don't?"

she shrugs gently, her hand lingering over yours for another second, thumb brushing your knuckle once before it falls back into her lap. she looks almost sad when she says it. "then you'll know that, too."

the apartment falls quiet again. somewhere outside, a car door slams, and a few birds chirp before scattering into the clouds. someone's drilling something in the apartment above you. someone's yelling something in the street. the world keeps going, indifferent and loud, the way it always does when you seem to be

“okay.”

jiwon watches you for a second longer, like she's checking the word for cracks. she must not have found any, or perhaps a few too many to name, because she just lets it go.

─────────────────────────

by the time you reach campus, the fundraiser is already in full swing.

the entire quad has transformed overnight into something almost unrecognisable. white canopy tents stretch across the lawn in neat, uneven rows, their fabric flapping in the wind whenever the cold september breeze decides to pass through.

handmade banners hang crookedly above each stall, painted with far too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough artistic ability—bright acrylic letters bleeding into one another, beneath glitter and shiny lettering that catches the afternoon sun every time somebody walks past.

“come visit booth 6!” “free drinks at booth 52!” “stand a chance to win—”

somewhere off to your left, somebody is aggressively advertising homemade brownies through a megaphone that crackles every other sentence, while another group has somehow convinced the jazz society to play live beside the engineering department’s robotics display. the music overlaps with laughter, conversations, applause and the occasional groan from somebody losing money at one of the carnival games, until it all melts together into any introvert’s worst nightmare.

jiwon, as foretold, is busy smiling, shaking hands and pretending to enjoy the company of the stepfather she’s complained about for the better part of four years, leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a sea of strangers. you’re beginning to wonder if any of this was even worth not paying her the thirty dollars for bailing. you could’ve been at home instead, cocooned underneath your duvet with instant noodles balanced precariously on your stomach while you binged that stupid show she keeps interrupting halfway through every episode—but apparently you did not need to be “sixty dollars broker,” and allegedly, according to her, “exposure builds character.”

students drift through the walkways in slow, uneven currents, weaving around one another with paper cups warming their hands and tote bags slipping from tired shoulders. autumn has only just begun settling over campus, leaving enough warmth in the afternoon sun to coax everyone outside while the breeze nips at exposed skin, carrying with it the smell of caramel popcorn, burnt coffee, fried food and fresh paint that still hasn't completely dried on half the handmade signs.

every few steps, someone brushes your shoulder without meaning to, and another laughs so loudly it echoes between the buildings. the quad feels impossibly alive, like the entire student body had been holding its breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale.

you've just realised how long it'd been since you'd seen campus like this.

exam season had stripped everything bare. the library became the centre of everybody's universe, swallowing entire afternoons until the only sounds left were pages turning, keyboards clacking and chairs scraping softly against carpet. everyone looked permanently exhausted beneath fluorescent lighting, surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and blind optimism, and now they're outside again.

clubs are recruiting first-years with embarrassingly enthusiastic chants, and the fourth-year students are pretending they aren't equally interested in the free tote bags.

autumn seems to bring something different into the air. meanwhile, summer, as you've known it, was spent mostly indoors or at the corner store fifteen minutes from campus, where you'd stand in front of the instant noodle shelf for far longer than necessary before carrying the same cup outside to eat on the outdoor seating. there were a handful of evenings where you'd glance up every time a dark-haired guy walked past, stomach flipping before common sense caught up with you. there were even more where you caught yourself wondering whether park sunghoon had ever been here before, whether he'd ever stood in front of the same vending machine deciding between two drinks, whether he'd look out for you the same way you did.

every single time, you wanted to walk straight into incoming traffic for even entertaining the thought. it's ridiculous. he literally lives on campus.

you spend quite a bit of time walking around the place. the sun isn’t too brutal at this time of day, and for once, you don’t dread seeing a bunch of people you know—there’s moments where you make eye contact with an old friend, a new acquaintance or someone who’s friends with someone you know, and they wave like they’ve known you for years. your feet begin to hurt by the end of the hour, and when you look down, you realise you’re holding an overpriced sea salt latte, a bag of homemade cookies, and a doodle of you a second-year student made for $5.

there’s a few flyers in your bag, too. you don’t even remember being interested in crocheting, but alright. somewhere along the way, you’ve lost the map that some student union members handed you when you first walked in, and for fifteen blissful minutes, you convinced yourself that you’ve never been to this part of the quad before.

it works. for a while.

you’re patting your jeans down. perhaps you folded it or crumpled it together with receipts or other useless junk from the day, but it’s literally vanished. nevertheless, your feet are carrying you to unknown places, through thickening crowds and high-pitched laughter that feels impossible to distinguish which direction it originates from.

somebody almost knocks your latte out of your hand. you almost cuss him out, before he whispers a ‘sorry!’ and joins a snaking queue, spilling onto the footpath.

“my god.”

you’re back at sunoo’s booth. pastel pink, covered in ikea string lights that are certainly not suited for outdoor use, the banner above spelling exactly what you signed up for: soul searching.

it sways gently overhead, now slightly lopsided after surviving what looked like several hours of relentless traffic. whoever had decorated the booth this morning had given up on maintaining any sort of order—heart-shaped balloons floated at uneven heights, paper cupid arrows had started peeling away from the tent poles, and one of the volunteers was hurriedly taping another handwritten sign across the front of the table.

queue full! please scan the qr code to join the line! we'll text you when it's your turn ♡

"honestly," somebody behind you mutters as they walk by. "this is way better. nobody’s standing for two hours.”

“right? i’m hoping they move me to the front,” their friend responds. “i bought the early ones too… i feel so fucking desperate. at least we’re in the line at all.”

you glance towards the front, almost absentmindedly. they weren’t wrong—the line that had wrapped halfway around the quad earlier had disappeared entirely, replaced instead by clusters of students with phones in hand. they’re hopping around and comparing wait times while volunteers hurried between the very few tables available, trying to answer stupid questions before the next wave arrived.

you did pay for this. your latte’s gone warm, anyway, and the condensation is starting to drip down onto your sleeves. might as well find out whether your ticket's even still valid.

the qr code sits laminated against the edge of the registration table, surrounded by little hand-drawn hearts and stars that look suspiciously like sunoo's work. you fish your phone out of your tote, thumb hovering over the camera app for just a second before lifting it. you step closer to get a clearer view, tongue poking at your cheek—

"hold on.”

you glance up, blinking slowly until sunoo comes into focus. he’s dressed in all sorts of shades of pink, from hot to muted to pastel, and his cheeks have hearts face-painted onto them.

“y/n! you actually came!”

he breaks into a wide grin, so wide that it almost scares you. for a brief moment, you wonder if this is even the kim sunoo you know, considering he was never too worried for your attendance when the fundraiser was first brought up.

before you can even say hello, he's already leaning across the table, volunteer lanyard swinging forward as he peeks at the ticket confirmation on your screen. you hadn’t realised it’s already loaded, displaying the ‘early-bird’ status right at the top. in bold, like it wasn’t humiliating enough just being here.

“i paid, so…”

he circles around the table.

“exactly!” his finger points at your phone. “early bird. you’re lucky!”

you nod slowly, like you understand where this conversation’s about to go. truth be told, you don’t, so in order to hide the confusion, your eyes dart around to avoid his.

"…early-bird participants get priority once they join the queue.”

strange. the other laminated sign your eyes land on, which is pasted right behind sunoo’s head, conveniently says otherwise.

early-bird = guaranteed queue number! ♡ NO PRIORITY sorry!!! :( ♡

“i’m pretty sure that’s not how it works—”

“it literally is.” sunoo declares, with such effortless confidence that you might’ve believed him if not for the piece of paper taped up behind him. he still wears that smile, his cheeks rounding in a way that makes it dangerously easy to nod along, right until one of the volunteers at the registration table slowly lifts his head and looks over.

he deadpans. “sunoo.”

“what?”

“…since when?”

kim sunoo doesn’t even bother turning around to answer his fellow volunteer. you suppose being the organiser has its perks, because he simply says, “since today! operational changes are needed, aren’t they?”

all the guy can do is sigh and rub at his temples.

“great!” sunoo beams, already uncapping a marker with his teeth before flicking the cap into his palm. he hunches over the clipboard, the tip squeaking furiously across the paper in quick, decisive strokes, barely pausing to breathe before thrusting it back against his chest. “congratulations, y/n!”

you narrow your eyes. “on what?”

“you’re next!” he tears a small ticket from the pad with a sharp riiiip, stamps it against the clipboard with far more force than necessary, then slides it into your hand like he’s finalising an important legal transaction.

“sunoo, there’s literally people waiting behind me.”

sunoo merely raises an eyebrow. he tilts his head, peering past your shoulder with enough curiosity that, against your better judgment, you glance back too.

you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

a queue of complete strangers is, in fact, staring directly at the two of you. some look mildly confused, others openly entertained, but most are just pissed off. one guy even checks his phone, like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s somehow joined the wrong line, and how he, too, could join ‘priority-access’.

“huh."

when you turn back around, sunoo’s already smiling again, not a shred of shame anywhere on his face. “you’re making this up, aren’t y—”

“prove it.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

a volunteer pulls the canvas flap aside for you with an overly enthusiastic smile, hair sticking to his forehead from the (presumably) constant back and forth sunoo’s making him do. for such a small booth team, the place is surprisingly put-together, and the online queue isn’t glitching out the way other booth’s are. you had to admit that you were somewhat glad you came.

“good luck,” he whispers, to which you reply with a confused expression before walking in.

the noise disappears almost immediately.

the bustle outside dulls into a soft, muffled hum behind layers of canvas, leaving the tiny booth wrapped in an unexpected sort of quiet. sunlight filters through the cream-coloured fabric overhead, warming the little space in soft patches until everything inside glows honey-gold.

it smells faintly of vanilla and paper, with the lingering sweetness of somebody’s perfume clinging stubbornly to the air from the last pairing. you wonder where they went to after their five minutes of alone time—did they go to grab coffee? did he say something to piss her off, and she stormed out early? is that why sunoo’s giving you priority?

you stop just after the entrance.

“oh.”

it’s… actually kind of nice.

someone had gone through an embarrassing amount of effort decorating the place. ivy vines wind around the tent poles alongside more tiny string lights, and battery-powered candles flicker lazily in the centre of a small round table dressed with a cream linen cloth.

a little glass jar is overflowing with folded paper stars. it sits between two untouched bottles of water, and it almost makes you wonder how much money they poured into this thing, before you remember that they probably went over the donation limit a long, long time ago.

somebody had even scattered fake rose petals across the tabletop, though several had already drifted onto the flimsy plywood beneath the chairs.

there’s only two seats. complimentary seat cushion, too, also pink and plaid. you sigh, seeing how it was already squished flat from all the people sitting on it before you, but you make your way regardless. the amount of walking you’ve put yourself through has done no justice to your feet, anyway.

the first thing you notice is that whoever’s sitting across from you is going to bump your knees, unless he happens to be significantly shorter.

you don’t really mind it. the tent is only so big, and god knows how they even managed to squeeze a table through that narrow entrance. still, it’s enough to make you silently hope he isn’t particularly tall, either.

you let out a quiet breath through your nose.

beside the battery-operated candle sits a neat stack of laminated cards bound together by a stainless steel ring, each one printed with colourful lettering and tiny doodles tucked into the corners.

♡ conversation starters ♡

you already know this is going to be terrible. who the hell pitched this?

#5 what’s your most irrational fear?

too intimate.

your fingers flip through the stack, anyway. there’s an identical set resting on the opposite side of the table, presumably waiting for whoever draws the short straw across from you.

#8 if you could relive one day of your life, which would you choose?

too deep. nobody thought these through. you keep flipping, snorting under your breath every few cards.

#10 what’s your biggest regret?

#11 when did you last cry?

#12 do you fall for looks, or personality?

your smile fades before you realise it had even appeared at all. another prank by the universe, you suppose.

the cards settle back onto the table with a soft tap. your hands find their way to the armrests, tapping against the wood, anything to stop thinking about the guy you’re not supposed to be thinking about.

outside, somebody cheers loud enough for it to seep through the canvas walls, followed by another chorus of laughter that slowly dissolves back into the fundraiser’s usual chatter. you glance instinctively toward the entrance, expecting the fabric to move.

nothing. the chair opposite you remains empty, and no one’s walking through that tarp.

you check your phone. it’s been three minutes.

you’re drumming your fingers lightly against the edge of the table now, watching the fake candle flicker. the tiny plastic flame sways with every movement of the air-conditioning fan someone had hidden near the ceiling of the tent, convincing enough that you almost forget it isn’t real.

the things you do in pursuit of love, you think.

it’s almost funny, now that you’re sitting here.

you remember signing up for this thing with only one person in mind—someone you barely knew, someone you had no right to like because of all the missing pieces your imagination had so generously filled in. back then, this booth felt like a shortcut. maybe you’d sit across from lee heeseung, maybe he’d smile at you, maybe the universe would finally decide to do you one favour in this unlucky life of yours.

there was a point where you thought you knew your type. the kind of guy that seemed so easy to trip and fall on your face for. maybe it was that new year’s party, when you caught him standing at the front of the house with a cigarette between his fingers, the street light catching against his jaw while everyone else laughed somewhere behind you. maybe it was those tuesday mornings outside the cafeteria. maybe it was the words of everyone around you, but either way, you never really heard his voice, or stood close enough to know how he laughed, what he sounded like when he was tired, or whether he was a better listener than talker.

distance has a funny way of disguising itself as depth. you mistake wondering for understanding, admiration for affection, until one day you’ve built an entire person out of scattered glances and second-hand stories. maybe that was all the crush had ever been—a collection of assumptions, stitched together by not knowing enough.

perhaps, it was never about lee heeseung at all.

park sunghoon is a fucking headache. he lingers in every inconvenient corner of your life, occupying your thoughts long after he shattered your heart and broke your trust that summer night. it’s almost cruel how thoroughly he’s rooted himself into your memory—his voice still finds you before your own thoughts do, his quiet laugh still sneaks into your head whenever something stupid happens. you remember the thoughtful pauses before he’d answer your questions, the accidental sincerity he always seemed embarrassed by, and the unwavering certainty with which he’d tell you that you were capable of things you never believed you could do yourself.

despite the lies, the betrayal, despite everything. despite the way he looked at you that night, like he couldn’t bear to lose you, and still let you walk away—you realise that there isn’t a single part of you that wishes it had been lee heeseung from the beginning.

the canvas shifts.

at first, it’s nothing more than a shadow moving across the pale canvas, followed by the dull scrape of shoes against packed grass outside. somebody murmurs something—a volunteer, probably—and another voice answers too quietly for you to make out.

your heart’s beating out of your chest. the last time you felt like this, it was january first, and also three in the morning.

the flap rustles once before stilling again, as though whoever’s on the other side already regrets doing this. you let out a quiet laugh through your nose, watching the silhouette hesitate in the narrow entrance where the fading warmth of september collides with the dry chill of the portable air-conditioner humming somewhere overhead.

the afternoon sun outlines him first. he’s tall, broad, holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand. he turns halfway around to mumble something behind him, and through the gap in the canvas, you catch a glimpse of someone suspiciously resembling sunoo. whatever he says earns him a sharp slap between the shoulder blades and an exaggerated shove forward, the bouquet wobbling dangerously in his grip before he manages to catch it against his chest.

your fingers are still tracing the laminated edge of one of the conversation cards when the canvas finally parts. he stumbles through the entrance, muttering what sounds like an embarrassed complaint under his breath, one hand instinctively reaching back to steady the flap before it swings shut behind him.

you only realise who he is when he looks up.

the sleeves are shoved up to his elbows like they always are, but he looks better than the last time you saw him—cleaner, less wrecked, like he’s actually been sleeping well now that you’re not around. his hair has grown out just enough to fall over his eyebrows, and despite everything, despite the month that’s wedged itself between the two of you, you remember every single feature on his face, and just how much you missed it.

that’s when you realise that a month and a half is nearly not enough time to forget.

for one impossible second, relief blooms before your brain catches up to your body.

the world seems like it’s flipping upside down, now. park sunghoon freezes, like he wasn’t expecting either; your pulse is slamming against your ribs so violently that you swear he must be able to hear it. you can hear your blood rushing in your ears by the time you stand up—chair screeching violently against the plywood as you shove yourself backwards, the legs offering some resistance before jerking free with your force.

your knees collide with the underside of the table hard enough to send the fake candle wobbling between the two of you. it’s tiny, plastic flame is flickering, almost mocking.

every instinct you have screams the same thing: leave.

sunghoon notices (of course he does), and something inside his expression crumbles just enough for you to feel like you’ve been stabbed in the heart.

his shoulder sinks by barely an inch, the hand which holds the bouquet to his stomach now dropping to his side. he doesn’t move any closer, too afraid to even breathe audibly, just standing by the entrance with the afternoon light outlining his familiar silhouette.

his eyes are soft, a gentle smile painted across his face, as though he’s trying to show you how much it hurts not seeing you for so long.

you’re just like how he remembers. golden light on your face, diffused now from the tent’s shade, bright eyes looking up at him the same way it did in the summer. perhaps it’s because of his dreams that this doesn’t feel as shocking as he’d thought it’d be—that one evening in the library between bookshelves replays like a highlight reel behind his eyelids, and in a way, he thinks it’s helped with his what little sleep he's managed to get recently.

and, in the same vein, he looks everything like the boy you've spent the last month trying to forget.

“…you.”

your voice is barely a whisper. sunghoon swallows, and his lips part once before closing again. you want to scream at him, maybe even punch him in the face. with that sad look on his face, you think he might even let you.

“y/n.”

you don’t hesitate. the moment sunghoon sees you grabbing your things, ready to turn around and leave—he speaks again, rushed with a tinge of desperation.

“please. five minutes, it’s all i need.”

what could he possibly say that would undo all of this?

park sunghoon bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. you’re staring at him with glassy eyes, hands shaking from either anger or just pure despair, waiting for an answer that might not even fix anything at all.

your shoulders stay angled towards the exit, eyes not meeting his. you’re afraid that if you look at him properly, you'll remember everything all over again.

“i'm sorry, y/n.”

you should’ve left as soon as you saw that frame in the sun—as soon as your heart sank and your mind briefly flashed to sunghoon.

silence stretches between the two of you. you’re somewhat thankful for the loud noise outside that helps dampen it. the laughter sounds impossibly far away from where you stand.

“not because i got caught lying to you.” his fingers tighten around the bouquet, knuckles paling beneath flushed skin. “i think about it every day. it never leaves.”

your molars grind together until your temples start to pulse. the muscles in your jaw ache from holding back everything that wants to come spilling out, and you realise, belatedly, that you're digging your fingernails so deeply into the canvas strap of your tote that the fabric has started to wrinkle beneath your grip. you’re blinking the salt away, too, trying not to let it drip down your cheeks. “why did you do that to me, sunghoon?”

your voice comes out quieter than you intended. it’s nothing short of humiliating. sunghoon stares at you for a little while longer, and it really does feel like his heart’s being ripped out of his ribcage all over again. there’s nothing nice about seeing someone you love in tears, much less because of you.

“i didn't think it’d go far.” his voice is barely above a whisper now. “that’s not an excuse. i know it isn’t. i realised that really early on.”

his thumb catches on the edge of the brown paper wrapped around the flowers, smoothing the same crease over and over until it begins to tear.

“i just...” he laughs quietly through his nose, and it breaks somewhere in the middle. “i was terrified, y/n.”

your breath catches. you just can’t understand. every word from him feels like relief and a new betrayal all over again, and for a moment, you wonder how you’re still standing here. there’s half of you that feels glad that he cares enough to show up again—and another that never wants to see his pretty face again.

“the only lie i ever told you,” he continues, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes, “was that i was lee heeseung. everything else was real. all the calls, conversations, every second i spent listening to your voice.”

sunghoon says it like a confession. like an intimate secret he’s yet to admit to anyone else but you, because truly, he hasn’t. it’s stupid how long he’s allowed this to suffocate him.

“i was scared of how much i wanted you, and i let it go on, because it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i didn’t want to lose you, and i acted selfishly because of that.”

“you could’ve told me from the beginning.” your hand comes up instinctively, thumb dragging beneath your waterline before another tear has the chance to fall. you sniffle once, sharp and involuntary, and sunghoon feels it somewhere behind his ribs. “you could have. do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

the words roll off your tongue before you can think twice. “i made myself look like a fucking idiot in front of you.”

sunghoon's breathing falters. his grip tightens around the bouquet until the brown paper crumples loudly in the silence, stems bending awkwardly beneath his fingers. he can't bring himself to look away from your face—not when your eyelashes are clumped together with tears, not when the skin beneath them has gone raw from how hard you're rubbing at it.

“i know.”

his voice barely survives the distance between you.

“every time i think about you,” he swallows hard, the muscles in his throat straining around the words. “i think about everything you trusted me with, and all i can remember is that i stood there and let you keep believing me.” his eyes fall to the floor for the briefest moment before finding yours again, impossibly guilty. “you deserved better than that.”

“i put you through so much,” park sunghoon adds, his voice so quiet you're forced to listen for it. “i was selfish. i convinced myself that if i told you the truth, i’d lose you, even if i deserved to.”

his thumb smooths absently over another crease in the bouquet's wrapping paper. “every day i waited after that, for the right time, for when it was easiest for me—it just got harder, and then it got impossible.”

he exhales shakily. “there was never going to be a good time. i knew that.”

you stare at him, at the bouquet he'd probably spent too long choosing. you imagine how out of place he must've looked picking those out, asking the store owner which ones would be good, knowing nothing about flowers, buying whatever was recommended to him without a second thought.

and then you're looking at the circles beneath his eyes—better now than they were before, but still there, still belonging to a boy who somehow looks exactly like the person you spent all summer missing, and the person who broke your heart in the very same breath.

“you could’ve told me,” you whisper again, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. your fingers curl helplessly around the strap of your tote until the rough canvas digs into your palm. “you could’ve walked up to me that first night. i would’ve—”

another tear slips free before you can force the last word out. your breath catches violently in your chest, chin dropping toward your collarbone as a broken sob tears through you before you have the chance to swallow it back.

sunghoon moves before he thinks. the bouquet lands forgotten against the table with a muffled rustle, baby's breath spilling over the edge of the table as he closes the distance between you in two hurried strides. his hand comes up instinctively—halfway to your face, halfway to your shoulder, he doesn't even know anymore—before stopping inches from your face.

"...y/n."

sunghoon freezes. fingers trembling, not knowing if he's allowed to be this close to you again, not knowing if he gets to touch you just because you're crying. nevertheless, his hand curls slowly into a fist before falling uselessly back to his side.

your shoulders shake harder.

you clap a hand over your mouth as if that'll somehow muffle the sound, but it only turns each breath into something more desperate and more painful. tears slip between your fingers anyway, dripping onto the backs of your knuckles before disappearing into the sleeves of your top.

sunghoon feels sick. everything is telling him to touch you, to hold you, to do everything he can to rid you of the tears staining your face. wiping your tears away with his thumb and all, like how he’s imagined doing a hundred selfish times over the phone—to tell you it’s okay.

something’s siphoning all the air out of his lungs. "...i'm sorry," sunghoon whispers again, voice splintering under the weight of the words. "i’m sorry, y/n. please, don’t cry, please.”

there’s a tiny part of you that wants to lean into him. instead, you let out something between a laugh and another sob. you drag the heel of your palm beneath your eyes, every tear replaced by another before you can finish catching your breath. vision blurry as you stare down at sunghoon’s shoes, he shuts his eyes.

“i didn’t care,” you sigh. “i wouldn’t have cared.”

your ears don't catch the quiet sniffle that escapes sunghoon. his own vision has long since blurred, tears gathering stubbornly along his waterline until the fairy lights overhead fracture into soft, indistinct halos. he doesn't bother wiping them away, not when you're crying like this—not when every broken breath that leaves you sounds like something he's carved into your chest with his own hands.

“i fell for you, hoon.” you look up at him then, your eyes swollen and shining beneath the warm fairy lights strung across the ceiling of the booth. tears cling to your lashes, catching the light every time you blink. “you could’ve told me.” your voice cracks again, almost pleading. “you could have.”

the words seem to find every hollow place inside him.

his shoulders, already drawn painfully tight beneath the navy hoodie, sink another inch, the tension draining from them so suddenly he almost folds into himself. his hand, still hovering uncertainly between the two of you, curls instinctively before slowly uncurling again. this time, he doesn't stop.

fuck it.

park sunghoon’s touch brushes your cheek so lightly you barely feel them at first. gentle, like he doesn’t know quite how to handle you—warm and careful and everything you’ve ever needed.

his palm settles against the side of your face, thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye to catch the tear before it slips past your jaw. your skin burns beneath the touch, not because it hurts, but because you've missed it without ever knowing what it felt like—it's unbearably familiar for something entirely new.

you don’t mean to lean into him, but your body does it anyway.

for the smallest moment, your cheek rests against his palm, and the breath sunghoon lets out is so quiet that it almost disappears beneath the hum of the air-conditioner overhead. a sigh escapes him, almost as if he can’t believe how much he’s hurt you—and before you break into a sob again, you speak.

“maybe...” you whisper, voice shrinking beneath the weight of the thought—of park sunghoon and you, of that stupid new year's party, of library afternoons and late-night phone calls and every version of the future that never got the chance to exist. “maybe we’d be fine. maybe we’d be happy, if that’s what you even wanted—”

“it is.”

there isn’t a trace of hesitation.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek as fresh tears spill over his own, his forehead dipping just enough that he's looking at you from beneath damp strands of dark hair.

“it’s all i’ve ever wanted,” he mutters. “you are all i’ve ever wanted.”

park sunghoon has never been a decisive person.

it sounds contradictory when you consider everything he's responsible for, but those decisions were never really decisions at all. hockey is straightforward once you've watched enough game tape, drilled the same movement until your muscles remember it better than your brain does, or spent enough hours on the ice for instinct to replace hesitation. there is always a coach standing behind the glass with a whistle around his neck, always someone older, better, more experienced to tell you where your feet should be and how to fix what you've done wrong. school isn't much different. people call him gifted, but sunghoon knows discipline has always done more for him than talent ever could. if you study enough, if you sacrifice enough sleep, if you repeat something often enough, eventually the answer reveals itself.

life has always rewarded certainty. show up, work harder, do better—and there is comfort in that. an almost mechanical predictability to it all, completely untouched by human emotion.

but you have never worked like that. this, whatever this is—it has never operated on that principle.

sunghoon has known he loves you for longer than he's been willing to admit it aloud. what he hasn't known—not for a single day since you walked away from him beneath that streetlamp—is whether seeing you again would heal the wound or rip it open all over. every version of the future he imagined ended differently: maybe you'd scream at him, maybe you'd ignore him. maybe you'd look at him with the same quiet disappointment that had followed him into every waking hour for the past month. there was no correct answer to memorize, no strategy to rehearse, and no amount of discipline capable of guaranteeing that he wouldn't lose you all over again.

he even tried searching for it.

three in the morning, phone balanced against his chest, he'd typed every variation of lied about my identity and fell in love that he could think of into reddit, reading through strangers' catastrophes until the sun came up. none of them sounded quite like his, and none of them ended with an answer worth believing. he’s pretty sure 75% are engagement bait.

there wasn't a guidebook for getting back the only girl he'd ever loved. there was, however, an annoyingly persistent lee heeseung.

his friend spent the better part of yesterday refusing to let him back out, talking over every pathetic excuse sunghoon came up with until there were none left to hide behind. sunoo only agreed to squeeze him into today's schedule after extracting the promise of unlimited access to his card for food deliveries over the next month, grinning so hard throughout the negotiation that sunghoon briefly considered leaving on principle alone. jake had sat through the entire story for the first time without interrupting once, only burying his face in his hands whenever the second-hand embarrassment became physically unbearable. jay, jungwon and riki had been considerably less diplomatic.

yes, he'd fucked up. spectacularly.

yes, there was every possibility you'd never want to look at him again.

no, none of them blamed you for it.

they still told him to come anyway. because if you were going to reject him, then he deserved to hear it from you—not from the version of you he'd spent the last month inventing inside his own head. park sunghoon is not every sure if he’ll ever move on from it, from you, though he sincerely hopes he doesn’t have to.

“i can’t—i can’t hate you, hoon. i tried so hard, and it never worked, so what do i do now?”

the words seems to knock the air from his lungs.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek. even now, even after hearing the words, he can't let himself believe them immediately. his thick eyebrows draw together in quiet disbelief, lashes still damp, mouth parted around a breath that never quite leaves him.

“i think about you so much it hurts.” a laugh escapes you, exhausted more than amused, and you shake your head as tears gather at your chin. when you look up at him, the expression in your eyes drives something sharp straight through his chest. “i just don't know what to do.”

your fingers find his wrist without thinking, curling around it lightly. beneath your touch, his pulse stutters wildly, and sunghoon has the absurd, terrifying thought that if you hold him there any longer, you'll feel exactly how badly he's falling apart.

“i still want you,” you whisper. “so tell me, what do i do?”

sunghoon’s face crumples with relief, so sudden that it almost looks like pain. his shoulders shake before he even realises he's crying again. he presses his lips together, turning away for a second as a breathless, disbelieving laugh slips through his nose, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are wet and helpless and impossibly soft.

every sleepless night and every terrible decision has led park sunghoon here, standing in front of you and bracing for an ending that was never truly his to decide. you are the only thing he has ever looked at and thought, i might not get this back if i lose it, and that realization terrifies him more than failure ever could.

everything else feels survivable. the carefully constructed life he's spent years maintaining—he could lose all of it and eventually claw his way toward something new. he knows himself well enough to believe that, and well enough to know that you are different.

the mere thought of you turning around and walking away again is enough to hollow him out from the inside. it followed him into quiet rooms and sleepless mornings, into practices and lectures and every place he tries to forget you. for the first time in his life, there is something he cannot outwork, outthink, or outrun.

and still, even now, that something is standing here with tears on her face and her hand wrapped around his wrist, asking him what to do.

sunghoon’s wiping uselessly at his eyes. “i don't know,” he admits. “i don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

your chest immediately drops. there’s that churning feeling again. you pick up on every movement of his, from the way his eyes never leave yours to how he can’t seem to speak up.

“i spent months trying to decide that for you, and look how that turned out,” another shaky breath leaves him, and his shoulders shudder with it. “if you want to yell at me, do it. if you want time, take it. if you wake up tomorrow and realize listening to me was a mistake, i’ll understand.”

sunghoon looks into your eyes. somewhere between the apologies and confessions, the distance between you has disappeared without either of you noticing. your knees almost brush, breaths mingling in the tiny booth, warm enough to fog the already close air between you. the fake candle flickers quietly in your peripheral, behind the abandoned bouquet and scattered conversation cards.

he blinks, just once, watching your eyes soften as they stare back at his. they never leave him, and they’re not searching for answers anymore.

“but if you're asking me what i want,” sunghoon mutters, taking a deep breath in. “i want you. i want you to let me stay, and i want it to be your decision.”

“you hurt me.” you swallow. “forgiving you doesn't magically make all of that disappear—but i’m tired. i’m really tired of being scared.”

“so this is my decision,” you step closer until the space between you disappears entirely. “stay.”

oh, park sunghoon is certain, now.

certainly, for the first time, he cares about someone other than himself, more than his stupid hockey games and ridiculous quizzes that he’d ace regardless if he studied or not—

certainly, the girl he loves is here, in front of him. her heart is in his hands and he’s trying not to crush it, because hurting her means hurting himself. she’s uncomplicated, and she’s beautiful, even in this kind of light, even with tears running down her face—looking at him like he’s all she’s ever asked for, despite everything he’s done.

certainly, he loves you.

all of you.

your arms find sunghoon’s waist with a familiarity that steals what little breath he has left. the movement is so instinctive neither of you seem to think too much about it. sunghoon's hand remains against your cheek for one lingering heartbeat, before his other joins it, cradling your face with impossible care, thumbs brushing absently beneath skin still warm from tears.

the space between you disappears altogether.

your arms slide further around his back, bunching the fabric of his hoodie between your fingers, the last of the tension leaves his body in one long, shaking breath. sunghoon’s own limbs slip around your shoulders, drawing you against his chest so gently it almost hurts, his chin resting lightly atop your head as though he’s afraid that if he lets go now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“i love you, y/n.”

the confession comes easier than he expected—true, almost painfully so, for far too long.

you tighten your hold around him, your cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“i love you, too, hoon.”

for a second, park sunghoon forgets how to breathe.

all those nights spent lying awake, replaying every conversation until sunrise—every version of this moment he'd imagined, every argument he'd had with himself, every impossible outcome he'd tried to prepare for—they dissolve so quietly that he almost doesn't notice them leaving.

the questions that had followed him for weeks no longer demand answers. the guilt is still there, the hurt is still there, and he knows neither of them will disappear overnight, of course—but for the first time in months, park sunghoon knows one thing for sure:

he does not care, and he will keep loving you despite it all.

─────────────────────────

the fundraiser slowly forgets about the two of you.

by the time you step out of the little booth, there’s an insanely long queue that won’t stop staring at you and sunghoon—a bouquet sits in the crease of your elbow, and the man by your side is smiling so wide that it’s borderline embarrassing. he might as well put a sign on your head.

the sun’s begun sinking lower behind the engineering building, bathing the pathways in that familiar honey-gold light that always seems to arrive when you and sunghoon are together. conversations swell around you as students drift from stall to stall with paper bags hanging from their wrists and half-melted ice cream in their hands. somewhere behind you, sunoo lets out an aggressively theatrical cheer before somebody—jungwon, if you remembered correctly—smacks him hard enough to shut him up.

neither of you acknowledge it.

park sunghoon’s hand finds yours instinctually. he’s not even looking at you to see if you’re fine with it, but it doesn’t matter anyway. your fingers intertwine with his, warm and steady and weirdly tight—you glance down and feel the heat rushing up your cheeks.

“…you know,” you mumble, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walk down the wide path. “i think this is technically our first date.”

sunghoon blinks. date? you? you and him? on a date?

the crowd has thinned out considerably, but when you glance back towards the familiar pink tent, the queue is somehow still moving. students continue drifting in and out of the little canvas booths, phones in hand as volunteers wave them forward one pair at a time. sunoo catches your eye from behind the registration table, arms folded dramatically across his chest as if he's personally responsible for the greatest love story in university history. you can't help but to smile, and sunoo notices immediately. with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flicks his wrist in a half-hearted shooing motion before waving the two of you away.

you laugh under your breath.

ahead of you, the fundraiser is slowly settling into the evening. a handful of student union members balance precariously on folding ladders, looping warm string lights from one streetlamp to the next until little pockets of golden light begin blooming across the walkways. conversations soften as the afternoon crowd disperses, replaced by the quieter rhythm of people lingering instead of rushing somewhere else. somebody nearby is packing away handmade jewellery while another stall is still desperately trying to sell the last of their brownies to anyone willing to make eye contact.

your hand is still in sunghoon's. neither of you talk.

“oh.”

you glance sideways. he’s staring ahead, eyebrows pinched together in the sort of concentration that seems excessive for something this simple.

you snort. “that’s all you have to say?”

“i'm thinking,” sunghoon murmurs, finally allowing himself a quiet chuckle. his thumb absently brushes against the back of your hand before he looks over at you. “does this mean i have to pretend i don't already know everything about you?”

“i wouldn't say everything...” you mumble, nudging his shoulder with yours before looking away a little too quickly. you don't have to see his face to know he's smiling. you can feel it somehow, in the way his gaze lingers a second too long, in the quiet that stretches between you while he leans ever so slightly closer, just enough that the warmth radiating from his hoodie brushes your arm.

“you blush really easily.”

“i do not!” your eyes widen, yet, still refusing to meet his.

“you're so pretty, y/n,” sunghoon says before he has the chance to psyche himself out of it. the compliment leaves him with such effortless certainty that it almost catches him off guard. “so cute when you're shy. blushing like that in front of me...” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting into the smallest grin. “i don't think i've ever seen anything prettier.”

you squeeze his hand so hard he almost laughs again.

“god,” you mutter, finally daring a glance at him before immediately looking away again, cheeks burning beneath the string lights overhead. “you're still so annoying!”

the fundraiser eventually disappears behind you. after sunghoon’s insistence on sharing an overly-sweet milkshake, his hands are full with paper bags, filled to the brim with overpriced homemade desserts and a few too many keychains. neither of you remember who suggested leaving first—at some point, the booths become smaller in the distance, and the chatter fades into little more than background noise.

there isn’t really a destination. there doesn’t have to be, you both know that—but it helps with the conversation. it flows easier than any of you expect, familiar, curious and gentle in the same way it’s always been.

you stop by a convenience store because sunghoon insists you’re hungry. allegedly, your stomach rumbled on the walk here, so he rushes into the store so fast that there isn’t enough time to protest. the high-school part-timer stares at him weirdly as he wordlessly pays for both ramyeon cups, spending the next five minutes pretending not to hear you complaining about it.

you eat, anyway. sunghoon can’t help but take a picture, too. you almost hit him on the head for that.

an hour later, the walk to your apartment is slower than it needs to be. autumn has finally settled over the city, the breeze cool enough to make you tug your sleeves over your hands every few minutes. leaves skitter across the pavement whenever the wind picks up, collecting around your shoes before scattering around them again, and somewhere overhead the sky melts from gold into a dark, deep blue.

you pass through that same park—cyclists pass every now and then, bells chiming politely before disappearing further down the winding path, elderly couples taking a night stroll with plastic bags hooked around their fingers. the atmosphere is completely different now, though nothing tangible has really changed.

the two of you keep walking. sunghoon feels like he's going to explode from the amount of dessert you'd somehow convinced him to share with you, but the weight tugging at his shoulders feels lighter now. maybe it's because your hand is folded so naturally into his that neither of you have thought about letting go—or the fact that you managed to get rid of all those bags, thanks to him.

“it's nice to talk to you,” you murmur after a while, your gaze lingering on the river instead of him. the city stretches across the water in ribbons of gold and white, every reflection trembling with the movement of the current. “without the phone. easier to hear you.”

another breeze rolls against the river, cool enough to send little ripples across the water and lift loose strands of your hair across your face.

“uuuuhuh, i’m sure.” sunghoon smiles at you, easy-going and so reassuring it makes your pulse race. “keep pretending like we didn’t meet how we did.”

“the hell?”

you glance at him. all he does is squeeze your hand once—then, the corners of his mouth lift into that small, effortless smile.

your heart gives an embarrassingly obvious thump. you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself, ducking your head almost immediately as warmth rushes into your cheeks. “don’t look at me like that—”

“like what?”

sunghoon stops walking. your footsteps falter a beat too late.

your hands are still joined, the sudden halt tugging you backwards before you can catch yourself. you stumble lightly into his chest, the front of his hoodie brushing against your sleeves as his fingers tighten instinctively around yours to steady you. your free hand lands against the warmth of his ribs, and for one, disorienting moment, all you can hear is the wind behind you and the quiet hitch in his breathing.

sunghoon looks down. you're close enough now that the warm lights stretching across this dim path catch in his eyes, turning the dark brown almost amber beneath the glow. a strand of your hair has fallen across your cheek again, flowing in the breeze—and sunghoon, stupidly, reaches up without thinking.

his knuckles brush your skin first—then his fingertips. they slip carefully beneath the loose strand, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. it lingers for a moment longer than necessary, five seconds too much just to move a strand of hair away, and his thumb rests lightly against your temple as though he’s trying to memorise the shape of your face underneath his touch.

oh. you can’t tear your eyes off of him.

park sunghoon looks like someone you could know forever. a gaze so gentle that you’d think he’s known whoever he’s looking at for a thousand years—a touch so tender that it’s unbelievable that he’s never loved anyone else.

the smile tugging at the corners of his lips dissolves into something almost disbelieving. sunghoon’s forehead dips, just enough so that your face comes into full focus, and the space between you disappears disappears so gradually that neither of you seem to notice how your noses almost brush.

his breath ghosts over your lips. warm, nothing like the cold air that’s enveloping you both. sunghoon hesitates for a moment—even now, he wonders just what he’s done to deserve this. he wants you to choose, and you do.

closing the distance, your lips find his with all the gentleness of someone coming home after being gone for too long.

for one impossible, weightless moment, the whole world seems to narrow until it is nothing more than the warmth of your mouth against his. the quiet rush of wind rolling off your skin, your hand tightening ever so slightly around the fabric gathered at his chest—every sleepless night, every apology, every version of this moment he'd rehearsed alone in his room dissolves the instant you kiss him back.

park sunghoon's convinced nothing has ever felt this right.

you're soft against him, kissing him with the same quiet hesitation you've carried all evening, as though you're still afraid that pressing yourself any closer might shatter whatever fragile thing the two of you have only just managed to rebuild. meanwhile, sunghoon melts into it like he's been starving—he holds himself back for only a heartbeat before months of missed chances quietly unravel between you, his hand sliding around your waist with a tenderness so instinctive it almost startles him. he gathers you closer, careful enough to let you pull away whenever you want. you do not.

instead, your fingers slip from the front of his hoodie to the back of his neck, threading into the soft hair resting there. the movement draws the smallest, almost inaudible breath from him, and before he realises he's doing it, he's smiling into the kiss.

it’s contagious. you’re smiling now, too.

your lips part around a tiny, breathless laugh, and the sound is enough to make a smile form on his face. sunghoon leans in again without thinking, chasing another kiss, only for the movement to catch you off guard. you stumble back half a step, dragging him with you by the collar of his hoodie until the both of you have to force yourselves to stand properly.

your foreheads bump together as his arm tightens instinctively around your waist, trying to stop you from losing your balance.

“do you kiss all your girlfriends like this, sunghoon?”

“don’t piss me off,” his arm loosens from your waist for half a second, just enough for you to stumble before he catches you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with an annoyed sigh. “i don’t kiss anyone else.”

“i could’ve died right here. do you even care about me? should i just die right now?”

“i’m not even going to answer that, y/n.”

─────────────────────────

“who gave you my number?”

by the time the two of you find yourselves right outside your apartment building, the streets have grown quieter. most of the shops have already pulled their shutters halfway down, leaving only convenience stores and late-night cafés spilling warm light onto the pavement. the walk here had taken nearly an hour—your car is still parked at campus, but sunghoon promised to pay the overnight fee anyway. neither of you remember deciding to take the longer route back to your place, but every turn just seemed like another excuse to keep talking.

you stop right in front of your building. the path is uneven here, the road tilted upward; the automatic doors slide shut behind somebody leaving, and the chime hums softly before settling into silence again.

“sooha,” you smile. the blush that infects sunghoon’s face spreads like a wildfire—you’re the one teasing now, after an entire day of his antics. “you had a thing with her, i’m guessing?”

“well, i wouldn’t call it a thing,” sunghoon sighs, thumb rubbing against the back of yours. he swallows before looking at you again. “i’ll be honest with you—we were hooking up.”

he watches your expression carefully for a shift. anything that'll tell him you were upset, or livid—anything at all. he swore he wouldn't blame himself if you were. how would he have known that the love of his life would waltz right in thirty minutes after sooha's exit?

sunghoon adds on a little too quickly. “it was before you.”

“how long?” you ask, tilting your head. curiosity, it seems, but these are dangerous waters that sunghoon’s treading. based on past experiences, his partners (can he even call them that?) never took to well to a previous acquiantance.

sunghoon almost considers lying, just to make himself sound better, before deciding against it. he's never been too good at that anyway. “on and off. a few months, maybe. nothing that meant anything.”

he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a wince. “i know. i wasn't—i didn't handle it well. i never called it anything, and i never made her think it was anything, but i also never stopped it when i probably should have.” he pauses, “that’s my fault.”

it's such a sunghoon answer. blunt and completely unflattering to himself, a lack of an attempt to soften it into something easier to hear. you almost want to laugh at how little effort he puts into making himself look good, like it hasn't occurred to him that he could, and you’d never be able to prove otherwise.

you nod, trying to hold your laugh in at the sight of his face. he looks like he's just seen a ghost, no matter how much he tries to hide it—lips pursed together instinctively, eyes wide and scanning yours for any hint of anger. “okay. good to know.”

you give his hand a small squeeze before beginning to loosen your fingers from his, only enough to shift your grip more comfortably. “i appreciate the honesty.”

sunghoon keeps staring. “that's it?”

“were you expecting more questions, hoon?” you can't help but smile now, your free hand covering your mouth in an attempt to hide how adorable you find him. “i didn't know you back then. you were still staring at me weird from the stairs.”

“i was not staring,” sunghoon shakes his head, a stray strand of hair falling loose over his brow with the motion. “you were staring. i’m surprised heeseung didn't notice.”

your jaw drops, mouth falling open in mock offense. "excuse me?"

“whatever. it’s over now, right?” sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face in dramatic disapproval, fingers pausing briefly over his eyes like he's shielding himself from the sight of your face. "not really trying to share you with him."

“you're so annoying!” you shove at his shoulder, and he barely rocks with it, solid where he's standing, biting back a grin like he's trying—badly—to look unaffected.

sunghoon's mouth curls into a smile that reaches his eyes—dark in this dim light. he's still taller than you despite standing a few steps higher, your face now level with his, close enough that you can count the individual strands of hair falling loose over his forehead.

his hair is still a mess from the wind, and from your fingers ruffling through the strands earlier—sticking up at odd angles he clearly hasn't bothered to fix, like it hadn't even occurred to him. his cheeks are still faintly red, yet to fully fade since you first touched his skin, and his ears are airbrushed with a soft pink he probably has no idea is visible.

you hope no one else has ever gotten to see it on him before.

it's quiet. no dogs this time, for some reason. it’s just the low hum of the streetlight above you, buzzing faintly, flickering once before steadying again. an occasional cricket announces its presence somewhere in the bushes lining the building, and beneath that, nothing. though, there’s just your own heartbeat, loud and unreasonable in your ears, and the sound of sunghoon breathing, slow and careful like he's trying not to disturb whatever this is.

sunghoon’s hand is still loosely wrapped around yours, thumb tracing an invisible circle over your knuckles—it’s not quite a habit yet, but close to being one, you can tell. you can feel the calluses along his palm, rough from what you assume is hockey, a strange and grounding kind of proof that this is real, that he's real, standing this close to you at almost midnight with his heart clearly in his throat.

and then, there’s you. even in this horrible, fluorescent lighting—the kind that makes everyone look a little sick—you look undeniably beautiful to him. almost glowing, or maybe he's just sleep-deprived enough that his eyes are playing tricks on him. either way, he thinks, quietly and with helplessness, that he has never wanted to kiss someone this badly in his entire life.

his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. then back up, like he's asking permission before he's even said anything at all.

“can i kiss you, y/n?”

the question is so earnest it hurts. his voice is breathy, needy, everything that you could possibly ever need in a man right in front of you. you feel like if you fall for it—answer him right now, that your life ends here, because this is a trap, or a dream, or all of it at once.

you’re already leaning into him, tilting your head until your noses are brushing each other’s. sunghoon’s breathing so heavily that you feel it against your bottom lip, teasing, just asking for that final push.

one of his large hands settle at your waist. waiting. always waiting.

the kiss is slower than the last one. a little more desperate, maybe—you feel sunghoon’s large arms wrap around you again, tighter now, tongue swiping against your bottom lip, moving you as he pleases just so he can get the most of you.

you taste like him.

the thought’s driving him crazy. you've already confessed everything worth confessing tonight; now, there is only the quiet luxury of learning each other properly, without distance, without static, without the countdown of a call timer reminding either of you that morning would eventually come.

it’s messy in the way that two people are when they’re starving for each other. borderline greedy, too much tongue and then not enough at all, your hands running along the upper part of his back as you keep him anchored to you. sunghoon’s lips feel so perfect when they’re against yours, he genuinely believes that this is what he’s been chasing for all twenty-four years of his life.

every time one of you pulls back to breathe, the other closes the distance again without thinking, as though separating has become something your bodies no longer understand. your fingers wander instinctively over the broad line of his shoulders before settling against the back of his neck, keeping him close without ever needing to ask.

sunghoon’s hands remain anchored at your waist, warm through the fabric of your clothes, thumbs tracing absent little movements that make your pulse flutter for reasons you can't quite explain.

“not here, hoon—” you mumble against his lips before he pulls you right back in. so annoying. sunghoon’s lips crash into yours again, still just as curious, palm flat against the small of your back.

“hm?” the sound vibrates softly between you before he finally relents, resting his forehead against yours instead. one of his hands slides carefully along the curve of your side until it settles once more at the small of your back, holding you as though he'd forgotten any other way to stand. “...tell me where, then.”

you shake your head once, trying very unsuccessfully to compose yourself before meeting his eyes again.

you’re huffing, trying to catch your breath when your hands fall to his chest. the guy is looking at you with the most feverish smile, eyes narrowing because he knows he’s got you flustered.

“upstairs,” you murmur, barely louder than the evening breeze slipping between the apartment buildings. your fingers fist at his hoodie. “come upstairs.”

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon likes to think that he’s good at sex.

there’s nothing complicated about it, really. he knows he’s good at most things.

his body—he knows it’s the kind most people would kill for, the kind other men spend half their lives trying to build. of that, he’s well aware. hockey, school, laundry, cooking, smiling and talking as if nothing’s ever the matter. he’s reduced it to a science: technique, precision, mastery, painstakingly perfected.

the data is there. they scream, they cry out of sheer pleasure, they moan like no one else exists but him, but park sunghoon. he predicts it in the same way he knows he’ll get that perfect score, and make that one ‘lucky’ shot—it’s calculation in it’s most unsurprising form.

human bodies are scientific. their anatomy is roughly similar, so he knows if he moves just like this, whispers just like that, she’ll fold. she’ll crumble underneath him like it’s her first time ever sleeping with a man, clinging onto sunghoon like what he’s doing is some lost art among the modern male.

there’s significant amounts of advice online to tell him how to please a woman. it’s not rocket science applying these concepts in practice, as he’s done—and sure, it’s done himself favours. there were nights where sunghoon couldn’t believe that he’d ever quit hook ups, but soon realised that that’s just how his brain works: that that’s just what the dopamine rush whispers into your ears as you cum for the third consecutive time.

there is a nice predictability in sex. it’s instinct, and where there is instinct, there is nature and nature is almost always studied—even if it’s an utter waste of time, stress relief aside.

though, when he finds himself stumbling into your apartment, kicking off his shoes and slide his hoodie off his back while simultaneously trying to keep his lips on yours, he finds himself wanting time to slow itself down.

just something about you, he thinks. that look on your cute face, staring at him like you didn’t know what to do with the heat pooling between your legs; you stumble against him a few times while you both try to find your way to your bedroom, shoulders nudging against light switches and shoving a few chairs out of place. your laundry is still on the couch from this morning, you note—but when sunghoon puts his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him—the reminder fades completely.

“what am i going to do with you?” sunghoon grins, letting his ass fall to the edge of the bed. sitting up, his hoodie’s discarded somewhere by the entryway, and the only article of clothing left being his jeans. his hands roam your body—up and down, before looping around your waist and pulling you between his spread legs. “so pretty.”

you whimper when his hands begin sliding underneath your top. “can i, baby?”

it’s almost pathetic how fast you nod. your hands rest on his shoulders, eyes locked on the way he leans closer to your belly. sunghoon’s slender fingers move up your warm skin, now burning hot under his touch, and eventually, he lifts your shirt completely.

“you sure about this, y/n?” sunghoon looks up, pupils blown with his cheek resting against your bare stomach. “we can stop. whatever you wanna do—”

“n-no,” you sigh, watching sunghoon’s eyes blink up at you, so dazed. “i want you, hoon.”

he hums at your response, turning his head so his lips touch the skin of your belly. they’re still wet from your earlier kisses, pressing nice and slow until he reaches from your belly button to your ribcage. truthfully, sunghoon’s mind has already gone to mush at the mere scent of you: the sweat from the day and your perfume blending into one, the heat from your body, that he just can’t help but to start leaving hickeys along the exposed area.

“i’ll make you feel so good, y/n,” he mumbles against your skin. “but you gotta be good for me. you can do that, can’t you?”

oh. he’s that kind of guy.

something’s flipping in your stomach—simmering low, intense, nothing like you’ve ever felt before. you stare down at him, face visibly flushed from the way he’s touching you; your knees almost buckle upon hearing his voice, and sunghoon can’t help but let a chuckle out at that in between kisses.

“can’t hear you. speak up for me.”

you swallow, feeling sunghoon’s hands exploring further—until his thumbs are right on your nipples, bypassing your annoying bra, rubbing gentle circles, smiling up at you like he’s done nothing too crazy.

“y-yeah, i can,” your voice comes out a tad too soft for his liking, evidently, because his little grin fades into something more displeased.

sunghoon stands up instead, large hands hooking around the hem of your shirt and helping to pull it off of you. your arms point to the ceiling, naturally, letting the fabric part from you with a gasp—the cold air hits your skin, and the wet imprints of kisses on your stomach feel even icier now.

he moves back to your stomach, taking in your scent; it’s even more potent now when you’re bare like this. curiosity gets the better of him once his nose bumps against your bra, his hair nuzzling against your chest as one of his hands move to unclasp it. effortless.

“sunghoon, stop teasing,” you whine, watching him lean back. sunghoon pulls your bra off of you on one swift motion. it’s an understatement to say that you were pretty—just gorgeous when you’re naked in front of him like this.

he ignores you. asshole.

sunghoon’s fingers hook around your skirt next—not quite pulling it down just yet. then, almost as if you’ve done something wrong, he stands up.

you forget how huge he is for a second. when the dim warmth of your lamp hits him, you lose your breath completely. every muscle is highlighted in orange, the definition outlined by shadows that leave you wanting, and it’s like air is caught in your throat from how unfairly good he looks.

“i’ll ask again,” sunghoon mutters, hands back down to your waist, and then your hips, and then he’s flipping you over onto the mattress. “you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

whatever. fuck it.

all sense of reasoning leaves your body at once. sunghoon cages you between his arms, staring into your eyes, and the look in them sends pure electricity through your veins. he looks hungry, thirsty, like he needed you right now or he’d die.

and still, he waits for an answer.

“i’ll be s-so good, hoonie, i promise.”

the nickname doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth anymore. it’s been a while since he’s heard it—but when it comes from you, god, it sounds like it’s dripping in honey and coaxing him into whatever trap you laid out for him.

“gonna fucking kill me,” he rasps, pulling away before pressing a kiss to your cheek, down to your jaw, then to the patch of skin underneath your earlobe. the feeling of his warm tongue sliding against your skin makes you shudder—combined with his fingers pressing into your back, feeling every inch of skin, savouring the feeling of you;

when sunghoon first walked in, he noticed how unbearably you your room was. decorated in posters of your favourite bands, little trinkets here and there that he has no clue how you keep organized. his eyes glazed over your desk, your laptop, your lamp, and everything that you chose to keep that would now remind him of you—right now, your legs are wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass while he grinds nice and slow against the warmth of your pussy—feeling right through your panties, skirt tossed somewhere in the corner of the room.

what was most interesting about your room was that mirror in the corner—perhaps he was a pervert for wondering, only for a moment, if you had ever touched yourself in front of that very reflection. he could imagine your legs spread in desperation, knuckles deep in yourself as you chased whatever high you terribly wanted.

did you think of anyone? did you get off to the sound of his voice? though, most importantly, would you let him ruin you in front of that little mirror of yours?

“can i take this off?” he whispers into your ear, hands roaming down from your neck and to the lace around your panties—you nod again, and the chuckle that escapes his lips only sends shivers down your spine.

your legs fall to the side of his thighs, leaving you bare and spread in front of his eyes. “what about you?”

sunghoon literally laughs in your face. “be patient, baby. haven’t even gotten you nice ‘n loose yet.”

your breath hitches at his vulgarity. the image pops up behind your eyelids: sunghoon’s long, pretty fingers buried somewhere deep in you, curled at the perfect angle and prodding at that one spot that makes you sees stars—how long would it take for him to get there? would he even know how to?

famous last words, as they say. it takes four minutes for sunghoon to have your thighs pinned to the mattress, three to have the tip of his index and middle fingers inside of you and two to get you whimpering like a hot, pathetic mess.

maybe just one to get you soaking his wrists.

“what’s wrong, baby?” sunghoon pouts. his eyes are glimmering in the dark, the tiny light left outside reflecting off his irises. in this atmosphere it just seems like a mockery. “too much for my pretty girl? she can’t seem to get enough, though.”

and then his eyes flick down to where you suck him in—glistening, disgustingly sloppy and wet where you take every inch like it was always meant to be yours. it’s times like these where you truly believe fate is real; because there’s just no way you were this close to going your entire life without this—without sunghoon’s fingers buried knuckle deep into you.

“h-hoon, ugh—fuck!” you squeal when he curls his fingers just right, and he just watches, an eyebrow raised like you were some intriguing specimen. just a body underneath his touch, poking and prodding and spreading you as wide as he can, as best as he can. everything he does seems to illicit some reaction from you, too amusing for him to stop. “please, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, ngh—”

“so quick?” sunghoon sighs, kissing his teeth. “god, you’re so cute. must be too much, then?”

and then, he slows down. ripping your delicious orgasm right from your useless fingers.

“n-noooo,” you drawl, nails clawing into sunghoon’s veiny forearms as he nods slowly, expecting a coherent answer. what a mistake, as if you could even think straight right now. “it’s not—it’s not, fuck, i can take it.”

sunghoon chuckles, head tilting up just enough to get your pretty face in full view. “reaaally? need my permission to cum, too?”

your stomach flips at the way he says it—low and sultry and teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. rearranging your guts with his hands alone, whispering these ridiculous things to you, expecting zero reactions. is he stupid? has he lost it?

“you trying to snap my fingers off? relax, baby. can’t have that.”

the humiliation washes over you rather quickly, but disappears just as fast when you feel every muscle in your body beginning to lock up. the words can’t even find themselves, too lost in your mushy brain—everything narrows down to the man with his hands between your legs, pumping his stupidly long fingers in n’ out, watching you lose every piece of sanity you have left.

“who’d have known. such a sensitive girl,” and his thumb brushes against your swollen clit with just enough pressure to have you twitching, but never to cross that final, potentially fatal line. “do you always cum this fast?”

sunghoon sighs dramatically. if you couldn’t see his face, you’d have assumed that he was irritated with you—but your eyes haven’t left his, nor the red in his cheeks and his slightly parted lips, groaning whenever you buck your hips against his palm, feeling the friction of your clit against his skin. they occasionally glance down at the tent in his pants, fighting against tight cloth to be freed, twitching and already forming a dark, wet patch where his tip would be.

“oh my god,” you moan, gripping tight around his wrists. there’s a part of you that just wants to sit up and grind against his hand yourself, but that’d be much too embarrassing to live with. “can’t—can’t, i j-jus… can’t, please, hoonie—”

the words ring a bell that he can’t quite recall, is what he would say if his memory was absolutely terrible. the man remembers exactly when and where you said those terrible, terrible things, under a streetlamp and in a park he had never seen before; so sure that he’d never see you again, and now, here you are, losing your mind and at his mercy.

“oh.” sunghoon grins. cocky little bastard. “you close? gonna make a mess on hoonie? c’mon, soak me. won’t stop ‘till you do.”

there’s something utterly perverted about him tonight. hoonie was never an exclusive nickname, of course—generic by all means. sooha had taken great pleasure moaning and whimpering that exact term a hundred-something nights ago, and sunghoon swears that he must’ve been in a completely different body then. wonders how he ever let the name reach his ears without gritting his teeth, but now that you’re here… it’s like a completely different world has opened before his eyes, and his cock has never, ever been harder.

how could he have fucked anyone else when you existed? how could you have slept with other people when he was right there? the selfish thought invades his sick brain as fast as he feels his cock swell up.

never-mind that. this is way more important—there comes a point during sex where all the pleasure folds in on itself and magnifies by tenfold, becoming it’s own force, taking over your nervous system—nothing matters. sunghoon doesn’t matter. your pride definitely does not matter.

so it’s not really your fault, is it? couldn’t possibly be, even if you’re sitting yourself up (with an unreasonable amount of effort) and grinding your hips against his large, calloused hands, and whining like a bitch in heat against his mouth. even less so now that sunghoon’s letting you—his breath is taken from him when your tongue slides against his, wet and soft and everything he needs to get that pretty cunt fluttering around his digits.

“my filthy girl,” he moans between kisses, his warm breath ghosting against your glossy lips. your arms are running up and down his shoulders and finding a place to stay anchored, and when they finally do, sunghoon doesn’t wince one bit when your nails dig in, out, and in again. “just look at you, fucking yourself stupid on my fingers.”

you don’t hear him. genuinely. it’s all buzzing and static and you feel yourself starting to shake from the hip up. you shudder when he flexes his fingers, and it’s like everything you’ve ever done has led to tonight, every choice, every mistake.

“h-hoonie, ‘m sorry—fuck, need more of you,” you press a searing kiss to his bottom lip, almost missing completely and letting your mouth fall open against his anyway. your breath feel like fire against his skin, and sunghoon can only groan when he feels your walls spasming around his slender fingers. “please, i’ll be so good.”

sunghoon does that same, amused grin on his face, just watching you pant underneath him. the expression only reminds you of that night: you in the kitchen, and him, watching you from the front door on new years eve.

the corner of his lips turn upwards and it’s nothing short of pure perversion—tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, face red with heat crawling up his neck, and an eyebrow cocked up. “are you actually begging me right now? while you’re riding my hand like this?”

you nod your head, frantic. of course you’re fucking begging. it’s been an entire lifetime of teasing and sunghoon’s still dangling the idea of fucking you in your face, just revelling in your visceral and absolutely humiliating reactions.

your mind’s going blank. every thought diverges into park sunghoon and every desire has his stupidly handsome face plastered onto it. your stomach’s so tense that it’s starting to hurt, and you feel lightheaded from how often your breath gets taken right from you—so close, and yet, still so far.

“yes, pleasepleaseplease, i—”

“god, you’re greedy,” sunghoon mumbles under his breath, using his free hand to push you backwards. your spine hits the mattress with a recoil, and the springs creak just enough to muffle the pathetic whine that slips off your lips. “just an ungrateful girl. fine, then.”

and then, there’s nothing. just that mind-numbing feeling of having your body be sent to heaven, only to be denied at the pearly gates.

your heart’s pounding at the sight of him: warm, glistening skin under the dimness of your lamp, chest heaving as he pulls his fingers out from your slick entrance—it feels increasingly, unbearably empty as he retracts his ridiculously long digits. sunghoon does nothing but enjoy the view, eyes glazing over the way your body twists and turns at his cruel punishment.

“come on. again.”

who does he think he is, really? you kiss and make up, and in the same day, he makes you beg for a little gratification? does he have any idea what he put you through? to be truthful, you could go on and on about how he doesn’t deserve any sort of control over you—

“please, hoonie. i’ll take everything—fuck, just fuck me already.”

fuck it. you don’t care. it doesn’t matter that park sunghoon is toying with you. you need him, you need all of him, you need every inch of skin that he’s willing to give and every word he’ll spit at you.

park sunghoon isn’t exactly inexperienced with sex. he knows that intimacy is one of man’s greatest discoveries, and it’s only natural that he participates in it. as one does. what’s not normal is that he’s never felt this before: this insatiable, lustful heat simmering in his core, making his cock twitch before it’s even been touched.

god, you look so perfect—spread bare beneath him with inner thighs soaked in your own juices, whining and pleading and begging for a taste of him, as if he wasn’t holding himself back already. you’re truly the greediest, just taking and taking even if he tries to take his time.

there’s blood lingering in his mouth and the metal feels sharp on his tongue, and still, he continues biting on his lip. sunghoon’s eyes never leave yours, hands coming down to unbuckle his belt with a single hand—the other pins your knees open, and while you squirm under the pressure, you never quite gain the courage to defy.

when sunghoon finally leans forward, the scent of him is enough to overwhelm your nervous system; he grunts when your arms wrap around his neck, and your nose nuzzles against his neck like it has nowhere else to go. a deep breath in and it’s like you’ve never felt more alive than now.

“this enough for you?”

he picks up on everything. from the way your eyes never stay on his for too long, to the way you twitch when he presses his briefs right against your cunt—your breathy moans in his ear as he leans in close, and how quickly you stain the spandex with your slick, mixing with his sticky pre.

“this should be fine, right? my girl can cum juuust like this.” sunghoon’s voice is the only thing cutting through the fog in your head. it’s spinning so much that gripping onto him is serving as the only anchor to your consciousness. your nails drag along this trapezius, sinking into the superficial skin, waiting for a reaction that never comes—instead, all he can offer is a mocking smile, fangs bare and taunting.

his hips are teasing. he moves them slow, taking his time with every drag of up and down, the fabric sliding between your pretty folds and swollen clit; there’s a brief second where he feels the tip of his cock slide into you through the barrier of clothing, only to slip free when he slides up again.

“so perfect,” sunghoon whispers into the conch of your ear—you don’t realise what he’s said until you feel his sharp teeth gliding against your helix, before he finally nips at it. “you’re so perfect, baby. made for me, aren’t you? can’t believe i almost let you go.”

sunghoon thinks about how ridiculous he must look right now—humping your poor cunt like he’s in heat, holding himself back for reasons beyond him, whispering these obscenely intimate things in your ears like he doesn’t want to fuck you right this second. the strain on his cock is getting too much; blood’s rushing down, he’s aching, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has left before he flips you over and has your ass slapping against his skin.

“hoon, fuck, i’m gonna cum,” you say, bucking your hips up just once. wrong move. “please, don’t fucking stop—it feels so good.” sunghoon’s head turns in your direction, nose brushing against your cheek before his mouth meets yours again. he doesn’t care that they don’t latch properly, nor that he’s practically drinking in your saliva, or that he’s gonna cum just from feeling the friction between your bodies. all sunghoon truly cares about is that you’re holding him like he’s all you truly need in this world.

“yeah? just from this?” sunghoon’s hand comes up to grip at your jaw, thumb and index pressing deep into the flesh of your cheeks. his body feels heavy on top of you, quick little movements doing the most to get you both over the edge—and though he still seems a little more composed than you, it all goes to shit when your fingers graze the sides of his ribs. “fuck—do it. cum for me, please, y/n—”

his hands run up your arms until his fingers are tracing your palms, slithering between your own, before finally interlacing. sunghoon’s pressing sweet kisses to your jawline as you moan into thin autumn air, feeling the vibrations of his groans against your throat; he moves at a frenzied pace, chasing friction that won’t ever compare to being buried tip to cervix, but it’s all he can get right now.

“i’m fucking cumming, hoon, oh my god—”

twenty seconds. twenty seconds is all he needs to have you gushing all over the spandex of his briefs, and twenty-five is all you need to chase his lips because you know you’ll scream if you don’t. perhaps around thirty for him to stop feeling like the room is spinning, and him along with it—your tongues meet and circle on another’s again, moans clashing between desperate attempts to slow down, and it’s only sixty for him to finally hook his thumbs around his boxers and shove them down his thighs.

thwap.

sunghoon’s heavy in a way you can’t say out loud. words get caught in your throat, with nothing but a pathetic hitch in your breath being audible. he’s so unbelievably pretty, flushed a deep red from the relentless teasing he’s put you through, serving as confirmation that he’s wanted this as much as you have.

he stares for a minute, catching his breath, before his hand reaches for you—spreading your folds wide between his fingers, watching it glisten under the orange light, almost sparkling if he could look close enough. the sheets below are soaked with you—a large, wet patch that’s darker compared to the rest of the pink duvet.

“thought about this pretty pussy for weeks,” sunghoon lets his saliva collect in the well of his tongue, before spitting a thick glob riiight onto your entrance. “and now you’re aaaall mine. aren’t you, baby?”

sunghoon looks up just as the name rolls off his tongue. you look absolutely wrecked, hair tangled in places where you didn’t even know it could get tangled—tear stains running down your face and highlighting the flush on your cheeks so well. your eyes are wide, caught between staring at his leaking cock and his expectant eyes, shifting between the two every now and then;

a reverent sigh leaves you when sunghoon begins pumping himself, nice and slow using his hand, spreading the pre all over his hardened length. sounds of wet slick echo through the room as he strokes, just enough to get himself wet, before his knees shift forward and he’s finally, finally letting himself touch you without a stupid barrier.

“gonna stuff this pussy full,” sunghoon hisses through his teeth. “pump you full of my cum, fuck, i can’t hold back anymore—” his right hand wraps around the base of his cock, the back of your knees brushing against his thighs as he pulls you flush against him. you’re still heaving by the time he taps his mushroom tip against your folds, running it along the wetness of it, once or twice before aligning himself with you.

“you’re so… annoying,” you huff, eyebrows pinched together, watching his jaw go slack at how warm you feel even from the outside. sunghoon’s stomach is in knots, anticipating the moment he finally sheathes himself all the way, how you’d probably claw at his skin from the sheer stretch—

and that’s exactly what you do.

“f-fuuuuck, hoon! it’s too—you’re too—”

park sunghoon is thick. so undeniably heavy and dizzying, pushing past your walls, and as much as you clench and squirm around him, they offer no real resistance. your pussy takes him in like it needs him—squelching when he bottoms out at last, big arms caging your relatively smaller head between them—all the air in your lungs feels like it’s being siphoned out.

who the fuck is this big? when was the last time you’ve had something this huge inside of you?

“o-oh my fucking god,” his eyes screw shut for one, weightless second, before they shoot back open. he stares down at where you two finally meet, your velvet walls fluttering around him so warmly, a desperate whimper clawing it’s way out of his throat that’s interrupted by a messy kiss.

“so perfect, baby, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, hips at a standstill because he plain refuses to move—convinced that he’ll cum as soon if he so much as shifts his weight. “wish you could see your face. so pretty when you’re taking me.”

“you’re… fucking… crazy,” you whisper against his mouth before your hands tangle in his hair; they bunch around the dark locks, pushing his lips against yours again, and he laughs between the sloppy attempts to lock your lips together—noses bump and his forehead thuds against yours. “just fuck me, please, hoon.”

“look at what you do to me,” he sighs, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. borderline addictive the way you wriggle underneath his touch, like you know his size would knock you out cold, but you still beg through small movements. “all your fault, isn’t it? and you keep asking for more. just a needy little slut for me, huh?”

and then his hips retract—pulling out halfway, your cunt still weeping from the reduced contact. he looks back down, hair falling over his forehead, marvelling at the way his cock glistens with you. so utterly filthy.

you whimper when you feel the emptiness. his veins slide against your gummy walls as he pulls out agonizingly slow. “don’t wanna hear you complaining tomorrow morning, then.”

sunghoon’s pace is slow at first. gentle, sweet thrusts that still manage to make you see stars—he’s too afraid to hurt you, too busy savouring in the sweet moans that sprinkle in his name every once in a while. he feels hot, every bone in his body begging for him to hurry and stuff you full of his cock—but how could he? you’re taking him so well just like this, and all he wants is to drag every second out longer, until he dies blissfully happy in this pussy of yours.

“fuck, mmngh—” and the man slams his lips against yours as his fingers find yours again. you wonder just how many times you’ve managed to kiss tonight, but the thought immediately wipes itself clean when he angles his hips so deliciously right that you feel him all the way in your throat.

“shit, i can’t—you’re too fucking big,” the sound of your breath shakes, too much for his brain to compute, and something primal claws at his sick brain until all he’s thinking about is folding your knees up and bullying your cunt ‘till it’s red. you moan into nothing, hands running over every hard-earned muscle in his back, eyes screwing shut because looking at him feels like a perverted form of self-torture. “fuck, you feel so good, hoonie.”

“yeah?” and sunghoon literally feels every thread of sanity snap when you say his name again. “fuck, look at me then—wanna see your pretty face.” your thighs shake with every slap of wet skin, his heavy body shifting the bed closer to the wall as he pounds and pounds and pounds. his hands move the damp strands of hair out of your eyes, ensuring the perfect, unobstructed view.

you mewl, all sweet and so coaxing when he presses an innocent kiss to your cheek. it’s wet and salty on his tongue, but sunghoon’s smiling so wide that you think he must’ve truly fucking lost it completely.

“want you harder, hoon—not enough, please,” you whisper against his mole. there’s just something in the way you’re batting your eyelashes at him that he thinks is sending his nervous system into overdrive, but it’s irrelevant now. your pleas sound like honey to his ears, but the one singular thought that keeps circling his mind is if you’ll be able to take him like that.

his hands slide back down, stopping right where your tits are—his thumb grazes the hardened bud before he begins to palm at the mound of flesh. “f-fuck—”

“god, can’t hold myself back anymore,” sunghoon’s nose nuzzles against your neck and he takes his time breathing in your scent. the smell of your shampoo lingers, now masked mostly by sweat and fading perfume, and it faintly reminds him of a familiar library where all he could focus on was you, you, you.

you, beautiful you. you who’s underneath him now, pleading with him to give you what you want—still so naive, still so unaware, asking for things you have no idea what to do with—you, who bats her eyelashes with a curiosity he doesn’t know how to address, not without showing you.

he licks a long stripe along your jaw, rutting into you a little faster now. sunghoon’s hands find their way to the sides of your head; rationality has long left him, and his brain’s all foggy with visions of you. he wonders if he could take you just as well on the counter, on the desk, or by the window, and he just gets needier.

he’s getting sloppy and his brain’s all fuzzy. he’s not even sure what the rush is; when there’s someone else in his bed, he almost always finds it easier to take his time. teasing, foreplay, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it—he realised that the reactions he got were much more visceral.

but now—god, he needs you to cum around his cock as soon as possible.

“f-fuck, ngh—pussy was made just for me,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself up—he towers over you like this, lowlights bathing his skin in warmth all over again as his arms wander down to your waist, then your hips, and then to the back of your knees. “w-what’s wrong, hm? gotta speak up, baby. let me hear you. all that talking was just for show, huh?”

“f-fuuuuh—hoon, please, t-too much—”

“ah-ah, take it like the good girl you are,” his eyebrows knit together in focus, and a bead of sweat rolls down his face, down his chin and drips right onto the valley of your breasts. “y-yeaaah, see? just like that.”

you’re choking on a sob by the time he folds your knees up—brutal, to say the least. your tits get squished by your thighs as he pins your legs up, sunghoon’s rough fingers wound tight around the soft flesh, bullying his way into your poor cunt.

the sounds echoing through the room might as well be featured in a porno. your moans mix until it’s an amalgamation of yeses, gentle sobs, and sunghoon’s relentless teasing. every thrust knocks the wind out of you, your hands clawing at his wrists and leaving red streaks—but the pain barely even reaches him—the only thing on sunghoon’s mind is how gorgeous you look underneath him, taking every inch like it’s what you were born to do, moaning the name he spent so long hating;

“f-fuck, i love you, love fucking this pussy so much—” he hisses through his teeth, eyes zeroed on the way your eyes roll every time he buries himself to the hilt. your head tilts back, throat bobbing as you swallow back embarrassing moan after embarrassing moan—sunghoon’s making it difficult with the way he presses against your belly with one hand, the other holding your left thigh up. “shit, baby, you can be louder than that, can’t you?”

oh, fuck park sunghoon. fuck this stupidly huge cock drilling it’s way through you, and fuck this ridiculously gorgeous man who has you biting back screams, fuck everything, fuck how good you feel—your vision is clouding, stars exploding behind your eyelids every time you shut them, and all you can do is just sit and take it. “s-sunghoon, a-ah—slow down, i’m gonna fucking cum again—”

he kisses his teeth, now resorting to grinding his hips against yours. the angle is new, almost beautiful in it’s discovery. his hands are too curious, before settling on the fat of your ass, palming and fondling and treating it like his personal stress-toy until—

smack.

the moan you let out on contact is nothing short of humiliating. his palm smooths over the handprint, now blooming red right before his eyes, and your brain actually short-circuits for a second.

“fuck,” sunghoon laughs, mocking, rude and mean all in one. “you into that shit?”

the sting sends electricity through your body. sunghoon pulls his hips back just enough, before sliding back between your pretty folds so slow that it actually makes you gasp. every single time he pushes himself back in, it’s like you have to get used to it all over again—the stretch never becomes familiar, always melting your brain and forcing every coherent thought you have to mere nonsense.

“god, you’re such a fucking slut,” sunghoon’s head tilts back momentarily, his hair falling with the gravity and sending little drops of sweat down his neck and onto his back. his heart’s beating all wild now, cock aching for more friction, more force, more of you; so greedy and full of desire, bringing his hand up to land another harsh blow to your ass.

“a-ah—hoon!” you hiss, but you never really try to stop it. you squirm, hips jerking with every slap he decides to give you, but sunghoon knows your cunt tells a different tale: your pussy clenches around him so tight that it’s suffocating him, just begging for his load, and it’s driving him insane. “t-too rough, i can’t—slow down, fuck, you’re gonna break the bed in half—”

it’s true. the frame’s creaking upon each thrust, headboard slamming against the walls, but why would sunghoon care? fuck, he’ll buy you a whole new bedroom if he has to, so long as you just let him have you like this for a little longer.

“don’t give a shit, haa—i’ll buy you a new one, mm? fuck you again ‘till we break that one too. bet you’d want that, wouldn’t you?” he grins, and the corner of his lips turn up sharply when he sees how utterly fucked out you look. there’s this familiar expression he’s seen on other girls—when sunghoon proves to be too much for them to handle, and they end up tapping out—but it’s none of that on you. no matter how much you cry that you can’t take it, you cling onto him like the only thing you know, want, and need is him.

“answer me.”

and the coil in your stomach begins to tighten almost instantly—you don’t even realise that his hands have made it’s way up to your jaw, thumb and index pressing into the bone. a small squeal escapes your throat, and there it is again; that innocent look written all over your face, making sunghoon’s stomach do somersaults. his grip gets firmer with each passing second, before you finally manage to speak:

“y-yes, fuck, need it—i want it, pleasepleasepolease, sunghoon!”

it’s times like these were sunghoon really is convinced he’ll never quit sex. not when there’s a woman like you, with a pussy like this, with a voice so sweet that it makes his chest ache and his cock drip pre. it’s quite a confusing matter, actually, considering he’s never been one to talk too much during the act—that shit just leads nowhere, and feelings get confused by the time he comes down from his high, but god, he doesn’t think his mouth can stop at this rate, not when it’s you he’s buried in.

“yeaaah? gonna cream all over me, baby? make a mess all over this cock, come on.” sunghoon nods feverishly, both hands pinned to the undersides of your knees now, pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress. your mind tries to catch up, but the pace at which he moves is too relentless for any real thought to form.

his hair falls over his face when he leans forward, just enough to press his full weight down on you. sunghoon’s washboard abs tense every time your nails claw at his chest and just thinking felt weirdly impossible now. your mind’s reduced to slush, ears ringing with wet smacks and constant grunts from the man above you. there’s an occasional moan that slips from him, to which he realises, far too quickly, turns you on more than you’d (probably) ever be willing to admit. mental note for the next time he decides to rearrange your guts, he supposes.

sunghoon glances down again. just for a moment. in the past twenty seconds that’ve passed, you both don’t realise how close you’ve got, damp foreheads pressed against each other in something sweet in the midst of all the roughness. his grunts have transformed into something else completely—now laced with need and breathy pleas, begging.

“there we go, yeah—cum on my cock, please, baby. i’m so fucking close—”

“i love you.”

the words almost kill him.

something seems to have snapped almost instantaneously. park sunghoon’s lips crash into yours with newfound fervor, and every muscle in his body seems to be operating on the sole purpose of getting you to come undone. he’s so fucking tired, truly—but the pain fades and all the soreness in his muscles from yesterday’s practice is irrelevant now.

“yeah? you love me?” his pussydrunk face is the only thing in view, a small gasp slipping when he feels you clench down on him. his hips begin to stutter, jerk, pace faltering. his eyes stare into yours through the gaps in his damp hair, waiting for an answer. “fuck, say it again—please.”

“i love you, sunghoon,” you whisper, almost sultry, your voice barely reaching his ears but ghosting against his lips anyway. “i-i love you—”

a starving man he proves to be. his lips lock with yours again, and this time, they never really leave. his tongue swirls around yours, drinking up every sound that you have to offer, still rutting into your cunt like he needs to fuck a whole new generation into you. your core tenses up so much that you think you’re gonna pass out from the impending orgasm—all sunghoon does is moan into your mouth, fingers intertwining with yours as he abuses your pussy with ruthless strokes.

“i love you, y/n,” the words are so sweet it makes your head spin. it doesn’t correlate at all with the obscene view beneath you, his soaked pelvis and your thighs pressed up against your stomach—your hole squelches with every roll, now much messier and haphazard, and the high is so close that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue. “that’s it, baby. let it out for me, just like that.”

so cruel.

“c-cumming, fuck, i’m gonna cum, hoon—”

a revelation comes to sunghoon as soon as your walls begin spasming around his length—sunghoon has never had sex this good. you get impossibly tighter, and your moans are broken up by your lungs trying to take in more air. you sob when it hits, almost blinding in it’s entirety as sunghoon continues fucking you through it, feeling how you soak him from the inside and how it gets disgustingly easy to pound into you when you’re this wet.

“fuuuck, o-oh my god,” a guttural sound claws it’s way out of his throat. his forehead dips again, lips still glossy and tasting just like you, entranced by the way your pretty lips part in a silent scream that ends as a loud gasp. “you’re so fucking tight when you cum, shit—”

sunghoon is gone. just chasing his own release, sloppy thrusts making your juices splurt everywhere; your moans amplify and you’re barely holding your sanity together by the time you come back from whatever plane of reality you decided to visit. his thumb digs into the dip behind your knees, still trying to push his cock deeper into you, tip grazing your cervix every now and then—god, it’s pure filth. you’re half convinced that you might have to take the stairs tomorrow if you want to avoid your upstairs neighbour.

humans are truly just animals. sunghoon proves just as much with how frantic he is to spill himself inside of you. truthfully, the thought is stirring him on more than he’d like to admit—which is kind of scary, if he thinks too long about it. it’s a shame that he’s incapable of that right now, because all he manages to babble is:

“please, y/n, can i? let me cum inside of you, please, please—shit, need to fill you up, wanna see it dripping out of you all fucking night, please.”

and you, as drunk on him as he is on you, nods like it’s all you’ve ever needed in life.

sunghoon’s hips snap against your ass, eyebrows knit in frustration and lips parted to let an animalistic groan out. you take it, all of it, from the way he kisses you like he wants to eat you up, to the way he thumbs at your clit because he just needs you to unravel with him again. selfish as he is, he can’t have this alone—not when you look so beautiful breaking.

it takes ten seconds for you to cum for the second time, and him, eleven. it’s all heat and lust and pure hunger condensing into one, singular moment, where he buries himself to the hilt and spills months worth of holding back.

your walls pulse around him. your clit throbs unapologetically under his restless thumb, still circling nice ‘n slow as if you weren’t already gasping for air as it is. his dick almost feels like it’s getting bigger, twitching as it shoots load after load, hot and thick as it paints every crevice.

god, what the fuck. sunghoon’s panting when he finally collapses on top of you, the soreness from yesterday creeping up on him—though he has reason to believe it may be more of your doing. his face buries itself into your neck, not before his hands finally let your thighs loose, dropping right next to his, and for a minute, the two of you simply lay there.

sunghoon breathes you in again, slow enough that the scent of you settles somewhere deep in his chest. your arms slip around his neck without hesitation, fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of it while your lips find his forehead in small, absent kisses that feel less like affection and more like habit. he lets out a quiet sigh against your shoulder, eyes falling shut as warmth spreads through him in steady waves.

“you smell good today.”

he lets himself believe, just for now, that it can stay this way, though it is probably foolish. if he were being honest, every sensible part of him should still be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to wake up and realise you've chosen the wrong person, for the guilt he's carried around for months to finally become heavier than whatever it is you've found in him. even after all of it, all you’ve dragged each other through—you’re still here, trusting him with your body.

confusing, he thinks. you’re so confusing.

“hoon,” you mumble against his skin. he hums in response. “you’re being weird—oh my god. stop sniffing me, i’m getting ticklish.”

he hums against your skin before taking another deep breath in. “don’t care.”

before you, none of this would have unsettled him. there had been other people, other nights, other attempts at filling the empty spaces—and it had been good. he had learned very early that casual was easy to survive because it demanded so little of him—he could leave before morning and return to his life unchanged, carrying nothing home except the faint smell of someone else’s perfume and the relief of having avoided being known. it never bothered him. if anything, he preferred it that way.

“can we wait a little longer?”

“didn’t know you were into cockwarming. you’re sick in the head.” you sigh dramatically, earning a groan from sunghoon—he shifts his weight slightly, hissing when he feels you squeeze around him again.

“just give me a minute,” he answers. “need to remember my first with you. should we take a selfie?”

you fist at his hair and sunghoon winces. “fuck, i was just kidding.”

four in the morning.

the clock on your nightstand blinks the numbers back at you in soft, white light, stubborn and familiar. nine months ago, that hour belonged to a stranger's voice crackling through your speaker and a crush that felt enormous simply because it was all imagination.

you remember lying awake with your phone pressed against your cheek, convinced the boy on the other end of the line was someone else entirely, and now the room is quiet enough to hear the city breathing beyond the windows.

sunghoon shifts against you, cheek warm where it's pressed to your chest, his hair a soft mess beneath your fingers. when he tilts his head up, tiredness still clings to him around the edges of his eyes, but they find yours immediately, like they've learned the route by heart. there is something almost unfair about it—that the boy who once hid behind another person's name now looks at you with such terrifying honesty.

“can you get off of me now?”

sunghoon lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheek still resting against your chest, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. he considers the question with suspicious seriousness before leaning over to press another lazy kiss against your collarbone. “no.”

luck and fate. such intangible concepts, but the feeling creeps up on you regardless. the universe seems unusually generous now, which scares you—after everything that’s happened, after all the ways the two of you managed to hurt each other before finding your way back, it feels dangerous to believe that happiness could be this simple.

and still—something tells you that this feeling might be yours to keep, anyway, so long as you keep choosing for it to.

sunghoon shifts closer, his voice rough with impending sleep as he presses his face into the warmth beneath your jaw. “i love you, y/n.”

when your eyes flutter open the next morning, the blinds are only half-shut, thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through the gaps and painting pale gold across the floor. there's a t-shirt bunched around your waist that definitely wasn't there when you went to sleep, and your hair is sticking to your cheek in a way that immediately informs you that you’ve slept in way too long.

you stretch with a quiet groan, arms reaching above your head until your shoulders pop pleasantly, then roll onto your left side in search of the cooler side of the bed—but instead, you’re greeted by more warmth.

for a brief, sleepy second, you wonder if autumn has somehow changed its mind overnight. is it summer again?

but then, you see him.

park sunghoon is sprawled face-down across your mattress like somebody dropped him there and forgot to pick him back up. one arm is flung over the edge of the bed, the other trapped beneath your pillow, and his dark hair sticks out in every possible direction. sometime during the night, he'd apparently migrated until three-quarters of his body occupied your side of the bed while you clung to the remaining sliver.

his bare back is outlined by faint shadows of the morning, still unfairly sculpted while knocked out cold. it annoys you, just a little, but enough that you briefly consider stealing the blanket back out of spite.

instead, you stay where you are and watch him.

you watch the slow rise and fall of his ribs beneath your fingertips, the tiny hitch in his breathing every few breaths, and the way one hand twitches occasionally against the mattress as though he's still reaching for you in his sleep.

you lean forward until your lips brush the warmth of his shoulder—but the words you whisper there are too soft for him to hear.

“i love you too, park sunghoon.”

he sleeps through your confession, completely unaware of the smile that finds your face as you settle next to him again. your heart slows just a fraction, calming when your breathing unconsciously matches the rhythm of the man beside you.

time seems to slow itself down. the morning birds are quieter than usual, the grandmother across the street has spared the neighborhood her daily yelling, and when you look over at your calendar, there is nothing waiting for you there.

for a love this gentle, the universe has chosen to be unusually generous.

lucky you!

─────────────────────────

hoonie <3: [Attachment] 20:28

hoonie <3: I’ll be over after practice 20:28

hoonie <3: Yeonjun and Maki keep asking about you it’s starting to piss me off 20:29

hoonie <3: Also did you change my contact? 20:34

y/n: yes heeseung 20:40

y/n: oops i meant Park Sunghoon. my favourite boyfriend out of 10 20:40

hoonie <3: I’m going to walk into traffic 21:12

y/n: ????? ur so dramatic Hello 21:15

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

taglist 1/2 @h7llow @janeluvwonuuuu @fancypeacepersona @iamnibbsi @12e45 @iiunique @tearsforyrsins @areikii @rikisblog @lawjakesim @omlhyck @nxzz-skz @minjiblue @fouldiplomatpapershark @tessa365 @sm0kinhghotvirgn @alondra6011 @hunbunki @yngjwnz @vissnipherwifeey @faust-pda @honestlyatomicpanda @jaystardust @dazedhooniexx @punchbug9-blog @kitteaasstuff @sievenderz @veemegatron @dmstoyangyang @joohyunrene @glitterywonderlandtimemachine @sailorinthesie @suramini @zohaaz @arminswife12 @sparkleslightsworld @nanilis @iluvblackk @felixthemrow @d4zedndc0nfused @hoonlovesun @lxneraven @acolytees @blooqz @songbyeonkim @angelhyuka @nosungluv @seongiewon @jellykitti

[strawberrywonnie]

Jungwon audio

Author note~ this idea is from a request that I accidentally deleted 😔 so anon if you're still out there this is what I made for you! 🩷 This is also my first audio so like... Yeah

Warnings~ heavy moaning, very quiet wet sounds in the background, I can't think of anything else tbh

Love you anon! 💕💗

[kikidoul]

INHERITED TEMPTATION.

IN WHICH. . . You walked away from Riki when desire began to demand more than what you could give. What started as reckless, carefree and intense nights ended the moment feelings threatened to surface, forcing you to choose distance, safety over fire. Months later, you have a boyfriend who loves you with an honesty that felt like redemption. Until you met his father. Riki is older now, sharper at the edges with his gaze still carrying the same quiet hunger that you can never forget. It's up to you to choose between the son or father, where the most dangerous love is the one that should never be rekindled.

23.5k wc⠀‎❀⠀‎non-idol + modern au ♪♪ dilf! nishimura riki x fem! reader 𐧘 explicit mature content, dark romance, forbidden romance, age-gap relationship (reader's 25 and riki's 43), morally gray characters, infidelity, emotional manipulation, , unprotected sex, degrading kink, daddy kink, recording during sex, blowkob, cunninglus, blackmail, public humiliation. lmk if i miss anything!

perm taglist [always open] : @lolliloopsy, @kristynaaah, @lac4ygal, @sacrificemuraa, @strawberrywonnie, @hoonguin, @enhaxlhs, @ryulshot4sho, @yangvitta.

from author: hi oomf... @cherryw0n, here's a reupload of dilf riki <3 (bye not blr slapping the mature content onto this fic, fuck u blr)

You were living your ideal, dream life to the fullest.

Being engaged to your fiance—Doohwa, who you met at one of your work events, working at a full-time job so you can have enough funds for your upcoming wedding.

The basics had already been planned and discussed. It will be happening five months from now. Five months where you will officially and finally belonged to the man of your dreams.

You remembered telling your family and relatives. All of them had the same reaction—rendered speechless, staring at their screens as you showed off the engagement ring that was proudly wrapped around your ring finger.

Some of your relatives were so overjoyed that they started crying on-call, much to you and Doohwa's embarrassment.

Currently, you were in the living room of your shared apartment with Doohwa. According to him, his father had returned home after spending the past four weeks flying from one country to another and Doohwa wanted to take this chance to introduce you to his father, to build a closer connection and relationship.

You had never met him before back when you were dating. According to your fiance, his father was a busy man—with his career being a freelance architecture.

You don't know much about that specific industry but what you do know was how the man was highly regarded and respected, due to his talents.

You had finished getting dressed and was now waiting for him to come and pick you up after he was done with work.

As time passed, your eyelids gradually felt heavier. Before you knew it, you had fallen asleep on the couch…

EIGHT MONTHS AGO...

You had finished your final examination and as per the standard culture you and your small group of friends shared—it was time to party. After all, you didn't spent the past two to three weeks cramming, inhaling energy drinks and further ruining your already ruined sleep cycle for nothing.

As much as you loved partying like your life depended on it, you wanted to get good grades so you can graduate without regrets.

You were the first to arrive at your usual place—a bar called Hidden Eve that's located on a few streets away from your campus. It's a cozy place with the drinks both being good and are at an affordable prices, especially in today's society.

You stood outside, hugging your thick coat around you, shivering involuntarily when a strong gust of cold, chilling wind blew past you. Winter wasn't even here yet but you were already bundled up like a walking rice-ball.

Thankfully, you didn't have to wait long as your friends had arrived. One of them laughed when they saw how red your nose had became.

"Looks like Rudolph the Reindeer has some competition," she teased, causing the whole group except for you to burst out laughing.

You light-heatedly rolled your eyes, knowing they were merely joking. "Haha. Very funny. Now let's go in and drink before i can't feel my hands and legs anymore."

With that, all of you entered the bar. The small bell hanging on top of the door made a 'ding ding!' sound as it was pushed open.

Warm amber lights glowed from vintage sconces along the brick walls, casting the space in a soft, honeyed haze. Low wooden beams crossed the ceiling, darkened with age while trailing ivy and dried floral curled lazily around iron fixtures.

The bar counter stretched along the left side, polished oak worn smooth by years of elbow and spilled confessions, its shelves covered with glass bottles that shimmered like jewels under the dim lights.

For once, the place was crowded.

Voices overlapped in a constant hum—laughter, murmured conversations and the occasional clink of glasses with customers toasting to something. Every seat seemed to be occupied, bodies packed close together and strangers brushed shoulders without apology.

The air smelled faintly of citrus, alcohol and something smoky beneath it all, grounding and intoxicating.

Jazz music played low and steady from hidden speakers, a slow, sultry rhythm that seeped into your bones rather than demanding for attention. It made the bar feel alive, pulsing, as though it was breathing along with the people inside it.

To you and your friends, this was home.

You followed them as they moved to the counter on the right with ease while chatting and laughing with one another. Thankfully, there were some space enough for the four of you to squeeze in together.

You weren't listening to what your friends were talking, absentmindedly nodding your head here and there as your eyes aimlessly drifted, scanning the sea of faces around you.

And that's when you saw him.

You knew he's a staff, with how he came out from the back door and was dressed in black from head to toe, the kind of uniform meant to blend in and go unnoticed.

It failed for him.

The fitted black shirt clung lightly to his frame, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms as he adjusted the cuff with practiced ease. A slim apron was tied around his waist, hanging low against dark jeans that perfectly further accentuated his long legs. You swore at first glance, his legs would make up half of his height.

He wore accessories—a simple double pair of rings hanging on his earlobes and his hands were decorated in silver, glowing rings. It glimmered like jewels underneath the dim lights, drawing attention to his long and slender fingers. His midnight-black hair was slightly damp, as if he had just washed it, stray strands falling carelessly over his forehead. He pushed them back once, distracted, before reaching for the towel draped on his shoulder.

You pretended you didn't choked on air when you saw him running his hand through his hair, unable to tear your eyes away from him as you watched. You weren't sure why but there was something mesmerizing about the way he moved—efficient yet unhurried, every motion was deliberate.

He slipped behind the counter, exchanging a few words with his co-worker and immediately got to work, hands busy as he prepared glasses and checked bottles, like this was all second nature to him.

He hasn't noticed you yet.

And you decide to change that.

Ignoring your friends, you walked around them and approached him with a sudden burst of confidence. Maybe it was the aftereffects of finishing your examinations. Maybe it was the way he carried himself but whatever it was, you wanted him to notice you.

Every step you took reduced the distance between the two of you and you stood before him, with the high counter being the only thing hindering your way.

Thankfully, he had his back facing you as he was busy preparing drinks for an order. Which gave you a front-row seat of staring (or drooling because you're only human) at his broad back, the way you can see his back muscles moved whenever he shook the mixture in a Boston Shaker, only for it to paint a… different image in your mind.

You rapidly shook your head, getting rid of the indecent thought, clearing your throat to muster the remains of your courage left.

"Excuse me, I would like to order," you called out, ensuring to raise you voice a little to make yourself heard.

Your words were a mix of half-lie and half-truth. After all, it would be foolish of you not to order anything when you're a regular at Hidden Eve. He raised his head and turned, looking at you over your shoulder.

And then, he fully turned to face you and oh god, he looked devastatingly handsome.

He had the kind of face that made people paused without realizing why. Sharp yet youthful. Every featured was carved with an almost predatory elegance. His eyes were the first thing you noticed—dark, intense and puma-like, heavy-lidded with a quiet intensity that felt instinctual rather than learned.

There was something watchful in them, something that made you felt seen even when his expression remained unreadable.

His nose was straight and defined, giving his profile a clean, striking line. His lips—full, thick and plump, rested in a neutral curve that made you wondered how it'll feel when pressed against yours.

It also made you wondered if he was a good kisser or not. His jawline was sharp and unforgiving, the kind that catches the light whenever he tilted his head slightly, shadows tracing along the hollow of his cheekbones.

"What do you want to order?" He asked, setting down the shaker as he gave you his fullest attention, cocking his head to the side. The movement caused his earrings to sway side to side.

Your mind blanked out. Even though you had been here many times, it's like the menu you had long remembered by heart had been erased from your memory. You opened and closed your mouth, resembling a gaping fish out of water.

At this point, you were making a complete fool of yourself by standing there, head empty with not a single thought in it.

"…Can I order you or are you only available for dine-in?"

Fuck.

The words slipped out of your mouth before your mind could processed it. Thankfully, the people around you were either busy getting drunk or chit-chatting with their friends to pay you any mind—something you were immensely grateful for.

You gulped and fidgeted with the hem of your coat, twisting and pinching the fabric between your fingers.

After what felt like eternity, the guy chuckled, lips curved upward. His shoulders shook as he laughed. Even though it was crowded and noisy, your ears could only registered the sound of his amused chuckle—the sound low, deep and husky.

You never felt like this before—the effect a complete handsome stranger had on you, but you weren't complaining one bit.

"You're funny, I'll give you that but no, I'm not. Sorry to disappoint," he answered, looking at you with his head tilted to the side, amused.

"But if you want, I can make a drink for you. Call it a personal recommendation from the best bartender," he continued. "So? What do you say?"

You couldn't trust your voice at that moment, wordlessly nodding your head in a daze. He noticed it. Of course he does but he didn't point out loud. Instead, he hummed and began moving about with experience and confidence, like he knew what he was doing.

You watched as he reached for a glass without hesitation, fingers long and steady as he inspected it under the lights before setting it down. Ice followed—measured and deliberate, the sound sharp and clean against the hum of the bar. He moved like he had done this a thousand times, muscle memory guiding him for every step.

Bottles came next.

He selected them with utmost care, only briefly reading labels before uncapping them, the soft clink lost beneath the music. A pour of something dark and smooth, followed by a lighter spirit that caught the light as it flowed.

He didn't rushed. Didn't overthink. Each motion was precise, practiced and almost intimate—like the drink wasn't just being made, but considered.

Every now and then, his eyes flicked up.

Just for a second but enough to check if you were watching.

And you were.

Right from the very start.

He added a twist of citrus, fingers pressing the peel just enough for the liquids to mist over the rim before dropping it in. The scent reached you first—warm, sharp and addictive. He stirred once and twice, then slid the drink across the counter toward you.

"There. Not on the menu," he said, meeting your gaze again.

The glass was cold beneath your fingers when you took it, condensation already forming. One sip was enough to tell you everything—you didn't know what it was called, but it was smooth, layered and deceptively gentle before the heat bloomed low in your chest.

He watched your reaction closely, eyes narrowing slightly, waiting expectantly. When your expression shifted from surprise to reluctant approval, the right corner of his mouth lifted.

"Told you," he murmured, pleased with your reaction.

"I won't be too confident if I were you. I'll have you know that I'm quite picky with my drinks," you retorted, internally wincing at how weak your words and voice sounded.

"Right," the attractive stranger—bartender, drawled. "I'm sure I can impress you with skills so I am pretty confident."

Huh. Never thought you have a thing for confident men but here you are, attempting to shoot your shot on someone who you just met for the first time.

It also made you wondered why you haven't seen him before in your previous few trips to Hidden Eve, but you simply shrugged it off that he was a newly-joined staff.

You rested your elbows on the bar with your half-drank glass resting before you, flashing him a coy smile. "Well, color me impressed then. Wanna get out of here?"

The stranger blinked.

Once. Twice.

He let out a laugh, the sound light-hearted and kind. It was the kind of tone where you knew this was going—not according to your plan.

"Bold, but no thanks, I'm good. Nice try though," he politely shot down your offer.

You parted your lips, wanting to say something but a large group of people entered the bar. He glanced at you, almost like he was hesitant on whether he should still tend to you or move to help his co-worker in making the large order.

Seeing this, you flashed him with what you hoped was an reassuring smile and waved him off. No words were exchanged.

He nodded, glancing your way one final time before speeding off, easily reaching his co-worker in less than ten large strides and began to help him make the drinks. Now that you were left alone, you decided it was time to regroup with your friends.

It was easy to spot them. They managed to find themselves a table, either half-drunk or completely drunk with no in-between.

"Look who's here to bless us with her presence!" One of your friends shouted at a loud voice, unaware of the startled looks she got from the people around her.

Your face burned as you sat down, placing your drink down on the table. "Shut up, I wasn't gone for that long."

Another one who was sober the entire time, giggled as she playfully nudged her elbow against yours. "Don't think we didn't saw how you were flirting with the bartender back there. He's cute too."

You smiled unknowingly, only to realize it a few seconds later. Your friends wasted no time in teasing you. Some even made the loud and immature kissing sounds, much to your embarrassment.

You flipped them off but despite your reaction, you were already laughing, feeling the waves of their happiness and the current moment you had with them.

"You guys are so annoying," you complained, giggling at how your friend threw an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in to ruffle your hair.

"We love you too. Now drink! We're not leaving until you're shit-faced!"

The second time you met him was at Hidden Eve again, which wasn't a surprise since he is working there. Except you went alone, without your friends. They had decided to go on a shopping trip for the whole day and that was something you couldn't handled.

You didn't have the stamina nor energy to spend your day walking around, browsing at countless shops and feeling your wallet getting lighter and lighter.

Besides, you were on a mission. A mission to get to know the bartender.

After that first encounter with him, you were very determined to have him. No matter what. And if there was anything about you, it was the fact that you can be a persistent person when the situation called for it. Said situation meant now—with you wanting the bartender's number, name and if possible, to sleep with him.

It was close to six-thirty when you entered Hidden Eve and with how they had opened thirty minutes ago, there was only a few people in there, drinking to their heart's content.

You stood near the door, letting your eyes scanned the surroundings while trying to locate a certain someone, unaware that your presence was noticed by one of the bartenders.

"Looking for someone?" An amused voice asked, scaring you.

Your head snapped to your right, startled.

A man stood just a few steps away behind the bar, one elbow leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass with an unhurried ease, like he has all the time in the world.

He looked relaxed, like someone who had seen all kinds of customers walking through Hidden Eve's doors and could read them within seconds.

His lips curved into an amused smile, eyes flicking from your face to the door and back again, clearly entertained by the way you had been caught red-handed.

"Woah, easy. Didn't mean to scare you," he said lightly.

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you tugged it closer, to protect yourself. From what? You weren't sure. "I—"

The word died before it could became anything else.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly noticing and then glanced around the bar once more—empty stools, quiet corners and only a handful of patrons nursing their drinks.

"Let me guess, you're looking for someone," he said, stating it like it was a fact. Like this had happened before.

Heat crept up your neck. You hesitated, debating whether to lie. But your eyes betrayed you, instinctively darting toward the counter, the hallway behind it, anywhere but him.

That was enough for him to know your intention.

He let out a soft laugh. "You've got a terrible poker face."

Your embarrassment must've been obvious because his smile softened, losing its teasing edge. "Don't worry, you're not the first who came back looking for him. Won't be the last either."

Before you could asked what he meant or who exactly he was, he set the glass aside and nodded towards the narrow corridor beside the bar. "If it's him you're looking for, he stepped out a few minutes ago."

Your breath caught. You knew who he was referring to without his name mentioned.

"He does that sometimes before he starts. Smoke break. Clears his head, or so he says," the bartender went on casually, eyeing you with an unreadable look on his face, his doe-like eyes focused on your figure.

You opened your mouth, question after question piling up this time but again, no words came out. The man noticed. Of course he did.

"He won't be long," he added, tone almost reassuring. "Back door's past the storage room. Just follow the hallway and you'll be able to find it."

He gave you one final knowing look before turning back to his work, like the interaction had already ended. Like he had told you something that was probably, against a stranger's violation of privacy.

Left with no choice and no excuse to linger, you took a breath and moved past the bar. Your shoes echoed softly against the floor as you slipped into the narrow corridor.

The warmth and low music of Hidden Eve dulled with every step, replaced by cooler air and the faint, unmistakable scent of cigarettes drifting from somewhere ahead.

Your pulse picked up.

You didn't know why you were nervous. You barely knew him. And yet, here you are, pushing the back door open as your eyes looked around and then, you saw him.

He stood a few steps away, leaning against the wall with one foot propped up behind him, posture loose in a way that suggested this was familiar to him.

A cigarette rested between his fingers, glowing faintly as he took a slow drag, the ember brightening before dimming again. Smoke slipped past his thick lips in a steady exhale, rising and dissolving into the night air.

His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling absently as if whatever was on the screen couldn't captured his attention. The soft light from it cast subtle shadows across his face, sharpening his features—the sharp and deadly line of his jaw, the slight furrow between his eyebrows and the way his eyelashes lowered as he focused.

Even when he's dressed in black, sleeves deliciously and sinfully rolled up, he looked effortlessly out of place but perfectly at ease, all at once. There was something private about the moment, something you felt like you had stumbled into by accident.

You froze at the doorway, unsure whether to announce your presence or retreat.

As if sensing you, he paused mid-scroll. He lowered his phone slightly, eyes lifting from the screen and landing on you. The surprise was brief, barely there, but you caught it. His gaze lingered—assessing and curious, before the corners of his mouth tugged upward in the faintest hint of a smile.

"You lost?" He asked, voice roughened a little by the cigarette.

The question itself was casual but the way his eyes stayed on you wasn't.

"N-No," you answered, wincing at how you stuttered over that one, singular word.

You fiddled with the hem of your right sleeve as you stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

He didn't looked away, eyes locked onto you like a sniper locked onto their target. "You're the girl from before. The one who tried to hit on me," he pointed out.

A part of you wanted to giggle out loud. At the fact that he actually remembered you—a random, nameless strange. Another part of you wanted to crawl into a hole and bury yourself. At how he remembered you as the girl who tried to hit on him. Sure he wasn't wrong but he could have said something else, other than that.

"It'd be great if you could remember me as anything else but that," you replied and your words made him chuckled.

You watched as he took another puff of his cigarette, exhaling it through his parted lips with his head tilted back slightly. And fuck, the sight instantly made your mind drifted—to how good he'd look with you straddling his lap as you ride him. If possible, you want him to blow you the smoke from his mouth, somewhat like a kiss.

He took one, final puff before dropping it onto the dirtied ground, extinguishing it by crushing it with his right shoe. You watched as he dropped his left foot onto the ground, pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on and moved to your direction.

You stood there, staring at him with wide eyes until he stopped before you, leaving some distance between the two of you.

"So, you here for a drink or trying to hit on me again?" He casually asked, the calmness and how easily he asked you made you choked on air.

"Don't get too cocky now. Not everything's about you," you weakly retorted but deep down, the both of you knew you were lying.

He didn't believed you. He arched an eyebrow and since when such a simple, meaningless action looked this attractive? He slowly nodded his head, lips pursed in a thin line. Something pink poked out from his lips and your eyes instinctively flicked down before snapping it back up.

However, he had noticed it. Of course he did.

"Sure about that? No one other than Heeseung knows I'm back here. Which meant he was the one who told you where I am," he said.

Heeseung? That must be the other guy's name.

You nervously swallowed. "..What would you do if I say yes?"

"Nothing, it's not like I can kick you out of the bar when you didn't do anything wrong. Besides, you're not the first person who tried to hit on me," he shrugged his shoulders, shifting to the right so he can head for the door, opening it and moved to the side.

"After you. If you want, I can make another drink for you. Except you need to pay this time, can't keep giving drinks away for free," he smirked.

And like the whip fool you are, you obliged and stepped in with him hot on your heels. The bar was still quite empty, considering how it was close to seven, which meant today will be a slow day.

You moved to the bar as he slipped behind the counter, throwing on the apron to tie it around his waist. You sat on the nearest vacant high-stool, placing your bag on your lap as you stared at the menu, pondering over which drink to order.

"What are you planning on getting?" He asked.

You continued to scan the menu, eyes landing on a drink name that piqued your attention. "The Elden's Fall."

He hummed, leaning in slightly to see what you had picked. "Bold choice. Sure you can handle the heat?"

Before you could ask what that meant, he had already looked away and got straight to work.

He moved fast—too fast that it startled you for a moment. A clean glass appeared in his hand out of thin air, like it was summoned by magic. Ice shortly followed, the sharp clink echoing softly beneath the music from the speakers.

He reached for bottles without hesitation, fingers wrapping around them with practiced familiarity, pouring with a precision that spoke of long hours and muscle memory.

You watched, mesmerized by the show he put on.

There was no wasted movement. No second-guessing. He worked like he trusted himself completely, measuring by instinct rather than sight, switching bottles, shaking and straining. Each step flowed seamlessly into the next. The shaker rattled briefly in his hands before he set it down, already reaching for a garnish.

In less than a minute, he slid the glass towards you, the liquid catching the warm bar light. The color was rich in color and deceptively inviting and alluring.

"Here. Elden's Fall," he announced.

You blinked. "That was… fast."

He smirked. "When you've worked here for a while, you can pretty much make anything even with your eyes closed."

You wrapped your fingers around the glass, feeling the chill seeping into your skin. The first sip surprised you—smooth at first, then warming, with a subtle bite that lingered pleasantly on your tongue. Riki watched your reaction closely and like before, waiting with an expectant look on his face.

When you raised your eyebrows slightly, he nodded, satisfied. "Told you."

"Do you do this with every customer you talked to?" You asked as you placed the glass down on the counter with a soft, inaudible 'clink'.

"Do what?" He asked. Whether he was acting innocent or oblivious, you weren't sure.

"Whatever," you gestured to the both of you, "this is."

He chuckled, drying his hands on a nearby towel. "What? Talking to a customer and preparing their drink? It's part of the job."

You rolled your eyes but the way your lips twitched upwards say otherwise. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Do I?" He cocked his head to the side, a faint smile still playing on his lips as he leaned against the counter.

You hummed, unconvinced. "Funny. You didn't look this attentive the first time I saw you."

The bartender was unfazed, arching an eyebrow. "That's because I was busy and it's peak hours."

"And now?"

"Now it's quieter and from the looks of it, the pace won't change until it's closing time," he answered calmly. His gaze dipped to your glass, then rose again, lingering this time. The way he looked at you sent shivers down your spine. You felt seen—a rare feeling.

The air between you shifted. It was subtle, almost imperceptible but you knew something had changed.

You took another sip, buying yourself a few more seconds. "So what, you just choose to spend time talking to me instead of working? Wonder what your boss will say."

"Heeseung doesn't really care as long as I get my job done. Lucky him, I'm fast on my legs and hands," he shrugged off your words with a dismissive flick of his hand.

This time, it was your turn to arch an eyebrow. "Heeseung's your boss? The one who snitched on you?"

He chuckled, nodding. "Yup, that's him. He's like a older brother to me and was nice enough to offer me a job when I needed money. Flexible working hours. Having your friend as your boss, being able to make different drinks and," he paused—deliberate, with a sly smile that made heat pooled in your stomach, "talking to pretty customers like you is a bonus."

You set the glass down again, fingers absently tracing the condensation. "Careful. That almost sounded like flirting."

"Almost? You're the one who came in looking for me. If anyone's flirting, that'd be you," he pointed out.

You opened your mouth to argue, then stopped.

He let out a soft laugh, quieter this time. "Relax," he said, despite how his expression said anything but that. "If I flirted with every customer, I'd never get any work done."

"And yet, here you are. Not working," you countered.

"Break's over," he said, eyes flicking briefly to the bar clock then back to you. "But I don't mind taking my time."

Your pulse betrayed you, quickening at the unspoken implication. He straightened, reaching for another glass as someone down the bar waved him over. Before turning away, he looked over his shoulder and added, "Finish your drink. If you want another… well, you know where to find me."

He walked away, leaving you sitting there on the stool, with your heart racing like you had ran a marathon, flustered and breathless. It was only when you left an hour later did it hit you that you didn't get his name.

Again.

The third time you bumped into him was once again, at Hidden Eve. This time however, you weren't alone. Your friends wanted to come along, stating that they wanted to see you fumble for the third time and how they will do anything but to support you.

Which brought you to your current situation—you and your friends managed to find a table for yourselves while looking at the menu, wanting to try something different instead of ordering the usual drinks.

And then, someone approached your table, gaining your attention.

"Looks like you ladies are struggling and thought I could help," a familiar silky smooth male voice spoke up, making himself heard through the music playing from the speakers.

All of you looked up and everyone except you were confused, not knowing who he was.

"Are you Heeseung?" You asked warily and your friends snapped their heads to you at lightning speed that it was a miracle they didn't dislocated their necks.

The man—Heeseung, blinked twice and then recognition appeared on his face. "Oh, it's you. You're the one who came over last week. I remember you."

"You what?"

"So the reason why you abandoned the all girl's day was because you came here? To flirt with your boyfriend?"

"Damn, so how did it go?"

Your friends wasted no time in bombarding you with questions until you weren't given the chance to defend yourself. But then, why do that when they were merely speaking the truth.

Your cheeks and ears turned red as you averted your eyes, unable to look at them. Heeseung, on the other hand, was having the time of his life laughing at your current situation.

"Oh, I'm glad someone find this funny. Are you here to make fun of me or helping us?" You scowled, throwing him a light-hearted glare.

Heeseung raised his hands in mock surrender. "Woah, calm down. Looks like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Let me know if you want something light or heavy then we can start from there."

You and two of your friends went with light, not wanting to get drunk while the rest went with heavy. Heeseung didn't asked for more questions.

Instead, he turned and walked away, heading to the bar like a man on a mission. You and your friends shared a confused look as you watched Heeseung moved like he owns the place.

And he does.

After all, he is the owner.

It took him less than ten minutes to finish making the drinks. He placed them on a round, circular-shaped tray, balanced it with his left palm like an experienced waiter as he approached your table. A charming smile was stretched on his face as he stopped before you and your friends.

"Hello ladies, here are your drinks," he announced, setting all of the glasses down.

Two of them were in a beautiful shade of white and blue. The other three had the same shade of bold and dark red mixed with yellow and orange. The two different colors left trails behind, making the drink looked like it had three different layers. All of you took your very first sips, making the same amazed expressions in unison.

Heeseung smiled, obviously proud and satisfied with your reactions. "What do you think? It's good, right?" He asked, trying to fish for compliments.

Your friends giggled, hooked by both his charms and his notably good features. "Yes, it's better than what we had so far."

"Hey, those drinks were personally selected by me. Please be more mindful of your words or you're hurting my oh so fragile heart," Heeseung protested, resting a hand on his chest with a faux hurt look on his face.

You rolled your eyes, choosing to observe from the sidelines as the bartender talked to your friends while you took a few slow sips here and there. You weren't sure how much time had passed. It could be minutes or hours.

"Hyung, there you are. Stop flirting with the customers and get your ass back to work. We got a huge order to make."

That voice.

Your body stilled. Your fingers tightened its grip around your glass. You didn't had to look up to know who had approached your table. To know who was standing beside Heeseung, talking to him in such a familiar manner—like they had known each other for a while.

However, your body betrayed you, choosing to go against your mind and heart, despite how they were yelling at you to not look his way.

Your eyes drifted up and there he stood. Dressed in the same, standard all black uniform from head to toe with an apron tied around his waist. Nothing about him had changed since you last saw him, which was two weeks later. But god, he always looked good to the point where you found it extremely unfair.

His eyes jumped from one face to another, lingering longer than usual on yours—long enough for you to catch it. But he looked away when you blinked, making you wondered if your eyes were playing tricks on you or you were hallucinating.

"Right, I'll be there," Heeseung answered his co-worker and turned to you and your friends with an apologetic but charming smile, "sorry but seems like work calls. Enjoy the drinks and no, it's not on the house."

Your friends dramatically booed and giving him the thumbs-down gesture as he walked away with his co-worker—the very same bartender who you tried to hit on. Not once but twice.

Your eyes unconsciously followed him, trailing after his tall figure as he moved through the sea of people until he slipped out of your sights, leaving you to sigh under your breath.

There goes my final chance.

Shrugging the thought aside, you decided to focus on enjoying the current moment you have. The moment with your friends while living in temporary happiness.

"That's the spirit! Bottoms up, everyone!" Your friend on your right hollered.

This went on for the next two to three hours. As time passed, more and more people entered Hidden Eve until it was packed with people. It was in full swing, with the sound of customers laughing as they chatted among themselves, along with the clinking of glasses as they made a toast to something.

Three of your friends who had chosen the heavy option had long passed out after making a complete fool of themselves—shouting nonsense at the top of their lungs while fighting against your poor, futile attempts of getting them to calm down.

You were the only sober one left as your two other friends—the very same two friends who chose the light options, were lightweights. But thankfully, they were easier to handle and were now passed out by the table.

You had long finished your drink and one glance at your phone told you the time was close to one in the morning. You decided it was time to go home but here comes the most difficult part—waking your drunk friends up while calling a cab for them.

You managed to wake the two of them up and after sobering them up with water, the three of you half-carried and half-dragged your other friends out of the bar.

You barely managed to take more than three steps before you tripped over someone's foot. The floor was about to welcome you with open arms with how close you were about to face-plant into it when a familiar, firm and warm hand grabbed your right shoulder, both stopping and rescuing you in the nick of time.

You glanced over, choking on air when it was none other than the attractive and handsome bartender.

"You good? Looks like you need a little help," he asked, steadying you with both hands. You ignored how you could still felt his warmth emitted from his palms when he withdrew his hands.

"Uh, I think I can manage," you answered, readjusting your friend who had buried her face in the crook of your neck while mumbling something inaudible under her breath.

He hummed, looking over your head, lips quirked upward in an amused smile when he saw the similar states they were in. "Right, I think I should help you before one of your friends dropped someone. Won't want that to happen, do we?"

"I—"

He didn't wait for your response, already moving before you could finished your sentence. You watched as he tended to you. Not your friends but you. He easily threw your friend's right arm around his shoulders with one hand supporting her by the waist—always above the waistline of her jeans, high enough to tell he was a respectful man. Unlike those kinds of men.

When he noticed that you were simply staring at him with a dumbfounded look, he arched an eyebrow. "What? Is there something on my face?" He inquired.

You coughed, averting your eyes to anywhere else but him. "N-Nothing. I'll open the door and call a cab."

You were quick to flee, ears faintly registering his amused chuckle as you opened the door wide enough so him and your other friends were able to half-walk and half-stumble out of the bar.

The moment the door closed, silence engulfed all of you with the music now reduced to a muffled hum in the background. You pulled out your phone and much to your relief, you were able to hail a cab.

"Alright, the driver's coming in seven minutes," you announced to your sober friends, who nodded in acknowledgment as they went to sit on the nearest bench, giving the two of you privacy.

Silence took over the space.

Until he spoke up, breaking it with his low voice.

"Did you gave up?" He asked.

You blinked. "On what?"

He shot you a knowing look, looking downright amused. "You know, I've been waiting for you to shoot your final shot but you didn't. What a shame. Can't believe you left me hanging for the whole day and you're already leaving when it's only one."

You made a noise that strangely sounded like a strangled animal. "I—I didn't want to disturb you, not when you were busy with your job. And besides, it's not like I'm the only one who tried to hit on you."

You couldn't helped yourself with the last sentence and with how petty you sounded. The words slipped out before you could stopped yourself.

It was only when you finished speaking was when the realization and mortification hits you at once without warning. The bartender, however, burst out laughing at the sight of your flustered face.

The sound was warm and unrestrained, spilling out of him in a way that caught you completely off-guard. It wasn't fake—it was real, full-bodied and dangerously charming.

The kind that made your ears flushed red and your heart stuttered at once.

"Is that jealousy I hear?" He teased when he finally calmed down, eyes still crinkled at the corners as he readjusted his grip on your friend who was now using him as a standing lamppost to support herself. "Didn't know you're the jealous type."

"I'm not—" You protested, only for you to stop when you realized what he was doing, with how his grin stretched wider across his face. "I didn't mean it like that."

He hummed, unconvinced but didn't prod further. "Relax. I like it."

What the fuck does that even mean?

The conversation flowed easily after that, like something had finally clicked into place. You talked about nothing and everything—the origin of Hidden Eve, your academic life and your lazy, useless group-mates in your previous group projects and so on.

Talking to him was easy. Like you had nothing to worry about. Like he had somehow eased your burdens without you knowing.

However, you were brought back to reality when a car stopped before you and you recognized the plate number as the cab you had booked.

"Oh, my car's here," you reluctantly said, hesitant.

"Guess it is. C'mon, I'll help you and your friends in getting them in," he said, being the first to open the backdoor as he easily and gently placed your friend in the backseat.

He even helped your other two friends and shortly after, three sleeping girls had fully occupied the backseat. Your two friends took the middle row and you were about to walk around the cab, so you could sit in the passenger seat when the bartender grabbed your wrist in a gentle grip.

Like he was giving you an option to push him away.

"Hey, you don't have to, you know," he murmured, stepping closer while tugging you towards him.

Your breath hitched. "What?"

He leaned in slightly, close enough for you to smell his lingering cologne and the faint smell of cigarettes lingering on his body. "I'm off soon. My place isn't far. We could keep talking… somewhere quieter."

It wasn't a demand or an suggestion.

It was an invitation.

And you would be a fool to turn him down.

You didn't get the chance to remove your shoes or take in his apartment, for you were immediately pressed up against the nearest solid surface—the wall on your left. Your startled gasp was swallowed by a intense, dizzying kiss.

You didn't pushed him away, hands reaching out to grip onto the front of his shirt to pull him closer until you're squished chest-to-chest, not wanting to be separated from him.

Your knees buckled when he sensually ran his tongue along the seam of your lips. You obliged, parting your mouth, whining when he gave a light, teasing nip on your bottom lip.

It was hard enough for it to sting but not hard enough for it to bleed. His hands moved like it had a mind of its own, touching and mapping you greedily.

Goosebumps formed on your skin at how cold his hands were—the effects of the current chilling weather.

"Your hands are cold," you murmured against his lips, eyes half-lidded with him looking right at you.

"Really? Didn't noticed. Guess you need to help me warm them up," he drawled and you couldn't hold back the light giggle at his words.

"That was corny," you pointed out.

"Hey, god forbid a guy from trying to be corny," he retorted, faux hurt evident in his voice but you saw the teasing glint in his eyes.

He was about to kiss you again when you slapped your hand over his lips, causing him to furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

"Before we continue, you still haven't told me your name. And I'd like to know the name of the man who I managed to charm, thank you very much," you said.

He stared at you.

Blinked once.

Twice.

"..You can't be serious."

You solemnly nodded. "No, this is a serious matter to me. I treat this very seriously."

The bartender snorted, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "cute" under his breath.

His hand slipped under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. You gulped at how his eyes darkened in unrestrained, pent-up desire and lust. The desire to take you right there and then.

"Listen up, doll. Name's Nishimura Riki. You better remember it because I'll have you screaming it when I'm done with you."

Beep beep!

The sound of a car horn going off made you got up from the couch. You looked around, mind still half asleep and that's when it hit you—Doohwa was already waiting outside.

You quickly rushed to freshen up—rinsing your mouth, ensuring your make-up wasn't smudged and your appearance was decent enough to be acceptable.

Satisfied, you grabbed your small bag and left after locking the door behind you.

Doohwa's face lit up at the sight of you as he pushed himself off the car, pulling you into a warm and loving embrace when you got close enough. You laughed, returning the gesture while letting him pressed multiple kisses on your cheek.

"Hi, sweetheart. You ready?" He asked, pulling back so he could see your face.

You nodded, flashing him a smile of your own. "Yup. Ready as I'll ever be. I hope your dad would like me."

Doohwa chuckled as he opened the passenger door for you. "I've told you before, he's a nice and understanding man. Besides, you got nothing to worry about. If he ever says anything weird, just tell me and I'll beat him up for you."

You let out a surprised laugh, watching as he walked round the car and slide into the driver's seat. "What? That's your father, Doohwa. You can't just beat him up."

Your fiance merely shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just doing what anyone would do."

You chose not to say anything else, not wanting to prolong the conversation any further. Doohwa drove off, leaving a trail of smoke and dust behind in his wake.

The drive to your destination took you an hour and a half off as his father stayed in a well-off area and you weren't surprised to find yourself in the city.

After parking the car, the two of you got out. Doohwa lead the way to a house with you lingering behind. You fiddled with the strap of your bag as you stood on the porch while he went to knock on the door twice, firm and resolute.

Knock knock.

Doohwa moved back until he was standing beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder. Your ears registered the sound of a pair of approaching footsteps that gradually grew louder and louder until the door was opened from inside.

Your eyes widened. Breath hitched in your throat. Heart stopped—more like it slammed so hard against your ribcage you thought it might have shattered them.

The man standing in the doorway was not a stranger.

He was taller than you remembered, broader shoulders with the sharp edges of youth smoothed into something colder, more dangerous and more tempting.

Time had carved authority into his features, lines at the corner of his puma-like eyes speaking of years lived without softness. His hair was dyed black, except for a specific part that was in the shade of silver or gray, looking like a streak of moonlight.

He may have changed but you can still recognized him.

Nishimura Riki.

Older. Grown. Devastatingly familiar and still fine as always, aging like fine wine.

For a brief moment, his composure cracked. His eyes—those same eyes that once traced every inch of you, flickered with unmistakable recognition. Shock passed through them so quickly but was immediately buried beneath a mask of control so practiced that it terrified you.

"Doohwa." he greeted his son calmly, voice deeper than before, steadier. "You're early."

His gaze shifted to you.

The air turned suffocating.

You felt Doohwa's shoulder brushed against yours again, unaware of the way your body had gone rigid, unaware that the man in front of him had once known the exact sounds you made when you fell apart, letting him broke you down—part by part. A private and exclusive performance put up for him.

You didn't know how to react, not when Riki's eyes lingered on your parted and lipstick-coated lips a second too long—just long enough for the past to surge violently back to life.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

He moved to the side, allowing the two of you to enter his home.

Riki's apartment opened up into a spacious living area, immediately striking in its quiet luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined one side of the room, sheer curtains pulled back to reveal reveal the city stretching out below with glass and steel reflecting everything beneath you. The view alone spoke of money, of success earned and sustained.

Everything inside was deliberate.

Muted tones dominated the space—charcoal, warm beige, deep wood and was balanced by clean, white lines. A low leather sofa was in the middle, placed on top of a textured rug, facing a sleek entertainment unit that was seamlessly built into the wall.

There were no unnecessary decorations and no clutter. Everything placed in their respective positions was done with both purpose and intentions.

Your gaze aimlessly drifted further as you stood there, the hushed conversation between father and son turning into white noise as it blended into the background.

This place didn't belonged to the Riki you met at Hidden Eve. The bartender dressed in all-black and making drinks faster than you could blinked.

No, this apartment belonged to a man who had built a life out of stability and control, a man whose success was etched onto every possible surface.

The current Riki standing a few feet away from you—his broad back and taller figure was different. Seeing both father and son together was when you realized you had been a fool.

How could you not noticed the way they looked similar? Your fiance shares some of his father's features—his unfairly tall height, slightly build figure and the way he carried himself. With nothing but confidence and silent attention.

The kind of attention that drew people in without them knowing. Which was how Riki got you wrapped around his thumb.

But what happened in the past was done. There was nothing you could do to return to it.

"(Name)? You alright?"

You blinked, snapping back to reality when Doohwa called out your name and noticed both men were now looking at you but the way they looked at you was different. One was worried while the other was amused.

Amused like he knew the exact thoughts running through your mind. Like he knew that you were trying to remain calm and not lose your mind.

Like he knew that you felt ashamed of yourself for hooking up with his father back then.

"(Name)? Do you wanna head home instead?" Doohwa asked in a softer tone as he approached you, checking your temperature with one hand pressed against your forehead.

"You don't have a fever, do you?"

You shook your head, forcing yourself to look at him while ignoring Riki's heavy and intense gaze that was boring holes into your head. You flashed your fiance a smile.

To make yourself feel better and definitely not to send a message to Riki, you rested your hand on Doohwa's wrist. From the corner of your eyes, you saw the way Riki's jaw tightened.

Good. Let him see.

"I'm fine, don't worry. I'm just a little tired from the drive," you answered, playing the role of the polite and well-mannered daughter-in-law.

Doohwa nodded, thankfully buying your lie. He then turned to his father with a oblivious smile on his face. "So, do you need help in making dinner?" He asked.

Riki scoffed and rolled his eyes. He pulled the long sleeves of his gray sweatshirt up, revealing his lower arms. You hated how your eyes immediately zoned in on the newly revealed skin, even though you had seen it before. Riki subtly smirked when he caught you staring.

Of course he did.

"No need, just make yourselves at home and it'll be ready soon," he waved off his son's offer and words, pointing to the couch and walked into the kitchen without waiting for his response.

This is going to be a long night…

Riki ended up making seafood pasta for the three of you. At first, you didn't want to eat as you weren't hungry but your stomach chose that moment to betray you by grumbling out loud, much to your embarrassment and horror.

The two men glanced at one another before they burst out laughing, leaving you standing there while trying to resist the urge to jump out of the nearest window. Eventually, the three of you settled down by the dining table and begin eating.

It was quiet for the first fifteen minutes, with none of you uttering a single word and the occasional clink-clanking of your utensils against your plates. You pointedly avoided Riki's gaze, able to feel him staring at you from across the table.

To make matters worse, you were seated directly opposite of him while Doohwa was completely oblivious to the thick and tense silence between the two of you.

That was until, Riki broke the silence by asking a harmless, almost seemingly innocent question.

"So, mind introducing your girlfriend to me?" He asked, eyes flicking to your direction for a quick, fleeting second. It was so fast that you wouldn't have caught it if you weren't already looking at him.

Doohwa paused mid-bite, fork frozen in mid-air. He glanced at you and you nodded, resting your hand above his underneath the table—the very same hands that wore the matching rings. He swallowed his mouthful of food, nearly choking on it and placed the fork down on his plate.

"Uh, actually, she's not my girlfriend," he started off.

You resist the urge to facepalm. Riki, on the other hand, arched an eyebrow and waited for his son to finish speaking. He leaned back in his seat, his long legs stretching out before him.

You flinched when he purposely knocked his feet against yours, causing you to grip onto your dress with your free hand. Riki didn't looked at you, like he knew the effect he had on you, even though some time had passed.

Doohwa raised your intertwined hands, proudly showing off the rings wrapped around your ring fingers. "We're engaged."

Silence.

Riki didn't moved at all, like he had been frozen. He furrowed his eyebrows, not in confusion but in something sharper—calculation. The proud ease he had carried moments ago was gone, now replaced by a carefully curated blank expression that doesn't reached his eyes.

His eyes flicked down to your intertwined hands, zeroing in on the rings that caught the lights.

His jaw tightened. Such a subtle reaction, the kind of reaction that only someone who knew him well or had once known him intimately, would notice. The muscle in his cheek flexed once. Twice, as if he was biting back the words threatening to slip from his tongue.

"Engaged."

He said quietly, testing the word and how it felt on his tongue—like it was foreign to him. He looked up, finally meeting your eyes and there it was.

Recognition.

Not of the situation but the sheer irony of it all. Of the past violently colliding with the present. You saw the way his eyes darkened, the way his breath slowed just a fraction too late. He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

Except now, it was layered with years, choices and consequences.

The rest of dinner passed in a blink of an eye, with both father and son catching up on what they had missed out. You weren't listening as you stared at a random spot of the table, your empty plate staring back, almost like it was mocking you.

Laughing at how cruel fate was—for you to now be engaged to the son of a man who you used to sleep with. It's a miracle that Doohwa didn't knew about your past, as he didn't asked back when he was dating you.

But now, here you are, sitting there, it made you wondered: should you have told him? If you did, how would he react? Would he call off the engagement immediately? If yes, how were you going to explain to your parents and friends?

You could imagine their reactions—horrified and disgusted if they were to find out. Worst case scenario was how they will refuse to acknowledge your presence and kicked you out, leaving you to fend for yourself.

"…me), hello? Are you still there?"

You snapped out of your trance, raising your head to see that they were looking at you. Your eyes instinctively landed on Riki's face first before you looked away, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact with Doohwa.

"Yea?" You asked, grateful that your voice didn't cracked or stuttered.

"I was thinking if you're fine with staying over the night," your fiance. He was quick to slip in another sentence when he saw the mild confusion on your face. "That is, if you don't mind, of course. But if you don't want to, then we can just drive home since it's already getting late."

One look thrown in the clock's direction told you it was close to ten and at this time, the streets were completely empty and dark. Not that great for driving. You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip.

The last thing you wanted was to stay in the same roof as Riki but you didn't want to be that one fiance who tried to stop their partner from spending quality time with their family.

Or single parent, in this case.

Which was why you ended up nodding your head, although reluctantly. "Fine, we can stay over."

You pretended not to notice how Riki's lips curved upward in a faint, knowing smile. Not wanting to be in the same room as him for another second, you quickly stood up from your seat, startling the two of them.

"I—I'll go and wash the dishes," you muttered under your breath, quickly grabbing the plates and fled to the kitchen, like your life depended on it, leaving a confused Doohwa and a quiet Riki behind as you disappeared from their sights.

You silently washed the dishes, scrubbing every inch of the plates with the sponge to buy yourself more time. You were so engrossed in your current task that you didn't registered another presence, who had entered the kitchen without you knowing. Which was why you nearly dropped the plate into the sink when he spoke up.

"You always know how to pick the right ones."

You spun around on your feet, staring at Riki who leaned against the fridge with his arms loosely crossed. He chuckled at your wide eyes and startled reaction, his eyes shamelessly scanned you from head to toe. His gaze was intense enough to make you squirmed on the spot.

"What are you talking about?" You asked.

Pushing himself off the fridge, the older man shortened the distance in no more than six large strides. You leaned back, wanting to stay as far away as possible but it was futile when the cool surface of the counter dug into your skin.

You could feel your dress getting soaked in the water near the sink area, causing you to shiver as the now cold fabric clung onto your skin.

Riki chuckled, bracing his right hand on the edge of the counter while the other confidently rested on your hip—like he knew exactly where to touch you to make you all putty in his grip. He leaned in, not close enough for him to kiss you but close enough to make you ached for it.

"You know what I'm talking about. Could've just said you missed me," he murmured, angling his head to the side so he could whispered into your right ear, his hot breath grazing against your skin with every word he spoke.

"Tell me, does he fuck you better than me, hm? Does he know you like your hair being pulled? Does he know you like being edged until you're a begging mess?"

His sudden crude and filthy words drew an involuntarily whimper from you. Shame hit you like a tidal wave when you realized what just happened.

"Stop," you protested but the way your voice came off weak only made Riki continued, wanting to push you over the edge.

The hand that was braced at your side moved to cup your chin with his thumb resting against your bottom lip. You knew you should pushed him away, that he shouldn't be touching you like this—like he owns you.

But you couldn't. Couldn't moved or do anything. Instead, you let him do as he pleased.

Just like the good old times.

Riki smirked, tilting your chin up. Your breath hitched when he leaned closer. Now, he was close enough for his lips to graze against yours in the lightest kiss. Only either one of you had to lean in and you would be kissing already.

"You say stop but look at you, already letting me do what I want," he purred, voice low and velvety smooth.

His eyes darted down to your parted lips, looking like he was about to cross the final, invisible line.

"(Name)?" Doohwa called out your name.

The sudden appearance of his voice felt like someone had delivered a slap to your face. You jerked your head back, freeing yourself from his grasp and managed to shove Riki away, ignoring how a part of you wanted him to come back, already missing his warmth.

You couldn't find it in yourself to look at him, blindly walking past him as you left the kitchen and headed to the living room—the direction of where Doohwa's voice came from.

"Hey, there you are—woah, are you alright? You looked a little red," he said, only to stop when he saw how your cheeks were slightly red.

"I'm fine, just tired. Why did you called me?" You shook off his concern, relieved that he had saved you without him knowing.

"Ah, right. There's a guest room available for you, so you can take it," he said.

You blinked. "Wait, what about you?"

Doohwa sighed. "I need to head to work. Got a sudden call from my boss and he said he needs me to come in."

"What? But it's already late! And it's a Saturday too," you pointed out.

You didn't want to be left alone with Riki, not after what nearly happened back then.

"I know, but this is the kind of risk I have to take when it comes to being a lawyer. I'm really sorry. I'm not sure how long I'll be away so if I'm not back tomorrow morning, you can ask my dad to drop you off," he apologized, stepping closer to pull you into a soft and loving embrace as he kissed your forehead.

Sighing, you leaned into his chest and returned the gesture. "..Fine, text me when you reach and when you're done. Don't make me worry about you."

"Can't promise that—ow! Did you just flicked my forehead!?"

Rolling your eyes, you shooed him out of the apartment after kissing him on his lips and closed the door. This time, you could sensed his presence without turning around.

"Don't even think about it," you said as you turned around, crossing your arms as you glared and scowled with your entire might at Riki.

"I didn't even say anything," he pointed out, looking offended like you had thought the worst of him.

And you did.

"I don't trust you," you muttered under your breath but he caught it.

"Oh, that's rich coming from someone who ran away the moment it gets too much," he retorted.

His words which contained the harsh, brutal truth made you flinched. It was also the way he said it—with venom seeping into his voice, how his shoulders tensed up and how he narrowed his eyes.

From where you stood, you were gravely reminded of that fateful night. The night when Riki wanted to be something more. Something that involved you having to tie your life with his. Something that required you to commit.

You remembered how you refused, how the two of you ended up arguing and how you stormed out of his house, ignoring how he shouted your name—with both anger and hurt laced in his voice. How Riki had no choice but to watch your retreating figure until you were out of his sight.

After that night, you had cut ties with him—blocking him everywhere and avoided him like the plague. At first, it was hard since you were so used to having him in your life that you felt lonely. But you didn't went on one-night stands. You couldn't focused on anything and it was a sheer miracle that you even graduated in the first place.

And now, here you were—trying to hold your ground as your past had came back to haunt you.

"I told you that I don't do relationships," you croaked out.

Riki barked out a cold, bitter laugh as he approached you, closing the distance with every step he took. "You say that but don't think I didn't seen the way you looked at me," he fired back.

"What are you talking about?" You frowned, confused but you didn't moved, standing where you are as the man gets closer and closer.

"Don't play dumb with me, (Name). I've seen it, every time when you think I'm not looking," he said, voice low and edged with something dangerously close to resentment. "The way your eyes lingered. The way your breath changed when I get too close. You don't get to pretend none of that means anything."

You weakly scoffed, shuffling your feet about on the spot as if that could buy you time. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?"

Riki stepped closer, close enough that you could feel his warmth, his presence pressing into your space the same, effortless way he used to.

"Because this feels a lot like before. Late nights and stolen looks. You acting like it's nothing while I'm the one left wondering where I stand."

"That's not fair," you replied, your voice trembling despite yourself. "I was honest with you from the start. I told you I didn't want more."

"And then you stayed!" Riki snapped, having lost the last few shreds of his patience and self-restraint. You flinched at the sudden loud volume of his voice.

"You kept coming back. You let me touch you like it didn't mean anything. Like I didn't mean anything. Like I was just someone for you to use," he continued, not giving you any room to speak.

The words hung heavy in the air. You couldn't looked him in the eyes any longer, letting your gaze dropped to the floor. "I left because it was getting complicated."

Riki went silent, staring at you with an incredulous look before he chuckled. But the sound contained no emotions. It was simply exhaustion and frustration.

"No. You left because it was getting real," he corrected you, not feeling any form of remorse when you cowered underneath his gaze.

"You disappeared without looking back. No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone. And now you're here, engaged to my son, telling me you don't do relationships like that's able to erase what we had!?"

"I didn't ran away. I chose a different route," you whispered but deep down, the both of you knew that was nothing more than a pathetic excuse.

Riki sharply exhaled, like he had reached the end of his restraint.

"I've had enough," he muttered, more to himself than to you.

Before you could react, he was in front of you, one hand on your waist while the other tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His face was inches away now, breath warm against your skin, eyes searching yours with something raw and unguarded.

He leaned in and then stopped.

It was like time froze. He stayed there, forehead resting against yours. You knew what he was doing. He was giving you time. Space and a choice. The choice of pushing him away and telling him to stop.

But you didn't.

Your silence was enough to act as a response.

Something dark and resolved flickered across Riki's face before he took the leap of faith, closing the distance.

His lips crashed against yours with force. Not reckless but desperate. Like he had been holding back for years. Like he had been dreaming about this.

Wanting to feel the intoxicating feeling of your soft lips against his. The kiss was deep and consuming, all of his pent-up frustration and unfinished words was poured into the kiss.

You let him tilt your head to the side while deepening the kiss. You had done this before—kissing but this? This was different. Unlike the old times when you kissed just for the sake of it, this felt more real and raw.

You obediently parted your lips, granting him entrance and just like before, Riki ran his tongue along the seam before exploring your warm, wet mouth with one slow and thorough lick.

The sensation was enough to make your head spin and ears burned at how the loud lewd sounds echoed in the living room. Your knees buckled, threatening to give way but Riki was faster.

In one smooth and fluid movement, Riki had blindly maneuvered you to the nearest wall surface that was located behind you. You gasped into his mouth when your back landed against the firm, cool surface of the wall.

With Riki's taller frame completely hovering over you, you had nowhere else to run.

Not that you wanted to run in the first place.

"W-Wait—" You protested but your voice died in your throat when Riki lifted you up, leaving your feet uselessly hanging in the air.

You squeaked; startled and out of pure instinct of the numerous times you had done this, you wrapped your legs around his waist. Riki grinned into the kiss—something you purposely ignored.

You knew he will be smug about it, about how things haven't changed and how you still reacted the same way, back when you were younger.

The way Riki kissed you was completely different from Doohwa. Unlike your fiance who treats you gently, with such care, love and devotion, Riki was the completely opposite. He kissed you like he wanted to claim and devour you, both inside and outside.

Your mind spun, hands now gripping onto the front of his sweatshirt to ground yourself into the current moment.

You flinched when he nipped at your bottom lip, the sharp and stinging sensation making you let out a whimper that was greedily swallowed by Riki. Without you knowing, your hands began moving like it had a mind of its own.

You moved to grab a fistful of his abyssal-like hair, tugging at it which elicited a low groan from him—the sound sending shivers down your spine and heat pooling in your stomach.

You couldn't even crossed your legs with how they were wrapped around his waist. After what felt like forever, Riki broke the kiss. He rested his forehead against yours as the both of you spent a few minutes catching your breath.

You couldn't looked away from him and with how close he was, you could see nothing but pure desire and lust behind them.

The sight of it was so overwhelming that you turned your head to the side. But Riki didn't liked that.

"Ah ah, look at me," he murmured, voice low and raspy as he grabbed your chin and turned you back to him.

To Riki, nothing could compared to how you looked before him. Your eyes were wide and dazed. Your lips were swollen and the lipstick you wore was smudged around the corners. He was certain that his lips was probably stained as well, but he didn't cared.

Riki's eyes darkened as a dark and twisted smile stretched across his face, resting his thumb on your bottom lip while he pressed down on it, watching how you obliged him by letting him do as he pleased.

"You have no idea how long I waited for this," he cooed.

He then moved back and placed you back down onto your feet. He steadied you when your body swayed slightly. He raised his hand, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind your right ear.

The smile on his face was anything but soft and loving. No, it looked almost dark, twisted and something else. Something that made him seemed like he knew something you don't.

"I'll stop here for now. But next time," he paused briefly, leaning down so he could whisper into your ear, "next time, I won't stop."

Riki didn't wait for your response, turning to walk away while leaving you standing there as reality gradually sink in of what you had just done.

~

Needless to say, you didn't slept well that night. You spent the entire night tossing and turning on the bed in the guestroom. Riki was generous enough to leave a spare set of clothes on the bed when he showed you to the guestroom.

You ignored how the clothes belonged to him and how they completely engulfed you with the black sweatshirt reaching your thighs and how you had to pull the strings of the sweatpants until it's tight enough so it won't dropped.

Every time you closed your eyes, your mind went back to the kiss. To how Riki kissed you effortlessly and to the way he looked at you with that glint in his eyes.

But most importantly, you couldn't stopped thinking about the things he said before he kissed you. How hurt and frustrated he was with you back then.

Somehow and someway, you managed to catch some sleep. When you woke up and checked your phone, it was already close to ten in the morning. You got out, headed to the guest bathroom where there was an extra set of toiletries for you to use.

Once you were done with your morning routine, you left the room and headed to the kitchen, mouth watering at the fragrant smell of bacon, coffee and scrambled eggs.

Riki glanced up at the sound of your approaching footsteps. The way his jaw clenched and how he had to physically hold himself back at how good you looked, dressed in his clothes didn't went unnoticed by you.

"You're awake. I made breakfast. Doohwa told me to drop you off later," he said, gesturing to the table.

You silently nodded as you took your seat and helped yourself to the food. Riki sat opposite of you but unlike you, he didn't eat. Instead, he stared at you. To say it was nerve-wrecking would be an understatement. It felt like you were a prey and he was the predator, watching you while hidden in the shadows before making his move.

And he did.

"So, did you sleep well?" He inquired.

The sudden question made you stilled.

To anyone else, it would had been an innocent and harmless question. But you knew better. You knew the meaning behind it. Riki knew the effect he had on you. He knew you didn't slept at all. He knew you couldn't stopped replaying the kiss in your mind, over and over in an endless cycle.

He knew you were starting to have doubts.

You gripped onto the chopsticks, eyes staring at a random spot of the table. You wanted to lie, to tell him that "yes, I slept well" but this was Riki. Someone who had known you better than you knowing yourself.

Which was why you placed your chopsticks down with a silent 'thud' on your bowl.

"We need to talk," you started, mustering the most serious look on your face, not wanting him to see you lose your composure.

Riki arched an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side. He leaned back in his seat and threw an arm onto the back of the chair situated on his right. The way he portrayed himself—laid-back and easy was enough to make your left eyebrow twitched subtly in mild annoyance.

"Oh? What about?" He asked, having the audacity to act like he was innocent. Especially after the bold move he pulled yesterday.

You swallowed down the tempting urge to just yell at him, knowing that will bring you nowhere. "You can't do that again, Riki. It's highly inappropriate and if Doohwa were to know, he—"

"Woah, why are you making it sound like I'm the bad guy here. If I remember correctly, you kissed me back too."

You opened and closed your mouth. Riki smirked, knowing you couldn't say anything. Not when he had you cornered and when he was merely speaking the truth.

You awkwardly cleared your throat, bringing a mixture of bacon strips and scrambled eggs into your mouth as you chewed, anything to buy yourself more time while your mind struggled to find a response.

"Regardless of who kissed who, it's still highly inappropriate, Riki. You need to understand that I'm engaged to Doohwa now," you forced yourself to speak, because you wanted him to understand that you had moved on. That your life no longer revolved around him.

Riki stared at you with an unreadable expression on his face. And then, he rose to his full height and walked round the table, heading to your direction while remaining uneasily calm. You pressed yourself against the chair, gripping onto your utensils for dear life, like it could protect you from him.

The walking definition of sin and temptation.

When he was close enough, Riki placed one hand on the back of your chair while the other smoothly slid under your chin, holding your face on his index finger.

Your body betrayed you. Your breath caught. You found yourself leaning into his touch before your mind could processed it.

"You say all that but the moment I laid my hands on you, you're all quiet," he taunts you, leaning down until the tips of your noses brushed against one another.

"Admit it, you still love me," he demanded in a soft but authoritative tone, enough to make you squeezed and rubbed your legs together.

Both of you didn't do anything at first, merely having a staring competition while daring the other party to make the first move. To let their guard down and give in to the temptation.

Clink clink!

The sound of your metal utensils dropping to the table pierced through the silence. Your hands shot out, grabbing a fistful of Riki's hoodie that had no right in making him looked more attractive than he already was. You caught the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes as you roughly tugged him down to smash your lips against his.

Riki froze for a few seconds but when he realized what was happening, he eagerly reciprocated it and easily took the lead. He moved to stand between your legs while resting his right knee on the empty space on the chair, dangerously closed to your clothed cunt.

You had to tilt your head all the way back and you knew you'll be getting a horrible neck cramp tomorrow. But right now, you couldn't find it in yourself to care.

"Is this your way of saying yes?" He chuckled, mumbling the words against your lips, refusing to pull back like the distance could kill him.

"Shut up. You piss me off, you know that?" You snarled, refusing to acknowledge his question and cut off his laughter by kissing him again.

Unlike before, Riki's hands began greedily tracing the outline and silhouette of your body—trying to figure out how much you had changed. He boldly slid his large, warm hands underneath the sweatshirt—his sweatshirt, smirking into the kiss at how you subtly arched into his touch when he slid his hand up your spine, slowly and teasingly.

"You look hot when you're pissed. Maybe I should piss you more often," he joked and before you could retort with something snarky, he pulled back from the kiss, leaving a visible trail of saliva that snapped into half and sank to his knees.

You watched with bated breath, both hands gripping onto the edge of the chair you were seated on. Your breakfast was long forgotten at this point.

Riki tapped on your thigh twice and you obeyed, slightly lifting your hips up, aiding him in the removal of your—well, his, sweatpants. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed you didn't worn anything underneath it.

"No panty? Dirty girl. Did you touched yourself last night?" He questioned you, not bothering to remove the sweatpants and letting it pooled around your ankles.

Riki threw your right leg over his shoulder, grabbing onto your thigh to tug you forward. You let out a surprised sound when your body slid down and lurched forward until you were in an awkward position—half-kneeling and half-sitting on the chair.

Heat crept up the back of your neck at how focused Riki was as he stared at your bare, throbbing and aching cunt that fluttered while being on the receiving end of his puma-like gaze. He didn't asked for permission or warned you, diving in like he hasn't eaten for months. His tongue darted out, licking from the opening up to your clit.

To tease you and further pushed you over the edge, he gave a light, fleeting suck that drew a loud and high-pitched broken moan from the depths of your throat.

"F-Fuck, Riki," you moaned, head tilted back until it's bent backwards over the back of the chair as you canted your hips forward, craving for more.

The older man paid you no mind as he alternated between slow, flat stripes and quick, kittenish licks, the rapid change giving you whiplash. You couldn't keep up, mind blanking out with how good he was. Not even Doohwa had gotten this far with you, even though you were already engaged.

Riki glanced up from where he knelt—between your legs, like he was a loyal worshiper. His eyes lingered on your facial expression—how you bit down on your bottom lip, how your eyes were squeezed tight and how you furrowed your eyebrows as you struggled to hold back the noises.

That won't do.

Determined to hear it, he buried his face deeper and with his other hand, he spread you apart with his middle and index fingers. You let out a strangled whine as he pushed his tongue in, moving past your wet, soaking folds.

Heck, you could even felt his nose bumping against the hood of your clit just right.

"Fuck, look at you. Riding my face like that. Has my son not done this before?" He groaned.

If Riki could, he wished to spend an eternity between your legs, having his mouth on your pussy—eating it for breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner and supper. He couldn't get enough of how sweet and addictive you taste.

The indirect mention of Doohwa's name made you let out a weak mewl, mind already too far gone as you continued rocking your hips against the sharp outline of his nose. Broken moans, gasps and chanting of Riki's name fell from your lips like a sacred prayer.

"Riki.. oh god, d-don't stop.. fuck, pleasepleaseplease," you pleaded, voice dripping with such neediness that it made his cock twitched against the loose restraints of his sweatpants.

Riki moaned, the sound muffled and the vibration against your pussy was enough for you to reach your climax. Your legs spasmed out as your entire body trembled from the overwhelming and intense feeling.

You would had kicked him right in the face if he didn't held you down by your waist firmly.

Riki didn't stopped, tongue still lapping away while ensuring not a single drop had gone wasted. Eventually, he pulled away with the bottom half of his face covered in your slick. His plump lips looked even more irresistible than it already was, making you dryly swallowed. Riki didn't broke your eye contact, wiping your slick away with the back of his right hand.

What he did next nearly made you jumped on him, right there and then.

He brought his now soaked hand to his mouth and licked your slick up, like a cat greedily lapping from a plate of milk. You couldn't looked away, like your body had betrayed you as you stared at him, in both disbelief and something else you refused to acknowledge.

Something else that is related to you wanting to kiss the living life out of him, like a vampire. As if knowing what you're thinking, Riki smirked and stood up.

"Thanks for breakfast," he simply said before walking away, leaving you seated on the chair with your sweatpants still around your ankles as you struggled to wrap your mind around the mere fact that you had crossed a line and was now in a very dangerous territory.

What's worse was the fact that you wouldn't mind doing this again.

~

Whatever happened afterwards was a blur to you. You don't remembered finishing the remains of your breakfast, washing the dishes and changing back to the dress you wore yesterday. You don't remembered getting into Riki's car as he drove you back to you and Doohwa's home. You don't remembered him sneakily slipping something—a neatly folded piece of paper into your purse before you noticed it.

At first, things were normal. Both you and Doohwa were focused on your respective work life and the never-ending list of responsibilities that came with it. Doohwa had to spend more time in the office—reason being was his company had shortlisted him for an upcoming promotion. When he told you about it, you were on cloud nine and you went all out.

You made his favorite dishes and even going the going extra mile of pulling out the bottle of red wine that was given to you from your parents as a housewarming gift. The two of you spent the entire night drinking and chatting to your hearts' content.

Things were normal, until they weren't.

"I'll get going now," you announced to your co-worker, who nodded and bid you farewell.

"Bye and have a good weekend!" She said and you smiled, throwing her words back at her as well.

You stepped out of your company, already searching for Doohwa's car when you came to a stop. Your eyes landed on a certain tall figure, who casually leaned against his car with his arms loosely crossed across his chest. There were a few passerby who did a double take when they saw him, no doubt flustered by his looks. Some even giggled and whispered among themselves, wondering whose boyfriend or husband does he belonged to.

They were completely oblivious to the truth.

You swore your face turned as pale as a ghost. As if sensing your presence, he looked up and easily located you from where he stood. Riki arched an eyebrow, watching you. It's obvious he was waiting for your next move, curious to see what you would choose: fight or flight? If this was the old you, you would had immediately turned and bolted.

But now that you had grown up and became a young woman, you chose fight. Holding your head high while ignoring how every step you took only made your heartbeat quickened, you approached him and stopped before him.

"What are you doing here?" You asked, not bothering to sound polite or even greet him. "And more importantly, how do you know where I work?"

Riki was unfazed with your bluntness and merely smirked. "Doohwa called me. Asked if I could give you a ride home. Told me he won't be coming home tonight since he needs to work hard for his promotion."

You blinked and then narrowed your eyes at him. "And why should I believe you? How do I know you're not lying?" You asked, eyeing him warily.

Sighing, the man reached into the pocket and pulled out his phone. He unlocked it, opened the Messages app and turned it to show you the messages his son had sent him. You had to squint your eyes to get a clearer look at it.

Doohwa: Hey dad, could you help to pick (Name) up after work? I won't be able to do it since I'll be working overtime… Here's her company address: XXX-XXXXXXXX.

"That piece of shit. He could've at least called me," you muttered under your breath as you moved back when you realized you were standing too close to him.

"He did. But I think your phone died. He tried calling you too but all of it went to voicemails, which was why he came to me instead," Riki answered, tucking his phone aside and pushed himself off the car he was leaning on.

"Get in, we can grab something to eat then I'll drop you off," he said, opening the passenger door for you.

A part of you wanted to walk away, stating that you don't need him to drive you home but another part of you wanted this. You ended up getting in and he closed the door after you. Riki walked round his car and got into the driver's seat. One quick scan of the black, sleek and polished design of the interior of the car told you enough.

"Looks like someone's earning a fortune," you pointed out, unable to hide the sarcasm that managed to seep into your voice.

"Oh, thanks. It's all part of the job," he casually answered and somehow, your left eyebrow twitched with how causal he said it. Like he was better than you.

You swallowed the rising and tempting urge to lose your temper and asked another question. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

You scoffed as you hugged your work bag close to your chest, like it could shield you from him. "Don't tell me you're kidnapping me or something."

Riki glanced at you and something akin to mischief twinkled in his eyes. "Relax. If I do that, we'll be heading to my place in no time."

Your cheeks burned at the implication behind his words, making you tightened your grip around your work bag. "You're disgusting."

"You say that but you literally let me eat you out."

"Riki!"

Out of all places you had in mind, you didn't expect for him to pull up in front of a familiar place. A place where it all began. You got out of the car after Riki parked it, staring at the bar with a bewildered look on your face. Footsteps approached you until he stood beside you, hands shoved into his pockets.

"What do you think? You like my surprise?" He asked, unable to hide the wide grin stretching across his face.

Your eyes darted between the name and his face. You barely managed to conceal the surprise that had already made itself known, awkwardly clearing your throat. "Don't tell me you're feeling nostalgic and decided to bring me here for a memory refresh."

He chuckled; amused and shook his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows."

You frowned, clearly disliking how he's being vague. "You—"

"Ah ah, stop arguing with me. If you hate it so much, you can walk away right now. I won't stop you," he interrupted, watching you with a knowing glint.

He knew you wouldn't walked away. He knew you would stay with him. He knew you would let him do as he pleased—like what happened before. When you said nothing or didn't walked away, Riki smirked and gestured for you to walk ahead of him. You shot him a glare and if looks could kill, he would have died on the spot as you walked past him, even purposely bumping your shoulder against his, just because you're petty.

Riki said nothing as he followed you, purposely brushing his shoulder against yours. He opened the door for you, allowing you to enter and when you did, you had to pause, stand by the doorway to take in everything.

It was still the same.

There were no major changes done. The lighting, the atmosphere, the furniture and even the interior was exactly the same. You were so caught-up taking in your surroundings that you weren't even aware someone standing behind the counter spotted the two of you.

"Yo, what the—(Name)? Is that you?"

You snapped back to reality when someone called out your name over the music playing from the speakers. Before you knew it, Lee Heeseung had appeared in your sights. One look at him told you that he had aged well, just like the man currently standing beside you. Heeseung pulled you into an embrace without warning. You stilled for a few seconds but returned the hug and patted him on his back.

What you didn't know however, was how Heeseung playfully stuck his tongue out at Riki over your shoulder, causing the younger man to scowl. Heeseung broke the hug and smiled down at you, briefly and respectfully scans you from head to toe.

"Looks like adulthood's been treating you well. You grew up to be a fine woman, with all due respect, of course," he complimented you.

And you laughed for the first time today, waving off his words with a bashful smile on your face. "Stop it. You and your sweet words."

Heeseung chuckled. "What can I say? I'm a natural sweet-talker. You guys can grab yourselves some seats and if Riki wants, he can make the drinks as I'm kinda busy," he continued while pointing at his ex co-worker.

"You sure that's allowed, hyung?" Riki teased.

His ex-boss rolled his eyes. "I'm the owner of this place. What are they gonna do? Fire me? Hah, I'd like to see them try. But seriously, just do it if you want to. I need to go. Maybe we can talk again later."

Heeseung ruffled Riki's hair—much to the younger's annoyance. He gave you a friendly smile before disappearing into the sea of people. Your eyes scanned the place, managing to find an empty table and sped-walked towards it. You were the first to sit down, placing your work bag on your lap as you stared at the menu that was placed on it.

Riki, on the other hand, plopped down in the opposite seat of yours as he observed you with an unreadable look on his face. "You two look awfully cozy back there," he commented.

You didn't glanced up, scanning both the food and drinks sections. "Heeseung? Yeah, we became good friends after he made me and my friends drinks. Too bad they weren't on the house though."

"Yeah, and he's also someone who couldn't keep his hands to himself," he grumbled under his breath.

"Did you say something?" You asked, raising your head.

"Nothing. What are you planning on getting?" Riki immediately changed the subject.

You eyed him for a while but didn't brought it up, choosing to go with the flow instead. "I was thinking of getting the steak and probably something non-alcoholic for the drinks," you answered while pointing at the dish you mentioned.

Riki had to lean forward to get a closer look, his shadow being cast across both the menu and table when he does so. "Non-alcoholic? Didn't take you as the boring type."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You glared at him for the unknown time.

Seeing your reaction, he smirked—knowing he had you right where he wanted you to be. "I'm just saying. Non-alcoholic on a Friday? C'mon, it's a Saturday tomorrow. You need to loosen up a little. Unless you're scared."

The last word nearly made you see red.

"Scared? Oh, I'll show you what scared really looks like," you retorted.

Riki smirked as he stood up. "That's my girl. Be right back. I'll make your order."

Before you could say anything, he headed backdoor to where only staff was granted access, leaving you seated by the table, cheeks flushed at how he had called you his girl.

~

"Wait—!"

You weakly protested but your voice died down in your throat when Riki moved abruptly.

Bam!

The door slammed shut behind you as he used his weight to pin it closed. The sound echoed throughout the quiet and still apartment. His hands grabbed both sides of your head as he maneuvered you backward until your back was against the wall, trapping you there—not hurting or rough but desperate. His breathing was uneven now, chest rising and dropping fast as his forehead briefly dropped to yours, like he was fighting to control himself.

To control himself.

"Don't. Don't say anything," he said in a hoarse voice.

And he kissed you.

It was frantic, nothing like the controlled restraint he had shown before or the way he kissed you back then. This was different. More intense. More needy. More desperate. His mouth moved hungrily against yours, like he wanted to swallow you whole. Like he couldn't bear the thought of watching you letting someone else that's not him talking to you, making you laughed and smiled freely.

Riki's hand slid down to your jaw, thumb pressing there with poorly contained tension as he deepened the kiss, angling your head to the side, like he knew exactly how to steal your breath. Your palms were sweating profusely, mind spinning from the remaining alcohol in your veins and you felt unusually warm.

But, you couldn't pinpoint the exact reason why.

You tried to break the kiss, tried to stop him but Riki was stubborn. He growled, impatient and frustrated when you repeatedly delivered light whacks to his shoulders.

"Do you have any idea how hard it was? Watching you smile at Heeseung like that? How you kept entertaining him?" He murmured against your lips between each kisses, voice low and rough, sending shivers down your spine and the all-too familiar sensation of heat pooling in your stomach.

It's like your body only reacted this way when you're with Riki and not Doohwa.

You barely had time to process it before he kissed you again, slower this time but the intensity behind it remained the same, enough for you to openly and wetly pant against his lips. It felt possessive now, more deliberate—like he was reminding the both of you who was here first. Who still remembered.

His other hand rested at your waist, grounding and anchoring you to him, like he was afraid you will disappear the moment he loosened his grip.

"Every time hyung talked to you, you looked at ease. Like it was nothing. And I was right there, pretending it doesn't get under my skin," he continued quietly, jealousy bleeding through despite his best, futile attempts to keep it buried.

He rested his forehead against yours, your breaths mingling as you two breathed in the same space. You couldn't looked away, not when his eyes were dark and searching. Searching for any signs of you not wanting this, before it was too late.

"But it did. It got under my skin," he admitted.

"Ri—!"

You didn't managed to utter out his full name as he kissed you once more—not rushed or frantic, but full of weight and meaning, like a confession he could no longer keep inside. You couldn't keep up with him, not when your legs threatened to give way. You would've toppled to the ground if Riki didn't steadied you in the nick of time.

And then, your vision was tilted to the left.

Riki easily carried you in his arms bridal-style and headed to the bedroom—not the guestroom but to his own bedroom. Instead of placing or throwing you onto his bed, he pinned you against the wall the moment you stepped foot into the room, kissing you until you're breathless and your lips were swollen. You let him removed your clothes—the black blazer you wore to protect yourself from the cold, leaving you in your inner, plain black blouse and loose, black pants.

With lots of self-control behind it, he broke the kiss, chuckling at the disappointed whine you made at the sudden distance. He stopped you when you chased after him, causing you to furrow your eyebrows at him, confused with his intention.

"Get on your knees for me, doll," he demanded, voice firm and authoritative—leaving no room for objections.

Not that you were planning on going against him in the first place.

You compiled, involuntarily shivering at the usage of the pet-name—the very one he used back then. Your clothed knees hit the carpeted floor of his bedroom, sweaty palms resting on your lap as you looked up at him. Riki looked down at you and seeing you like this—willingly on your knees while batting your eyelashes at him, unaware of the effect you have on him.

"Fuck, you look pretty like this," he breathed out, resting his hand on top of your head as he grabbed a fistful of your hair with his fingers.

"Go on, I don't have all day," he drawled, cocking his head to the side as he looked down at you expectantly.

Your eyes darted between his face and the visible bludge in his pants that's right before you. To test the water, you raised your trembling hands. Out of excitement or nervousness, you weren't sure and you pulled the zipper down slowly. The sound of it being tugged down was loud, echoing throughout the four walls of the room, a foreshadowing of what's to come.

Riki didn't moved, watching and letting you pulled his pants and Chrome Hearts boxers until it's low enough, finally freeing his hardened cock proudly standing upright. Riki shivered at the light, fleeting sensation fo the cool wind brushing against his sensitive cock. Precum formed at the tip. You had to pause for a moment, unable to conceal the surprise that appeared in your eyes at how… well, huge he had gotten.

The last time you had sex with him, he wasn't even this big yet. It's times like these where you get reminded that the man standing before you now was longer the same as before.

Glancing up at him through your eyelashes, you scooted forward on your knees, so you can get closer without having to strain your neck. Instead of wasting time with foreplay or teasing him, you jumped right in. You swallowed him in one go, your gag reflex being non-existent. You slacked your jaw, pushing forward while ignoring the way your throat convulsed around the thick grith of his cock.

Riki groaned, head falling back to reveal his neck with his veins popping out. "Fuck, your mouth's still so good."

You moaned, the sound muffled and sending vibrations down the length of his cock, drawing a curse from the man above you. You began bobbing your head, hollowing your cheeks as you traced the protruding veins along the sides of his cock. You even reached out to caress his heavy balls, grazing your nails against the outline, causing his thighs to twitch at the mere contact.

With borderline shaking hands, Riki managed to pull out his phone from the pockets of his pants. What was supposed to be an easy task of unlocking the device and opening the camera app proved to be a difficult task. Especially with how warm and tight your mouth felt. He couldn't stopped replaying the image of you taking him whole without gagging in his mind, like it was on loop.

"Fuck," he hissed through his gritted teeth and clenched jaw at a particular harsh from you.

You chose that moment to pull away, making an audible "pop" sound and pressed your lips against the mushroomy tip, lips curled up in a smile at how it visibly twitched in your grip.

"What's wrong? Can't unlock your phone?" You cooed, teasing and taunting him. "Need some help?"

Riki paused and looked down at you, phone held in his left hand. The next thing you knew, he roughly tugged you forward by using your hair as the reins, until the tip was pressed against your lips, but you refused to let him in, stubbornly keeping your mouth closed. His eyes hardened at your disobedience.

"You forgot you're not the one in-charge here, doll," he snarled, giving another tug of your hair as your head jerked backward at an awkward angle where you're forced to look at him.

"Open up. Or else," he warned you.

Your mouth instinctively opened and this time, Riki was well-prepared. He held his phone before him, the camera app already opened. He clicked the record button and the timer went off as he filmed him shoving you down on his cock. His sudden action elicited a muffled, choking sound from you. Your eyes widened with tears prickling at the corners, blurring your vision slightly but Riki didn't cared.

He thrusted into your mouth, not giving a damn about your comfort as he used you as a fleshlight while chasing after his pleasure. He didn't cared that you were drooling as well, with it trickling down your widely-stretched mouth. Some even rolled down to his balls. The temperature difference of your warm and thick saliva against his cool and tight balls sent shivers down his spine.

Riki couldn't tear his eyes away from the video as he recorded your fucked-out facial expression—your half-lidded teary eyes, your lips obscenely stretched wide to accommodate the thick grith of his cock in your mouth and how he could even see the outline of himself down your throat at every snap of his hips. You could barely breathed, having to inhale and exhale through your nose.

He didn't warned you as he spilled hot and thick cum down your throat, painting it in the shade of white. You weren't even fazed with the salty taste in your mouth, letting it rest on your tongue, waiting for his permission for you to swallow it. Riki pulled his now limp cock out of your bruised, swollen lips with a loud "pop" sound. He tilted your face up with his thumb on your chin, zooming in with two fingers until it's focused on your mouth.

"Open your mouth. Let me see it," he cooed.

You obeyed him, opening your mouth as wide as you can and then, he shoved two fingers down your throat without hesitation. You audibly gagged on it, your throat tightening around the sudden intrusion. This time, tears rolled down your face as he dipped his fingers into the mini pool of cum resting on your tongue before spreading it over your entire mouth, ensuring every inch was covered in it, like he was spreading butter on bread.

Satisfied, Riki withdrew his saliva-coated fingers but instead of wiping it clean, he returned to his previous position—thumb on your chin. You still had your mouth opened, looking at him with wide and innocent eyes.

Except you were anything but innocent.

You thought he'd asked you to swallow but he moved, bending over at waist level with his phone angled out of the way but he was still recording you. You let him further tilt your chin back and then—

Spat.

Your heart stopped beating. Riki had just spit into your mouth. He knowingly smirked at your reaction—how your brain malfunctioned on the spot. He tapped twice on your bottom lip with his index finger—the very same finger that was in your mouth a few minutes ago.

"Swallow it," he demanded.

And who were you to say no?

You obeyed, making a show of you swallowing everything—his cum and his saliva. When you did, you parted your lips to show your now cleaned mouth and he nodded, satisfied. Riki stopped the recording, pocketing his phone. He pulled you up to your feet to capture your lips in a intense, feverish kiss, not caring that he's able to taste himself on your lips which only further intensified the feeling.

He turned you around and made you moved backward until your knees knocked into the side of the bed. You fell backward onto the clean, neat and tidy sheets with a 'thud' sound. Riki was quick to be on top of you and trailed kisses down your neck, drawing a soft and pleased sigh from you. You tilted your head back, eyes closed in bliss with your chest pressed against his.

"Can I take this off?" He asked, voice unusually soft despite the rough way he manhandled you a few minutes ago.

You blinked but nodded your head. "Y-Yeah, you can."

Your ears turned red at how you stuttered but thankfully, Riki didn't comment on it. He finished unbuttoning the rest of the buttons of your blouse and you lifted yourself up from the sheets, allowing him to slide it off until the fabric is brunched around your elbows.

He quickly made quick work of his clothes, stripping until he's naked. Your eyes flicked down and you saw it—a red kiss mark tattoo on the side of his stomach. Your eyes lingered longer than usual but you forced yourself to look away. However, you knew you were caught red-handed with the knowing smirk Riki sent you.

"Like what you see?" He asked, voice low and deep.

You couldn't helped yourself, pushing yourself up to get a closer look. You reached out but your hands froze mid-air, looking at him, waiting for permission. Riki nodded and you took that as your sign, resting your right palm above the tattoo. You traced the outline of it with your fingers, ears registering the sharp inhale from Riki.

"You… When did you get this?" You murmured, voice soft.

"I got it when we were still…" His voice trailed off but you knew what he wanted to say.

When we were still having that friends-with-benefits relationship.

Riki awkwardly cleared his throat, resting his hand above yours—completely covering your hand from his view.

"What do you think? Do you like it?" He asked. If you were to listen closely, you could detect shyness behind it—like a young boy seeking approval from his mother.

You didn't answered him verbally, choosing to answer with your action instead. You gently pried his hand away from the tattoo, able to feel his confusion but it vanished when you leaned forward, pressing your lips against it, in the exact same position and angle.

The mere contact of your plush but still swollen lips against the kiss mark tattoo made him visibly jolt. Riki's breath hitched in his throat, eyes widening with genuine surprise at your unpredicted and bold action. You let your lips lingered against it for a while before pulling away. Riki snapped back to reality and cupped your face, kissing you with neediness that it made your head spun.

You let him pushed you back until you were laying on the bed. Riki broke the kiss, taking in the sight of you laying beneath him with your hair spread out like a messy halo. Feeling flustered with his gaze, you covered the bottom half of your face with the back of your palm, eyes averted to the side. But Riki clicked his tongue in disapproval. He reached out, grabbed your hand and pinned it on your left, smoothly intertwining your fingers together.

"Don't hide from me. You're beautiful," he reassured you, eyes filled with nothing but utmost sincerity.

You stared at him, taken aback by how honest he was. You didn't know how to respond and merely meekly nodded your head, not trusting in your voice. Riki chuckled, amused with your reaction. He didn't completely removed your blouse, leaving it hanging around your elbows as he made quick work of your pants, now leaving you in your matching set of underwear—a plain, black set of bra and lace panties.

Riki tossed your pants onto the floor, eyes zoned in on the evident wet spot, right over where your pussy was. He rested a finger on the wet spot, moving it upward with his eyes on your face—observing your reaction. He faintly smirked at how you gasped, hips canting forward, craving more of it.

Tugging the soaked and thin fabric aside, he let out a low and impressed whistle at how your pussy was drenched, with visible, thick and sticky strings of your arousal being stretched to the side, along with the movement.

"Look at you, already drippin' for me," he breathed out, amazed with how wet you are as his finger inched closer, now fully touching your bare pussy, savoring the little and soft whimpers spilling from your lips.

"Too bad that useless son of mine doesn't know how sweet you taste."

The moment he finished speaking, Riki dived in. He flattened his tongue as he ran it along your puffy, dripping folds, collecting your slick that couldn't stopped dripping. The sheer contact of his rough tongue against your sensitive pussy drew a loud and shameless moan from you.

Your back arched off the bed, legs now tightly wrapped around his head, locking him in place. You were worried that you were suffocating him but the thought flew out of your mind when he pushed not one, but two fingers in until he was knuckles-deep in.

Riki had to control himself when he felt how tight you were around his fingers, making him wonder: would you be able to take his cock? But as the saying goes, 'if there's a will, there's a way'.

The double penetration of his tongue and fingers made you see stars exploding behind your eyelids. Riki easily located that delicate spot located against your gummy and velvety walls. He expertly curled his fingers in just the right angle, drawing more angelic sounds from your lips.

"Ngh—F-Fuck, Riki, oh god," you moaned, throwing all ounces of shame and self-discipline out of the window at how he pressed his thumb down on the hood of your clit before moving it in a slow, circular motion in clockwise direction.

You weren't even aware that you started fucking yourself back on his fingers as he pumped them in and out at a steady interval. The bedroom was filled with your moans and the lewd sounds of him eating you out like there's no tomorrow. You couldn't registered what you were saying. It could be his name or you blabbering anything that sounded suspiciously like please and more.

Whatever it was, it seemed to have an effect on Riki with how he audibly moaned into your pussy, burying his face deeper like he wants to die between your legs with his tongue tasting your slick, treating it like sweet nectar from a sunflower.

"G-Gonna cum," you panted, warning him while trying to push him away but Riki was persistent. He ignored your weak and feeble attempts to shove him away as he continued to abuse your poor pussy.

All it took was for him to move his fingers in a scissors-like motion, spreading you opened and a slow, teasing flick with the tip of his tongue for you to come undone. Your stomach muscles tightened from the orgasm as overwhelming pleasure washed over you. Riki still didn't moved away, relentlessly eating you through your climax. It was only when you went pliant against the sheets was when he finally let you breathe.

He pushed himself up onto his knees, his pink tongue darting out to lick at the wetness coating his thick and plump lips. "Fuck, have you had sex with Doohwa before?" He asked.

The sudden question right after he gave you the most intense orgasm of your life made you stared at him, like he had spoken in a different language. It took you a few seconds for your mind to catch up and you shook your head, still in a daze.

"No, we didn't. We only kissed and made out, that's all. Never gone further than that," you admitted, oblivious to how your words made something in Riki twitched.

"So, he hasn't touched you here before?" He asked, scooting closer and boldly cupped your bare, overly-sensitive pussy, drawing a soft whine from you at the sudden contact.

Again, you shook your head but he wasn't pleased with the lack of verbal response.

"I needs words, doll. Answer me," he instructed, pushing the tip of his index finger back in, watching as how your head fell backward.

"N-No, he didn't—nonono!" You cried out at how he pulled his finger out, ignoring the way you pathetically clenched down on him, attempting to make him stay.

Riki lets out a dark and low laugh at the crestfallen look on your face and let out a faux coo, even furrowing his eyebrows in faux concern and pity. "Aw, poor baby. Sure you want my fingers?" He asked, chuckling at how you eagerly nodded your head, eyes half-lidded.

"Are you sure? Thought you want my cock instead," he continued.

The way your eyes widened and lit up at his words nearly made him laughed, if it wasn't for the mood of the current situation. Riki moved you upward until your head was resting on a pillow.

He placed another pillow underneath your hips as he situated himself between your spread out legs. He couldn't get enough with how sinful you looked—laying there while looking at him with wide and doe-like eyes, ready to take him.

Ready for you to become his.

Riki forgo the condoms as he didn't have them anymore. Not after he had Doohwa with one of his one-night stands. He reached over the bed, picking up his phone. This time, he was able to easily unlocked it and opened the camera app, pressing the record button.

He tilted the phone down, ensuring to capture the angle of him aligning himself against your weeping entrance but instead of pushing in, he rubbed the tip against your folds, collecting your slick as he coated it over his cock, acting as temporary lube.

"Beg for it, darling. Wanna hear you beg," he said, the recording perfectly capturing everything.

You whined, fingers gripping onto the pillow beneath your head with your nails digging into it. You tried to cant your hips forward, hoping he could just slide in but Riki held you down by your hips, his strength easily overwhelming yours.

"I say beg for it. Show me how much of a desperate woman you are, wanting someone else's cock instead of your fiance," he taunts, his crude words drawing a pitiful and needy whimper from you.

"P-Please, wan' you," you begged, frustrated tears burning in your eyes but Riki didn't gave in.

Not yet. He wants to push you further.

"Try again. You can do better."

You sniffled pathetically. At this point, your mind was no longer intact within your body. Which was why you barely comprehend the words that slipped from your mouth, like it was nothing.

"Please daddy, wan' your cock," you pleaded and fuck, the way you addressed him. That one singular word struck something deep and feral in Riki.

He didn't dropped his phone or stopped the recording. Instead, you felt his hard, thick cock pressed up adjacent in your cervix in a singular shove, his chest heaving up and down erratically as desire gleamed in his dazed eyes.

You felt the air being punched out of your lungs with how deep his cock was. You swore he could hit the entrance to your womb—something you didn't know was possible.

Until now.

"Shit, you're so tight," he cursed, zooming in to capture the lewd moment of your pussy lips stretched obscenely wide around the grith of his cock.

"Ki, move, please" you whispered.

Riki raised an eyebrow. "No, that's not what you called me just now."

You looked at him, mind struggling to process his words and that's when it hit you. Riki hummed at your hesitation.

"Guess you don't want it then," he shrugged his shoulders, pretending he was about to pull out but as he expected, you stopped him.

"No, don't!" You protested.

"Yes? What do you want, doll? Use your words," he coaxed you, ensuring that your face wasn't captured in the recording.

You paused for a few seconds, trying to pluck up the remains of your close to non-existent courage. "Please fuck me… daddy."

Riki audibly groaned at the last word, his cock twitched inside of you. He pulled out until his tip is still inside you and then pushed back in, slamming his hips against yours.

His balls slapped against your ass cheeks with every deep and harsh thrust from him. The older man grit his teeth at how you tightened around him.

He changed the angle slightly, easily finding the same spongy spot and wasted no time in abusing it, the tip of his cock kissing it with every thrust.

The new change of angle drew more high-pitched and breathless moans from you as you lay there, body shuffling up and down.

The bed-frame kept smacking against the wall with a series of loud and heavy thud, thud, thud.

You weren't even sure if Riki's neighbors were around but you hoped they weren't. Not with how loud you were being.

"Takin' me so well. You're made for me, aren't you?" He groaned, tossing his phone aside but he didn't stopped the recording. It landed camera down on the sheets and now, it was merely recording the loud, lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin.

Riki looked down, smirking when he saw a ring of white, thick liquid forming at the base of his cock. He reached out, hand spreading your fat pussy lips apart, watching as you took more of him.

"Ngh, d-daddy—hah, please, moremoremore," you chanted, eyes rolling up to the back of your head.

Riki lets out a breathless chuckle, leaning down so he can whisper into your ear, hand still spreading you apart for him. He didn't slowed down, still maintaining the ruthless pace he set earlier.

"Bet he won't fuck you this good, would he? Maybe I should show him the clips, hm? Show him how much of a slut you are, letting his dad fuck you. Begging for an older man's cock when you're engaged," he downright sneered, his words drawing a needy mewl from you and he continued.

"If you didn't walked away, you would had this a long time ago," he murmured under his breath, almost like he was talking to himself.

Riki's eyes trailed down to your stomach, able to make-out the faint outline of his cock. He watched as the bump moved up and down, along with him.

Seeing your stomach having a bulge because of him made his mind spin. Thoughts start to creep in—how would you looked carrying his child? Would it be a boy or a girl? Would they have your eyes, your smile and your laugh?

Just the thought of you being pregnant with his child is enough to give him a newfound motivation. The motivation to knock you up and doing this behind his beloved son's back only made it even more tempting and sinful.

"You'd like it, don't you? Carrying my kids, pretending you aren't getting fucked by his own father," he taunts, words dripping with nothing but mockery. But to you, it felt good, in a way you couldn't described.

You couldn't speak, not when you felt the all-too familiar sensation of your stomach tightening. Riki knew you were close, with how your breathing grew more ragged and heavier. He buried himself up to the hilt and you tipped over the edge.

Your mouth dropped open, forming a silent 'O' shape as your pussy convulsed around his cock, milking him dry as he followed suit—spilling thick and hot semen, painting your creamy walls white.

Marking you as his.

You laid on the stained sheets, mind too far gone and too exhausted to move your limbs or even raised a single finger. Riki, on the other hand, didn't pulled out. His cock was still inside of you. The only form of warning you got was him flipping you over until you were pathetically on your hands and knees, that were trembling, barely able to contain your weight.

Riki draped himself over you, his chest pressed against your back with his chin resting on your shoulder. His hand trailed down, gently running his hands along your pussy lips, savoring the way you shivered and how you unconsciously leaned into his touch.

"Don't think I'm done with you yet, doll. We need to make up for the lost time," he whispered into your ears and that's when you knew, you were in for a long, long night.

~

You told yourself that would be the final time you do… whatever this is with Riki. But no matter what you were doing—be it working, spending time with Doohwa or planning your wedding ceremony, your mind couldn't stopped thinking about him. Couldn't stopped thinking about the way his hands touched your body, knowing exactly where to touch, to make you crumble before him, reducing you to a flushed and pliant mess.

To make matters worse, Doohwa was constantly away—due to him gradually spending more time in his office while desperately chasing after his promotion. This only gave you the perfect excuse to keep this up. While your fiance was busy working with his life put on the line, you were busy… well, getting the best fucking of your life.

You should feel guilty for doing something as unforgivable as cheating on him. But then again, whenever you looked at Riki or when the two of you are alone in the same room, it was like gravity had pulled you together. Clothes were hurriedly removed, like they were nothing but nuisances and were getting in the way.

You had ran out of fingers and toes to count how many times Riki had you moaning his name. As far as you were aware, he had taken you on every possible flat surface in his apartment—the kitchen counter, the many walls he has, the dining table and the list goes on. Heck, you even found out that you were quite flexible too, with how he had you in a mating press or with your ankles nearly pressed against your ears as you were forced to take his cock, over and over again.

Time slipped past in a blur and before you knew it, the day had officially arrived.

The day of your wedding.

Normally, the bride would be thrilled or over the moon at the thought of finally being wedded to their fiance—who will soon be their husband. However, you were feeling anything but joy. You couldn't hear the compliments thrown your way from your family or friends. You couldn't hear the well wishes that fell from their lips and how some were borderline tearing up.

Currently, you were in the bridal suite after spending the past two to three hours letting the make-up artists and stylists making you as beautiful as possible, until you couldn't recognized the woman in the reflection. You stared at yourself, like you were looking at a complete stranger. The make-up wasn't bad in any way but what they didn't know was the sea of emotions in your heart and mind.

"You look gorgeous."

You instantly snapped your head to the door and there he was, standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his black pants. Just like everyone else, Riki had wore a tailored-made suit but somehow, he was able to pull off the look effortlessly, making him looked like he was a model ready to walk the runway soon.

And of course, he chose today to wear the glasses. A pair of black-rimmed glasses that rested on the bridge of his nose. The very same glasses that made you lost your mind when you saw him wore it for the first time, resulting in you eagerly sinking to your knees when he was having an online meeting as you unbuckled his pants and—

"You're not supposed to be here!" You exclaimed, rising from your feet, pulling your long wedding dress up to not trip over it as you approached him.

Riki chuckled, not moving from his spot. "It's fine, I'm not the one you're marrying so the rule doesn't apply to me," he paused briefly, letting his eyes roamed down your figure without any ounce of shame and he stepped forward, causing your breath to hitch.

"And besides, I have a very special surprise for you," he murmured, lowering his head to brush his lips against yours, approval glimmered in his eyes when you didn't pushed him away.

You nervously gulped. "…What kind of surprise is it?"

Riki straightened himself and stepped away. "Now telling you will ruin it. But don't worry, it's not something bad."

He sniggered at your bemused expression and bid you farewell as he left the suite, gently closing the door behind him.

After the guests had taken their seats, the ceremony kicked off. The doors opened, revealing your father, wearing a suit, on the other side of the door. He stared at you in shock before his eyes softened—which only made you felt even worse, like you were about to vomit right there and then. Still, you mustered the best smile you can, slipping your hand around his arm as the two of you—father and daughter, began walking to the room where everyone was waiting.

Everyone with Riki included as well.

Soon, you arrived before a closed pair of doors. You tightened your grip on your father's arm, who rested his hand above yours, giving it a gentle squeeze to reassure you. The staff took that as their sign to open the doors and countless eyes instantly snapped to your direction. The guests rose from their seats, clapping and some even started throwing flowers as your father walked you down the aisle.

You looked to the front—seeing Doohwa wearing a suit and from the looks of his face and glossy eyes, he was on the verge of bursting into happy tears. You instinctively looked towards Riki, who stood a few feet away and the sight of his expression—calm and knowing, made you felt unsettled. His words replayed in your mind and you quickly looked away, pretending to not noticed the way he smirked at your reaction.

You reached the end of the aisle and robotically climbed up the small flight of stairs, with the staff helping you by lifting the back of your long dress and veil up. And then, you found yourself standing before Doohwa with the officiant now making his appearance as he stood between the two of you, a smile on his face.

"Today, we are gathered here to…"

You tuned out the rest of the wedding vows. Physically, you were looking at Doohwa while holding his hands but mentally, you were thinking about someone else. Someone who was not him, your future husband. The man who you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with. Your eyes flicked down to your stomach, resisting the urge to touch it as you didn't want to draw any attention to it but you knew something had shifted inside you.

Something that was related to you possibly being pregnant with Riki's child.

"..you agreed to take (Name) as your wife?" The officiant asked, directing the question to Doohwa, snapping you back to reality.

"I do," he answered without missing a beat. Without hesitation and you envied him.

"And you, (Name), do you agreed to take Doohwa as your husband?" He asked.

Everyone waited for your response, practically at the edges of their seats.

"I—" You opened your mouth and then, Riki made his move.

The screen on your right, which was playing a simple but romantic backstory of how the two of you met turned into a black screen. The crowd was confused as they murmured among themselves. At first, they assumed it was a techinal difficulty and that's when you saw something that made your heart dropped.

It was an audio.

The sound of skin slapping against skin, moans—your moans and Riki's grunts played from the speakers. Everyone in the room went still, unable to believe what they were hearing. Some of the parents rushed to cover their children's ears, to protect their innocence. Some were downright revolted as they quickly connect the dots, their previous happy expressions was now replaced with disappointment and resentment.

You couldn't find it in yourself to look at Doohwa, not wanting to face him after the secret you had hide with you for so long, was now revealed to the public. The audio went on for a few more seconds before it was cut off.

Silence.

Doohwa turned to you, his hands slipping from yours.

"What…?" His voice cracked but he regained his composure, expression now cold and void of any emotion. "Explain yourself."

You couldn't say a thing. Your vision blurred, the white of the ceremony, the flowers and the guests. Everything melted into indistinct shapes. You were now at the center of attention but for the wrong reasons. The echo of the audio still rang in your ears, like it was mocking you.

"I asked you something! Explain yourself," he demanded, taking a step closer, his shoulders trembling as he seethed with rage.

When you still didn't speak, his disbelief was replaced with something else—anger and just like the crowd, disgust.

"You slept with him. You fucking slept with my father," he spat out, each word sharp enough to draw blood if he were to mold it into a weapon.

Gasps rippled through the room. Whispers turned into murmurs and murmurs turned into silent but hostile judgment.

"You dare to stand in front of me, promising me forever and letting me put a ring on you, knowing you're with him," he continued, voice cracking the more he spoke and you were tempted to say something, anything.

But, what could you possibly say when all he said was the truth?

This time, tears freely rolled down your cheeks, not caring that your make-up was smudged. And until now, you didn't know what you could say to defend yourself.

"How could you!? How could you cheat on me? How could you do this?" He was shouting at the top of his lungs now.

And his outburst was a signal to the crowd, allowing them to freely voiced their uncensored thoughts.

"Shameless."

"How vile."

"She trapped him."

"No morals at all."

Each word struck you harder than anything else.

Your chest felt tight, breath shallow. You could feel the walls gradually closing in as the weight of every stare and every words bore down on you, until your legs were trembling below your dress. Someone laughed—short and derisive. Someone else cursed under their breath. Someone pulled out their phone, no doubt recording the whole thing.

You couldn't breathe.

"I—I didn't—" Your voice broke. "It wasn't—"

But no one wanted to hear it. Not when you had been painted as the villain.

You turned and ran. Your heels echoed sharply against the marbled floor as you fled down the aisle that was meant for vows, past the flowers, past the life you were supposed to have. Insults followed you like a swarm of angered bees—spatting words at you, anger, betrayal and disgust. The doors burst opened as you shoved through them, cold air hitting your face as you stumbled out, lungs burning as you gasped for breath.

And then—

"Did you like my surprise?"

You stilled, knowing who it was without turning around. But still, you slowly turned around, like how a ghost would be in a horror movie. Riki stood a few feet away from you—as cool and collected as always but this time, there was something dark and twisted in both his eyes and expression. Like he had planned this. Like he knew this will happened.

"You… You ruined my life," you accused while pointing at him.

The man merely blinked. "Don't put all of the blame on me, doll. You agreed to it. You were the one who willingly came to me too, so you don't get to act innocent."

You flinched, physically recoiling like a hostile cat. "I—"

Riki barked out a cold, humorless laugh as he closed the remaining distance, invading your invisible and personal line. He cupped your face, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his eyes. "How about this: you come with me and we move to another country?"

"What?"

He let out a condescending sigh, like he was talking to a child. "Since you're no longer wanted here, you should come with me. We can move to Australia. I have a job offer there where I'm needed to work on a long-term project. Come with me and I can take care of the both of you."

Your breath hitched at the word 'both'. "How did you—"

"Did you think I'm someone who does things without planning them?" He cuts you off, getting the front-row seat of watching as realization hits you.

Your eyes widened, lips parting as you stared at him in horror and disbelief. "You… You planned all of this from the start? You made me carry your child and now you want to kidnap me? Taking me away from the people I love?"

Riki had the audacity to roll his eyes. "People you love? Oh please, they don't even loved you anymore. Not after what they just heard."

You clenched and unclenched your fingers, teeth grinding down on one another so hard that you would have shattered a tooth. "…What do you want from me?"

"Simple. I want you to come with me. And once you do, you won't regret it," he said, resting one hand on your waist.

You swallowed hard.

Your eyes flicked past him—to the now closed doors that you were facing thirty minutes ago, before your life flipped upside down. The whispers hasn't stopped. You could still feel them crawling under your skin, rewriting you into something ugly and unforgivable.

"I can't. There's nothing left for me if I go with you," you whispered but you didn't freed yourself from his grasp.

He leaned in, close enough for him to whisper into your ear. "There's nothing left for you if you don't come with me."

The last thread snapped. You thought of Doohwa's eyes when he looked at you a few moments ago. Of the ring that now felt heavier than before. Of how the word love had been stripped of meaning in front of everyone you knew.

And most importantly, the public humiliation you just suffered.

You laughed, hollow and broken. "You sure I won't regret it?" You asked, despite knowing his answer doesn't matter, not when he had you in the palm of his hands.

Riki didn't hesitate, just like Doohwa. "I swear."

You nodded.

The moment you did, his grip tightened. It wasn't painful but it was full of certainty. Possessive. Like he knew all along that you will say yes. He guided you away from the room, hand still holding your waist as he dragged you to the backdoor, where his car was intentionally parked there.

You didn't look behind you.

As you disappeared into the car with him, the door closed with a final and resolute thud, only one thought quietly echoed in your mind:

You didn't know whether you had saved yourself or you had willingly stepped into something far worse.

[0210sjy]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚  sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.

(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.

paid! jake x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI ! inspired by 10 things i hate about you !

Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.

What he didn't understand though, were your laws.

No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.

No driving without adult supervision.

No going out past 10PM.

No girlfriends until eighteen.

No accepting rides from people he didn't know.

No staying out without answering his phone.

The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.

A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”

Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”

Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.

Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”

“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”

There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.

“Taming the lion,” someone says.

Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.

The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.

Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”

Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.

Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”

“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”

“What?” Jake asks, distracted.

Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.

“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”

Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.

He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.

And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.

Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.

You turn and walk.

Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.

You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.

“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”

The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.

You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.

He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.

Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”

“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”

Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”

You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.

That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”

He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”

Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge. 

You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.

“Is that true?” you ask.

His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”

You stare at him.

“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”

Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”

He goes still.

That is the answer.

You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.

You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”

The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.

He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”

“I thought you chose me,” you say.

“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”

Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”

He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.

“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”

You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”

Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”

His breath catches. “Please.”

You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in. 

“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.

You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.

You hate men. Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.

Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning. 

Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.

But history is dead. Men killed it.

Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.

By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.

On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus. 

“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.

Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.

“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”

You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind. 

By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing. 

At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.

Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”

Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.

At eight minutes, you sit up. At nine, your feet touch the floor. At ten, you stay where you are.

Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.

The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary. 

That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.

“What?”

He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”

You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”

“I don’t want delivery.”

“Then make something.”

“I want to go out.”

You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”

Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”

You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.

“It’s late,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you have Jake, apparently.”

He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.

He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”

You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.

With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”

The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark. 

When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.

Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.

For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.

“What?”

He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”

You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?

Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”

You look at him, face unreadable.

“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”

You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”

Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”

The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.

“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”

He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”

The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.

You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”

For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”

For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.

“I really am sorry,” he says.

When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.

“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.

He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”

You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.

For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.

“You’re so stupid.”

“A dumbass, I know.”

You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.

“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.

You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”

Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”

Your eyes narrow at him.

“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”

The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.

He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”

Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.

“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Riki.”

“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”

You stare at him for a long second.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?”

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”

You hate him a little for saying it.

You hate him more because it makes you think.

The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it. 

You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”

“I know.”

You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”

“I know.”

You look at him.

He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.

Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”

Your mouth almost curves.

“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.

That night, you cannot sleep.

It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.

You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.

You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.

The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.

When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.

The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.

“Where are you going?” you ask.

His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”

You nod once. “Right.”

“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.

You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car. 

“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.

You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.

He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”

You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.

“Okay.”

You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”

He goes still.

“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.

“Okay.”

“I’m still mad.”

“I know.”

“And you still hurt me.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”

You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”

He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile. 

“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.

He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”

You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.

Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.

Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.

“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”

He does not answer.

“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”

Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.

“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”

For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.

He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.

“Can I?” he asks.

You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.

You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.

“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”

You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”

He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”

Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.

“I hate you,” you whisper.

His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”

“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp. 

His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”

For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.

Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”

You blink. “What?”

He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”

You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”

“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”

He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.

Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”

The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”

He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.

“I want you,” he says.

He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.

For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.

Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe

“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.

His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.

His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”

You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.

For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.

His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”

“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.

His mouth softens. “Yeah.”

You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.

His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”

You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.

The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.

Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.

“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.

He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.

When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.

“Do you want to go somewhere?”

You blink. “Right now?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”

For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”

Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.

“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.

Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”

His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.

You hate him. You hate him a lot.

You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”

He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

short sequel

[kissued]

END OF THE LINE ✦ 박성훈 PARK SUNGHOON [ PART 01 ]

if you're gonna break me in two ⋆ masterpost ⋆ do what you gotta do GENRE + PAIRING ⋮ college au. ice hockey player!fratboy!sunghoon x fem!reader. PART 01 WC 29.3k

SYNOPSIS ⋮ you’ve been crushing on lee heeseung for most of your college life — long enough that you were beginning to crack. one blessed night, when a girl at a party slips you his number, it feels like fate finally taking pity on you. what follows is a slow, intoxicating unraveling — late-night calls, perfect pick-ups, subtle flirts you’d expect from a charming guy like him. so why is it that when you finally wave at him on campus, he looks genuinely confused?

CONTENT WARNINGS ⋮ explicit themes, includes smut so +18 only. themes of mental illness sex as a coping mechanism self esteem issues angst with happy ending miscommunication skinship physical intimacy inferiority complex featuring enhypen slowburn pining

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋮ hi!! thank you so much for waiting on me. this fic was such an ambitious idea of mine that i had no idea if i would be able to pull it off.. but after 6 months of typing n gathering feedback from my wonderful friends (veevee, annabanana, and mona to my minju + many more) i was able to do just that <33 hoonyn have such a special place in my heart, even though i worked on other fics while fleshing out this one, this project always got me the most excited (and also the most frustrated lmfao). anyway!!!! i had to split it up into two because of the block limit... VERY SORRY about that it's like 52k ish total? i got lost in the plot and just enjoyed my time writing, so that's why...... i hope it lives up to your expectations! i love U aaallll enjoy the word vomit ++ taglist at the end of the fic <3 thank u and see u in part 2 veryy sooonnn

REBLOGS APPRECIATED ⋆ THANK YOU FOR READING

everyone always told you that you had terrible luck. this applied to most things: friendships, competitions, meeting a friend’s parents, even.

but love? oh, love was where it stung. this was somehow more painful than everything else, because while you could flaunt at least one instance where a friendship didn’t explode in your face, or a parent actually liked you, or you won a gold star—you could never say you hit it off with a guy, ever.

perhaps the men of this generation were simply too terrible for this to ever be a matter of luck. it felt more like a rigged casino: every bet placed in good faith, every hand played carefully, and still you walked away lighter, bled dry all the same.

you weren’t desperate. no. far from it. you did everything right. you waited, chose the boys who made you feel safe instead of reckless, who offered steadiness instead of the dizzy thrill everyone else swore by. you could say, with a quiet sense of pride, that you followed the rules and played it by the book. hell, even after all that, every guy’s true colours somehow emerged victorious by the end of it: they just want sex, sex, or sex.

the truth was that deep down, you didn’t want anything to do with it. even if it was indeed the sexiest, biggest, smartest guy on campus… there was only one guy you set your sights on. just one, with the light brown hair and charming smile, shooting hoops at the basketball court by the cafeteria—lee heeseung.

though, the problem was simple: you’d never actually talked to the guy. this could’ve been easily solved if you shared even one class, but of course, he’d signed up late—every elective already full, while you, being the good student you are, had locked your choices in the moment the portal opened.

the second solution, proposed by oh jiwon herself, was rejected the instant it left her mouth. you were sprawled in her dorm room on a normal saturday night—you, legs spread indecently across the tiny couch she’d smuggled past security in first year, and her, upside down on the bed, hair brushing the floor.

“why don’t you just bump into him and knock all his books down?” she muttered, teeth chomping down on a stack of (probably) expired bbq-xtra-hot chips.

oh, heeeell no. what the fuck was this? a poorly produced drama plotline?

“was he born yesterday?”

the third option, though, felt a little more… dignified. it came to you on a random thursday evening, when the rain felt a little too heavy and you were wishing that lee heeseung would swoop in and hold a $5 umbrella over your heads.

replaying the events of the day in your head as your boots sloshed in muddy puddles, kim sunoo’s annoyingly pretty face comes into view.

“the fundraiser’s gonna be so busy this year, gosh…”

yes. indeed, it will.

the annual fundraiser organised by the student relations club. you remembered being ridiculously excited for it last year—around the same time you’d first started noticing heeseung. after some careful “asking around”, you’d learned he was attending, too. and, as if the universe was personally apologising to you for your tragic love life: he was trying his luck at the blind date booth.

what a sweet guy. donating his hard-earned money to charity and putting himself out there? he had your heart in his hands, and you came to understand that his was the target of many others.

so, it was obvious what had to be done. you signed up the moment sunoo—thank the angels for him—let the information slip. it’s nothing short of fate that you shared an elective with him; it took a bit of coaxing and more than a few judgmental looks, but by that sunny wednesday afternoon, good had prevailed in the world.

it’s safe to say you did not get lee heeseung as your date. instead, you endured a miserable twenty-minute speed dinner listening to a stranger ramble about his league rank. ou’d never been more thoroughly turned off in your life.

but this year?

this year, it will be different.

─────────────────────────

the house smells like weed and alcohol, and also everything that you should not be doing on a thursday night. you got the call from jiwon in the middle of your assignment, head half buried in your hands as the glow from the laptop screen burned your retinas—it’s twelve midnight now, and you have class in eight hours, but the impending sleep deprivation still beats handing in sloppy work.

the house belongs to the frat heeseung’s in. sigma alpha eta, if you remembered correctly. it’s three stories tall, tacky, and reeks of soju and everything wrong with the male species. you’re not even sure if the place ever gets cleaned, but considering it’s full of rich mama’s boys, they’ve probably hired someone to deal with the mess for them.

“what the fuck is going on?”

oh jiwon’s staring at you like you’re the one who dragged her here. you scan the room for no one in particular (lie), and when you turn back—

she’s gone.

“who’s ready to party?!”

the dj is embarrassingly bad. like, physically painful to listen to. the bass is cranked up so high it rattles the floorboards, vibrating straight through your bones. you cringe, already picturing the culprit: some frat guy who bought a $100 mixing set off amazon last week and now calls himself “up and coming”.

everyone you know seems to be here. you’d brushed shoulders with ahn yunjin and danielle on the way in, only to watch them dart toward the porch with a joint already lit.

you snake your way through narrow hallways packed wall-to-wall—overlapping conversations, smoke blown straight into your face, bodies pressing in from every side as you aim for the kitchen. instead, you stumble into the living room. leather couches are occupied by unconscious adults—drunk, high, or some lethal combination of both—bathed in warm overhead light that all but promises brutal hangovers tomorrow.

it seems like the party started long before you got here. where the hell did your jiwon go, anyway?

your feet start to move again, carrying you mindlessly through the first floor—you cross the hallway, take a turn into another doorway, and finally stumble upon the kitchen; it’s less crowded, with fewer drunk people and comparably quiet in contrast to whatever’s waiting for you outside the threshold of that door. your eyes are hesitant, oddly enough, though you know why.

parties like this usually mean hookups. and when hookups are involved, lee heeseung is the first name that comes to mind. the guy’s practically a walking target—especially in his own frat house, swarming with every girl who’s been blessed enough to know the name.

this whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb. your chest tightens. how long before someone else gets to him? how long before you turn a corner and see his face buried in someone else’s neck? 10 minutes? 10 seconds?

“hellooooo!”

and as fast as the thoughts come, they go; head snapping toward the sound, locking onto oh fucking jiwon—standing there, smiling innocently, as if she hadn’t abandoned you to die in the crowd.

“where the fuck have you been?” you sigh, hands running through your hair, like you’d just spent a whole day looking for her. to be fair, time moves weirdly in places like this.

“refilling!” she hiccups. “see?” she tips her red cup to show a dubious mix of jack and coke.

she’s tipsy—no surprise there. jiwon’s always been a lightweight. still, she manages to wobble over and hop onto the marble island, scooting back until her legs dangle comfortably. she looks down at you with glassy, sparkly eyes.

“sooo… heeseung’s place, huh? didn’t know their frat was so fancy. they literally have wine older than my grandparents in here.”

you roll your eyes and drag a stool out from under the island. it screeches against the tile, making you wince, before you climb up onto it.

“you’ve been snooping in their alcohol?” you giggle, shaking your head in mock disapproval. you’ll have to look through it later, too. “you’re a shit guest.”

“guest is always right!” jiwon babbles, before abruptly sneezing. the action makes you flinch. “oh… sorry. anyways,”

you cross your arms, waiting. she’s halfway to blackout, but you humor her anyway.

“fundraiser!” she slurs. “heeseung’s in the pantry. think he’s lookin’ for chips. i dunno. he was with sunghoon, and then i ran into him while lookin’ for more soju—”

and it’s like the universe wants to show you how much it wants you to stay in this lifetime, as a form of divine mercy, or something similar to an apology, because lee heeseung slides the pantry door open and waltzes right out with chips tucked under his armpit, as he munches on something else. your eyes follow him, and so does everyone else’s, and naturally they trail towards the slightly shorter man behind him.

park sunghoon. the guy with the ridiculously sharp, thick eyebrows, a staring problem, and close to half of the campus’s female population wanting to lick his boots. there’s often two responses to the question ‘who’s the cutest guy on campus’, and many of your peers often utter one or the other: heeseung, or his colder counterpart, sunghoon.

you took an economics class with him last year, and thank god you didn’t hit the lottery and end up in the same group, because you’d heard… things. too many things. stories about him tearing into a girl’s work so viciously, she had to beg the professor to let her switch groups with sunoo (it’s strange, how he seemed to be in almost every class you took, now that you think about it).

you’d never talked to him, or anyone from that little group, really, aside from kim sunoo. you knew sim jaeyun was popular over in the engineering block; all brains and good looks, apparently. nishimura riki was another name you heard in passing—always surrounded by a crowd whenever he danced with his crew in some random corner with a giant mirror. as for jongseong and jungwon… you didn’t even want to think about the things people said. absolutely vile in nature.

it seems like the whole lot of them were heartthrobs, in every sense of the word.

it’s just… park sunghoon?

that guy didn’t deserve half the glowing reviews he got.

you were half convinced that if people had star ratings floating above their heads—complete with scrollable comments—he’d be inflating his own with burner emails.

park sunghoon. 5 stars. wow, this guy is sooooo hot and rich! — nothoon12345. he just looked like the kind of guy who did that kind of thing.

okay, maybe you were being a little harsh, considering you’d never actually spoken to him. still, it felt telling when even other men talked shit about him: apparently being both the most disliked and the most respected player on the ice hockey team was impressive enough to land him the captain title.

he walks a few steps behind heeseung, his own bag of chips in hand. you don’t realise you’re staring until his gaze snaps towards you as he passes—a look equal parts smug, disgusted, and painfully punchable.

“what the hell is that guy’s issue?”

“stop looking at him,” jiwon waves you off, swinging her feet. her heel accidentally thuds against the wood. “heeseung's right there.”

your eyes flick back to heeseung, now hovering near the front door, greeting the flood of people streaming in—tonight’s barely started, but somehow, you feel ten times heavier than when you walked in.

lee heeseung, leaning casually against the wall, all perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfectly charming face… and park sunghoon, just a step behind him, stiff, scanning the crowd until his gaze finally locks on you.

before you can tear your eyes away, he cocks his head and gives you a smile—all mockery, all challenge, like he just told a joke you’d never understand. you shift your weight on the stool, cross one leg over the other, but your eyes stay zeroed on him.

“i don’t like that sunghoon guy,” you mutter, dragging a hand through your hair and pretending to look elsewhere.

oh jiwon rolls her eyes, snorts, and leans her weight back on the counter. “you’d be surprised how many people wanna get in his pants—”

“don’t. talk. to. me. about. park. sunghoon’s. pants.” you snap, stabbing a finger toward her chest for emphasis—she giggles at the action, and you do, too. though your eyes flick back, just once, toward where he was.

but when you do, he’s gone. no sunghoon, no heeseung. just the occasional partygoer opening and closing doors, the sound barely registering to your ears through the shitty music.

“how have you not drank anything yet?”

“i literally just got here!”

────────────────────────

it’s one in the morning, and the party seems to be at it’s peak—there’s no one else coming through the front door, and it’s more packed than you could imagine; you’re leaning against the staircase with a cup swirling in your hands, only having taken two sips out of it. jiwon’s still next to you, chatting to a guy you’ve never seen before.

you look at him, then at her. unimpressive, if anything. you’re turning to look at your cup again and the feeling hits, sudden and sharp as it claws at your chest: you feel extremely out of place, even in a house full of people and possibility. people shove their way past you and you hold your cup tight to your chest as it happens. you barely hear anything with the laughter, chatter, and music all at once.

your eyes drift toward the window—yunjin’s with someone else; danielle must’ve left earlier. you scan the room again, half-heartedly looking for a familiar face to talk to—sunoo, maybe, even if the guy doesn’t really think you’re normal. or for park sunghoon, perhaps for some explanation as to why he’d looked at you like that earlier.

“looking for hee?”

that voice. too close. it sends shivers down your spine, every hair standing before your neck snaps to your left—jiwon’s gone, and so is that guy, instead replaced by a girl you know all too well.

she’s smiling at you with her lips curled in a way that makes your stomach drop—unsettling by its very nature. the lights strobe across her face, red and white, purple and blue, painting her in something eerie as her expression lingers, sharp and all-knowing.

“what the fuck do you want?”

she laughs softly, hands coming up to her face to cover her mouth like she’s some gentle, kind creature that’s come to save the day. kim sooha’s always been like that. ever since high school, ever since you’ve been bestowed the honour of knowing how ruthless she gets when she wants to be.

her hair falls over her face before she moves to tuck it behind her ear.

god, you want to slap her. some things never change, no matter how many years pass.

“you need to learn how to relax. you’ve been staring all night,” she sighs, leaning her back against the wall as she talks—like you two are friends, always have been—and that this is the most normal conversation ever. “you’re definitely looking for heeseung, aren’t you? i got a shortcut, if you’re interested.”

you don’t answer. you’ve learnt it’s best to shut your mouth instead of lie, because with girls like sooha, the snake always bites first.

your mind flashes, briefly, to the image of him again: light brown hair falling over his face, his genuine smile as people poured in from the front door, eyes squinting as he spots a good friend from a few feet away. your eyes had never truly left him, until you caught park sunghoon staring daggers at you right behind.

and, strangely, it’s never found him again since.

“listen, i have his number—it’ll save you a looot of trouble.”

you don’t realise you’ve turned away from her until you glance back. her smile widens as you meet her eyes—glinting with something dangerous, like this isn’t truly all there is to her offer.

kim sooha is not about goodwill and donating to charities. the charity would have to return her 110% before she could ever consider doing so; in this case, the charity seems to be you.

“what do you want?”

and it feels like you’ve just sold your soul to the damn devil with how bright her face gets. like a child on christmas morning, unwrapping a brand new toy. well—you suppose you’re a toy, too, in this.

she reaches into the back pocket of her jeans, the jingle of her phone charm barely cutting through the kendrick lamar song that’s causing the floor to vibrate. you wonder how long until someone calls the cops on this place—it’s too loud, too much, and you don’t even want to think about what the second and third floor looks like right now.

“one click, and i’ll send it to you.”

you scoff, breaking the eye contact to take a sip of the peach soju in your hands. you almost roll your eyes before remembering that this was sooha you were getting in bed with—one wrong move, and she’s retracting, and you’ll be left to awkward waves and stuttered hello’s at the fundraiser three months from now.

“my jacket’s upstairs, and i need you to get it.”

if you weren’t confused before, you definitely are now.

“your fucking jacket?” you repeat, and it almost comes out as a laugh. she doesn’t think it’s funny, though, because she’s quick to fire back a response:

“i don’t want to bump into whoever you’re gonna bump into. not in the mood. consider it a gift from me,” she pokes a finger at your collarbone, “to you.”

you flinch, her sharp nail making you stumble back, just a little. her eyebrows raise as you tilt your head towards the stairs, watching you glance up and towards the flight of stairs above your heads—there’s people moving up and down, and it just doesn’t click—why not someone else?

“so… are you doing it? don’t have time to sleep on—“

you chew on the lining of your cheek. something isn’t right. she’s looking at you like she doesn’t care if her jacket actually makes it back to her—all that matters is that you fall into whatever she’s setting up.

“fine. keep your fucking word when i get back down here.”

the smile that spreads across her face makes your heart drop straight to your ass. you don’t like this—not the feeling of being a step behind, not the way it feels like she’s holding something over you.

but… like she said. it’s not as if you have a whole day to sit on your ass and think it through.

“you should know by now. i always do,” she sings, voice lilting and smug, watching as you turn away and head for the stairs. “thank you, dear [name].”

you pause at the bottom, fingers curling tighter around your cup as you glance upward. bodies move through the hallways above—laughing, stumbling, disappearing into rooms that smell like sweat, alcohol and poor decisions. the music thumps faintly through the walls, distorted here, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you.

your head feels light, almost dizzy, but you go anyway. one step. then another. your shoes stick slightly to the floor as you climb, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“this yours?”

your head cocks up, eyes locking onto a familiar face—park sunghoon, standing at the top of the staircase, with a leather jacket haphazardly folded into his hands. it looks expensive when it’s under this kind of light, and knowing sooha, it probably is.

“yup,” you say, the word coming out more clipped than you intend. reluctant, wary—but who the hell could blame you? the guy who’s been staring all psycho and weird, treating you like an out-of-earth entity is holding onto the one thing you need to finish this amazing deal. “thank you!”

he’s tall. towering. with you two steps below him, he’s giving himself a stiff neck just looking at you. his face gives nothing away—not surprise, barely any curiosity, perhaps slight irritation. more than anything, there’s that unreadable calm, like he’s not only three steps ahead of whatever this is, but also skies above it.

your arms reach out to grab it from him, but sunghoon’s quick to retract his hand. he dangles it in front of you, an eyebrow raised, still staring as if you were some kind of odd specimen—you blink a few times, waiting for him to say something, anything.

“i’d watch out if i were you.”

his voice is low, nearly lost beneath the bass thudding through the floor below. it’s flat enough that it barely registers as a voice at all.

but just why the hell is he telling you this? park sunghoon’s talking like he knows kim sooha personally.

really, if you had to pick between the two of you… you’d have to consider yourself the expert.

“o… kay?” you mouth, the word barely audible over the bass thrumming through the walls.

for a moment longer, he just looks at you, then lowers the jacket into your hands. you don’t manage to thank him, because you’re turning around before you can even utter another word.

nothing else matters right now. you’re praying that by the time you reach the bottom of the stairs, sooha will be there—phone in hand, ready to send those digits your way, just like she promised.

though, even if she isn’t, you’re not entirely sure what you’d do about it. there’s no backup plan. you’re definitely not asking sunoo—because you’re not an idiot with a weird obsession with lee heeseung (lie), and you’re not that desperate to talk to him (lie), enough to corner one of his closest friends and expose yourself completely (truth).

well… you guess you’ve already done so by poking around about the fundraiser, but his number is crossing the line. apparently.

you square your shoulders and keep walking, clinging to the thought that this will all be worth it once lee heeseung’s finally a button away, instead of thirty meters and 6 men apart.

“you’re quick with it,” sooha yells over the song playing, now a remix of some chainsmokers single. roses, a classic, which also means people are starting to get oddly energetic despite it reaching two in the morning.

you watch her eyes flick down to her phone, the screen lighting up her face as she brings it to her chest—typing, swiping, pausing just long enough to be irritating—until your own phone vibrates against the back pocket of your shorts.

“thanks a bunch, y/n.” she says lightly. “always so obedient.”

your jaw tightens. you don’t bother responding—just thrust the jacket into her abdomen, harder than necessary. kim sooha doesn’t take it personally, she never does. the flare of your nostrils, the way your fingers curl like you’re holding yourself back—that’s more than enough to make her night.

a sweet, disingenuous smile blooms across your face, as if to say: ‘no problem, bitch.’

she slips past you, shoulders barely brushing, already headed for the front door. just before she disappears, you catch it—the smudged eyeshadow, the eyeliner dragged unevenly beneath her eyes, foundation streaked down her cheeks like she hasn’t bothered to check herself in a mirror.

for a fraction of a second, you find yourself worrying—for her, and for yourself. you’ve never once seen sooha with makeup this (for lack of a better word) bad; she’s always immaculate, flawless, even if that bruises your ego to admit out loud.

which means there are only two possibilities: she’s just fucked someone and realised, far too late, what a mistake it was—or her heart has just been torn into a million tiny, irreparable pieces.

you don’t take much time to dwell on it, before you tear your eyes away from sooha’s figure slowly fading into the distance. her boots clack against the concrete pavement before it comes to a stop, and for a moment, she just stands—until a car pulls up and she ducks her head to fit into it.

what the hell was that?

the front door slams shut from someone else pulling it closed, the sound cutting clean through the music, and your head turns instinctively toward the staircase.

park sunghoon.

the second floor is quieter, stripped of the flashing colours and strobe lights below. in that softer, warmer glow, park sunghoon comes sharply into focus.

he’s leaning over the railing, forearms bearing his weight. an empty soju bottle hangs loosely from his hand, head bowed, expression obscured by shadow—almost like he’s staring straight down at you.

he’s annoyingly gorgeous. his side profile is so lethal that you think if not for his shitty attitude and tendency to stare at everyone sideways, he’d be a model.

you catch yourself wishing he’d just fuck off and do that instead.

your breath catches in your throat. you’re not really sure why—but your body makes the decisions for you tonight, thoughts of sunghoon quickly dissolving as fast as they invaded, feet carrying you toward the front door.

sleek wood and cold metal doorknobs in all their unassuming glory. it’s an exit. a way out of the noise, the lights, and the man upstairs who feels far too aware of your existence.

you move. fluid, deliberate, like this was always the plan.

sunghoon’s gaze tracks you as you slip through the crowd, hair brushing shoulders, bodies pressing in too close. the lights repaint you with every step—pink, purple, red—until you glance back once, just for a second, and the colours smear into something unreadable.

when you finally cross the threshold of the front door, your body is hit with cold wind; unsurprisingly, there’s scattered groups of people across the front yard, smoking and drinking in their quiet bubbles. you inhale the relatively cleaner air, deep, slow, until it settles in your lungs and you’re spared from the remnants of vape flavours and fruity alcohol.

the music dulls behind you, but the vibrations still reach your feet nonetheless.

you sigh, a hand dragging through your hair, before you make your way towards a stone pillar, only to lean your weight against it. you didn’t realise how quiet it could be, after almost two hours in that god forsaken party—the quiet chatter doesn’t make your head spin out here and the occasional laugh isn’t as annoying as the screams inside.

that’s when you see him.

lee heeseung—smoking—with that guy from engineering. jake sim.

the cigarette is pinched between his fingers, and he takes slow drags like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this messy, overgrown scene. jake’s rambling beside him, hands flying as he retells some story you can’t hear, and heeseung just nods along, offering the occasional laugh that reassures his friend that he finds it equally as funny.

everything feels slowed down. time is suspended. his hair slips into his eyes, and every now and then he shakes his head, a small, unconscious motion to clear his vision.

this is kind of creepy. you’re watching lee heeseung smoke at two in the morning from his front porch. you, a year ago, wouldn’t have believed this even if someone swore on it.

okay. that’s enough. you’re leaving—immediately.

but not before you bring your phone to your face—the blue light stings, almost burns your retinas. you blink hard once, twice, until the haze clears. your thumb swipes into your messages.

kim sooha has kept her word.

sooha (do not reply): +82-xx-xxxx-xxxx 01:53

sooha (do not reply): enjoy yourself! <3 01:53

bitch.

you add the contact while lee heeseung is still laughing in your peripheral vision, smoke curling into the dark, completely unaware that—through totally legitimate and ethical means—he’s now a button away.

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon was not interested in love.

this was, somehow, a known fact across campus.

anyone could guess by that stoic look on his face and that gigantic duffle bag he drags around everywhere, that the man couldn’t be paid a million dollars to be locked down—that’s what so little time and too many (non-romantic) commitments does to you.

mondays were the gym. tuesdays, practice. wednesdays, rest. thursdays, practice again. fridays, the gym, and a night run. saturdays and sundays, practice too. he was surprised he even had time to fit kim sooha into his schedule, though, it was not as often as she preferred.

okay, he admits it was just sex—but an hour or two once or twice a week was already cutting it close.

sunghoon was an ex-figure skater turned ice hockey player, so it was clear what the future held for him: he’s talented, rich, disciplined, a genius—the world was his oyster. everyone around him was in his court.

who would he be if he let someone make the rules for him?

you see: park sunghoon couldn’t be bothered with the girls throwing themselves at him, or the ones who acted shy. in his eyes, it all ended the same.

they wanted more. he couldn’t give more. he didn’t want to give more.

kim sooha was no different. of course she wasn’t—park sunghoon couldn’t deny it, because she fit the stereotype of every girl who’d ever wanted him: bashful, a little self-deprecating, and far too clingy.

at least he had been decent enough to tell her that sex was all it would ever be, and all he could afford to give. but what do you know (park sunghoon always knows), someone ends up wanting more.

the night of the party, around ten, sunghoon found himself holed up in his bedroom trying to finish up a paper before the house had started swarming with people. one moment he’s typing, fingers mashing away at his keyboard as the words flow flawlessly, perfectly, and his mind occasionally drifts to the grade he’d get for this assignment. nothing less than 100, of course. he wouldn’t expect anything less from himself.

“hoon!”

and his genius flow is disrupted by none other than jake, peeking his head from behind the doorway, with an idiotic smile painted across his glowing face.

“what do you want?” sunghoon mutters, head turning back to the screen of his laptop. jake sim’s prsesence usually meant the message wasn’t all that important—if it was, it’d be jungwon up here instead. “i’m busy.”

“sooha’s here,” he says. “she wants to see you.”

sunghoon kisses his teeth in annoyance, solely out of instinct, an action which jake pretends not to notice. it only irritates sunghoon even more, really—he’d rather jake just be honest with him, instead of pretending to be polite just for the sake of being polite. he knows better than anyone that all of his brothers hate when kim sooha is around, and that hiding it won’t convince park sunghoon otherwise.

for varying reasons.

he recalls that one dinner two weeks ago, when jay told sunghoon to ‘do a better job at shutting sooha up’. he could barely eat the rest of his food.

“please don’t send her up here. i’ll be downstairs soon,” and jake is almost ready to turn his pretty face right around and back downstairs to help set up the speakers, before sunghoon asks: “why is she even here?”

“hey, you’re the one fucking her, man.” jake shrugs, before he turns around for the final time. sunghoon’s face morphs into one of disgust, weirdly fast, even though the statement isn’t exactly false—still, it doesn’t stop him from wanting to crawl into a hole and die.

there’s something wrong with him. he can’t deny the sex was good, and yes, kim sooha was gorgeous… but commitment? staying? forever? that was different.

he remembers when yang jungwon had a girlfriend. those were not good times. definitely. the guy refused to leave his bedroom for two days after they broke it off—and sunghoon, as much as he cared for poor jungwon, couldn’t stop thinking about how two days meant two lifetimes of missed productivity.

just how much of an asshole could he be?

so, that’s precisely why he settles for sex. a dopamine hit to get himself off edge, so he’s ready to stretch himself thin all over again.

lee heeseung says it’s not healthy, but what the hell would he know? he’s too busy drowning in love letters, home-baked cookies, and instagram requests to understand why this is the best option out of any presented to him. the golden boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about—the only reason he even bothers giving advice is because of the one, maybe two girlfriends he had in first year, which he seems to think qualifies him as an expert in sweet, innocent, and healthy love.

park sunghoon doesn’t even have instagram. it’s a waste of time.

why the fuck doesn’t he get cookies, anyway? why don’t girls approach him just to talk, instead of trying to grind on his crotch at parties? why doesn’t he have someone sweet and steady, sitting in the stands and watching his games—wiping his tears when he plays like shit, or being the first one he looks for when he scores an amazing shot?

never mind the way he takes their hand and leads them upstairs. never mind how easily he leans into a stranger’s touch and lets himself pretend it means something. never mind that he’s learned to let names slip past him, unheard, while his gaze drifts instead to the shape of their lips.

never mind all of it.

he tells himself it’s circumstantial—something inevitable, something learnt. that he would be different, could be different, if the world around him didn’t demand this version of him in return.

lee heeseung gets to commit. he gets to feel it all—the highs, the warmth, the quiet safety of having someone stay, and he makes it out unscathed, unhurt. he gets to ground himself in knowing that she won’t walk out of that door when shit hits the fan, too—fuck, he doesn’t know anything at all.

footsteps thud from the hallway, but he knows it’s just jay and riki shifting furniture around—boards scraping, chairs sliding—enough to rattle the plaster on the walls. jake’s voice cuts through the mess, yelling at heeseung to find the extra loud speakers jungwon had “borrowed” for his own use. somewhere upstairs, sunoo’s probably napping, blissfully unaware of the chaos below.

sunghoon doesn’t mind. five people are more than enough to handle party prep, and he refuses to be dragged into it. the music, the clatter, the erratic shouts—it all feels like someone else’s life, a background noise he doesn’t need to claim.

instead, up here, he can focus on what matters: finishing his paper, keeping his head down, staying untangled in this mess that’s about to spill over the entire house in about an hour.

he leans back against the leather of his chair, shoulders finally relaxing, and lets his gaze wander over the room. the house smells like air freshener, a somewhat helpful idea proposed by riki, but the sharp tang in his nose makes him grit his teeth.

for the first time that evening, he almost smiles at the absurdity of it all, the chaos of his brothers trying to pull off another last-minute party. he knows it’ll all work out fine, and that this will be the talk of campus until it fizzles out in two weeks, but it’s still ridiculous how these people never learn to plan ahead.

he remembers the last party sigma alpha eta threw—someone broke a table, then went swimming naked in the pool. safe to say, jake and him had to track the culprit down the next morning and demand the funds to get it cleaned.

“hoonie?”

a soft click from the front door snaps him out of his thoughts.

he knows exactly who it is.

kim sooha. standing by the dark frame of his door, dressed in something that would’ve had him weak in the knees if he was some random horny loser—skirt smooth, tight against her skin, a leather jacket framing her small body. it’s too bad that he doesn’t give two shits, though.

“you’ve been avoiding me,” she announces, voice sharp yet playful, as if she owns the room that sunghoon’s made his. it irks him.

she leans against the doorframe, one hip jutting out, arms crossed with a face so smug that it makes him want to flip her off. “so, i came early. just to… check in.”

he looks back at the screen of his laptop, bright blue light shining in his face, and barely moves another muscle. “you know where the rules stand. i’m busy.”

“hoonie—“

“told you to stop calling me that.” sunghoon cuts her off, “i don’t need you checking on me, thanks. party’s not starting for another hour. maybe you can help them prep?”

the words land like a slap. sooha’s jaw tightens, but she forces a smile, refusing to let him see the way it stings.

she steps closer anyway, as if proximity can wear him down, break the walls that are already hardening—or climb over whatever’s already there.

“come on. it doesn’t have to be like this.” she tilts her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder, “i’ve been asking you for weeks, hoon. i’ve always wanted—”

“no.” sunghoon exhales, forcefully slow, as if that’ll help him calm down. “i’ve been saying the same shit for weeks. you’re pushing me.”

she takes two steps closer, heels tapping against the shiny wood floor. the space between them closes as she leans over his desk, shadow casting over the dark oak. he feels like slamming his head into it—the bruise would be less painful than this, the sharp smell of her fruity perfume that sunghoon never bothered to register, but hates anyway now that it finally has.

he never thought he’d have to tell her that he hates the notes of citrus. it didn’t matter if she never stayed long enough to get the words out.

“hoonie,” sooha mumbles, hands bracing the surface of his table. “i thought we were getting somewhere.”

“even after i told you we weren’t?” sunghoon shifts his chair backwards, widening the gap just so he could feel like he wasn’t going to choke at the smell of her perfume. “know what? i’m done. can’t fucking draw any lines with you—“

“that’s it? we’re just—“

sunghoon’s jaw tightens, and he leans back slightly in his chair. “i said it was just sex. nothing more. if you’re begging for a hug and some kisses, go somewhere else.”

the silence hangs in the air, thick, impenetrable. for a minute, sunghoon wonders if he’s gone too far—sooha’s face falters, her sultry smile now replaced by lips that tremble before her teeth bite down on them. she nods once, slow, looking at park sunghoon like he’s driven a ten-foot pole straight through her chest, twisted it, and ripped it back out.

his eyes flick from his laptop screen to her irises. if one thing’s admirable about park sunghoon, is that if he was going to tear you to pieces, he’ll have the decency to look you in the eye.

at least, for that final word. it’s about as much emotion as he can manage.

“get out.”

so she does—nods slow, before turning on her heel, the sharp click of her shoes echoing once, twice, until it fades down the hallway.

the door shuts behind her with a quiet finality. sunghoon doesn’t watch it close.

the smell of sooha’s perfume lingers in the air, unwanted, and he feels petty for even trying to block it out. after all, they’ve shared a bed before, even if they skipped every prerequisite to get there—but it rarely ever felt worth it to him, if at all.

he’s had his fair share of women. he’s always prided himself on being honest about what he wants—in his mind, there’s nothing wrong with that, as long as everyone’s on the same page.

no promises, no expectations, yet it always ends the same way. someone always reaches for more pieces of him than he’s willing—or able—to give. pieces that have were never there to begin with.

jake tells him he’s lucky. says it with a laugh, like sunghoon should be grateful for the attention, the bodies, the ease of it all. heeseung tries to offer half-assed couch therapy, something about “opening up” and “not shutting people out,” advice sunghoon knows was pulled straight out of his ass—or worse, his tiktok feed.

god, if he wanted someone to tell him what was wrong with him, he’d just pay someone with a degree five hundred a session to do just that.

park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not interested in love. park sunghoon is not. interested. in. love.

it’s inefficient—unstructured, demanding, and prone to spilling into places it doesn’t belong. it asks for time he doesn’t have, space he’s already accounted for, pieces of him that are scheduled, measured, calculated and spent elsewhere, where it should be.

he repeats it like a mantra: no one is looking at him and realizing he’s absent more than he’s present—because sooner or later, they always want more, and he’s learnt that it’s better to draw the line early than to watch disappointment set in later.

this is mercy.

but to whom, he can’t answer.

─────────────────────────

you’re not very sure where you’re going with this.

there’s a list of problems so long it could double as a grocery store receipt:

one) how do you even explain that you got lee heeseung’s number, and

two) what excuse do you have to actually talk to him?

still, you’re laid in bed, the glow from your screen washing your face in harsh white light, painting the ceiling in sharp rectangles. your eyes squint, blinking against the burn, as if staring long enough might make this whole thing less terrifying.

it’s nearing four in the morning, and you’re fairly certain the party has been over for hours—probably everyone has stumbled home or collapsed on some couch somewhere, except for you, hovering in your room like a guilty ghost.

okay, no. these are excuses, and this is you overthinking, twisting your brain into knots. once you finally text that damn number kim sooha “gifted” you—reluctantly, no less—you’ll either regret it or… regret it. either way, there’s no turning back.

you: hiiiii

creep.

you: hi

ominous…

you: is this heeseung?

too direct.

this isn’t working. your thumb hovers over the screen, trembling slightly, and the numbers stare back at you like a puzzle you’re too tired to solve. maybe, if you stare long enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into an opening line that isn’t mortifying.

though, instead of the numbers moving, your thumb does.

“shit. shit, shit, shit—“

oh, yes, your butter fingers saved you the trouble of texting him: why don’t you just fucking call him, instead? like that’s so much better, real smooth of you.

riiing. riiing. riiing.

you barely have time to process before the line goes quiet.

the silence swallows you whole—your ears ring with it. it’s the kind of quiet that makes you question if you’ve suddenly lost all ability to hear.

oh my god. this is hell. you’re either died, or the world has ended, or some black hole just opened up in your room, because it’s too silent for it to be even remotely normal.

“hello?”

the voice on the other end of the line sounds sharp, clipped, like you’ve interrupted something important—or worse, like you’ve woken him up.

you can’t even fault him for it. it’s four in the morning, after the biggest party this term, and you’re an unknown number calling like you’ve lost your damn mind. still, it makes your heart twist a little.

“who is this?”

it’s not rude… not exactly. still, something in your chest sinks because you know what that tone usually means.

you have, roughly, three seconds to justify your existence before lee heeseung hangs up and you become another embarrassing almost in your own head.

maybe one.

“hi,” you mumble, and somehow almost stutter—if that’s even possible over the phone, with a single word—it comes out thin, fragile, and utterly useless.

the line goes quiet again, and you genuinely consider slamming your head into the wall just to feel something else other than the tiny voices evil-laughing in your head. “heeseung, right?”

more damn silence.

not the dead-line kind. it’s worse. it’s the thinking kind.

you picture him on the other end, phone held away from his ear, brow furrowed as he debates whether this is worth his time. unknown caller. 4 in the morning. zero context. and it’s some girl who can’t even say ‘hi’ right.

if you were him, you’d hang up. you’d block the number, move on, this becoming nothing but a blip in your already eventful life.

your grip tightens around your phone. “i—sorry,” you rush out, words tumbling over each other now that the dam’s broken. “this is probably really weird, i know. i wouldn’t usually call, i swear. i just—i got your number earlier and—”

“earlier?” he cuts in.

there’s something in his voice now—not annoyance. interest, maybe. a sprinkle of curiosity edged with suspicion that you weren’t exactly authorized to clear.

your pulse stutters. you should’ve consulted with jiwon before doing something as stupid as this—or sunoo. hell, even the neighbour next door. anyone would’ve been better than diving into this unprepared.

“yeah. tonight, at the party.” you say quickly, like saying it fast will make it make more sense. lee heeseung, pleaaaase be hungover. just this once. “you hosted, right? sigma alpha eta?”

“riiight,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “and who gave you my number?”

your stomach drops.

shit.

“uh,” you hesitate, immediately regretting it.

lying feels wrong. lying is wrong, actually, according to everyone ever—but the truth feels… way messier.

you weren’t going to hang kim sooha to dry—who knows what she’ll do to you? you can’t risk heeseung finding out the lengths you went to for some digits. besides, you practically played fetch with her.

“a friend,” you say finally, wearing a prideful grin on your face, as if anyone couldn’t have come up with that ridiculous excuse. “yep.”

“a friend,” he repeats, flatly, like he doesn’t believe a single thing coming out of your mouth. “what friend?”

you squeeze your eyes shut. god, this is going terribly. divert!

“look, if this is a bad time, i can hang up. i really didn’t mean to bother you, i just—”

“you already are,” he says, but there’s something off about it. his tired voice crackles, but it barely sounds angry. almost amused in nature.

you blink. “oh.”

there’s a heavy breath on the other end. you can hear it clearly, like he’s shifted positions, maybe sitting up now, or turning over in bed. definitely more awake than he was a minute ago.

gosh. you’re imagining bed-hair heeseung now. this isn’t good.

“you usually call people you don’t know at four in the morning?” he asks.

“no,” you respond immediately. “never. absolutely not. this is a first and hopefully, a last.”

that gets him—you can tell, even without seeing him. there’s a soft huff through the speaker, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your chest flutter traitorously.

“so, i’m the trial run?”

you hesitate, then answer honestly, because at this point, what do you have left to lose? your dignity that’s already been thrown out the window and run over by a car?

“i wanted to talk to you.”

another pause. this one lingers, stretching just long enough to make your fingers tingle around your phone. strangely, it comforts you, the idea that he might hang up—that this could end cleanly right here, because you’ve (smartly, or accidentally) yet to tell him your name.

he’ll never have to know if he just—

“yeah?” he says, quieter now.

“yeah,” you echo, barely above a whisper.

something shifts. you can feel it, even through the line—the way he’s genuinely listening now, leaning into every word instead of brushing you off. your heart flutters, warmth blooming from somewhere in your chest (you can’t pinpoint it), and lee heeseung seems to be at the center of it all.

“well,” he says finally, voice way smoother now, like he’s got all the time in the world to offer you. “you’ve got my attention.”

“i do?” you ask, genuinely amazed by yourself. “you’re not hanging up?”

“do you want me to?”

“no,” the word slips out before you can stop it—soft, a little too quick, and much too honest to take back.

for a beat, there’s nothing, then a breath on the other end of the line—slow, deep—followed by a low sound that might be a laugh, or might just be him exhaling tension.

“yeah,” he murmurs. “i thought so.”

you roll onto your side, sheets whispering against your skin. the ceiling blurs above you, white and featureless, while the rest of the world stays asleep—unaware that something small yet irreversible is happening at four in the morning, right in this room, in your hands.

“so,” he says, “why’d you really call?”

your fingers tighten around your phone. your phone peels away from your cheek, and for a brief moment, you just stare at the glow of the screen, at his contact—*heeseung lee—*like it might blow up if you lie.

“well,” you mumble, chewing on the lining of your cheek. “i just wanted to introduce myself.”

“ah,” he says. there’s movement again, like he’s forcing himself to stay awake and hear you out. “did your… friend warn you i’m not friendly at this hour?”

you can almost picture him now. propped up against his headboard, hair a mess from sleep. his arm slipping under the hem of his shirt to scratch absentmindedly at an itch on his lower abdomen. knuckles rubbing hard at his eyes, chasing away the last stretch of drowsiness you interrupted—before you called, that is.

“i don’t think she mentioned that,” you say, a nervous smile tugging at your lips despite the fact that he can’t see it. your knees draw tighter to your chest, arms locking around them like you’re bracing for impact. it feels like there are insects beneath your skin—restless, frantic, crawling along the lining of your stomach. “she just said you wouldn’t hang up.”

“you trusted that?” his laugh filters through the speaker, low and unexpectedly warm, the sharpness from earlier dulled into something almost fond. “what if she gave you a fake?”

“then i guess i just woke up some random guy at four in the morning,” you say after a second, attempting nonchalance and failing spectacularly. “which would be… humiliating.”

“hm.” there’s movement on his end again—fabric shifting, a quiet thud like he’s moving around the room. god, you wish you knew what his room looked like. “so, you’d just apologize and hang up?”

“…literally what else would i do?”

there’s a pause before he speaks. you can almost hear him think out loud. “don’t know. try harder?”

the words are simple, but they settle heavy in your chest. what the hell does he mean by try harder?

“try harder?” you repeat, incredulous, a little astonished that the man you’ve dreamt up is a little different from what you’re hearing.

“yeah.” his voice lowers a fraction, losing the teasing edge and gaining something steadier. “if you wanted to talk to someone that bad, i’d hope you wouldn’t give up after one wrong number.”

your fingers curl tighter around your phone. “you don’t even know why i called.”

“don’t i, though?”

okay—what the fuck? you’ve moved somewhere closer to your window by now, staring at bright windows, counting the very few amount of people walking around at this hour downstairs. anything that’ll fill the silence between his words and your reply, which your brain has yet to compute.

do not call boys you like at four in the morning. note taken.

“anyway,” his voice sends a soothing relief through your body. “what’s your name?”

the question feels strangely intimate.

“why?” you deflect, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you are. there’s no going back from this—once he knows you’re you, it’s sealed.

you might have to discuss… alternative routes tomorrow. there is no way in god’s green earth that you’ll be able to face lee heeseung in those hallways once this is done.

“because,” he say purposefully slow, like he’s explaining things to a toddler. “if you went through the trouble of getting my number, i should at least know who i’m losing sleep over.”

“y/n.”

okay—flights to antarctica. a new name. a new identity is what you need right now, in order to combat the nerves in your body going into overdrive.

he goes quiet for slightly less than ten seconds—though you’re not exactly sure why you’re counting—and the quiet literally burns. it’s embarrassing to hear his breathing on the other end of the line, because what does it mean? is he disgusted? is he shocked? is he going to block you, or fall in love with you right now?

“it’s a pretty name,” he says. “haven’t heard it before.”

you’re fighting every urge in you to scream.

this feels oddly reminiscent of that middle school crush you had back when you were 13. it’s all butterflies and shaky hands, and even sweatier palms.

lee heeseung’s voice is silky smooth at this hour. exhaustion creeps up on him like it’s claiming his sleep debt, and you hear it in the tiny yawn that sounds through your speakers. you hoped that not holding your screen to your cheek would aid in the worry that he could hear your nervous breathing.

“well, we’ve never talked directly before, so…”

he hums in response. “well, it’s almost five.”

“trying to get rid of me?” you joke, and boy, does the post-flirt-humiliation hit—your eyes screw shut as you silently mutter a ’what the fuck?’.

he scoffs, “am i?” with the faintest trace of a smile in his voice. you can hear it well enough without the need to look at him—though that would be preferable—which only sends you further into a delusional spiral.

lee heeseung finds you funny.

you bite back a grin, pressing your lips into a thin line. your cheeks ache. you’re probably flushed tomato red from this conversation alone.

you stand up just to keep yourself busy. sittig still feels dangerous, like if you let your body settle, your mind will only follow.

the fear of focusing too much on him—on the way his voice dips at the end of certain words, on how easily he fills the quiet with that strangely confident tone—could be catastrophic.

your fingers trail along the edge of your desk, feeling the shallow nicks in the wood, the uneven varnish near the corner. you latch onto the smallest details: the coolness of the surface, the faint tremor in your hand.

anything to keep yourself grounded to the earth, in the very possible case that lee heeseung sends you into orbit.

on the other end, there’s the muted shift of fabric, like he’s rolling onto his side. you picture him staring at the ceiling, one arm tucked behind his head, the phone resting against his cheek.

“didn’t think you’d be the type to be so responsible.”

“one of us has to be,” he says easily. “you don’t sound like someone who keeps track of time, no?”

us.

the word slides into your chest and sits there, heavy and bright all at once.

us, us, us.

you hook a finger through the metal ring of the keychain hanging from your backpack and start spinning it slowly, watching the small charm catch the faint light from your desk lamp. “i absolutely do,” you protest, but the retort comes out thinner than intended.

“do you?” he presses, gentle but unrelenting. “you called me at four in the morning.”

“it wasn’t exactly planned,” you mutter.

“impulsive, then.”

there’s no judgment in his tone. he talks to you like you’re something intriguing under the lens of a microscope.

you cross your room in slow, restless steps, phone held up to chest-level as if the added distance will somehow steady you. the floor is cool beneath your feet. outside your window, the sky is beginning to pale, the darkness thinning into something bluish and uncertain.

“you picked up, though. you didn’t have to.”

the counter-argument is weak. there’s a brief pause before he admits, “yeah, so?”

“so, what does that say about you?”

your fingers still against the keychain. your feet stand still across from it, refusing to move until he says something to keep this seemingly empty conversation moving. there’s a short, succinct moment of quiet that makes you swallow.

and then—a breath. a faint exhale that sounds nothing like a laugh, but more acknowledgement than anything else.

“i make bad decisions before sunrise. i need my sleep,” he answers. “i got an early morning.”

huh. okay. your eyes are narrowing in suspicion before he can get the last word out. “how early?”

“early enough.”

you let it go, though the curiosity lingers. instead, you’re turning around to lean your weight back against your desk, pressing yourself against the solid wood edge, focusing on the cadence of his breathing. “you don’t sound tired anymore."

“that’s your fault.”

your pulse stutters. “mine?”

“hard to sleep when someone’s interrogating you.”

you huff out a quiet laugh, but your grip on the phone tightens. “i’m not interrogating you.”

“right.” the sound vibrates low through the speaker. you imagine him dragging a hand down his face, sitting up now, feet touching the floor. there’s a faint creak—wood under weight—followed by the soft scrape of something being nudged aside.

“i should probably end this,” he says after a moment, words slowed. “tomorrow’s going to be brutal.”

right—he’s crazy popular. probably has a lot going on.

you straighten instinctively. the conversation has shifted into its closing act without warning. “right, yeah. of course.”

“don’t stay up,” he adds, tone a smidge lighter, yet it doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent. “you’ll blame me when you miss your alarm.”

“bold of you to assume i’d admit that.”

“you wouldn’t,” he agrees easily. “you’d just call again. wake me up for the second time to complain, yeah?”

again.

“goodnight, heeseung,” you say before you can dissect the word further. any longer and you might’ve memorised the oxford definition for it.

a beat. you can hear a snicker on the other end of the line, but before you can say much, lee heeseung beats you to it.

“goodnight.”

the line disconnects. you remain standing in the corner of your room, keychain still looped around your finger. your heart’s drumming against your ribs as the early light creeps further across your walls.

your mind’s swirling again—it’s sending you further into that rabbit hole that looks a lot like heeseung’s perfect hair and charming smile.

note to self: call lee heeseung again. tomorrow. four in the morning.

─────────────────────────

the line goes dead.

the sun is barely peeking above the trees now, as if easing it’s way into the sky. he thinks it’ll be fully up by the time he finishes brushing his shower—and there’s that faint smell of citrus. again. disgusting.

a dull, faint thudding sound comes from downstairs. the sound of glasses clinking together reaches all the way up here; echoing in the dimly lit house.

it must be sunoo. making breakfast, he guesses.

there’s sunlight diffusing into the room, divided into slits by his white blinds that’ve all but stayed drawn throughout the night. skin’s sunken in under his eyes, partially, as a result of microsoft word creeping it’s way into his routine again—he supposes he should know better by now, but still. time is short.

his hands trail under his tank, scratching at a small itch under his chest. the metal hanging on the far wall catches the widening morning light, thin ribbons casting fragile shadows against white paint. a golden trophy sits dead centre on his dark oak bookshelf, polished to an almost obnoxious shine.

“fuck…” he groans, dragging both hands through his hair, fingers pressing against his scalp like he can physically push the night out of his system.

the strands fall back obediently, barely disturbed—as if exhaustion has weighed them into submission. there’s something irritating about that, too. like even his body refuses to reflect the fact that he was up until sunrise.

the weekend usually goes like this: brush. shower. dress. breakfast. run. shower. practice. assignments fit somewhere in between.

he begins to crawl out of his duvet. it’s cold—it always is when it’s this early into dawn. the wind kisses his skin like it’s reminding him of this fact, clinging to him as he drags his feet against the wood floor: slow, lazy shuffles until he actually manages to wake up.

open the door, down the hall, to the right. he passes by rooms, involuntarily listening to the muffled snores through wood as his feet carry him to the tiled room at the end of the hallway. the light in sunoo’s room casts shadows at his feet, peeking under the door, which confirms his suspicion: the waffle smell is coming from downstairs.

the door hits the wall with a soft thud. one perk about being the first one up is that the bathroom is almost always spotless.

his toothbrush sits in a black mug, along with six others. it’s a plain white, his name written in permanent marker at the handle. just in case a repeat of five months ago happened—nishimura riki, of course, making that mistake.

toothbrush in the mouth. bristles against teeth. back and forth, left and right, circles. gums. tongue. he stares at the stupid smiski figurine that jake left on the shelf just to give himself an excuse not to look at how tired he is.

and as he spits the mint paste out of his mouth—his phone vibrates against the marble counter. there’s water on his screen from putting it face down.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

yeonjun (vice): good morning princesses 06:01

yeonjun (vice): rink opens at 6pm 06:02

yeonjun (vice): game’s coming up. do not be late or our dear captain will not be happy! 06:05

yeonjun (vice): can we all strive for a happy hoonie today 06:05

yeonjun (vice): also send ur fucking food logs bro @nicho 06:07

for fuck’s sake.

he groans, yanking the phone closer, tilting it to shake off the water droplets. the screen lights up his tired face in brief flashes of fluorescence, each message a reminder that the world outside this house has already started without him.

shower. breakfast. run. practice. the ritual is looping in his head, mechanical, familiar—but today, each step feels like it’s being forced through molasses. it’s definitely the microsoft word.

he squints against the glare, ignoring the faint taste of toothpaste still clinging to his tongue, scrolling past the ridiculous group chat chatter to land on the pinned schedule.

2027 training schedule.pdf

and at the top—his name, in bold, for everyone to remember, as if he hasn’t spent long enough drilling it into his team’s heads.

“captain: park sunghoon/vice captain: choi yeonjun”

sunghoon leans against the counter, elbows braced, letting the faint vibrations of the phone thrum through his fingers. the early sunlight, spilling in at an angle the shitty blinds can’t fully block, makes him want to shut his eyes and go back to bed—jungwon’s interior design choices continue to do him no favors.

he stares at the phone a moment longer, thumb hovering over the text threads he knows he should respond to. teasing from his fellow teammates that they know gets under his skin. stupid morning selfies that no one asked for, because the informal group chat is run by no one but the noisiest.

he showers. he’s downstairs. he’s shoving a spoonful of oats into his mouth, gulping down a protein smoothie like it’s water, and only then is he outside and tying his laces. it’s like he’s fucking teleporting around this place.

something feels off. he almost forgets his apple watch before crossing the threshold called sigma alpha beta’s front door. forty minutes later and the morning air is still damp with dew, the neighbourhood quiet save for the distant hum of traffic that hasn’t fully reached it’s potential yet.

the door shuts behind him with a click. heart rate: 93 bpm.

sunghoon begins his run like any other morning. the stretch of his limbs feels mechanical at first, the stiffness in his bones finally relenting after hours spent hunched over his laptop. he jogs in place, letting his blood move, allowing his muscles to remember their morning rhythm.

the street around him is quiet, edges softened by dawn—a stray leaf skitters across the sidewalk and the faint smell of a house’s breakfast drifts through the wind. everything is ordinary, almost painfully so, except for the faint pull in his chest.

god knows why.

a heavy sigh leaves him, curling into vapour the second it meets the cold. his calves are warm, ready to move, muscles primed for the first push forward—

bbrrr. bbrrr. brrrr.

choi fucking yeonjun.

“the hell?” he mutters, wrist lifting automatically as he taps the flashing green icon. “what the fuck do you want?”

there’s a small, sacred list of things that can truly get under park sunghoon’s skin. missed passes. sloppy drills. people who don’t keep their word. anyone who interrupts him. and now, apparently, choi yeonjun calling him at six-fifty in the morning, on a fucking sunday.

“are you on your period or something?” yeonjun’s voice comes through crisp and far too alive. “good morning, my honey bun.”

“stop bothering me.”

“how did you sleep, huh? why do you sound so angry? you usually save it for practice, in case you don’t remembe—”

the thought interrupts him so abruptly it almost throws off his breathing.

okay, to be fair, it was the assignments first. the blinking cursor, and the way microsoft word has this sick habit of stretching minutes into hours until the sky outside starts lightening without permission. he’d told himself he’d sleep right after submitting. just one more paragraph. one more edit. one more citation.

it sounded a lot like a random girl calling his phone at four in the morning. asking about lee heeseung, no less.

gravel crunches harder beneath his shoes as he picks up his pace without meaning to, breath sharpening on the exhale.

“i slept,” sunghoon says flatly, somehow. his eyes stay fixed on the long stretch of road before him.

“no,” yeonjun replies instantly. “you sound tired. sooha kept you up?”

he doesn’t bother to address that. not worth his time. “i’m running.”

a snort crackles through the tiny speaker. “yeah, no shit. i can hear you trying to outrun your personality.”

sunghoon rolls his eyes, though there’s no one there to see it. the park path stretches ahead, thin and empty, washed in early gold. right foot over the left, his stride perfect, pace never faltering. “why are you psychoanalysing me at seven in the morning?”

“it’s six fifty,” yeonjun corrects. he keeps running. “and it’s only cause you sound like you died yesterday.”

and just what the hell am i supposed to do about that, he thinks—it’s not his fault someone rang him in the middle of the night, asked for his best friend like it was urgent, like it mattered at all. it’s not his fault she ate up the remaining hours of sleep he’d planned to ration carefully. it’s not his fault she sounded so intent—so utterly determined—to talk to lee heeseung.

his jaw tightens slightly.

it’s also not his fault that she doesn’t know anything—who she was actually talking to. how easily she let the conversation stretch. how readily she laughed. how she filled silences that would’ve seemed suspicious to anyone else.

you’re so fucking naive. it makes him sick.

“are you trying to break a record right now?”

sunghoon glances down at his watch. his pace has increased by almost thirty seconds per kilometre.

what exactly was he supposed to do, anyway? interrupt her mid-laugh and tell her she’d reached the wrong person? tell her she’d misdialed and should try again? hand her off like a misplaced package?

park sunghoon tells himself he only kept the call going because it was easier, and that it was late—and most of all, it’ll only happen once.

that’s all.

“sunghoon.”

“what?”

“did you hit your head or something?”

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose, pace steady, shoulders squared like they always are when he runs. unshakeable. “focus on your own head.”

yeonjun laughs. “wow. so cold. captain, your bedside manner is terrible.”

“goodbye, yeonjun.”

he ends the call before the vice captain can squeeze in another comment. silence rushes back in, thick and uninterrupted, save for the steady impact of rubber against pavement. sunghoon’s eyebrows knit together as he continues down the path, watching windows flicker to life in real time—one square of yellow, then another, then three in a row. the campus is waking up, unaware of the private absurdities that unfolded at the expense of park sunghoon’s rest.

and he wonders, briefly, if you slept soundly after that call.

if you rolled onto your side with a faint smile, phone still warm in your palm, thinking about lee heeseung.

or if he were the one you believed you were talking to, would it have sounded the same?

would you have laughed like that—would you have fallen for every word?

the thought is almost amusing.

perfect lee heeseung, who forgets half his deadlines. who shows up five minutes late with an apology grin that fixes everything. who doesn’t have to hold a locker room together or pretend his moods don’t exist. who can afford to be charming because nothing rests on his shoulders long enough to bruise. and still, you never fucking noticed the difference.

but the thing is this: park sunghoon might as well have his face plastered on billboards, because everyone around him knows—or thinks they do. they all see him. they’re all watching him.

a slightly clipped tone. a delayed response in the group chat. half a second too long between reps at practice. they notice. they always notice.

if he’s irritated, the team feels it. if he’s distracted, the drills get sloppy. if he’s quiet, the locker room gets tense. his mood isn’t just his—it’s contagious. spreading like hazardous, passionate wildfire. a fucking plague that everyone’s afraid to upset.

heeseung doesn’t need to think about that, does he?

heeseung doesn’t have thirty pairs of eyes scanning his expression the second he walks into the rink. doesn’t have rookies straightening their posture when he passes. he doesn’t have to calculate the weight of every word because one careless comment could echo for weeks.

how pathetic. sunghoon really has to stop throwing himself into self-deprecating chains of thought in the middle of his morning runs.

─────────────────────────

you move through the day like you’re on autopilot.

your alarming lack of errands feels like the source of your misery—nothing fills the time well enough. the clock drags its feet out of spite, each minute stretching thinner than the last, and there are simply not enough tiktoks in the world to scroll through until four in the morning.

…does it even have to be four in the morning?

you’re sprawled across the couch in your apartment, limbs loose, attention even looser. jiwon’s out tonight—dinner with that guy she met at sigma alpha eta—and you waved her off earlier with a distracted nod after sitting through a solid hour of her spiralling about how she’s “not sure if he’s the one.”

your fingers tapped impatiently against your phone while she twirled in front of you, once, twice, the fabric of her dress catching in the stale air of the living room. you were slumped against the backrest, head heavy in your palms, fighting sleep that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with boredom.

“i literally told you my opinion,” it escapes as a groan, your lashes fluttering shut before your head lands against the cushions. “if you’re just gonna keep going back to this dress, just wear this one.”

jiwon looked at you like you’d shot her in the chest. “you’re just so patient, aren’t you?”

your arm drifted lazily toward the glass table, fingers stretching for your phone like a dying man reaching for water. it’s barely out of reach, but somehow still too far.

you hook it toward you at last. the screen lights up: nothing. of course.

and then she continues to talk—something about silhouettes, about first impressions, about how boys apparently notice everything—but her voice dissolves into background noise. you nod when it feels appropriate. hum when she pauses, look over when she calls your name.

sorry, oh jiwon. you do not have the capacity to give a fuck right now—lee heeseung’s name is sitting on the top of your call log like a secret, ready to be shown off to the world.

“fine. i’ll just wear this—“

she leaves with her keys jingling down the hallway. you chew your lip like the short-lived guilt might manifest into an apology and hunt her down that corridor, but between you and literally anyone else?

it will be forgiven and forgotten when she returns tomorrow morning, you assume, only because there’s smuggled condoms in her purse—like she’s starring in some coming-of-age film.

the rest of the evening passes in a strange, slippery blur.

you’re cooking dinner at one point, staring absently at the stove while oil crackles in the pan, nearly burning the garlic because you drifted too far into your own head. later, you’re in the shower, steam clinging to your skin while you tilt your face away from the showerhead, replaying last night’s conversation in fragments—the way he laughed. the pause before he answered certain questions. the tone of his voice when he teased you.

you’re checking your phone again. this is definitely worse than that crush you had when you were thirteen.

─────────────────────────

a few miles away on campus soil, practice runs longer than it should. park sunghoon has sweat clinging to his skin, darkening the collar of his shirt, tracing the lines of muscle that took years to carve into something worth respecting. every movement feels marginally heavier than usual despite the near-flawless precision of his drills. his turns are clean. his stops sharp. his passes calculated.

still, there’s just something about today.

he pushes the team harder than usual. he tells himself it has nothing to do with your voice bouncing around in his head like an insufferable little ping-pong ball. absolutely nothing to do with the way you laughed at something he said at four in the morning.

it’s discipline. that’s all.

there’s hesitation in the juniors’ movements. it’s especially obvious in the way they avoid him—questions rerouted to choi yeonjun instead, who is currently preoccupied with his self-assigned duty of shooting nicholas with two pucks at once for reasons known only to him. sunghoon watches it unfold with a faint twitch of annoyance—he has to take off his helmet just to breathe right. sometimes, he genuinely wonders how yeonjun managed to snag vice captain.

eventually, though, the confusion climbs its way back to him like it always does. a hesitant shuffle. a cough. a poorly disguised glance in his direction.

“captain—”

his voice cuts through the rink’s cold air with surgical clarity. he explains every movement, every angle, every adjustment with mechanical perfection. there is no room for misunderstanding when he speaks. there rarely ever is when he’s this worked up.

by the time he gets back to sigma alpha eta, his muscles ache and his head feels heavier than it should—his skull weighing on his spine, every knot tightening in a body that was already rigid to begin with. even if he swears he warmed up enough, his gait still comes out stiff.

he heads straight for the bathroom after tossing his bag onto the floor, haphazardly by the doorframe of his room. the tiled floor is slightly slippery from someone else’s shower, much to his dismay.

he peels his clothes off, the overhead light catching the sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. his gaze lingers, unintentional, over the familiar outline of his body—something he built, piece by piece, over years of repetition and restraint.

it’s taken him so long to get here.

park sunghoon turns slightly, glancing over his shoulder. his eyes squint at the subtle tints of blue and purple, an occasional yellow and familiar reds.

a faint bruise blooms along his back—noticeable enough to catch his attention, but still subtle enough to ignore. his thumb presses into it briefly. it doesn’t hurt much, sitting in a valley between his shoulder blade and the deep impression of his spine.

he doesn’t dwell. no time. there’s roughly ten minutes before his eyes have to shut and his cells get to work at repairing the strain he never fails to put himself through.

the shower is quick. burning hot water pelts his shoulders, steam gathering thick against the tiles as the tension in his body dulls into something manageable. afterward, he downs another protein shake, the grainy texture catching in his throat like it’s meant to fill more than just hunger.

then, the sheets rustle as he settles in. tonight feels cooler than usual, though that might have more to do with the window he left wide open—jake sim always made the habit of reminding him to, otherwise, it’d be too stuffy. the blinds sway with the wind, wood tapping lightly against the glass in a steady, hollow rhythm.

no assignments. class begins early tomorrow. park sunghoon needs all the energy he can get if he wants to maintain that stellar gpa of his—it’s reason enough to shut his screen off and reach for the charger without hesitation.

this is what most nights look like. the temperature shifts by a degree or two. the sounds outside change. the air moves differently. but if he squints, it’s all the same, really. park sunghoon—the captain, the leader, the one everyone watches—falls asleep the same way every night, staring at what he’s built.

his gaze drifts back, almost involuntarily, to his now-dimmed phone. the last item on his mental checklist has been crossed off, but the weight on his shoulders doesn’t lift. if anything, it settles deeper, heavier, as the thought of monday presses in.

there will be mondays for the rest of his life. obviously.

it’s sunday nights like this—quiet, cold, stretching endlessly before them—that serve as meaningless prologues that do nothing but make park sunghoon feel like the loneliest man in the world, at the top of the chain that he’s tried so desperately to scale.

his eyes shift to the wall instead. an attempt at distracting himself.

medals, trophies, certificates. plaques stacked where there’s no space left for more.

there’s boxes shoved beneath his bed, too. filled with the rest of it, or rather, everything that didn’t make the cut. almost all of it’s in there—wrinkled homework from the when he first learned how to write his name coherently, all the way to the year he left his hometown.

it’s taped shut with cheap, barely-there adhesive, the kind that curls at the edges if you look at it for too long. he’s almost certain his mother shoved it in the car, insisted he bring it with him to college—something about keeping memories close, about not forgetting where he came from. he can’t recall how else it would’ve ended up here, with him, haunting his conscience like a guilty ghost.

sunghoon plugs the cord in, the battery icon flashing obediently on the corner of his screen. that should be the end—

ding!

his jaw tightens. his tooth almost cracks from how hard he’s gritting them. it’s even more annoying, because his arm’s already bent over the table, ready to drop the device on his small night stand.

so god help him, if it’s choi yeonjun asking for the practice footage again, or sending another half-coherent voice note about formations he absolutely should have memorised by now—

ding!

sunghoon exhales sharply through his nose and retracts his hand. the attention-aware feature on his phone causes his screen to light up almost immediately, and despite the fact that he was just staring at it moments ago, it burns all the same.

unknown contact.

he doesn’t even need to see the name. sunghoon sees the call log from last night, ending at five in the morning, and immediately knows.

y/n l/n: day went great btw 01:21

y/n l/n: not a single yawn 01:21

he’s going to bed. he’s tired, and he’s not definitely past dealing with a girl who doesn’t even care that he doesn’t sound like lee heeseung—or at the very least, not enough to verify that it is indeed park sunghoon on the other end of the line.

y/n l/n: i know you said 4am but i have class at 8 tmr sooo 01:21

absolutely. fucking. not.

riiiiing. riiiing.

park sunghoon is not picking up the phone.

─────────────────────────

“and then?”

he lied.

there are a few things park sunghoon would never admit to anyone else. firstly, that he’s terrible at making his own coffee and still gets riki to do it for him. secondly, that he needs to hug his ridiculously large, sausage-shaped pillow to fall asleep, or he wakes up worse than usual.

and third—

that he’s genuinely listening to a random girl on the phone, without slipping in a quiet, so are you coming over or not? somewhere between her sentences.

it doesn’t feel like a decision. there’s something settling into place, clicking in his chest before he has a real chance to question his own intentions. the words come out easily, slipping off his tongue and past his lips like water, because that’s what this is—natural, for reasons beyond him.

sunghoon lies back with one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone loosely against his cheek. moonlight spills into the room through the half-open blinds, stretching across his ceiling like it has nowhere else to go. he knows he should’ve closed them earlier, but the thought passes without consequence, dissolving somewhere between the moment your name lit up his screen and now.

his hair falls in soft streaks across his forehead, long since dried from the aggressive towel action he’d put himself through not even half an hour ago—something he refuses to think about too meticulously, especially not in relation to the notification that had pulled him back to his phone.

incoming call from y/n l/n.

there’s a dull ache pressing at his temples, insistent, like it’s trying to remind him of something he’s choosing to ignore. he knows better than this, he really does. in the same way he knows that you think he’s someone else entirely.

he breathes, slow and deep like it’ll undo all the knots in his muscles. it’s strange that it’s working now, compared to all the times where he got a sports massage after practice with no real effect, and he wonders—no matter how absurd it is—that if it’s your voice that’s making him so, so sleepy.

on the other end, you never hesitate. you answer him with a kind of ease he isn’t used to, words flowing like there’s nothing in the world worth holding back. there’s something almost intimate in it—not intentional, barely meaningful, but there all the same. like two people who have already decided, somewhere along the way, that they belong in each other’s space.

the thought comes uninvited.

is this what couples do?

it makes him want to shut his eyes and forget he ever had it.

your voice carries through the line with the same unfiltered simplicity that he’s already starting to recognize—light, animated despite the hour, spilling from one thought to the next with barely any pause. there’s a lack of calculation in the way you speak, a clear absence of consideration in what words were okay to say, and what details were appropriate to omit—in which there were none. you even told him about your ten minute doomscroll session on the toilet midway through biochemistry.

it fills the silence before it can exist. it’s not like he’s not used to the noise—he’s surrounded by idiots who can’t keep their mouth shut, and god, has he wished for years that everyone around him would just be quiet for at least ten minutes—but when your soft, sweet voice rings in his ears, he’s not even sure what he’s feeling.

the realistic part of him, however useless he may be now, knows that everything is a lie. there’s you, rambling to him solely because you think he is the man you have that miserable crush on, and then there’s him: feeding your delusions, for his own selfish intents, as if that makes him any less dumber than you.

you’re talking to him because you think he’s someone else. because you’ve attached yourself to a version of a person that doesn’t exist on this end of the line.

he lets it happen, anyway.

sunghoon shifts against his pillows and the mattress dips slightly beneath his weight. the room remains dim, lit faintly by the fluorescent lighting radiating from his screen, probably killing off all his melatonin receptors by now—the dull wash of streetlight slips in, occasionally cut off by a passing car through half-open blinds. the air moves lazily, wind brushing past his skin, cooling what little heat still lingers from his shower.

his responses lag. he lets you talk. it’s intentional at first, an easy excuse for something he can fall back on. you seemed like the type who didn’t need much prompting, anyway—your words come in soft bursts of laughter, half-finished thoughts and tangents that circle back around before he can fully follow them. it should be difficult to keep up with, but as with everything that’s occuring, it’s unknown to him why it isn’t.

somewhere along the way, it stops being passive. there’s things that he’s noticing that he doesn’t want to notice. hearing things that he never means to. it’s lodged into his brain that’s already fighting for more storage space—your tone that shifts when you’re about to say something embarrassing, or how you rush through it a little faster, before doubling back as if to justify it. there’s pauses that aren’t quite pauses, just brief breaths where he can almost picture you thinking, deciding whether to keep going or jump to the next part of your day.

he remembers that party. he remembers how your hair fell on your face, and in the moment, sunghoon thought you’d just be passing in his already busy life—he finds it extremely irritating that he can recall almost every mundane feature on your face as if you were the most beautiful girl he’d seen. that dress that you probably found deep in your dresser and didn’t bother to smooth out, or that cup in your hand that’s barely holding any liquor. you were there for someone, after all.

he stood at that stairwell, watching, as if you were someone he couldn’t approach. please—if lee heeseung wasn’t the one you already set your sights on, he bets he could have you in his bed that very night.

if only he hadn’t froze.

you’re not anyone meaningful to him. you’re not supposed to take up what precious space he has for himself, and yet, here you are, barging into his life like you demand his attention.

it’s not like he’s any better, honestly. he knows that much.

“i was wondering if i should call, y’know,” you mumble through his phone’s speaker. he raises an eyebrow, as if you could see it. “it’s really late. don’t you have class tomorrow, too?”

“i do,” sunghoon sighs. he makes a conscious effort to stop himself from sharing which. “all day.”

unknown to park sunghoon, you’re lying upside down on your pink duvet, hair falling over the edge of your bed. you’re acting like you have no real responsibilities or hour long classes tomorrow morning, and that energy is somehow infecting him, too.

his grip around the phone shifts, thumb brushing absentmindedly along the edge of his thick case. the thought of telling you who he really is comes and goes without fully forming, though the feeling that claws at his ribs is quieter than guilt. it’s not sharp enough for him to address just yet.

you say something. he doesn’t catch all of it, only the way your laughter follows right after. sunghoon almost thinks you must love hearing your own voice with how giggly you are.

nevertheless, it pulls something out of him before it can be stopped. a response—low and tired in nature, slipping into the conversation as if he didn’t spend the past ten minutes wondering if anything he’ll say will give him away.

and still, you respond, picking it up without hesitation, folding his words into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“i didn’t even realise the time until i checked my phone,” you lie. “i’m sorry if you were just kidding yesterday… and didn’t want me to actually call. i wasn’t sure.”

“it’s fine, really.” sunghoon murmurs, voice low and threaded with sleep. “but you really should’ve called earlier. i’m about to knock out.”

there’s a soft scoff on your end, fabric shifting faintly. sunghoon’s ears pick that up, too. “you picked up anyway, didn’t you?”

he doesn’t respond to that, and the silence continues. it’s not empty or uncomfortable, filled with something else that simmers under his skin. he lets it stay.

you don’t push, instead humming like you’ve already moved on. you talk more about your day, admitting to things that you probably shouldn’t, voice drifting back into that easy rhythm that makes him want to turn over and shut his eyes for the night. “i kept checking my phone like something interesting would happen today, but…”

“nothing did?” he asks, eyes half-lidded—his eyelashes feel heavier now.

“wellll…” you drag out the word slightly, a hint of a smile tucked into it, like sunghoon couldn’t already hear the teeth in your voice. “i’m telling you about my day now, so i guess it all worked out.”

he exhales softly. his finger comes up to his face to rub at his nose, and he sniffles before responding, “that’s a really low bar.”

“i’m being honest,” you admit, voice dipping just slightly, unaware of the cliff you’re driving yourself off of. “you seem like someone who’s always busy.”

he supposes, in a sense, he is. just not in a lee heeseung way. “i’m not that busy.”

there’s a hint of disbelief in your laugh that fades quickly. it gives way to something more curious, and all it does is ease the conversation into something quieter and more fluid. your voice lowers as words blend together, and sunghoon finds his shoulders caving into his chest.

he shifts against the pillows, letting the weight of the night settle into his tired limbs. you wrap around him like a thread pulling taut—he doesn’t need to respond immediately; the words coming from you are enough to fill spaces he’s left behind.

sunghoon blinks slowly. “you’ve got me wrong.”

“yeah, now that i think about it,” you whisper. “i don’t think i know enough to be right.”

park sunghoon rarely gets nervous, if ever. there were a few times in fifth grade that he’d gotten a tummy ache before going up on stage, or in middle school when he had to give a presentation on the cultural history of korean calligraphy. he supposes the habit just vanished, because by the time he turned sixteen and played in his first hockey match, it never manifested again.

there’s a relief that comes with finding your coping mechanism. sunghoon never really examined why he would feel like throwing up before getting in front of a bunch of strangers, but he understood, even if on a very basic level, that hockey took that away from him—it’s the smooth slide of his skates against ice that tends to narrow down the world to just him, where nothing and no one else matters.

he’s not exactly sure why that is; reflection wasn’t really his thing. he knew it when his teacher would set him aside from other kids and ask ’how are things at home?’, to which he had no answers.

as long as it works, right?

still, it’s here now. that feeling of his heart dropping straight through his mattress, and his stomach churning something that refuses to let him speak.

“i feel like i’ve just been yapping,” you say. you aren’t wrong. it’s barely your fault, though he can’t really tell you that.

sunghoon swallows, throat dry and constricting around nothing. the grip he has on his phone tightens momentarily before easing again, his gaze darting around the room like he’s searching desperately for answers that’ll magically manifest.

he could say something. he should. something vague would be good. easy to follow up with, or be mysterious about. slightly personal so you don’t pry too much, that doesn’t let this tip any further than it already has.

and yet—the words don’t come. it barely makes it past his throat.

sunghoon exhales and the sound is almost lost against the line. “it’s getting late.”

it’s been ’getting late’ for the past two hours. his voice sounds worn, and he blames no one but himself—for letting his schedule fall apart like this, and still picking up the phone anyway.

and you, being the unsuspecting, naive girl you are—humming softly as if to tell him you understand. “yeah, i guess so.”

park sunghoon tears his screen away from the warmth of his cheek. only now does he realise how long it’s truly been; the absence of his warm device and the presence of cold wind hitting his face helps him remember how absurd this is.

he looks at the duration of the call, now barely over two hours.

the number sits there, steady and indifferent, as if it doesn’t account for the way time had slipped past him without resistance. as if it doesn’t mean anything at all.

for a moment, he just stares at it, his thoughts lagging behind the reality of it. two hours of listening, of responding, of letting himself exist in something that shouldn’t have been this easy.

this should end here.

sunghoon brings the phone back to his ear, the warmth returning in a way that feels almost deceptive now. he blinks once, twice, before clearing his throat. “goodnight, y/n.”

“goodnight, heeseung.”

the line cuts. sunghoon lies still in his white sheets, the duvet crinkling softly beneath his weight—though it feels heavier than it should, like it’s dragging him deeper into the earth. he stares blankly into the space above him, eyes fixed on nothing, as if he can’t quite register the way the room seems to close in, inch by inch.

outside, the world goes on, completely unaware.

cars pass. lights flicker somewhere beyond his window. time moves the way it always does—steady, indifferent to him, and for a fleeting moment, he wishes he wasn’t in this body.

the thought comes quietly, almost absurd in its simplicity. the thought that he could step out of himself and into someone else—someone forgettable, someone ordinary—someone who doesn’t carry the weight of expectation so tightly wound around his chest. he imagines it briefly, the ease of it: letting tomorrow belong to someone else.

letting the responsibilities, the precision, the constant awareness slip from his grasp for just a day.

just once where he doesn’t have to move like he knows exactly what he’s doing, or carry himself like someone people look up to—like someone who has everything under control, when the truth is that he’s no different from anyone else. just one fucking day is all he asks.

it was nice—the two hours sunghoon got to pretend like he wasn’t sunghoon. he could say it was almost natural, which only unsettles him even more.

he shifts slightly against his sheets, and the loud rustle only anchors him further into the reality he’s in. he blinks slowly before letting his eyelids shut, and almost as if to say ‘you’re never living this down’, your face appears right behind them.

here you are, reconstructed behind his shut eyes like you’re something worth remembering—it's your perfect hair. your eyes that dulled the lights strobing in your face. that dress that looked weirdly good on you.

this is so fucking frustrating.

─────────────────────────

you only see kim sunoo once a week. there’s careful planning that goes behind the days leading up to psychology of mass media—it’s the only hour you can get any intel, if at all, due to the convenient fact that sunoo likes to be the first to leave and last to arrive.

in reality, it’s just you showing up earlier than necessary, and lingering a little longer than you should in hopes that you’ll catch sunoo again.

you have one question. just one. he won’t mind, would he?

the lecture hall is still half-empty when you slip in, and the fluorescent lights actually burn—rows of seats stretching out in that familiar, uninspired gradient of grey and black. there are a few scattered groups that have already settled in, most of them slumped over their desks with jackets thrown over their heads. the sound of keyboard clicking echoes, bouncing off the sterile walls, and you do your best to tune it out.

it takes two minutes for kim sunoo to walk in, beige tote slung over his shoulder, stride light and easy—he always looked put together despite the hour. there were times you considered if he was a vampire, considering how he never looks tired, but the thought never sticks long enough to matter.

he slides into his usual seat without much ceremony, setting his bag beside him before pulling out his macbook. there’s a faint glow of white casts over his face, highlighting the smoothness of his skin, and it feels ridiculous—that split second when you feel a little jealous of him.

fifty five minutes left.

you move before you can think too hard about it, because you already know how that ends. your sneakers thud softly against the carpeted floor as you make your way down the steps, gaze flickering briefly around the room—not because there’s anything to actually be wary of, but because it feels like there should be.

as if anyone here could read your mind, and as if they’d even care enough to judge you for it. the thought lingers in the back of your mind all the same.

you slow just a fraction as you near his row, like the sensible part of your brain’s giving you one last chance to turn around and act like the normal girl who doesn’t care that much. there’d be some grace in taking that empty seat behind him and pretending like the thought of snooping around lee heeseung’s love life never crossed your mind at all—but it has to happen, and unless the gift of time travel is suddenly bestowed upon you, your ass is about to meet the plastic chair beneath you.

the chair creaks softly under your weight, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the low hum of the room. everyone’s blissfully unaware of the humiliation you’re about to put yourself through, though it somehow makes your courage muster a little easier.

“you’re staring at me.”

sunoo’s voice is monotonous. he doesn’t bother to spare you a look, because in truth, he doesn’t need to turn his head to see the way you’re burning holes through his.

“i’m not.”

he scoffs, though he means nothing spiteful of it. as much as he hates to admit, you were one of the nicer seatmates he had this year. “you are.”

“okay, well,” you begin, hands coming up from under the long, laminated wooden desk in front of you. you press them together, like that’d make things less awkward—your fingers fidget just for the sake of doing something other than staring at sunoo. “i was thinking—”

“about me?” kim sunoo smiles, still not looking at you. the corner of his lip is lifted up in something similar to genuine amusement, but it does nothing to help the embarrassment that’s stabbing at your nerves. “you’re blunt, [name].”

“ha ha,” you mock. sunoo can’t help but giggle at that. “the posters. outside. i saw them.”

ah. he sees what this is about.

soul searching ✦ booth 35, level 1, outside block A friday, 10th september 2026, 1pm-8pm ❤︎ love life in shambles? wanna meet new people? come visit our booth to find your perfect match! ❤︎ a quick questionnaire, a curated pairing—one conversation might change everything. rumour has it that the first person you meet… might just be the one. for early bird tickets, scan here!

the promotional poster that you stumbled upon was one of many pasted across campus. there were a few that jiwon mumbled to you about this morning, over the phone, and while you can’t exactly recall the exact details of the conversation, you just know it made her reconsider attending. it was obvious in the way she kept asking, ‘should i?’ followed by ‘i don’t know, maybe i should’, circled back with ‘i’ll think about it’.

it was for, roughly, five seconds that you wondered just how many girls would be lining up for it as well. you remember standing there a little longer than necessary, eyes skimming over the bold lettering like it was supposed to mean more than it did. the paper had been slightly wrinkled at the edges, tape barely holding it against the wall like it had been put up in a rush—but it was bright, unapologetically pink, and you almost grimaced at the thought of other people stopping to stare at it the same way you did.

you’d already decided you were going to go.

scanned the qr code right then and there, shamelessly, in the middle of the hallway on the way here—thumb hovering for less than a second before pressing submit, like hesitation would somehow make it worse.

the soulmate part, though—that stuck, unfortunately. it clung in a way that was irritatingly persistent, like gum pressed into the grooves of your thoughts. not because you believed it, necessarily, but because it was the kind of idea that refused to leave once it had somewhere to sit.

“so…. details?” you ask, a bright and inviting smile plastered onto your cheeks. “is heeseung going for sure? how does it even work?”

kim sunoo shrugs, typing briefly into his laptop before looking at you. “it’s a fundraiser booth. students sign up and get paired at random. i think, like, five seniors found their husbands here a few years back, and it’s been a myth ever since.”

you blink. “wait—so the first person you meet thing, that’s real? the soulmate shit?”

“yeah. haven’t you seen how many campus couples made it because of us? it’s really weird.”

soulmates. it’s all bullshit.

people talked about fate like it was something clean and predictable, like they didn’t sit behind the steering wheel of their own life. it’s as if someone or something invisible was guiding them—like there was a line drawn somewhere out there with your name on it, waiting for you to follow it without question until it led you to the right person.

you’ve never experienced it that way. if anything, your history with relationships feels like the opposite: bad timing, poor judgement, moments that almost worked until they didn’t. near misses are dressed up as something meaningful, but conversations fizzle out just when they start to feel like they might matter.

nothing stayed. nothing was ever meant to. you, having a soulmate—in that sense—it felt extremely unlikely.

it isn’t in a dramatic, self-pitying way—it’s the same way you understand that most things in life don’t fall neatly into place without sustained effort and consistency. relationships aren’t something pre-built that you stumble into, perfectly right and accommodating despite yourself, and they’re definitely not something you keep just because the universe decided you should.

couples will look you in the eye and tell you they’re meant to be, like it was written somewhere long before they ever met, but they barely talk about the parts where they almost walked away, or the moments where instinct told them to leave and they didn’t. the hesitation. the doubt. the very real option of not choosing each other.

fate, soul ties, forever. there are a lot of excuses people make when they don’t want to admit their own fault in something. it’s easier to dress things up as something inevitable than to acknowledge the effort it took to keep it going—or the moments where it almost didn’t.

do people just like pretending that they don’t have a say in what they do?

sunoo pauses, shifting his dark hair from his eyes before glancing at you. “do you think it’s cringey? saeri told me to remove that part of the poster… but i didn’t. it’s the charm of our booth, i think.”

“i don’t think so,” you lie, adrenaline humming through your veins. it is kind of corny, but who would admit that to him—kim sunoo probably doesn’t need more people hating on his poor slogan choices, and the more you act like it was a wise move, the better the chance you get paired with heeseung once he realizes you signed up. “i think it’s… uhm, plausible.”

anything but asking him directly, though.

“anyway,” sunoo glances back at his screen. microsoft word fills the entire monitor with graphs and figures you’re sure are from jiwon’s econ class. “i think everyone’s coming, except sunghoon. that guy…”

you raise an eyebrow. this is the first you’ve heard of him since that party two weeks ago—at this point, he almost feels like a hallucination. “sunghoon? what’s his deal?”

“he’s not a relationship guy. i think he knows it’d be a waste of time to sign up and make the girl feel like shit for five minutes straight,” sunoo sighs, leaning into his palm as if this were the harsh reality he’s learned to accept. “he cares, but has no idea how to show it. he’s like a three year old.”

you nod slowly, like you understand. you don’t.

though, something’s happening in your body that’s reminiscent of sunday night. it’s that odd, simmering sensation—proof. it flickers at the edge of your mind like a fuzzy memory, echoing that same low, lingering pull that sat right in the centre of your sternum.

sunoo’s cheek leans back into his palm, his eyes following professor choi’s figure that’s just strolled in. it’s your queue to shut the hell up and start preparing your materials for class, but it sets something else off.

you try, briefly, to chase it. to trace it back, to link it to something tangible and real and concrete. a face, a voice, a moment that would justify the way it settles into you so easily, but it slips through your fingers just as quickly, dissolving before it can really take shape.

“i see,” you hum. “well, i’ll come. don’t worr—”

“i wasn’t worried.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

the text comes while he’s brushing his teeth. his hair’s a mess as he stares into himself, eyes flicking down to the sink where some of his toothpaste’s fallen off his toothbrush—your voice is replaying in his head like a sick alarm, though he knows that it’s only because he’d hung up the phone only two hours ago.

sunghoon found himself silently praying that practice was cancelled. it was unlike him; the way he lingered in his sheets and had to take a deep breath before getting up. he dragged himself to the bathroom, hand swiping at the towel rack outside the door—hoping that he didn’t take jake’s by mistake, and begging (to whom?) that he wouldn’t need to use it.

snu hockey boys ’26 ⛸️🏒

yeonjun: practice is cancelled 06:32

yeonjun: coach has an emergency but pls send your food logs by 2200. whoever misses = double ur distance tmr 06:32

yeonjun: rink is still open tho 06:32

he took one good look at his to-do list this morning and resolved that he was going to the library. he’s fully convinced that if he lets his assignments pile up any more, his professors will start to think he’s slipping. god forbid—as if the boy hasn’t gotten less than a a in years.

we2fuckincold🥶 (informal gc)

nicho: guys pls stop eating by the benches too the janitors r gonna beat us :( 06:45

yeonjun: u guys cant fucking control yourselves can you 06:56

park sunghoon moves through the early dawn like he usually does, except that he walks right past the folded jersey and duffle bag already sitting on his desk. he lets himself slouch a little as he walks downstairs; the tiredness is already seeping in despite the constant self-correction.

it’s going to be a long day of cramming if he wants to get anything done, clearly—so he decides on unplugging his laptop charger, folding it neatly into the small zipper of his backpack, and leaving the house without his running shoes packed.

he’s still stretching when he hears the shuffle of footsteps outside. it’s too early for any one of his brothers to be up—on weekdays like this, park sunghoon was always the first to get moving, followed by jay in another hour.

it’s only six. nobody else gets up at six.

sunghoon reaches for the strap of his backpack as he makes his way towards the door—slightly ajar, swaying faintly with the draft, about to shut itself. it’s only when he’s a step away from the frame that he catches sight of lee heeseung walking past.

lee heeseung doesn’t get up until eleven.

reaching for the metal knob, sunghoon pulls back the door with more force than he’d like to admit, only to see heeseung—already at the top of the stairs, leaning lazily against the railing like the early hour means nothing—plaid boxers slung low on his hips, hair flattened in odd directions, and the faint imprint of wrinkled sheets still pressed into his back.

he just watches. doesn’t want to ask. the answer is already written across heeseung’s body in fading purples and reds, scattered along his neck and arms, threaded between the pale, healed superficiality of old scars.

instead, park sunghoon makes his way towards the stairs as well, with a backpack slung over his shoulder and an undeniable tiredness in his bones. he passes his dear friend before making his way down the flight of wood steps, feet thudding against the floor, eyes occasionally glancing towards the big entryway before him.

there’s a girl by the front door, half-crouched as she slips her shoes back on. her hair is messy in an unmistakable way, fingers combing through it as she balances herself against the wall using her other hand. she doesn’t look up, too preoccupied with fixing herself—it’s the last thing on her mind, and all she wants is to fit her heel into the mary janes she’s got sitting outside.

she pulls the metal handle, and looks back up at lee heeseung. nothing else is said, not even a wave, nor does he dismiss her presence—he just watches her warm smile curve up.

it feels like he’s walked in on something intimate. heeseung has a faint smirk that sunghoon was never able to wear when sooha was around, no matter how satisfied she made him feel, and he’s wearing that look of comfortable, guilt-free laziness that he recognises in the mirror every morning, after he hangs up on you.

─────────────────────────

sunghoon walks into the library like he owns it. professional poker face and all, heading straight for that seat by the windows that aren’t facing east, so the sun doesn’t burn his face off. just how he likes it.

the air-conditioning hits his skin and the lights above him are bright enough to sting. it’s enough to keep him awake for the next few hours, combined with the warm black coffee swishing around in his tumbler as he takes his time setting his stuff down.

a few stares and silent whispers are expected as he passes by the busier sections. he takes his usual seat—not many people know about it, due to the fact that it’s shoved so far away in isolation, miles from the bathroom and entrance, but park sunghoon appreciates this fact. nobody is around to stare at him sideways while he does his work, and there won’t be any eyes that refuse to leave his when he finally looks up.

the large, wood-laminate six-seat table was completely empty, and spotless. no coffee stains or broken sockets, and completely cut off from student civilization.

he settles into a bright orange chair by the window, where his face is obstructed by a large pillar—the sun warms his hands up as they pull his laptop out, already booted up from the night before, on the microsoft word home screen.

he groans when he sees at least three empty documents, all of which he meant to start yesterday. of course, that was the plan prior to your call, and sunghoon swore he’d at least try to multitask, if only not to feel the guilt later on. it’s obvious that he can’t do that anymore.

his slender fingers slide over the touchpad, navigating to his most urgent assignment for economics.

the cursor blinks at the top of his toolbar—it’s waiting for him to click something, anything, and he almost does. it circles around the add text box and darts away again, to open chrome. park sunghoon is staring at his screen like it’s a foreign, alien-sent object.

once upon a time, this would’ve sufficed. a quiet corner, an uninterrupted day, and his laptop on full-charge. work and productivity comes easily to someone as hard-working as him, and when there’s nothing else competing for his attention. compartmentalization is an incredibly common skill, but sunghoon is different, in the sense that he could live two separate lives in a single day, if need be.

though, these days, concentration feels far rarer than he’d like to admit.

the sound of soft, carpeted footsteps approaching barely registers in his ears. he’s too focused reading over the same one line he’s written—his name and student id number—to shift his eyes elsewhere.

his peers pass through this section all the time. not many, but enough for it not to be alarming. this was still a public space, after all.

his eyes remain fixed on the screen as he reaches for his tumbler, taking a slow sip of coffee. outside, the sky is finally brightening into that familiar golden, instead of a depressing, cold blue. few students pass by the large glass panels, some in clusters and others alone.

this is simple enough. all he has to do is write. sunghoon has the brains for this, the attention span, and overall capability to complete this useless assignment—so he adjusts himself further into the chair and begins skimming through the brief for what feels like the tenth time since it’s released. it’s all market trends, consumer psychology, something about forecasting models by the time the words begin to blur together.

the caffeine isn’t circulating fast enough. he reaches, sips again, and draws a deep breath in through his nose. halfway through his second paragraph, a chair thuds quietly against the carpeted floor, before the faintest “shit” is heard.

libraries are full of idiots. nobody can even drag a chair out properly anymore, apparently. now that the sound has derailed his train of thought, sunghoon can’t help but to flick his dark brown irises up, locking right onto you.

for a second, he genuinely wonders if his sleep deprivation has evolved into hallucinations.

of all the tables and empty seats scattered across four. fucking. floors.

park sunghoon’s grip tightens slightly around his black, metal rimmed tumbler, an action you thankfully do not notice. this corner of the library is so damn meaningless to him—but now that you’re here, it’s like this is all he’ll ever remember, all he’ll ever associate with the place.

the moment of recognition doesn’t last very long. surprisingly, it doesn’t send panic through his bloodstream, nor does it get his heart bursting out of his chest—though, he can still feel it pounding a little harder—instead, it’s just vague acknowledgement written all over that pretty face of yours, reserved for familiar faces.

park sunghoon. hockey captain guy. heeseung’s friend, the one who unintentionally stared at you sideways that one friday night (that he’ll never forget).

“oh.”

the tension binding his shoulders tight is loosened, just a fraction. the tiny sound leaves your mouth quietly, though it sounds nothing like shock, and it’s more to yourself than to him.

“hope you don’t mind if i—”

sunghoon’s response comes out rougher than intended. “no.”

you smile in response, and god, sunghoon wants to fucking drive a ten foot pole into his chest at the sight of your cheeks puffing up. there’s a faint flush on your cheeks from walking in the morning sun, and he notices a few blemishes on your skin as the sun almost blinds you—he can tell it’s getting into your eyes because you’re squinting. “you can sit here.”

you almost choke by the time sunghoon realises what he’s just said. “what?”

“it’s hot on that side.”

there’s three chairs on his side of the long, dark side of the table. it’s oddly poetic how he’s sat in the dark and you’re standing across from him, bathed in that golden sun like it’s your rightful place, and how he can’t help but have you next to him, even now, even selfishly.

fortunately, you save him the humiliation of walking away or just planting your ass down in the sun. you circle around the table, keychains on your backpack jingling as you do, and pull out the plastic chair two seats away from him.

perfect. it’s enough distance for him to pretend like you’re not even there. your gaze flickers between him in the corner of your eye, to the span of other empty seats in front of you. why the hell are you even here?

there’s a moment where he thinks you’re going to change your mind, get up, and walk away without looking back. it’s mostly due to the fact that you haven’t even set your things down yet, organised your stationery or even took out your sleek, plastic-shielded macbook. sitting next to park sunghoon when there was an entire eight-seat table like, ten feet away made most people nervous.

and still, when he turns (or merely pretends to by reaching for his tumbler again), he realises you’re far from nervous, and instead very confused.

your eyebrows are still raised in slight confusion, and you’re scrambling to find a pen you lost somewhere deep in your bag. flecks of dust float in the air, and one lands right on the top of your head—shining so beautifully in this terribly congested space, warmth bouncing off the dull carpet and reflecting back onto your face, dusting your skin like it knows how exactly to make him weak.

you don’t notice, but he does. park sunghoon is noticing everything, and for suddenly, painfully, and very unpredictably, he realises why people write songs about these kinds of feelings.

“do you need something?”

god, you’re so pretty. your eyebrows lift slightly, out of genuine curiosity (or perhaps concern, with the way sunghoon is staring at you… he can’t find a fault), and those lips of yours look so effortlessly perfect, soft, a faint sheen veiling it thanks to the lip-balm chained to your backpack zipper.

“no.”

and it’s like he’s slammed the door on you again.

again?

you’re not sure why you dwell on it too much, actually. most of the evening is spent staring at blank documents, because this module unfortunately included math, and for some odd reason, lee heeseung was always good at math despite being an arts major. he’d know what to do, and for a good minute you wonder if you should just call him right now.

you pause for a moment before your attention slips away from him again. turning back to your bag, hands still searching for something you apparently cannot find, your fingers moving with growing frustration through compartments that seem to hold everything except what you actually want.

sunghoon should probably mind his own business now, yet instead, he’s glancing over your shoulder and at your empty document.

he turns back to his laptop, slightly, or pretends to, lifting his tumbler just enough to give himself something to look at that isn’t you. in doing so he finally catches the full spread of your movement as you settle in, pulling your laptop out, then your charger, then your pencil case, then a small pouch that seems to contain an entire separate ecosystem of items, all of which you organise with a kind of quiet determination that feels oddly intimate to witness.

your brow furrows as you dig deeper into your bag, hand disappearing and reappearing empty more than once, and he notices the way your mouth presses into a line of mild frustration that never fully escalates into anything outright upset, just plastered there as an expression of someone mildly inconvenienced by their own decisions.

somewhere between your second and third attempt at finding whatever it is you’re looking for, your phone appears in your hand, screen lighting up briefly before you unlock it. sunghoon’s attention shifts almost against his will because the movement is too familiar now, even to him, with something he shouldn’t be aware of.

your thumb hesitates over the contacts screen. lee heeseung.

god, please don’t call. please, please, please, please, please.

his eyes are beginning to strain with how hard he’s trying to make himself appear unsuspicious. you hover over his contact, before looking back up at your empty document, and then down again. hesitantly you settle for resting your phone atop the mahogany, letting the screen darken on the words ‘lee heeseung’, then typing your very first words.

the mistake on your screen comes predictably. that’s not to say sunghoon thought you were stupid—it’s only honest for him to say many people messed up the way you did. careless, happens when you haven’t spent the days prior drilling these kinds of theorems into your head. his eyes were starting to hurt, squinting, trying to see how to help you.

the guilt creeps up on him, unexpectedly. he just can’t.

it’s unfortunate that sunghoon already knows exactly what he’d do if he were sitting right next to you, looking over your shoulder properly instead of pretending not to while still catching every mistake you make.

unfortunate that the assignment in front of him is something he could finish in less than an hour if he actually tried, something so mindless it doesn’t even deserve the amount of attention he’s currently refusing to give it, and yet he keeps sitting there anyway as if the decision is more complicated than it actually is.

“swap your x and y values.”

sunghoon has never in his life packed his things so quickly. he’s already moving before he fully processes what he’s done.

his chair scrapes back lightly against the carpet as he gathers his things in motions so quick it almost feels automatic—laptop closing before his assignment is anywhere near complete, tumbler shoved into his bag without care for whether it spills or not.

you’re still looking at him when he straightens, your brows drawn together slightly as you glance down at your screen again, scrolling back to where you left off.

your expression only changes the moment you realise what he said was correct. the mistake is exactly what he pointed out, sitting there so obviously wrong now that it feels almost insulting that you didn’t see it earlier.

sunghoon slings his bag over his shoulder too quickly, the strap wrong-side up, before he quickly settles it in place. he doesn’t look at you directly again, even though he can feel your attention still on him.

there is no explanation he can give that wouldn’t make it worse. no version of this situation exists where staying longer feels safer than leaving immediately, because the longer he sits here, the more likely it becomes that something small will slip.

you will notice. it may be something in the way he speaks or pauses or breathes that does not belong to heeseung at all. he knows you will put it together, because these are things he notices about you, unwillingly.

so, he leaves.

sunghoon’s footsteps are steady as he moves between tables, fiddling with his car keys between his slender fingers—until he reaches the aisle where the library opens up toward the exit.

only then does he allow himself one brief glance back.

you’re looking at him, still. like you haven’t decided whether you’re supposed to stop or keep watching, eyes slightly wider than they were a moment ago, as if you’re still catching up to the fact that he actually spoke, actually stood up, and actually left without giving you anything close to an explanation.

it’s not like he owed you one, anyway. right?

there’s a faint crease between your brows now, nothing like frustration, instead softened into something that makes his heart twist and do all sorts of things against his ribs. it’s not an exaggeration to say that he’s never felt such a feeling, and it’s even more of an understatement when he says it scares him.

he almost trips over his jeans when he crosses the threshold of the library, out into the pavement and in front of the carpark.

sunghoon needs to go home. he needs to get his shit together and go to practice, like how he’s always done in the months before this, and how he’ll continue to do—and yet, god knows why he can’t even drive out of the lot, instead he’s glued to his seat with his feet planted on the mat like it’ll kill him if he stepped on the gas pedal.

sunghoon is already outside the library by the time he’s back in his own body, aware that he’s moving.

the air hits him colder than expected. sharp against skin still warmed by the inside of the building, and for a moment he just stands there, half between steps, like his body has forgotten what it was supposed to do next. the carpark stretches out in front of him in clean, repetitive lines, familiar enough that it should be automatic, but nothing about his movements feels familiar anymore.

“fuck—“

sunghoon almost trips when he steps down the last curb, not because he isn’t paying attention, but because his body is slightly ahead of his thoughts and neither of them are aligned with anything resembling control. he corrects himself quickly, hand tightening briefly around the strap of his bag, and continues forward in a way that would look normal to anyone watching from a distance.

sunghoon’s car is where it always is. he gets in, sits his ass down, and doesn’t move.

the engine is not on yet, keys resting in his hand without being inserted, and his foot stays planted on the mat as if there is some unspoken rule that says starting the car will make something irreversible happen. he stares at the steering wheel for a long time without really seeing it, jaw set in a way that suggests focus but is really just restraint.

that look on your face is so easy to remember. park sunghoon knows he has to tell you, if there’s any chance—any at all—that he gets to look at you like that again.

a curse, truly, because now he knows what it feels like to be so close to you, to have such a feeling strike him so deep, lodging itself in his chest; whenever your face pops up uninvited in his peripheral, or in his daydreams, or on his cell. almost humiliating and actively consuming his sick brain.

the honesty might not even make you stay, and it probably will not make the confession noble—it feels ridiculous to him, almost absurd, because the only thing keeping him tethered to his car mat is the replay of your face in his mind: so painfully uncomplicated that he can’t stand the thought of touching it with borrowed hands and stolen time.

he can still picture the way you looked at him across that table, brows faintly drawn together in confusion, not because you were intimidated or nervous or trying to figure out if sunghoon was really as the rumours say, but because you genuinely did not understand why he had stood up and left.

no expectant eyes, no carefulness, barely any fear. frowned when you were confused and smiled when something amused you, all with the kind of ease that feels so natural on you that he doubts you even notice it yourself. it is the sort of thing most people take for granted, he thinks. the sort of thing people are lucky enough to have for so long that they stop recognizing it as freedom.

sunghoon only notices because he does not have it.

hockey captain, top student, dependable, intimidating, disciplined, the guy could make his own dictionary with the obnoxious amount of adverbs attached to his image. almost every room he walks into seems to demand something from him before he even opens his mouth, and somewhere along the way he stopped questioning it. teammates watch his reactions before deciding how to react themselves. juniors reroute questions through other people because they are too nervous to ask him directly. professors talk to him like they actually have expectations—classmates wait for him to know the answer. even the fraternity treats him like a fixed object, something solid and predictable that will always be exactly where it is supposed to be.

then, there’s you. all perfect hair and soft lips and weirdly adorable frustration carved onto your face, sitting beside him with a pen between your fingers with the other hand on your keyboard. your entire life is on the verge of spilling out your mouth whenever you talk, completely unaware of how rare it looks from where he stands, saying things because you want to say them—because it’s funny, even if it’s meaningless, even if it contributes nothing of value to the conversation.

you call when you miss him, you laugh at his unintentionally self-deprecating humour, you ask questions when you don’t know. you get sad, you cry on the phone, and you get so ridiculously angry about such trivial matters, that he can’t help but smile at his screen.

for one brief, stupid, and careless moment in that library, sunghoon thinks he wanted to stay because you were pretty.

the thought survives all of five seconds. pretty girls are not exactly rare, but the feeling stirring in his chest and the warmth spreading through his body definitely is.

barely any of it has to do with the curve of your smile or the sunlight caught in your hair. instead, it had everything to do with the feeling of being around you, the uncomplicated nature of it all, and the subtle identity crisis where he did not have to be a captain, student, impressive or disciplined.

you will probably leave him, he thinks. the only other option seemed much too cruel, even for him, stripping that choice from you.

You: can we meet up? 12:34

─────────────────────────

ever since you moved into your apartment, you’ve been trying to build a routine—something efficient and optimal, taking up the least amount of time and effort, while maximizing the amount of tasks done.

the first few weeks were horrible—every small decision felt disproportionate and too time-consuming. there’s ten minutes you could’ve used to get ready for bed that you spent cooking dinner, which you should’ve made prior to leaving the house, bla bla bla. you knew it was bad when the sequence after unlocking your door alone was enough to irritate you: whether to eat first or shower, how long to wait before brushing your teeth so you wouldn’t scrub your enamel off. it was stupid, the amount of thought you poured into things that were supposed to be automatic, but you couldn’t help it. everything had to fall into place in this busy life of yours and serve it’s rightful purpose.

there were too many small decisions like that. too many things to get right.

maybe that’s why this feels so off. because there’s nothing to figure out, and no reason for it to happen so often.

there’s no adjustment period, no careful slotting of time or reshuffling of habits. he just fits into the spaces you’ve already made. it’s incredibly mundane and underwhelming in the way it happens.

for now, heeseung calls you almost every damn night, and you feel weirdly normal about it.

it starts on a random thursday. then it’s saturday, then monday, then tuesday. somewhere along the way, it stops being a coincidence or convenience.

by wednesday, you’re calling him to help you pick out an outfit for a department event, holding up different tops to your mirror like he can somehow see through the line. you’re describing the colours, the cut, every minute detail, assuming his imagination could keep up with your rambling.

on thursday, you’re complaining about how much you hate psych, words spilling faster than you can filter them. by the time friday rolls around, he’s the one calling—something about needing help with an assignment, though it diverges quickly into him venting about a useless groupmate in his behavioural economics class.

it morphs into something consistent, though, still strange regardless.

you could’ve sworn lee heeseung took his electives in art culture this year. yet, with the way he’s talking about stock markets and all rationality being lost on the modern day consumer, it sounds like he’s well-versed with the contents.

“you ate an entire block of cheese for dinner?” he repeats back to you. now that you’ve retold the entire process of cooking dinner, down to the amount of parmesan cheese you used, hearing it repeated back to you makes it sound a little insane. “you couldn’t just salt it?”

“are you judging me?” you giggle, turning over in your sheets. the fabric twists with you, cool against your skin and your joints protest almost immediately—your right shoulder’s starting to cramp from how long you’ve been hunched over on your side.

you let out a quiet sigh into the air. “it was a better choice. tasted good, so… i don’t see any problem.”

there’s a pause on his end. you fidget as you wait—picking at your cuticles, long overgrown and in desperate need of a maintenance check, even cracking your knuckles just to fill the silence.

“i think that’s the issue,” he huffs. your shoulders finally relax at the sound of him—lacking any true judgment despite his words.

there’s faint rustling that crackles through your device, and for a minute, you imagine how he must look like right now: laid up in bed in some old jersey, shorts barely hanging onto his hips from how lazy he is to tie the drawstrings tighter. the night’s winding down and you’re still here, with him, like this is an absolute must-do before your eyes shut.

and the routine must repeat tomorrow, of course. not that you’re complaining.

the rest of the conversation flows without much resistance. lee heeseung talks about his afternoon run that seemed to piss him off a great deal, because he got a call from choi yeonjun—something about being five minutes late to the gym and how he’s clearly not committed.

“oh. you’re friends with him? isn’t he in a completely different department from you, though?” you mumble, hoping that it doesn’t come off as blunt—you very well could have missed this detail in your earlier conversations. *“*how do you guys get to the point of going to the gym together?”

“he’s been bothering me ever since freshman year.” heeseung responds, “seriously. i don’t know how i haven’t strangled him yet.”

you chew on your bottom lip, searching for a response. the silence stretches just a little too long, and something about it starts to itch—like you’ve asked the wrong question and you’re pushing somewhere you shouldn’t.

“ah,” you say finally. “i see… he’s really popular, so i’m not surprised.”

“yeah, he is. it gets annoying as fuck when he brings his girls to lunch…” heeseung mutters under his breath—you’re toying with the string of your hoodie, if only to make yourself feel less awkward. there’s another long and excruciating pause before you finally decide to push the conversation in another direction:

“are you going to that fundraiser?” your voice comes out softer than intended. you can only hope that heeseung doesn’t make you repeat yourself. “sunoo’s… one. you know.”

“sunoo’s one…” he repeats back to you, slower. the concept almost sounds abstract to him. “no. not my thing.”

not his thing.

you’re back to fiddling with your fingers again. suddenly, the drawstring of your sweats seems more interesting than anything else you can hear from the other end of the line.

his voice fizzles out. you hear him, yes—his tired, monotonous voice crackling through the speaker reaches your ears and lands straight in your stomach. between short breaths and awkward pauses, you hyperfocus on the wind howling past your thin curtains.

“oh,” you manage after a moment. the word escapes weakly, scratching at your throat before you clear it up. “thought you were. my bad.”

you don’t realise how sweat-slicked your palms are until your phone almost slips from your hand. you turn over in bed, just to save your eyeballs from the sting of streetlights hanging outside your window—it’s almost three in the morning, and despite that dreadful fact, cars are still honking like they own the neighbourhood.

“are you?” heeseung asks. “probably, huh?”

“shut up,” you laugh. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

a quiet huff escapes through the line. your free hand traces the hem of your blanket, now tangled between your legs, serving no real purpose.

“it just sounds like something you’d be into.” heeseung states without a hint of laughter or a smile. “trying new things, even if they’re childish and embarrassing.”

“well—”

“it’s not a bad thing.”

you don’t respond immediately. a soft hum of acknowledgment is heard through the device—it’s barely triumphant or teasing—like he understands the reasoning behind why you’re throwing yourself out there, unknowingly, to him.

you roll onto your back again, tucking your arm over your belly. the cotton’s cold from the absence of your body against it, pillows still damp from your wet hair and impatient self; phone pressed awkwardly against your cheek, the heat almost battles that of sunday mornings.

speaking of, you haven’t experienced in it’s entirety for the past few weeks.

“why don’t you try it, then? it could be fun.” you murmur, eyes screwing shut at the instant the words rolled off your tongue. “sorry. you don’t have to… if you find it weird.”

his laugh makes your heart rate stutter, then spike.

it’s sweet. genuine. warm and unrehearsed in it’s charm, filling the dimness of your room and settling right under your ribs. your face burns up like you’ve just swallowed something hot, and the heat blooms right in your abdomen and crawls up your neck ridiculously fast.

“relationships aren’t my thing.”

lee heeseung says it like it’s already been decided—something fixed and immovable, written in bold or carved into a rock somewhere far beyond him. existing outside of his control, predetermined, and he’s made peace with it—it’s simply the way things are—though the heavy sigh that follows betrays him, outlined faintly with something that sounds nothing like acceptance.

the past few weeks have unfolded into something more than they should’ve. conversations stretching deeper than expected, softening and melting into quiet teasing that feels almost familiar, like you’ve known each other your entire lives.

“really?” your lips can’t help but to curl slightly upward. “you’ve never dated?”

“never had time for that. i’m not the best with affection. people talk to me like they’re scared of me, that kind of thing. even at that stupid party, i just drank by myself upstairs.”

perhaps your memory is failing you, then.

it’s strange, in hindsight, how most of your attention that night had never really stayed where it was supposed to. you remember the first few times you saw lee heeseung—his best friend following shortly after—and your gaze always seemed to lag behind who you claimed to like.

just how did those two end up together?

your seniors used to tell you to look forward to college. new place, new faces, new prospects—like the world finally opens up and hands you options you didn’t know you had. one day, you’re trapped in a classroom from seven to six; the next, you’re weaving through a campus that doesn’t know you yet, trying to decide who you get to be in it.

lee heeseung made it easy to know. he was the kind of person people noticed without trying. effortless in a way that felt almost unfair—hair falling exactly how it should, skin catching the light like it was always meant to. you’d pass by his friend group and hear him before you saw him, laughter loud and uncontained, a basketball tucked under his arm like it never knew how else to store itself. he fit into everything so naturally that it almost felt like the world was his and his alone.

it made sense to like him. and even then, your attention seemed to stray—slipping quietly and slowly just past him.

sunghoon hangs behind like it pained him to be around other people. always a little removed and distant enough to not involve himself in the conversation but not to turn around and walk away unnoticed; broad shoulders angling themselves slightly away, eyes flicking over other people like it physically pained him to see other humans.

it’s small, useless things. the way he’d shift his weight from one foot to the other when conversations dragged on and he was tired of it. his hands would stay tucked into his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them otherwise. watching more than he spoke, like he was just slightly out of sync with everyone else.

you’ve only ever seen him laugh once*.* it was weirdly off-timed and the rest of his friends laughed only three seconds later. you wondered if all of heeseung’s friends were as strange as that, or if it was just him.

it’s weird, actually. thinking about it now, you realise you remember more about park sunghoon than you should for someone you never consciously paid attention to. his name seemed to be the last piece to his mysterious identity, no thanks to oh jiwon.

“i’m sure that’s not true.”

“it is,” he says. “i try to stay, but things don’t work out. rarely ever do.”

you raise an eyebrow. “work out? so you almost dated?”

“i show up. i do what i’m supposed to. it just stops feeling like something i want to be in after a while.”

“so you just dip?” you question.

“not all at once. i get scared. i pull back and i cancel things that i already fought to fit into my schedule,” he pauses. “i say it’s nothing. they don’t press much after that.”

you hum. the line goes quiet for a few seconds. you’re trying hard not to bombard him with every invasive question on your mind: who’s your most recent girlfriend? how long ago was the relationship? why do you run away?

he continues regardless.

“people get frustrated with me,” he mutters. “i can’t even handle my own emotions. i run from my issues and go on pre-workout to deal with my baggage. nobody sane does that shit.”

“heeseung—”

the name slips from your tongue like a mistake. you bite down on your bottom lip as if that would stop the words from echoing into his ears, somewhere, miles away.

“you’re the only girl that doesn’t treat me like that. i still don’t get it.”

just where did all these thoughts come from? there's weeks of conversations that stretched until midnight. unfiltered words that you silently agreed to keep between you two. your heart’s begun to match the rhythm of his voice, unintentionally, from the moment he picks up the phone to the second he cuts the line. somewhere between your first call to now, you’ve gotten to know him—it’s exactly why you can’t blame the confusion bubbling in your head or the pit in your stomach that only seems to sink deeper.

“aren’t you scared of me, too?”

and here you were, thinking that the answer was abundantly clear. he cuts himself off when you want to start rambling. he finishes your sentences when you’re falling asleep. he asks what ridiculous, unhealthy dish you cook up for dinner every single day without fail—so why does he still sound like that?

you shift slightly against your sheets, phone pressed a little tighter to your ear as if proximity could make sense of it. “i don’t get it,” you admit quietly. “why would anyone be scared of you?”

there’s a pause on the other end. it doesn’t feel empty. things rarely ever do when you’re on the phone with him; it feels more like he’s weighing whether to answer honestly, soften the blow or leave it alone entirely. “this is what i mean, [name].”

you frown. there’s a shuffle of feet upstairs, thudding against your ceiling, which momentarily distracts you. it’s almost four in the morning and nothing feels any clearer than it did ten minutes ago. “what?”

“you don’t care,” he continues. “simple.”

he doesn’t bother to explain further. he hasn’t bothered to say much at all, actually—not in a way that should make sense to you or anyone that knows the name heeseung. still, you understand it anyway, in that vague, unspoken way that two people manage to do, where language feels slightly too slow for what’s already being felt, and too shallow to tell the other person what you really mean.

there’s a hollow kind of discomfort sitting low in your stomach. you’ve learned by now that this is usually a warning sign, even if you don’t always know what it’s warning you about.

you’ve never had particularly good luck with these things, anyway. whatever invisible logic governs timing, people, attachment—it has never seemed especially fond of you.

you exhale softly, pulling your blanket higher over your shoulder, as if that might settle something internally. your gaze drifts to the empty space beside you, unoccupied, waiting in a way that feels louder than it should at this hour.

“what don’t i care about?”

your voice comes out as a whisper, unintentionally. the sound barely makes it past your lips, weak and soft like it’s embarrassing that you even thought about saying it and just plain humiliating that you let it out. either way, heeseung’s answering it seconds later.

“what people say about me,” he sighs, “i like it better like that.”

you don’t really know what he means by that—your hair scratches against the cold, crisp pillowcase under your head as you turn over anxiously. lee heeseung was very known, yes, but the way the words land just feels so… odd.

sniffling when he speaks again, the responses that follow never reaches your ears.

─────────────────────────

finals week has made you it’s bitch.

there’s something almost childish in how irritable you get in the days leading up to exams. you’ve never learnt to move past it, and soon enough, the people around you eventually adapted to the sensitive storm that is you, minimally three days before a major paper.

three rules:

one) do not disrupt y/n l/n’s naps;

two) do not text, call, or approach first, and

do not ask how studying is going. the answer is never changing: it’s bad, i’m going to fail, my life is over.

okay, to be fair, these rules were not as strict as they sound. most of the time, people are already cooped up in study rooms and occupied with their own revision—clearly much too busy to talk to anyone else, much less you. so, when your entire friend group goes awol, you do nothing but let it happen.

though, there is just one person that remains.

lee heeseung, sounding entirely too relaxed over the phone with a blender going somewhere in the background, because he’s making his second protein shake of the day. he doesn’t sound very… worried about the approaching three-hour exam.

your feet are folded together, criss-cross on your office chair as you hunch over your desk. your room is pitch dark, save for the bright, white light radiating from your study lamp—sprawled over the surface of your cheap table is rewritten notes, scribbled equations and the occasional bible verse (for good measure).

“you sound upset,” he says.

“oh, do i, now?”

you almost drop your phone at that. you’ve been silently panicking for the last forty minutes without realising you’ve been breathing like that, and talking like this. you’ve spent even more time, close to five hours on this laptop that’s crying for you to shut it down, on lectures that you should’ve watched weeks back.

there’s a pause on his end, something shifting in the background—cupboard, blender stopping, maybe him leaning against the counter—and when he speaks again, it’s slower. “which one are you on?”

“twenty,” you say.

“how many left?”

“twelve,” you admit, already hating how it sounds when spoken out loud. somehow, all hope seems lost when you utter that forsaken number, despite it being (very) obviously displayed on the top left of your screen for the past few hours. “…fuck.”

this morning felt like hell. you’re sure your eye-bags have magically darkened themselves in the past few hours, and for a minute, you grimace at the thought of having to show up to school like that every damn day, all because you’re too tired to seem put together. breakfast was skipped, which was unfortunate, cause the guilt of preparing a heavy lunch only made the stress worse. heavy eyelids blinking open, slow, regretful for every delayed hour of sleep—limbs still tangled in cold sheets like it physically pained you to leave.

the sun bled through your blinds, warm over your ankles and blinding you through your eyelashes. you walked around the house in nothing but your underwear, even forgetting your slippers under the bedframe; there was only one thing on your mind. that much stayed consistent today, with the only variable factor being lee heeseung on the phone.

you didn’t think he’d call. schedules do that.

“it’s manageable,” his voice crackles through the speaker, and then there’s the sound of a cupboard slamming shut, along with the soft shuffling of… something. you actually consider hanging up on him, just for a brief moment. “how many topics?”

to be honest, you’d half-expected heeseung to tease you. laugh, even. maybe even tell you to stop being so dramatic, to answer his texts, and that he doesn’t understand why you’re freaking out over a dumb test—but here you are, and here he is, telling you that you have it figured out.

“four. it’s over,” you answer flatly, staring at the lecture list like if you looked hard enough another topic might spontaneously disappear. “it’s actually so over.”

“it’s not, y/n.”

heeseung’s voice stays annoyingly level. the speaker crackles with something that sounds like a spoon scraping against plastic and the jealousy almost gives you whiplash. he’s making a fucking protein shake while you’re stuck here memorising lecture slides on two-times speed and slowly developing permanent neck damage.

“you said your paper’s next tuesday. if there’s four topics left and you stop rewriting things you already know, you’ll finish tonight and still have time to revise.”

your head hits the table before you even realize you’ve moved. forehead pressed into paper, warm skin sticking slightly against cheap ink and printer sheets, you let yourself rot there dramatically. with your phone right beside your face, his voice sounds clearer than before—too clear, actually—and it feels vaguely humiliating, how quickly your chest warms when he talks like this.

you let out a long breath instead of responding, eyes drifting downward toward the floor beneath your desk. there’s crumpled paper scattered near your chair. a few sticky notes had missed the bin entirely and ended up attached to the outside of it instead, clinging there stubbornly like even they didn’t want to commit to failure.

he’s talking like he knows you.

“how’d you know—”

heeseung cuts you off with little trouble. “you’ve told me. pretty sure you can cut some lectures out, since you’ve been learning them for the past few weeks.”

you don’t answer. you narrow your eyes at his response, because who the hell is that observant? he doesn’t even need to confirm your schedule anymore—he just talks and cuts you off, knowing he’s completely right, because he listens that intently—but god.

he has no idea how warm that makes you feel.

on the other end of the line, heeseung walks back upstairs with his phone trapped awkwardly between his cheek and shoulder, head tilted enough that his neck would probably hurt later. his laptop balances in one hand, tumbler in the other, and his steps slow unconsciously as your breathing filters through the speaker.

his room looks exactly the same as always.

his duffel is already packed for practice tonight despite being excused for finals week. the afternoon sun catches against the medals mounted along his wall and reflects across his desk in strips of gold, schedule taped beside his wardrobe. his calendar is updated three weeks in advance, with a single day blocked out for the day you end your exams.

his eyes drift over the reminders stuck to his wall, and he’s reminded of it—the reason why he decided he was still going to practice today.

studying isn’t enough, clearly, if he’s still on the phone with you.

he already decided that he’d wait. finals week meant distance. finals week meant no showing up unexpectedly and no making this worse than he already has. finals week meant letting you breathe and not letting himself confuse temporary loneliness for something else, and finals week also meant not sinking deeper into you.

it’s just two weeks.

two weeks, and then, he’ll tell you.

“do you think i’ll do okay?” you mumble, so soft that you almost don’t hear yourself. it’s so quiet that you can hear the exact moment his fingers stop clicking against his keyboard, and so intense that the second he answers, your heart begins to pound.

“yeah. i know you will.”

─────────────────────────

you don’t think much of it when you tell heeseung where you’ll be tomorrow, or rather, today. truthfully, you haven’t been thinking much at all lately—unless you count the thirty-second ponder about lunch options earlier this morning.

finals week does something deeply unfortunate to people. everybody becomes uglier in small, socially acceptable ways, because everyone around you just… gets it. hair goes unwashed for an extra day, clothes repeat twice, thrice in a row, and eyebags sink further in with no substantial effort to conceal them. entire friend groups, including yours, quickly dissolve into delayed replies and weak promises to hang out after exams, because who the hell wants a mass social gathering after four all-nighters?

your room starts becoming unbearable by day four. there’s something fundamentally wrong with spending twelve hours in one place—any longer and you might’ve begun associating your digital lock chime with impending doom.

the second you sit at your desk, your chest tightens automatically. it’sm like your brain immediately morphs the cute wallpaper around you into blank rows of seats, and your ears only hear mindless scribbling, despite the cheerful music blasting through your headphones.

by the time noon comes around, you’ve scarfed down every grain of rice from your takeout container—dragging your feet and will to live through your apartment, searching for your purse before leaving.

it’s wednesday. the sun is shining on you, warm and consequentially irritating as the sweat begins to pill on your temples. they roll down your cheek in fat beads, and it almost serves as motivation for you to get your ass into that library as soon as possible.

your macbook is pressed against your side, tote slipping down your shoulders every few minutes, only to be caught by the crevice of your elbow. there’s an iced coffee from last night, standing in for your mid-day snack; and, as if you hadn’t eaten just an hour ago, your stomach rumbles in defeat.

the library doors open as you stomp against the carpeted sensors. the cold air hits your face hard enough that you nearly stop walking, but you settle for a deep, relieving sigh before turning left and speed-walking down those winding corridors built out of metal shelving.

your body already knows where to go now—past the noisier floors, up the stairs, away from printers and bathrooms and groups of students pretending to study while giggling about their situationships at full volume. roughly fifty-six seconds later, your consciousness kicks back in full gear, and you’re dumping your things down onto a familiar table before immediately realizing that you forgot your fucking charger.

“are you fucking—”

oh, well. problem for future you. worse comes to worst, you’ll scare some freshman away with your horrendous, sleepless eyes and unusually wide smile and steal theirs.

libraries distort time as well as they force you to keep track of it. hours behave well in the quieter corners, but if you’re somehow in urgent need of completing an assignment, they start speeding themselves up. it’s exactly why you’re chanting mantras to yourself now: studying isn’t urgent at all. this exam will not kill me! yes! i already know everything there is to know!

afternoon becomes evening rather quickly. suddenly, your water bottle is empty, your iced coffee splits into two separate layers of cloudy water and room temperature caffeine, and the light crawls across the carpet so much that your chair is no longer in the same patch of sun you sat down in.

you stopped checking the time thirty minutes ago. notes multiply, hair becomes tangled at the back of your neck, and your spine hurts. you spent forty minutes writing notes on a lecture, not realizing it’s a replay.

sometime later, when your legs are beginning to feel like tv static, movement catches in your peripheral and your eyes lift automatically before your brain even has a chance to catch up.

“sunghoon?”

my god. just stand up and run into his arms, why don’t you?

his reaction comes a fraction of a second later. despite the prior brain lag, you’re suddenly thinking about his face—sunghoon looks different outside of wherever you usually see him. less assembled, with a ridiculously large hoodie hanging loose around his frame, which only makes him look even bigger from where you’re sitting; there’s shadows beneath his eyes that soften his face unexpectedly.

his hair looks horrible. his sweatpants are dragging against the floor, too. sunghoon looks exhausted, and his gaze hangs low, until you call out for him, that is.

the corners of your lips curl upward before you even realise it’s happening. his expression doesn’t change much, but the faint raise of his thick eyebrows tells you enough. his eyes flick toward the empty chairs around you, and you almost assume that you weirded him out—great, he’ll walk away now—but all sunghoon does is return a soft, supposedly meaningless smile in your direction.

there’s that brief moment, where people who know each other silently debate whether acknowledging the other’s presence is necessary in public—and then he gives you a small nod, right before he takes his laptop out and sits right in front of it.

two seats away from you. like last week. if you hadn’t met the man before, you would’ve thought he wanted to kill you with a face like that. eyebrows knit together in frustration, typing furiously at his keyboard like it owed him twenty bands, tapping his foot against the carpet like he was thinking about something deathly important.

cute—wait, what the fuck, said you, around fifteen times over in the past two hours.

you become aware of him in entirely useless ways. he drinks water without looking away from his screen, sometimes even types with one hand as the other holds that tumbler to his lips. he cracks his knuckles at every given opportunity, and his fingers hover over the keyboard occasionally when he thinks. you leave for more coffee, come back, go to the bathroom, and he’s literally still there.

at one point, you look up because your neck hurts, and caught yourself stretching. fucking stretching, left to right, just for an excuse to get a full view of his side profile. in that tiny, meaningless moment, you witnessed him rub his eyes and immediately return back to typing his unfinished methods section.

it’s strangely comforting that park sunghoon is there for you to look at. oddly. it helps with the whole ‘i’m the only one in this universe, it’s all a simulation’ delirium.

regardless, at around six, the words on your screen are beginning to morph into one big demonic face, and every letter on your keyboard just resembles an egyptian hieroglyphic. words are decorative, english is just a bunch of made up gibberish, and you need to get out of this plastic seat before you melt into it—so after rereading the same paragraph four times, absorbing nothing (shocker), your eyes begin to ache and decide: changing tasks will fix all these worldly pains you have.

the ‘changing tasks’ arrives in the form of a reference nook your professor mentioned. standing, stretching, you’re doing it all before disappearing into the shelves.

it’s warmer here than it is at the tables, somehow. perhaps it’s the way the sun is setting now, and it’s getting all in your eyes and in your hair, just like it did this morning. though, when you turn towards the closest, wide-set window, your breath almost gets taken away at the blend of pinks and oranges that colour the sky.

you see this sunset almost every day. still, it doesn’t take any of the beauty away.

dust catches in the overhead light, paling in comparison to the golden hue that the light is bathing the room in—the smell of old books penetrates your nose in a way that makes you think about middle school. you drag your fingers across rows of spines, reading titles under your breath, stepping slower in each aisle because your brain refuses to remember the author’s name. you bet sunghoon doesn’t struggle with things like that.

“behavioural psychology… where the fuck even is that?”

─────────────────────────

following a mini mental breakdown, park sunghoon’s brain decides not to accomodate a single molecule of information until he gets up and got his blood moving.

there was only so much economics and statistics a person could consume before words stopped behaving like language and started looking like numbers flipped around. his screen brightness had been lowered twice, and his coffee had gone cold sometime around four—the sleeves of his hoodie were pushed halfway up his forearms and there was a faint imprint from resting his cheek against his knuckles for too long, which he finds immensely humiliating.

he closes the document, opens it again, reads the same words over and over, and realises he won’t get anything done like this; so his eyes leave the screen for the first time in twenty minutes and settle automatically on the empty seat in his peripheral.

his head back turns so fast that he almost curses at himself.

and, to make things extra embarrassing, his mind starts to weigh the odds of whether you’re about to leave, or if you’re just gone for another break. scanning your side of the desk, taking in your untouched water bottle, open laptop and tangled wired headphones—you’re somewhere nearby, a conclusion he unwillingly comes to.

sunghoon’s fingers drum once against the tumbler before he remembers there was a book he wanted earlier. or needed. something vaguely related to an assignment he’d been putting off. either way, he stands, pushes in his chair halfway, and makes his way into the shelves.

it really does feel different in here. the high-pitched clacking of mechanical keyboards is muffled, almost muted behind these thick walls of books, where light filters in through strips and catches every speck of dust floating around. he turns once, twice, passing business ethics—until he finally reaches behavioural psychology, and stops dead in his tracks.

it’s not even about the book. if he remembered correctly, the one he was looking for’s two floors down, but this—here, in front of him, on this floor, was you.

sunghoon ducks into the next aisle like he’s guilty. he presses his back lightly against the endcap of the shelf, as though the solid structure might help him reset whatever just short-circuited in his brain.

this is ridiculous. he’s in a library. on a weekday. trying to study. and yet, somehow, his entire nervous system has decided that walking in a straight line is suddenly the most difficult thing in the world.

he exhales, before trying to occupy himself by looking for something similar to what he’s studying for another module. he stands still for a second longer than necessary, fingertips running against this one book which he can’t bother to know the name of, and all it does is feel like a weak alibi.

business psychology is a popular section. lots of students with sunghoon’s major share modules, hence, explaining why the other book he’s pretending to need isn’t even here. it also explains why the fuck his eyes keep gravitating towards you, through tall-enough gaps, locked on your concentrated face and frustrated pout.

every interruption in his life, somehow, becomes framed with you. a horizontal slit between two rows of books, a deliberate architectural hesitation, tall enough to fit even the thickest and tallest of publications out there—and you, existing between it.

it’s closer than before, not in distance but in clarity. the kind of proximity that does not require physical reduction to feel intimate. the light falls differently here, angled through a window he cannot fully see, softening the edge of everything it touches—your tip of your nose, the ends of your hair, and the faint movement of your hand as you adjust your page.

you look so beautiful. nothing has changed. he knew it when he saw you sitting in front of him today, he knew it when you walked into this place last week, and he knew it when he saw you at that party, wearing a dress that seemed so inclined to his attention and a smile that made all the flashing colours pale in comparison.

and, most of all, he knows it now. a fool he is, for thinking that these feelings would fade.

sunghoon tries to locate himself properly in the task he came for—something about organisational theory, a phenomenon he can usually reduce into clean frameworks and exam-ready structure. his hand has been resting against the spine of the book for the past twenty seconds, fingers curled just enough to suggest intent, but nothing in him is actually compelling the pull.

the thought arrives with a sharpness that feels almost physical, like pressure behind the ribs.

park sunghoon wishes he could redo college from the start. not in the abstract, as nostalgia or regret type thing, instead with specificity—clean edits to timing, tone, and presence. a revision pass on himself. one that would let him stand a few steps closer to you now, without feeling like the distance between yourselves is self-inflicted.

his thumb shifts minutely along the book’s spine. the motion is absent-minded, almost mechanical.

once you know who he really is—strip away whatever version of him you’ve only seen in passing corridors and half-glances at the long oak table—will you stop looking for him?

fuck. he doesn’t even care enough to stop looking at you. hair falling over your face, your lips blowing air to get the tiny, annoying strands to stop itching your nose.

selfish. selfish, selfish, selfish. that’s all he is.

─────────────────────────

─────────────────────────

august meant summer.

the sun is unforgiving, blazing hot rays beating down on your back as sweat trickles down your shoulder blades—everything about today seemed relentless, exam included. around you, people are already decomposing the paper in clusters: comparing answers, laughing too loudly, swearing they’re finished in voices that sound almost celebratory. someone says question 47 was impossible. someone else says it was free marks. you keep walking.

there’s that feeling when you finally press submit on a paper. not relief exactly—more like your body forgetting what to do after operating at full capacity for too long. to be truthful, there were multiple times where you thought you were fucked throughout the exam, and then you’d look at the bottom of your screen and see: 21 out of 80 questions saved.

you really, sincerely thought handing in that empty thing was better than typing whatever you studied. no matter how hard you worked these past few weeks, there was always that irritating, sly little voice whispering into your ear that it was for nothing. that all those late nights, colour-coded notes, skipped breaks and panic-induced productivity spurts would collapse into one single, defining moment that you were never going to catch up.

somewhere around the second hour—after your eyes started blurring and the timer at the corner of the screen felt less like a clock and more like a countdown to execution—you broke. quietly, of course. you had enough tact not to lose your shit in front of a hundred other students in the same venue.

you understood less than you thought. you should’ve started earlier. you’re embarrassing yourself.

you just stared at question 22 for three minutes straight and felt your throat tighten because suddenly, everything became impossible at once. reading felt impossible. thinking felt impossible. even moving your cursor felt weirdly impossible. you literally just bought it yesterday, because you were convinced the one you always use would die.

fuck everything, you thought, until some other voice started talking to you—in that calm, gentle demeanour that you’ve gotten used to over months. low and amused in tone when he said, “why’re you so hard on yourself, y/n?”

last night, he was on the phone with you. you remember lying flat on your bed with your notes open but untouched, your lamp the only thing still awake in your room. coffee wasn’t doing it, or maybe it was just the fact that it was your sixth cup today; he’d called later than usual, and somehow the conversation drifted away from exams, and shifted more toward your incessant need to be perfect, despite and in spite of the circumstances.

“what do you mean?”

moonlight spilling in through thin curtains, the thrum of public transport and dogs taking late-night walks with owners who talk too loud on the phone. no one knew where you were, no one cared what you were doing, but it didn’t matter. he knew. he cared.

you don’t even remember how the conversation got there, either. was it some joke about failing? one too many of those were made, now that you think about it. it wasn’t even self-pitying, either—all casual in the way that people talk, repeating the same thing enough times that it sounds like truth—but then he went quiet and said, “you talk like you’ve already decided on fucking it up.”

you remember laughing. whatever, because what do you do when someone says something so accurate? what the hell do you say when someone sees right **through you?

“i just have bad luck in these things.”

he laughed. fucking laughed. it was this short, incredulous breath through his nose like he couldn’t decide whether to be annoyed or amused. “you study all day, every day, and act surprised when you know the material.”

you frowned automatically. “well—”

“no,” he interrupted. “you’re smart. hard working. you’re trying, and i don’t think you should dismiss those efforts.”

“but—”

“i have to get back to work,” he breathed into the phone. his voice dropped slightly at the end, words softened by distance and whatever position he’d shifted into. you could hear movement through the phone—the subtle crackle of fabric, the hollow acoustics of a room that sounded emptier than yours. “get some sleep before your exam. goodnight.”

no good-lucks, no you’ll-do-wells, no last minute reassurance that would only soothe your nerves for ten minutes before you’d spiral again. last night, it had seemed cruel. not in the obvious sense—he wasn’t mean nor dismissive—but there was something irritatingly unsympathetic about the way he refused to give in to you. you’d left that call mildly offended, convinced he was sick of hearing you talk like that. sick of your catastrophizing, sick of your weird habit of turning every achievement into an exception and every mistake into evidence. sick of you.

yet, now, walking towards your car with the heat sitting heavy against your skin and your student id still peeking out the pocket of your jeans, it seemed more like belief.

in you, that is. almost as if that you doing terribly had never come across his mind, occurring as a possibility.

you recall staring at your ceiling, phone falling face flat to your mattress, face flushed with embarassment and annoyance that only seemed to erupt when it came to late replies and slightly off-sounding tones. it’s almost exclusive to him—you were never that great at reading rooms, after all.

your car keys twirl around your index finger, a different spring in your step now that the bitter taste of last night has dissolved completely. you’ll call him tonight, later, maybe once your foot crosses the threshold known as your front door, or once you step into the car. you’ll tell him about the exam, about how there was a moment where you genuinely considered submitting half a paper because, somehow, failing after trying felt more humiliating than failing without trying.

you’ll tell him that his stupidly calm voice somehow survived twelve hours and a three-hour exam. that while you were sitting there spiralling and preparing to abandon the entire thing, you remembered the way he said it—like he knew, understood, and reached for you when you abandoned yourself.

you’re already halfway through mentally composing the conversation when movement ahead catches your attention. someone’s walking towards you from the opposite direction, feet dragging against concrete in a way that would usually annoy, but instead of diverting your attention to the phone in your pocket—you look up.

you recognize him immediately. lee heeseung.

weirdly enough, you haven’t seen him up close around campus for the past three months. you assumed it was probably because he was just that busy—you’d seen his figure in the distance, but by the time you caught up, he’d be gone. there were tons of excuses that he made up on the phone, too, earlier into your relationship: personal projects, mostly, though the details were always lacking.

perfect hair. perfect face. perfect stride. even now, people notice him as he walks past. conversations soften for half a second, eyes lifting instinctively and following his pace before returning to wherever they were before. heeseung moves through it without acknowledging anything, shoulders relaxed, expression neutral, looking exactly like someone who’s long stopped recognizing attention as something unusual.

you straighten automatically, lifting your hand, almost waving, but not quite yet. heeseung doesn’t even need to see it in motion for him to look right into your eyes.

his expression shifts—something adjacent to confusion, an eyebrow raised as if to say, where do i know you from?

what. the. fuck.

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

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[stllmnstr]

boys like you (m)

pairing: yang jungwon x reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, smut, university-ish au

word count: 23.0k

warnings: smut (mndi), swearing, alcohol consumption, post graduation existentialism, the horrors of the modern job market, jealousy, insecurity, itty bitty age gap (reader is one year older), he’s obsessed he’s possessive he’s jealous but in a very jungwon way

note: I in fact did not keep it under 20k #oops. But I had lots of you in my comments and inbox telling me that you prefer longer fics anyway, so I hope you enjoy all 23k words of jungwon who years and pines over his childhood bestie <3

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

One year your junior and a constant fixture in your life since before you lost your baby teeth, Yang Jungwon has always existed in a category of his own. You don’t see him as a brother, but you don’t see him as a man. He’s just… Jungwon. Steady, reliable, consistent Jungwon who’s always there when you need him.

It’s why you feel comfortable admitting to him the latest addition to your list of post-graduation anxieties: dating. Namely, the fact that no matter what you try, you just can’t seem to make it work. To make a connection stick. But Jungwon, despite all of his typical predictability, doesn’t take your complaints quite the way you expect him to.

or, you tell Jungwon that you think boys just don’t like you and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything quite so ridiculous.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

If you look at it from a distance and squint, there really isn’t anything wrong with Park Sunghoon. 

In fact, if anything, he might be a little bit out of your league. With full lips, an easy smile, and long, dark hair that dusts over the angular planes of his cheekbones, he’s a sight for sore eyes. Especially since they are rather sore. Your eyes, that is.

You’ve spent the last week fine tuning your resume for all thirty-six job applications you fired off with crossed fingers and a silent prayer. Your daily screen time is reaching dangerous levels, and you doubt the blue light blocking glasses you picked up from the dollar store are doing much to mitigate the effects of it.

Life post-graduation has been like this, more or less. Six months ago, officially earning your university diploma felt like victory, like the end of a hard earned battle.

But now, you aren’t so sure. Not when the last one hundred eighty days have been nearly identical copies of monotonous despair, one rejected job application after another. 

A cover letter here, a mission statement there, a detailed history of your personal opinion on the role of social media in modern society — that one had been for a marketing gig that you weren’t even interested in, not if the advertised salary were as low as the posting claimed. But at this point, you were starting to get desperate.

And still, it’s all been to no avail. Rejection after rejection. Ghosting after ghosting. Ridiculous, you think. These are hiring departments after all, not some frat boy you hooked up with last Friday after one too many shots of tequila. All your effort surely warrants at the very least a response.

But forty-seven of the eighty-nine jobs you’ve applied to in the last month seem to disagree.

And it’s not like you hate the part time gig you picked up at the flower shop a few blocks away from your apartment, but you didn’t work your ass off for four years, earning your degree in a specialized field, just to spend the rest of your life explaining the differences between roses and dahlias to men that piss off their girlfriends. 

It’s disheartening, to say the least. Demoralizing. A rinse and repeat cycle that becomes more exhausting with each passing day, each unreturned email. 

Most days, you feel a little bit like a shell of yourself. Hollowed from the inside out, just waiting for a scrap of decent news. 

It’s why you only said no three times when Sophia suggested that maybe you break up the monotony with a little good, old-fashioned romance. 

And not just romance. Dating, blind dating, because she swore the mystery of it all would make it more fun.

The first three times she suggested it, you waved her off easily with some half-witted excuse and a roll of your eyes. 

But the fourth time, your friend caught you in a weak spot. 

“Come on,” she’d insisted over an overpriced latte. She didn’t mind shelling out for a soy milk substitute, even. She was one of the lucky ones that managed to line up a job immediately after graduation, one she got from the third-year internship she had. 

So Sophia had her big girl job and her big girl salary. You, on the other hand, were wincing at the bitter taste of drip coffee straight from the machine. 

“I don’t know…” You’d trailed off, unsure. That morning, you’d received a rejection notice from a company you were genuinely excited about. The position matched your qualifications and professional interests to a T. You weren’t one to make premature bets, but when you clicked submit on the official application three weeks prior, part of you had felt like it was fate. A sure thing. 

The email this morning proved you wrong. 

Dear Candidate, it had started. Because of course, even after all the time you spent tailoring your resume to their standards, you weren’t even worth the effort of typing your name. 

Thank you for your interest in joining our team. We regret to inform you that we have decided to move forward with other candidates at this time. If, in the future, other positions become available, please do not hesitate to apply again. 

Rejection wasn’t anything new at this point, but this one stung. It felt personal. 

You were tired of constantly hearing no, of always having every path blocked the second you worked up the courage to venture down it. You were desperate for something to take your mind off of it all. 

You wanted to do something fun. And more than that, you needed a reminder that you weren’t a failure. That at least in some capacity, your time and your presence and your efforts were worth something.

If the only available context for that was a date, even a blind one, so be it. 

“It’ll be fun,” Sophia insisted. “I promise. Besides, the guy I have in mind is really cool. He’s been at my company for a couple of years now, and he’s really friendly, even to the new hires. Comes off a little cold at first maybe, but I think he’s just a little shy. You’d like him.”

You still weren’t sold. You took another long sip of black coffee and winced at the taste of burnt beans. 

“What was his name again?” you asked. 

Sophia grinned, knowing she’d finally won. “Sunghoon,” she told you, smile entirely too smug for your liking. “Park Sunghoon.”

Now, a week later, you can’t help but curse yourself for caving. After all, blind dates are a far cry from romance, and the only thing that your time with Sunghoon is doing, lovely as he may be, is giving you a different source for your headaches. 

Across from you, Sunghoon takes a slow sip of red wine. His eyes stay where they should. You can at least appreciate that Sophia didn’t set you up with a total sleaze. If anything, you think he looks a bit unsure when he meets your gaze.

After another moment of stilted silence, he asks, “What do you like to do for fun?” You watch as Sunghoon swirls his half full glass before setting it back down on the table. Aerating it, probably. He strikes you as the kind of person that isn’t entirely bullshitting when they say they know their wines. 

It’s a perfectly normal question, run-of-the-mill for a first date. And yet, your mind can’t seem to do anything but come up completely blank. 

What do you like to do for fun? Even privately, you're beginning to wonder. It’s as if the job search has taken any joy you used to find in your free time and turned it into existential dread.

You like to go for walks, but it’s been extra rainy these days and you hate how the late autumn air makes your skin feel sticky after just a few minutes. Not to mention the end of season mosquitoes. You swear they’re bigger than any other time of year.

You like to read, but the last time you opened a book for pleasure was half a year ago. You’re pretty sure that same exact novel is still sitting half-finished beneath your bedside table.

Cooking is nice for stress relief, you suppose, but your meals are more for function than show. You doubt Sunghoon wants to hear about the frozen spinach you sautéed last night. 

You have been catching up on the latest season of a ridiculously staged reality TV show lately, but you can hardly own up to that. If an hour’s worth of catty drama and hair pulling every Sunday night is the first hobby you think of, Sunghoon will no doubt think you’re the most vapid person he’s ever met. 

So instead you say, “Oh, you know.” You try a laugh, hoping it will make you seem easy going instead of cagey. “Things.”

Sunghoon just arches a brow. He doesn’t know. That’s why he asked. 

And it’s not like it’s a crime to be awkward on first dates, but you’re starting to feel like you’d be given a life sentence without parole if it was. 

Desperate to get his gaze off of you, you return the question. “What about you?”

Maybe the universe will spare you and Sunghoon will be equally bad at condensing his life into bite-sized pieces easily digestible on first dates. Maybe his good luck starts and ends with his face and he’ll be equally tight-lipped about his own interests.

But then, after a pause to gather his thoughts, he starts talking. Your hope for equal footing starts to circle the drain with more urgency.

“I’ve been really into exercising lately,” he tells you. “I grew up figure skating, so it’s been nice to get back to doing something more physical. It’s been great, too, trying out some new protein-focused recipes and getting out for runs when the weather allows it. I really miss the ice, but it just isn’t feasible with work and everything else these days. It’s been fun to try out some new hobbies that are somewhat similar.”

“Oh,” you flounder for a moment. It’s truly pathetic, you think. Maybe talking about yourself is difficult, but how are you so unable to even respond to his answers? “That’s nice.”

Sunghoon, to both his credit and Sophia’s, really does seem to be a nice guy. He’s trying. Doing his best to keep the conversation going. 

“Do you like to exercise?” he asks.

You wonder distantly if following a YouTube video at home on yoga for stress relief once in a while counts. 

Deciding it doesn’t, at least not to a former figure skater, you shrug. “Not really.”

“Oh,” he nods. After a moment of awkward silence, he asks, “What do you think about the wine?”

It’s a simple question, an easy question, but it’s hard to get momentum once you’ve lost it. To you, this date already feels a bit like a sinking ship and even a question as simple as this feels like a test you’ll inevitably fail. 

“It’s nice,” you say. “Goes well with the food.” And unfortunately does very little to soothe your frayed nerves.

“I agree,” Sunghoon nods. “Apparently it’s made from grapes grown in a specific region of southern France. They get more sunlight than the average vineyard, and the soil is fertilized in some special way that makes the flavor more intense.”

He smiles at you, and it’s objectively gorgeous. The kind of look that you feel like you should be fawning over, that you should go home dreaming about. 

Park Sunghoon is the kind of guy that feels made for fantasies. Thinking about it now, you’re not really sure how he could even be single, or how Sophia managed to convince him to see you tonight. 

But no matter how long you wait for the butterflies to come, they just… don’t. 

It’s not because you don’t like him, but the idea of getting to know him, of letting him get to know you, is suddenly exhausting. 

You’re afraid that whatever parts of yourself you reveal will come up short, will inevitably be found lacking. Your hobbies aren’t interesting enough for a guy like him. You’re not particularly well-traveled or well-read, and you did well in your degree but not enough for it to be part of a dinner conversation. 

You just… you don’t feel interesting. Not in the kind of way that guys like him are attracted to. So when you go home after another half hour of stilted conversation and too-long lulls of silence, you’re not daydreaming about his smile or his dimples or the second date he definitely won’t ask you on. 

Instead, you wait until you’re out of eyesight to let the smile you’ve been keeping plastered to your lips fall from your face. 

Looking out at the sky, the sun that’s beginning to set on the horizon doesn’t feel like an omen or a fresh start. It just feels like a sunset. The end of another day full of nothing special. Unremarkable. Ordinary.

You’re not giddy or excited or particularly moved at all. You’re not angry either, though. Not disappointed. If anything, you feel a strange sense of hollowness, one with a glare that’s especially apparent under the street lights that are just beginning to glow. 

You miss the days when things felt exciting, when you would meet the eye of someone cute across a lecture hall and go home daydreaming about it. Spinning around your room, kicking your feet like a schoolgirl with a crush.

It’s not Sophia’s fault. It’s not even Park Sunghoon’s. But when you finally get back home to your apartment and flick on the lights of your empty bedroom, all you do is sigh. 

…..

You thought that when you walked across your university stage six long months ago and were officially given your diploma, you’d be done drowning your post-midterm stress with cheap beer. 

But you forgot to account for one small detail — Jungwon.

You suppose your friendship with him might look a little strange from the outside, but he’s been a constant in your life since before you even knew how to tie your own shoes. 

Like most childhood friendships, it wasn’t forged of your own volition. Your mother decided the summer before you started kindergarten that her new favorite hobby was going to be gardening. Which was fine and all, except for the fact that she knew literally nothing about gardening and had killed just about every houseplant she ever owned. 

To her credit, she tried. She asked the kind elderly lady working the till at the garden supply store for advice and bought the overpriced gloves and trowel she suggested. She scoured blogs and Wikipedia articles and online forums for all the best and latest in flower cultivation. 

But your mother simply did not have a green thumb, and after months of watching from her window in silent pity, Mrs. Yang decided to do something about it.

She took one look at your mother’s wilted tiger lilies and sighed. Gently, because even in her exasperation she managed to be kind, a trait she passed onto her son.

You weren’t so interested in whatever she told your mom about fertilizer and shearing, though. Nor were you really interested in the garden at all. 

But you did find the boy currently hiding behind Mrs. Yang’s practical work pants far more fascinating than anything you’d seen in months. 

Before school started, finding another kid your age was like striking gold. An only child, you were doted on by your parents but only rarely had the opportunity to play with other kids. This one, even if he was determined to hide out of sight, felt like a gift, a friend you were determined to make yours. 

Back then, he was a shy kid. 

It had taken a fair amount of coaxing from his mother, but he finally found the courage to meet your eye. To come out from his hiding spot and introduce himself.

Jungwon, he said his name was, and you gave him yours in return. 

You asked about his birthday and could hardly contain the smug smile that spread across your lips when you realized he was younger than you. A whole ten months. Practically a baby. Nowhere near ready to start kindergarten, like you were. He’d have to wait a whole nother year. 

Other than the bragging rights it afforded you, you didn’t mind so much. 

That summer, Mrs. Yang helped your mother turn her misshapen, weed-addled, overgrown mess of a flower bed into something truly beautiful. 

And nearly every time she came over, she brought Jungwon in tow. The two of you weren’t trusted to wander far yet, but he made your afternoons far more interesting, even under the watchful gaze of your mothers.

He was excited about the same things you were — searching for bugs in the flower bed, digging in the dirt with the plastic shovel set you’d been given for your last birthday, and building homes for the fairies you convinced him really existed using fallen leaves and twigs. 

Your friendship might have begun as one of convenience, but the long, sunny afternoons you spent together ensured that none of it was forced.

Your mothers were thrilled too. Both of you were overly curious only children, and it was nice to have your attention occupied elsewhere, to share private smiles at how sweet your little friendship was becoming. 

They sighed when you came back from an afternoon of playing with dirt smudged across your clothes and cheeks and cooed when you fell asleep after washing up, sprawled out across your living room floor with pillows you’d pulled off the couch. 

Even though you’d been anticipating it for months, the beginning of kindergarten was something you started to dread. And the further you got in your academic journey, the one-year gap between you started to feel less like victory and more like a curse.

You still remember the failed math quiz you brought home from second grade one afternoon, a big, red F written across the top even though you were usually excellent with times tables. 

It had taken a fair amount of coaxing, but your mother finally got the truth from you. How you were thinking that if you managed to do poorly enough to fail the second grade, you could just do it again next year. With Jungwon. 

Of course she explained to you how terrible of an idea it was, and you didn’t try it again, but for the next few months, every aced exam still felt a little bit like defeat.

Until the seventh-grade, that is, when you decided to fully embrace your role as his elder. 

Jungwon was just starting middle school, after all. He was brand new to the world of lockers and passing periods and so much axe body spray it seemed to permanently hover outside the boy’s locker room like a rain cloud. 

You made him pinky promise you not to buy any, and all he did was scrunch his nose in distaste, insisting that he never would, that he didn’t like strong smells anyway.

Jungwon might have been new to it all, but you, however, had already been this whole middle school thing for a year. You were one year older and wiser and could help him navigate all of the pitfalls with your hard earned expertise.

You thought it was the best idea ever, an example of your commendable generosity and kindness, until one Wednesday afternoon proved you entirely wrong.

You were hovering just behind him as he worked through his locker combination, weight shifted to one hip as you balanced your science textbook against the other. 

Still a couple inches taller than him thanks to the growth spurt that had hit you early, you didn’t have to crane your neck too hard to see over his shoulder. To provide any assistance he might need.

Finally, after getting the combination right, his locker clicked open.

Jungwon sighed. Glancing back at you, he mumbled, “Why are you here? Don’t you have science right now?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, gesturing to the textbook in your hands. “But that’s okay. I don’t mind waiting for you.”

“I have math next,” he pointed out, as if you didn’t already know. As if you didn’t have his schedule memorized before he did. “Which is in the opposite direction. Just go. You don’t want to be late again.”

It’s true. You don’t. Your mom said she’d shave an hour off of your allotted Saturday cartoon-watching time if it happened again. 

But it was okay. It was a sacrifice you were willing to make. You told him as much.

“That’s okay,” You shook your head. “I’ll be fine. Besides, Mr. Lee usually isn’t too strict about tardies, so—“

“Just go,” he interrupted, back still turned to you. This time, his voice was sharper than usual. It cut through the air like an accusation, leaving you more than a little shocked. “You don’t have to follow me around everywhere.”

You frowned at that. But still, you thought that maybe he was just worried about you, about whatever punishment your mother had promised. So, to ease his worries, you insisted, “I don’t mind. I’m a year older, so I should—“

“Ten months,” he corrected, voice like ice. And he still wouldn’t look at you. “You’re ten months older.”

Your frown deepened. “Thats the same thing.”

“No it’s not,” Jungwon shook his head, voice rising. His anger, his annoyance, were apparent now. “Stop treating me like a baby.”

“I don’t—” You tried to protest. 

But he wasn’t having it. “You do.” He insisted. “You treat me like I’m a little kid and it’s driving me insane. The other boys on the taekwondo team think so, too. They’re starting to say things—“

“What kinds of things? Who?” It didn’t matter if he was angry or annoyed at you. As far as you were concerned, if anyone was giving Jungwon a hard time, it was your business too. You didn’t know the boys on the taekwondo team very well, but you were suddenly feeling very violent, a bad idea given that the boys in question were trained in martial arts and you’d spent no time on a training mat in all twelve years of your life.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jungwon shook his head. He still wouldn't turn around and look at you. “Just leave me alone.”

You’d had fights before. Little tiffs that started nearly the same day you’d met. But they were always small, just bouts of bickering that may have left you pouting but never with any truly hurt feelings.

This was different. This… this stung. 

Just like the tears that started to gather against your lash line without your permission, pressing dangerously against the inner corner of your eyes.

Still, you couldn’t help but ask, a little pathetically, “You don’t want me to walk with you?”

“I don’t need you to follow me around everywhere,” he repeated, crueler than he had to be, “fussing over me like you’re my mom or something.”

“Fine,” was all you said. Suddenly, you were grateful that he wouldn’t look at you. If he saw how affected you were, that you were on the verge of crying, it would be more humiliating than you could handle. “Just walk by yourself then.”

Turning, you only paused once you were a few steps away. “And here,” you’d reached into your pockets, pulling out the coupons you’d cut out of the newspaper earlier this week, the surprise you were planning to show him after school. “You can just have these. Give them to your taekwondo friends, since you care what they think so much.” 

Jungwon waited until you were around the corner to turn around, to see what you’d thrown at his feet. Bending, he picked them up, guilt swirling deep in his gut as he tucked the coupons for half price ice cream from the nearby shop, the one that you knew always had his favorite flavor, into his pocket.

You didn’t talk to Jungwon for a week. 

You were late to class that day, partly because of Jungwon and partly because you had to spend the next ten minutes calming down in the bathroom stall while you wiped evidence of your tears away.

True to her word, your mom didn’t let you watch cartoons Saturday morning. And you spent all your extra time thinking about where exactly you went so wrong.

The silent treatment didn’t last long. You and Jungwon were like that — you’d spent so much time together that you’d learned how to get over things quickly. 

Grudges never held for long, and time didn't need to pass too far for both of you to forget what you were mad about in the first place. 

But this time, even after the dust had settled, things between you didn’t go entirely back to normal. For starters, you didn’t wait for him by his locker anymore, didn’t offer to walk him to math or science or P.E. or any of his other classes. 

Even though the two of you shared a school, the only time you really saw him anymore was on the bus ride home. And that was only on the days he didn’t have taekwondo practice. 

But with Jungwon, things had a way of coming back around. It wasn’t long before he was seeking you out intentionally again, before your friendship felt less like walking on eggshells and more like something comfortable.

But you had learned two valuable lessons that day by his locker.

One, Jungwon was sensitive. More so than you ever realized. In ways you didn’t always fully understand.

And two, the gap between your ages may have been small, but he really, truly resented any attention you brought to it. In his own words, he hated it when you made him feel like a kid. 

So you learned. You adjusted. And by the time high school came around, you were practically a pro at ignoring the ten months that separated you. 

There were still times that you wanted to guide him, to help him, but you did your best to hold yourself back. You tried to empathize, too. To see things from his point of view. It made sense, you supposed. Jungwon didn’t want a second mother. He just wanted a friend. 

One that wouldn’t dote on him too much or smother him or embarrass him in front of his teammates. That’s not to say he didn’t use your age to his advantage on occasion, though. 

When you got your driver’s license a whole year before him, he wasn’t shy about asking for rides. And when junior year chemistry proved to be harder than he thought, he accepted your journal full of meticulously taken notes with little more than a sigh of relief. 

You didn’t mind so much. Besides, it wasn’t like you were the only generous one in your relationship. Friendship with Jungwon never felt like a burden, never felt like a debt to settle. 

For all of your age-afforded privileges, he more than made up for them just by being there. Because Jungwon grew up in the way few boys do—he learned to observe, to listen before he spoke. To treat words like something precious and use them only when he really meant them. 

Jungwon was your confidant, your most trusted source of advice. You went to him with things that you felt like you couldn’t tell anyone else, and he received it all with open arms and a thoughtful furrow of his brow. 

Jungwon wasn’t the type to pass judgment. He just listened, contemplated, and then gave the best, most logical answer he could think of. 

He talked you down from your spiral of self-hate after you convinced yourself a failed physics test was the end of your life junior year and helped you analyze the pros and cons of your top university choices when your high school graduation date started approaching with alarming speed. 

Affection came easy between the two of you, because it didn’t feel complicated. It felt natural, just like the day he introduced himself amongst the ruins of your mother’s failed garden. 

So when you told him, senior year, that you agreed with his advice, that you had decided to attend university in your hometown, a mere thirty-minute drive from the high school you were graduating from, all he did was smile. 

He hugged you after you accepted your diploma from your principal and handed you a bouquet of flowers. He complained about having to stick around in high school for another year, and you assured him that senior year was different from the others. It was better. 

Your year apart was difficult, but it also gave you space for things you hadn’t considered before. Things like other friends. You met Sophia at freshman orientation, and the two of you became inseparable. 

You still saw Jungwon, of course. Weekends, holidays, and even the occasional weeknight dinner meant he was still very much a part of your life. And when you couldn’t meet in person, you talked. Texted. Called. 

Which is exactly how you broke the news of your first ever boyfriend. 

There had been crushes in high school, but they were fleeting. Insignificant. This was different. Jay was different, and just as you always had, you spared Jungwon none of the gory details. 

You told him all about the flowers he bought you, all about how romantic it was when he asked you on a proper date. How sweet it was when he picked you up and opened the passenger door of his car for you and how special you felt when he picked up the dinner check without so much as a sideways glance at you.

But Jungwon, steady, reliable Jungwon, seemed to become uncharacteristically terse whenever Jay came up. His texts got shorter, his responses further and fewer between. 

The calls that used to drag on for hours started ending suddenly whenever you brought up your boyfriend. Jungwon always had an excuse ready—he had homework to do or a project to finish or an errand to run for his mom. 

But you’d have to be stupid not to notice the common denominator in it all. Jay. 

For a while, the choice was easy. Jay was here, with you. He wanted your attention and your time. He liked hearing about your day and telling you about his and spending as much time with you as your schedules allowed. 

Jungwon, on the other hand, was becoming more difficult to reach the longer your relationship went on. 

Slowly, but steadily, Jay started to become the person you went to for advice. The contact name you searched for whenever you had something to say. The boy you spent your weekends with, making new memories, laughing about nothing. 

You trusted him. You were new to it, the feelings, the rush of it all, but after a few months, you were pretty sure you loved him. 

Jay was your first relationship, your first real boyfriend, and eventually, the person you trusted enough to lose your virginity to. 

Which made it all the more devastating when he told you, sometime in the middle of spring semester, that he didn’t want to see you anymore. That he enjoyed your time together, but he didn’t feel the same spark you did. The same level of connection. 

You cried until you were numb, and you were numb until one by one, your feelings started to come back in overwhelming waves. And every time they did, the only person you really wanted to see was your best friend. 

The boy you barely even spoke to anymore. 

You weren’t sure if he would even answer, the night you drove all the way to his house in the pouring rain. You stood there on his porch, pathetic, soaked from just the short walk from your car, when he opened the door and found you like that. 

“Jungwon,” you breathed. 

He hadn’t said anything, just pulled you inside. Checked the warmth of his shower until it was the perfect temperature and left a towel and a clean pair of clothes on the bathroom counter for you. Waited outside, on the edge of his bed until you emerged twenty minutes later. 

Clean, dry, but with eyes so red he knew you must have been crying. 

He didn’t ask you what happened. He just scooted back until he was sitting against his pillows, patted the space next to him in invitation. Pulled you tight to his chest as you sobbed, long heartbreaking sounds that tore from somewhere deep in you.

You eventually told him everything—your breakup, your heartbreak, the sudden loneliness it had left in its wake. 

Jungwon just held you through it, wiping your tears and soothing your cries as you laid against his chest. 

And you talked. For hours, about nothing, about everything. All the little things you hadn’t been able to tell him for months, all the parts of your life that you’d wished you could share with him.

As it turns out, you’d missed important updates from his life, too. For starters, he’d chosen a university. The same one you were currently attending. You were so excited that you’d be together again, but part of you hated it, the way you’d missed out on such important news.

That night, things shifted again. It didn’t matter what your relationship status was or what distance separated you—the two of you promised not to ever go so long without talking again. 

The following September, Jungwon officially started university at the same school as you, and it was the most excited you’d been in months. You loved showing him around all of your favorite places, pointing out the secret study spots you’d found in the library, introducing him to all of your friends and the coffee shop you loved just off campus. 

It felt natural, felt right to have him in your life again. Even when things got busy, when you were so bogged down with assignments and projects and internships, you did your best to make time for one another. 

You didn’t date again, and if he did, you never heard about it. When friends asked, you always gave the same excuse. You were too busy. You were focusing on yourself. School was more important to you than a relationship right now. 

But if you were honest with yourself, your relationship with Jay had left you with a unique set of scars. You were scared of falling in love again only to be met with rejection, of course, but you were also terrified of losing Jungwon. Of the way letting someone new into your life could mean pushing him away, despite what you’d promised each other that night in his bed. 

It’s why you haven’t mentioned Sunghoon to him yet. It’s not a secret, exactly, but it’s also not something you’re dying to share. 

Now that you’ve graduated, you can hardly believe you’re standing outside Jungwon’s apartment with a six pack of cheap beer dangling from your fingertips. But something about all of your recent failures has you desperate for a bit of release, and you’re sure he could use some relaxation after midterms, too. 

If anything, you’re hoping it will come as a nice surprise. 

You knock on the door to his apartment,  beer dangling loosely from your other hand. But when the door pulls open, it’s not Jungwon who greets you on the other side. 

“Hi,” Jake grins, leaning against the doorframe. “Long time no see.” Jungwon’s roommate of two years now, he glances down at the beer. “And you brought presents.”

“Not for you, Sim,” you shake your head. “Is Jungwon home?”

“Depends.” Jake grins. “Are you just gonna leave if he’s not?”

You sigh, do your best not to roll your eyes. You’ve been subject to Jake’s antics long enough to know not to take any of it to heart. A golden retriever in every sense of the word, flirting comes as natural to him as breathing. 

You’d be more worried if he suddenly started talking to you like a normal person. 

“Can you tell me when he’ll be back?” You really should have checked to make sure Jungwon was home before driving all the way, but you’d only decided to come last minute. Besides, you remember what midterms were like. You wanted it to be a surprise. 

“What’s the rush?” Jake asks. When you don’t bother to dignify that with a response, he pivots, “What are you up to these days?”

“Just working,” you shrug.

“Yeah?” he asks. “How’s post grad life treating you? Is the grass really greener after graduation?” Like Jungwon, he’s still a semester and a half away from it.

You laugh, but it sounds forced even to your own ears. “Something like that.”

“You’re still working at that flower shop over in your area, right? I was over there the other day, and I almost stopped by to say hi, but I couldn’t remember for sure. Is it—”

“I thought you said you were on your way out,” a voice interrupts from behind him. Jungwon’s. You’d know it anywhere. “Who are you talking to?”

That little shit. He lied to you. Or at least heavily implied it. 

Jake at least has the decency to look sheepish when he glances at you. Opening the door wider, he reveals your best friend. Dressed in a pair of grey sweats and an oversized long sleeve white t-shirt, his hair is still slightly damp. Recently showered, if you had to guess. 

“Surprise,” you grin weakly, holding up the pack of beer. 

“___,” he breathes your name, surprise flickering across his features. His gaze falls to your feet for a moment before dragging back up to your face. “What are you doing here?”

“Is it a bad time?” The beer falls back down to your side. You really should have checked with him first before driving all the way here. “Sorry, I just wanted to surprise you.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Not a bad time at all. Come in.” Side-eyeing Jake, he looks almost surprised to see him, as if he forgot he was even there. Then, he confirms, “You’re leaving, right?”

“Yep,” Jake nods, a trace of amusement flashing through his eyes. “I won’t be back until late.” He glances between the two of you. “Like, really late, probably. Enjoy… whatever this is.” Turning to you, he adds, “And it was good to see you again. Don’t be a stranger, yeah?”

“Sure, Jake,” you agree. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” he smiles. “Have fun.” Pausing for a moment, he considers, “Not too much fun, though—”

“Goodbye, Jake,” Jungwon interrupts, something unreadable crossing his features. 

Jake takes the cue well enough. Stepping past the two of you, he leaves the apartment. The door closes behind him with a silent click. 

And then it’s just you and Jungwon. 

“You brought beer,” he reaches to take the drinks from you, passing them from your hand to his. “And yourself. What’s the occasion?”

“Midterms,” you explain. “I thought you could use a night off after all that studying. Besides, it’s been too long. The last time I saw you was when we got coffee, and that was already—”

“Two weeks ago,” he finishes for you. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to drink?” you ask, suddenly afraid you’ve placed your bets all wrong. Maybe midterms weren’t exhausting in the way that makes him want to drown his sorrows in cheap beer. Maybe they were just exhausting in the way that makes him want to crawl into bed. “I can come back a diff—”

Jungwon shakes his head. “It’s exactly what I need.” He smiles at you. It’s tired, but it’s genuine. “I’m glad you’re here.”

And that’s all it takes, all the reassurance you need to slip off your shoes and find a spot next to him on the living room sofa that’s seen better days. 

It’s quiet at first, the two of you taking long sips as you ask the standard questions. 

You ask how he thinks he did on midterms, and he says he’d rather talk about anything else. 

He asks about your job search, and a shadow crosses your features as you also request a change in topic. 

One bottle turns to two, and before long, your limbs are feeling heavier, your lips looser. 

Jungwon looks at you, already flushed from the alcohol. He parts his reddened lips like he wants to say something. Closes them again. 

Then, finally, “I heard something,” he says. 

“Mm?” you hum. There’s a pleasant haze in your mind. One that makes it difficult to give much of a response at all. 

A beat of silence passes. Another. You glance over at him, a question in your eyes, only to find his gaze already trained on your face. 

Eventually, he gets it out. “You’re going on dates again.”

The tension in your shoulders is immediate. You’re not sure if he heard it from Sophia or somewhere else along the grapevine, but you suppose it doesn’t matter much either way. You shrug, feigning nonchalance.  You have nothing to hide, you tell yourself. You didn’t do anything wrong. “I went on one.”

Jungwon takes a long sip of beer, the foam settling heavy when he sets it back down on the table. “How was it?” he asks. His voice is infuriatingly neutral. You can’t get a read on him. 

“I don’t know,” you shake your head. “Fine.”

Jungwon’s palm splays against his knee, flexes. “Are you seeing him again?”

You feel a humorless laugh rising in your throat, one you barely manage to contain. “Probably not.”

You can feel his eyes boring into the side of your face when he asks, “Why?”

You sigh. This time, it’s you that takes a long sip of your drink. “I don’t know,” you shrug. Pulling your knees in towards your chest, you suddenly feel smaller than before. “It just wasn’t…” your words die as you try to find a way to explain the feeling you’d left the date with. Coming up blank, you decide instead on, “I don’t think he wants to see me again, anyway.”

You swear you feel a fraction of tension ease from the air. Still, Jungwon’s curiosity doesn’t seem to be sated. “Why not?” More to make you laugh than to actually guess at Sunghoon’s intentions, he asks, “Did you spill something on him?”

Wincing, you remember every one-word answer you gave. “I don’t think I spilled enough.”

Jungwon frowns, the turn of phrase not landing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” you repeat. “Sometimes, I just…” You lean your head back, letting it loll against the back of the couch. “I just feel like boys don’t really like me, you know?”

If you were looking, you’d see the way Jungwon goes completely still. A moment of silence passes before he breaks it, voice lower, less airy than before. “What did you just say?”

Head against the couch, you let out a small sound, breathless, a little pathetic. “Don’t make me repeat it,” you beg.

But Jungwon isn’t quite ready to let it go. You see his silhouette in your periphery, turning to face you fully. Leaning in, his attention is on you and nowhere else. His voice has an edge to it that you aren’t quite sure what to do with when he asks, “What do you mean, ‘boys don’t like you?’”

All you can do is sigh again. “I’m just… I’m not really charming or cute or good at small talk and things like that. I always say something weird or put my foot in my mouth, and it’s like I can see them losing interest in real time.”

Jungwon blows a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. Glances at you. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“Jungwon,” you deadpan, “he asked me what my hobbies are, and I told him, verbatim, things.”

“Oh.” He pauses for a minute. Then points out, “Well, to be fair, that’s a horrible question.”

You frown. “It’s a standard first date question.”

“Yeah,” Jungwon agrees, “which is exactly why it’s horrible. No one wants to go on a first date and be asked all of the standard first date questions.” 

You know that he’s only trying to comfort you, but something about him twisting the narrative so far in your favor just makes you want to sigh. You’re grateful for his defense, but it also feels a bit misplaced.

“How would you even know?” You try not to sound too mean, but the question comes out flat. “I bet you go on dates with those dimples and that…” you trail off, waving your hands noncommittally in his general direction. 

Jungwon’s brows furrow. “You just gestured to all of me.”

“Exactly,” you nod. “You have that whole boy-next-door, easy going charm thing about you.” It’s true, and right now, you can’t help but think that it’s awfully unfair. “I bet you could ask whatever stupid standard first date questions you want and girls would still be falling at your feet.”

At face value, it’s a compliment. But there’s something about your tone, the trace remnants of sarcasm, of bitterness, that make him think otherwise.

“I’m not quite sure how to take that,” Jungwon finally tells you.

You sigh. You didn’t come here to project your insecurities on him. There might be layers of truth to it, but this isn’t his fault. You’re not being fair, and you know it. 

“All I mean is that boys like you don’t have to try very hard. I feel like it all just comes so naturally to you. I wish I was like that, too. That’s all I’m saying.”

And Jungwon could protest, could launch into some speech about how you’ll find your person eventually, about how there’s someone out there for everyone.

But he knows you, is well-acquainted with that contemplative, overly self-critical look on your face. Can read all of your frustration and insecurity in the way you bite at your bottom lip. 

You’re not looking for a lecture or false hope and certainly not empty words.

You came here with a case of beer and the intention to surprise him, to congratulate him for work well done. 

He was the one that brought up the date, anyway. He knows that you’re not looking for advice. You’re looking for a friend.

So Jungwon waits for a moment before he says anything at all. 

Then, he picks up your abandoned beer off the coffee table in front of you and holds it up to you. “C’mon,” he encourages gently, “join me.” He takes a sip of his own for good measure. “It isn’t going to drink itself.”

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “I already feel kind of—”

“I think I bombed econ,” he offers. You can’t tell if it’s true or not, but that’s not the point. He needs you out of your head. “Don’t make me drown my sorrows alone.”

You can’t help but think that for all the fuss he used to put up about you being older, he certainly doesn’t mind appealing to it when it’s to his advantage. 

But even lukewarm beer looks tempting when it’s him that’s offering it to you. And you’ve never been good at saying no, at least not to Jungwon. 

He knows it, too. Jungwon isn’t surprised when you accept the bottle from his hands with nothing more than a halfhearted grumble under your breath. 

There’s no trace of shock in his eyes when you bring it straight to your lips despite your earlier protests. 

He just grins before leaning back against his side of the couch, smile still stretching across his lips as he brings his own bottle up to join you.

…..

Thursday afternoons are your favorite time in the flower shop. Run by a kind woman in her late sixties, she takes advantage of the day to attend her weekly Zumba class at the senior center, which means you have the shop all to yourself, save for the occasional customer. 

Usually, you’d savor the stillness. Use it to catch up on inventory or fulfill the handful or edible arrangement requests for tomorrow.

But today, the silence is making you jittery. Mostly because your mind won’t give you a moment of peace no matter how much you beg it too.

Despite the prediction you gave Jungwon three days ago in his apartment, Sunghoon did reach out to you again.

The message still sits at the top of your text threads like a curse.

I enjoyed our time together, he said. Succinct, straightforward, and all things considered, surprising. Are you free this weekend? I’d love to see you again.

And it’s flattering, so much so that you nearly find yourself agreeing without taking so much as a moment to think about it.

Sophia will be thrilled, you’re sure. And you won’t have to burden Jungwon again with tipsy confessions of your own insecurities. 

But alone in the flower shop, another thought starts to creep in, just as your fingers hover above the keyboard. A feeling.

The same one you left from your last date with. That strange, hollow emptiness that had you spiraling for days, convinced there must be something deeply, fundamentally off about you. 

Again, you start to wonder why you can’t just do it. Can’t enjoy a date and a free meal and the pleasant company of a handsome stranger. Why all of your answers always come out stilted, cagey, so terribly awkward. 

Why you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, convinced that any scraps of attention that come your way must be part of some elaborate prank that the universe is playing on you. 

Why even a barely-there, trace amount of vulnerability feels like nails on a chalkboard. Why you haven’t been able to form a real, meaningful connection with anyone since Jay. A relationship that ended nearly four years ago. It’s enough to make you feel a little pathetic.

Logically, you know that this is how it goes. You can’t form connections or welcome new things into your life without a leap of faith.

But the potential fallout is terrifying. The thought of trying, really trying, and still being found lacking is enough to sober even the most romantic of your fantasies. 

Something about the status quo, no matter how boring or tiresome or monotonous, feels safe. Like a cage you’ve settled into and made comfortable. 

Your fingers hesitate, then fall away completely. Locking the screen of your phone, you tuck it back into your pocket with a sigh.

Busying yourself with the arrangement orders, you do your best to push Sunghoon and his unanswered invitation from your mind. 

For a while at least, you’re successful. The afternoon passes slowly.

A woman in her thirties comes, looking for a bouquet for her sister who just had a baby. 

A man in his fifties wants to send flowers to his daughter’s office to wish her a happy birthday.

A couple comes in, hands intertwined, asking if your shop would be able to accommodate enough flowers for their wedding to be held at the end of the month. 

You greet them, you smile, you answer their questions with patience. 

And all the while, you leave Sunghoon’s question hanging.

As your shift draws to an end, late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows, your phone buzzes in your pocket once more. 

Half expecting to see a string of curses from Sunghoon, angry you ignored him, convinced you’ve wronged him, you're surprised when it’s Jungwon’s name that lights up your screen instead. 

His short string of messages reads,

It was nice to see you again

Missed my favorite girl

Movie night this weekend at mine? Popcorn on me

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you can hardly stifle the smile that threatens to overtake your entire face. 

Unlike Sunghoon’s, Jungwon’s message doesn’t fill you with dread, doesn’t leave you with a sudden flurry of doubts and questions clouding your mind.

And, unlike his, it’s easy to say yes to.

You wait only a fraction of a second before sending your reply.

I’ll be there

…..

The left side cushion of Jungwon’s living room couch is starting to feel familiar at this point. It’s been less than a week since you were last here, and it already feels routine sinking down into it. 

When Jake steps out from his room minutes after you settle in, he doesn’t comment on his roommate’s company. Just arches a brow. 

“You two drinking again?” he asks. 

Apparently, he gave Jungwon shit for forgetting to clean up one of the bottles after last time. Ironic, considering it’s Jake’s dinner dishes that are gathering dust in the sink. 

“No,” Jungwon shakes his head. Remote in hand, he flicks through streaming service options until he lands on the one he’s looking for. “Just watching a movie.”

Jake pauses, eyes flickering towards the screen. “Which one?”

“Not sure.” Jungwon shrugs. “___ chose it.”

You turn over your shoulder, telling him the title. It’s some rom com that’s been terrorizing your twitter feed for weeks now. And then you offer, “You can join us if you want.”

You’re not sure if there’s enough space on the couch for the three of you, but you are the one crashing into their space. You’ll make it work if you have to. 

“That’s alright.” Jake shakes his head. “I’m heading out.”

“Alright,” Jungwon waves him off without so much as a second glance. 

“See you later,” you offer, still turned around. 

Jake grins, looking at you before he makes his way to the door. “Enjoy your movie. And nice to see you again so soon, ___. I was worried you’d make me wait again.”

Next to you, Jungwon’s jaw clenches. He mutters something under his breath about making popcorn before standing up from his seat on the couch. 

Jake leaves before he can rile Jungwon up any further, and the smell of popcorn begins to fill the room just as the opening credits begin to roll. An overzealous pop song plays in the background, one you recognize from the playlist your boss makes you put on shuffle, insisting the corny, upbeat lyrics will convince people to buy more flowers. 

Jungwon comes back to the couch, sets the popcorn bowl on the table in front of you. He adjusts, moving closer. His knee brushes against yours. Both of you pretend not to notice. Intimacy and closeness is nothing new between the two of you. Hell, you grew up practically attached at the hip, sleeping in the same bed until you were in middle school. 

But there was always practicality to it, a purpose. You held hands at the amusement park because you didn’t want to lose each other in the crowd. You let him put his head in your lap when you had a picnic in the park because the only other pillow available was the ant-filled grass. 

This feels different. Intentional. Especially since there’s still plenty of space to his left. 

You lean forward, reaching for the popcorn. The fabric of your pants rustles against his. Settling back into your seat, Jungwon takes his turn to reach forward. But instead of grabbing a fistful, he takes the whole bowl, bringing it to his lap. 

“Here,” he nudges you. “It’s closer this way.”

You nod. Right. Closer. 

In front of you, the movie begins to unfold. Saturated color grading, wardrobe choices that already look slightly dated despite the recent release date, and a female lead that first impressions paint as adorably quirky, it has all the makings of a brainless plot. The perfect way to waste a Friday night. 

And Jungwon, who usually insists on holding his tongue until after the credits have rolled, leans a little closer to you just past the twenty-minute mark. Unnecessary, given how close the two of you are already sitting. His arm, bare from the short-sleeve shirt he wears, brushes against yours. 

And his lips nearly touch the shell of your ear when he whispers, “This is ridiculous.”

You frown. “What is?”

“The premise,” he hums. “I mean, why would they pretend to date each other? It doesn’t make sense. There are plenty of other things he could do to get back at his ex.”

You roll your eyes. Leave it to him to analyze the storyline like it was designed for anything other than mindless entertainment. “It’s the oldest cliche in the book,” you explain. “It’s for the plot.”

“It’s obvious,” he shakes his head. “They’re going to fall in love with each other.”

“Of course they are,” you agree. “But not every movie has to have a million twists and turns. Sometimes it’s just nice to know how things will end and enjoy seeing how they get there.”

“You like that?” he asks, voice low. “When things fall into place exactly the way you expect them to?”

“Sometimes,” you breathe. “It’s nice to not always have to guess.”

“Would you ever do that?”

Your eyebrows raise. “Fake date someone?”

Jungwon nods. 

“No,” you scoff. “I can barely handle a real date, remember?”

You’re not sure what it is, but something in your answer must satisfy his curiosity, at least for now. Next to you, Jungwon is quiet once again. In front of you, the characters on screen continue to tiptoe around each other, dancing around the obvious. 

The onscreen tension builds and builds and builds, all the way until it breaks. With a heated confession in the rain and the one aspect of a rom com you forgot to account for before choosing your movie for the evening. 

You’re a grown woman. You have the degree and the age on your driver’s license to prove it. But the flush on your cheeks is undeniable as the two characters on screen begin to kiss. 

And kiss they do. Jesus christ, you think, just how much of the budget was allotted to close up shots of their mouths? 

As the scene begins to heat, so does the temperature of your skin. You’re half afraid Jungwon will feel it, scalding him through the layers of fabric between your legs that still touch. Part of you wants to screw your eyes shut, to reach for the remote and click fast forward just to end the agony, but you’re pretty sure that would be even more humiliating. 

Instead, you keep your eyes glued to the screen. Watch unmoving, trying to appear unaffected, as the male lead tangles his fingers through her hair, tugging slightly as she stifles a moan against his lips. It’s so raw, so intimate, that you’re tempted to pull out your phone and confirm the PG-13 rating you swear it had. 

It’s involuntary, the way you squirm against the couch cushions. The movement is no help. All it does is make you brush further against the one person you’re suddenly desperately trying to ignore. 

The man on screen brushes his fingers under the hemline of her shirt, drags the fitted material upwards. 

Without even really meaning to, you dare a glance at Jungwon. 

And find him already looking at you. Staring at you, lips parted, eyes locked on the flush spreading over your cheekbones.

Quickly, your eyes drop to your lap, but the image stays burned behind your eyelids. You don’t dare to look at him again, not even once the scene has ended, when the plot becomes ridiculous again instead of heated. 

Even once the ending credits start to roll, you keep your eyes trained on the screen, as if the list of assistant directors is something you find fascinating. But Jungwon has other plans. 

He shifts against you, knee nudging yours. You hear his exhale, heavier than before. 

A moment passes. Another. 

Then, he finally tells you, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Immediately your mind starts to swim. Thinking about what? The unbelievability of the premise? The questionable casting choices? Or, worst of all, the kiss?

Out loud, you do your best to school your question into something neutral. “Thinking about what?”

“What you said,” he tells you. It soothes exactly none of your frayed nerves.

What have you said? You suddenly can’t remember. You search for a list of recent statements you’ve made and come up completely blank. 

It feels like a conversation that’s going nowhere when you ask, “What did I say?”

Jungwon doesn’t spare a moment. “That you think boys don’t like you.”

Oh. Oh. Nearly a week ago now, your tipsy, self-berating rambling must have stuck with him. Well, that’s fine, you suppose. That’s something you can explain away now. Sober, even if your mind is still spinning a bit. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you try to explain. “I was drunk and my words weren’t coming out right. I just meant that it was frustrating going on a date and leaving feeling like something was wrong with me, you know?”

Only after he’s quiet for a full thirty seconds do you dare a glance at him. Jungwon’s brow is furrowed, his lips pulled tight in contemplation. He parts his lips like he wants to say something, closes them again as if he’s thought better of it.  

When he finally finds a statement to commit to, he says, “Maybe you’re going on dates with the wrong people.”

“Oh, definitely,” you agree. “But that’s the hard part, isn’t it?” In retrospect, it’s a big part of why you were so hesitant to accept Sophia’s offer in the first place, why she had to ask you, to insist, four times. “I feel like I have to go on so many terrible dates that make me feel like shit just to maybe eventually find someone I want to spend more time with. It’s not like I think there’s actually anything wrong with me, but I do feel like I have a harder time than other people. You know, making friends, going on dates, finding people I actually want to be around of my own volition.”

After already feeling so rejected from your job search, your headspace has been even more fragile. Dating doesn’t feel like stress relief for you. It feels like a reminder of all the things you wish were different about yourself. 

Jungwon’s gentle when he shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping your circle small.”

“No,” you agree, “but sometimes it feels like it isn’t really my choice. Like, even if I wanted to have more friends or go on more dates, it wouldn't pan out the way I want it to. Sometimes it’s just easier to keep to myself, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times I wish I could be more outgoing.”

After another momentary lapse, another beat of silence, he asks, “What about me?”

A flicker of surprise crosses your features. “What about you?”

“You have an easy time talking to me,” Jungwon points out. “And I feel the same about you. We’ve been hanging out since we were kids, and I’ve never felt uncomfortable with you.”

“Really?” Your brow arches. “Even when I forced you to go down that waterslide in third grade?”

Even his mom had been surprised. He’d been terrified of that thing, apparently kicking and screaming against anyone else that tried to drag him down it. But when you, in all of your fourth-grade glory, insisted that he joined you, he just tucked his hand in yours, let you lead him all the way up the ladder even as his legs shook beneath him.

Jungwon smiles at the memory, a soft thing. But his eyes are still serious, his gaze still weighted. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, “but that’s different.”

“How so?”

“Because…” you trail off, searching for an explanation. “Because you’re Jungwon.”

“Yeah.” The heat in his eyes doesn’t settle. “And?”

“And I’ve never had to think about it,” you shrug. “We became friends before I was even fully self-aware. You’ve always just been Jungwon.”

He’s quiet for a moment, considering. And then, “Can I ask you something?”

“I feel like you’re going to anyway.” It’s meant to be lighthearted, to distract from that strange bit of tension that still simmers. 

Jungwon’s eyes don’t lose their edge. “Why did you start going on dates again?”

“What do you mean?” His question surprises you. “I just graduated from university. I’m young and unattached and all that. Isn’t this the time that everyone’s going on dates?”

“I suppose,” he concedes, “But I feel like that’s why you’re so frustrated.”

You frown, and he clarifies, “You’re going on dates because you feel like you should. Not because you want to.” 

He pauses for a moment, gauging your reaction. Deciding your silence is permission enough, he presses on, “You’re not even sure what you want out of them or what an ideal relationship looks like for you right now. You’re just going and hoping something will stick, like throwing darts with a blindfold. Then you get upset with yourself when it doesn’t live up to your fantasy, even though you haven’t decided what your fantasy even is yet. I mean, why did you even meet Sunghoon? Because you really wanted to, or because you wanted to get Sophia off of your back about it?”

You feel exposed all of a sudden. Seen right down to your bones in a way you were prepared for. “I…” There’s a maturity to his question that you weren’t expecting, an edge you can’t quite decipher. You turn the question back to him instead of answering. “Since when did you get so observant?”

“I’ve always noticed you.”

“Jungwon…”

“So I can help you figure this out, too,” he insists. “Really,” he adds when you still look unsure. “Who knows you better than me?”

You can’t quite meet his gaze, and it’s all the confirmation he needs. 

“Exactly,” Jungwon nods. “So I’ll ask you again, why did you agree to go on a date with Sunghoon?”

It would be easy to deflect, to blame Sophia’s insistence. Or to double down on your earlier statement, that this is the time in your life to try new things, to meet new people. That it felt natural to say yes. 

But when you really think about it, the cold, honest truth is just that—

“I think I was just tired of hearing no all the time.”

Jungwon’s brow furrows. “Who’s telling you no?”

You sigh, try to let out an airy laugh that comes out choked, a little pathetic. “Only every hiring manager in the country, apparently. You know, I’ve been sending out job applications like crazy since graduation, but it's been six months now and the only thing I have to show for it is a stack of rejection letters cluttering my inbox.”

A flicker of understanding passes through his gaze. “So you’re compensating, then.”

You glare. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” he shakes his head. With the same tone you’ve heard him use to soothe a skittish kitten, he adds, “That must have been so frustrating. Putting in all that effort and not getting the result you wanted.” He knee brushes yours as he leans in closer, something unbearably earnest in his gaze. “You’ve been working too hard.”

“I haven’t been working hard enough,” you argue. “If I had, then something would have panned out at this point. I just need to—”

“There you go again,” he interrupts, shaking his head gently. “Assuming that it’s all your fault. Maybe the hiring manager was just an idiot, or you caught them on a bad day.”

“Yeah.” Your words drip with self-effacing sarcasm. “I’d believe that if it were one or two. But I don’t think over a hundred of them just happened to wake up on the wrong side of the bed the day they reviewed my application.”

It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Settles into the air a bit uncomfortably. 

Jungwon takes a moment to respond. When he does, he just sighs your name. 

“I know,” you scramble for something a little lighter, “like, the economy is shit and all, and one day I’ll look back at this and laugh or whatever. But it just sucks right now, you know? I’m so sick of it. I really just wanted to hear someone say—”

“Yes,” Jungwon finishes for you. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “Exactly.” 

“Okay,” he nods, resolve tightening as if he’s made his mind up about something. “Then ask me.”

“What?”

Jungwon doubles down. “You can ask me,” he insists again, that same damn earnestness in his eyes, “anything you want me to do.” Meeting your gaze, he adds, “I’ll say yes. I promise.”

Against your will, you feel warmth starting to rise on your cheeks again. There’s something weighted in his promise, something desperate that simmers just behind it. Something that you have absolutely no idea what to do with. 

Suddenly desperate for a reprieve, you do your best to break the tension. “That seems like a terrible idea.” You curse the strange breathlessness in your voice. Why are you like this? It’s just Jungwon. “What if I ask you to jump off a bridge?”

Jungwon just grins. “I’ll take my chances. Besides, I know I’m safe. You’d miss me too much.”

“You know,” you start, “for someone who thinks fake dating is ridiculous, this feels even more absurd.”

Jungwon doesn’t budge. “Just try it,” he encourages. “Ask me something.”

You sigh. “Jungwon…”

“C’mon.” He’s relentless. “Just once.”

“Fine.” You glance towards the bowl still sitting in his lap. “Hand me the popcorn.”

Picking it up, he ignores your outstretched hands in favor of learning forward, all the way until he settles it in your lap. His fingers remain against the edges of the bowl until he’s sure the balance is steady. Only then does he lean back into his own space. 

“Easy.” He grins. Then his brow furrows, considering. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “I could make you some real food, if—”

“No,” you shake your head. Picking up a single piece of popcorn, you add, “Just wanted to do this.” 

Throwing it square at his face, it bounces off of his nose harmlessly before falling to the carpet below. Jungwon’s nose scrunches in a knee-jerk reaction, eyes screwing shut before he opens them again. 

“Maybe I was wrong,” his eyes are heavy-lidded, voice lower than you expect. “You are going to use it for evil.” 

“Of course.” You reach for another kernel. “So maybe you should reconsider—”

Jungwon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t give you a moment to prepare for the way he wraps his fingers around your raised wrist, locking it into place before you can toss another piece of popcorn in his direction. 

His grip is warm against your skin. Tight, something you’re not sure you’d be able to break out of even if you tried. 

Still, you attempt to fling the popcorn at him. With the restricted motion of your wrist, it doesn’t make it far. It flies through the air for only a split second before falling uselessly down to your own lap, just in front of the bowl it came from. 

“Nice try,” Jungwon breathes, your wrist still encased in his grip. 

Your eyes narrow. “I do my best.”

“I’m sure you do,” he allows, “but you’re trapped now.”

There’s something strange in his gaze. Something heavy, weighted that you can’t quite place. Something that feels entirely too real. 

You test it, the strength of his grip on you. True to his word, your wrist hardly makes it an inch, his fingers a vice around them. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you breathe, voice airier than you mean for it to be.

“Maybe,” he agrees. A breath passes between you. Another. His eyes are still locked on yours, searching, like he’s desperate to find something. Another moment passes, and he releases his grip. Your wrist falls slowly back to your lap. “But I meant it.”

“I know you did.” You can’t quite make eye contact, but his sincerity is evident even as you place your gaze elsewhere. “Thank you.”

“Seriously,” he insists. “My schedule is a lot lighter now that midterms are done. If you ever want to do something or go somewhere or you just wanna crash for a night on my couch, you’re more than welcome to.”

“Did you get Jake’s approval for that?” You arch an eyebrow. 

Jungwon’s voice is tighter than before, just slightly. “Jake will be fine." And then, still strained but a bit softer, “If there’s anything I can do for you, just let me know. Don’t make me wait two weeks to see you.”

Here, in the quiet of his living room, movie forgotten on the TV, it’s easy to agree to. 

“Okay,” you whisper, regular speech suddenly feeling too loud, too abrasive. And then again, because you really do mean it, “Thank you, Jungwon.”

“Of course,” he insists, voice equally low. 

For a moment, the two of you sit like that, legs brushing, you avoiding the eye contact he tries to maintain. 

Then, Jungwon sighs, faces the TV again as he reaches for the remote. “Should we watch something else?” he asks. 

You nod. “Something scary this time.” 

Jungwon arches a brow. “You hate horror movies.”

Shrugging, you insist. “I’m in the mood for one now.” 

He still doesn’t look like he quite believes you, but he doesn’t argue any further as he scrolls down, searching for the genre. 

At his side, you’re quiet. It’s true. You do hate horror. But you’d take zombies and ghosts and jumpscares any day over the off chance of having to sit through another kissing scene tonight. 

This time, Jungwon picks the movie. Learning back against the cushions, he reaches for a handful of popcorn. 

The movie hasn’t started yet. There’s nothing on the screen to be scared of, but your heart thumps traitorously against your ribcage anyway.

…..

Two days later, you’re back at your favorite coffee shop. This time, though, it’s not Jungwon who sits across from you.

“So,” Sophia starts, and you already recognize that tone. Uh-oh, you think. “Sunghoon asked about you.”

“Why?” you ask, memories of your rather terrible date coming back unbidden. “To see if I’ve checked myself into an insane asylum yet?”

“No,” she glares. “Just to see how you’re doing.” She takes a sip of her drink, eyeing you over the rim. “Why didn’t you go on another date? He told me he texted you.”

That explains it then, you think. Him reaching out to you probably didn’t come from genuine interest. Maybe spending time with you felt like nothing more than a favor to his coworker. Maybe he was secretly relieved when you’d ignored his message. Maybe he only brought it up to Sophia to be polite. 

Your eyes narrow. “Why are you so involved, anyway? You know, this is exactly why they say you shouldn’t shit where you eat.”

“I’m not dating him,” she points out. “And you two don’t work together.” It’s true. You’d applied for an open position a couple months back, actually. And, of course, had been promptly rejected. “That doesn’t apply.”

“Close enough,” you mutter. 

“Why are you so against it?” she asks. “Did he suck or something?” Considering it, she’s quick to apologize. “Sorry. He always seemed so nice at work. A little shy, like I told you, but when he mentioned he was single, you were the first person I thought of. Did he say something weird to you or try to make you split the bill—”

“No,” you shake your head. “Nothing like that. He was perfectly nice. And polite.”

Her confusion returns. “So what gives? I didn’t expect the two of you to get married, but I thought you’d at least last a little longer than one date. Besides,” she leans in, voice lower but still not nearly quiet enough for what she’s about to ask you, “aren’t you practically shriveled up at this point? Did you take a vow of celibacy without telling me? When’s the last time you even had se—”

Eyes widening in panic, you interrupt her with an entirely too loud, too bright, “Hi, Jungwon!”

Frowning, Sophia turns back to look over her shoulder. Because there he is, the man in question. A surprising coincidence, perhaps, if you weren’t the one that introduced both of your friends to this cafe. 

“Hey,” he grins, glancing between the both of you with his takeout cup in hand. “I thought that was you I saw over here.” Turning to your friend, he nods, “Hi, Sophia.”

“Jungwon,” she returns. Her gaze follows his, all the way from his eyes to yours. Settling back into her seat, she gestures towards the empty chair at your table. “Grab a seat,” she offers. “Join us.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” you glance at him apologetically. “I’m sure Jungwon has other—”

But he slides down into the chair without a hint of protest, your words dying on your lips. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” he says. “What were you two talking about?”

You force a smile that looks anything but easy. “Nothing,” you insist, just as Sophia explains, 

“____’s desperate need to get laid.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, flashing daggers at Sophia with your eyes as you pointedly avoid looking to where Jungwon sits on your right. “I did not say that.”

“So what?” she asks, either oblivious to your suffering or relishing in it. “You’re planning to be a nun forever?”

“I’m busy,” you deflect. “I have other priorities right now.”

“Busy people have sex,” she argues. “All that stress isn’t good for you. Like I said, you’ll shrivel up and—”

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” She has to know how embarrassed you are from the increasingly red shade of your face, how horrified you are that Jungwon can hear everything she’s saying. There aren’t many secrets left between the two of you, but the gory details of your nonexistent sex life isn’t something you’re exactly dying for him to be privy to. 

Sophia leans back, some of the urgency of her insistence fading. Still, she’s not quite done. “I’m just confused,” she explains. “I mean, Sunghoon was kind and a gentleman and more than willing, if the way he keeps hounding me about you is anything to go by. I just don’t get it.”

Slowly, you brave a glance at Jungwon, who’s kept quiet this whole time. Maybe, at least, he shares some of your embarrassment, avoiding your gaze just as pointedly as you avoided his. 

But when you turn towards him hesitantly, Jungwon is already looking at you. There’s nothing shy or avoidant as his eyes rake over you. And there’s no sign of embarrassment, no telltale flush, no fidgety shifting. 

Jungwon’s just looking at you. With a cool, steady stare. Like he’s assessing you, clicking puzzle pieces into place. 

When he finally breaks eye contact, it’s to look at Sophia. “Leave her alone,” he defends. His tone is light, teasing. But there’s an edge there. Something that doesn’t leave space for an argument. “She’ll find someone when she’s ready. Park Sunghoon isn’t the end all be all of men.”

“No,” Sophia agrees, “but surely he’s better than your left hand and the vib—”

“Oh my god,” you’re begging this time. “Stop.”

“What about you?” Jungwon asks, and both of you turn to him in surprise. When your eyes land on him, he’s looking at Sophia, not at you. “How’s your love life looking these days?”

“Love life…” She trails off, shrugging. “Nothing to report. But I haven’t joined your girl here,” she nods towards you, “at the convent yet. In that regard,” she grins. “I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Good for you,” Jungwon nods. “And the job is still going well?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “It’s not confirmed yet, but there’s a rumor that I might be in talks for a promotion next quarter. I’m…”

Her words trail off as you zone out, some of the adrenaline fading, the tension draining from your shoulders. 

Not for the first time, you feel extremely grateful for Jungwon. It’s subtle, but it’s enough. And to you, it’s obvious. The way he maneuvered the conversation away from you. You’re sure that your discomfort wasn’t difficult to pick up on, but the way he handled it makes you appreciate him that much more. 

Morbidly, you wonder what he thinks of your glaring lack of a sex life. Ever since Jay, you’ve kept the details of your relationships, or rather, lack thereof, close to the chest where he’s concerned. And even when you were with Jay, intimacy was never a topic you breached with Jungwon. 

The thought has a flush starting anew on your cheekbones. You do your best to dismiss it. 

Next to you, Jungwon keeps his eyes on Sophia, nodding at the appropriate times, commenting in a way that proves he’s listening. 

But beneath the table, the warmth on his palm finds your knee. Without breaking conversation or giving even the slightest outward hint that his mind is anywhere besides your friend’s story about her boss’ most recent rampage, he squeezes. 

Once, gently. Just to let you know that he’s there. 

You fidget, and he does it again. This time, he can’t quite help the grin that spreads across his lips. 

…..

Despite everything, you can’t shake the feeling of Jungwon’s hand on your knee beneath the table. Days pass, and in quiet moments, if you give your brain enough leeway, it always wanders back there. 

To his easy, subtle defense of you. To the way it seemed so natural for him to soothe you silently with his touch. 

To the way he looked at you, considering, evaluative, while Sophia laid out the gory details of your fruitless sex life on the table. 

And maybe she was right to question you so thoroughly. Maybe it really has been too long, because that’s the only feasible explanation for the thoughts you’re having now. 

It’s only natural, you suppose. Jungwon has been a constant in your life, a steady presence, for nearly as long as your memory extends. He’s been there through it all, your worst moments, your best memories. He’s seen all of it, knows you like the back of his hand, and he’s stuck around for it all. 

For someone with an intense fear of rejection, it means more than you can say. You can’t think of anyone in this world that you trust more than him. 

And intimacy… Intimacy is just an extension of that, you suppose. Being close with someone in that way is the ultimate act of trust. 

Maybe that’s why things felt so stilted, so disjointed with Sunghoon. You had nothing against him, but you also didn’t know him at all. Trust is something that takes time, effort. How could you let your guard down with someone you had just met?

It’s just nerves, you’re sure. You’ve been out of practice since Jay, and with each passing day, that relationship just feels further and further away. A distant memory that you can’t recall well enough to guide you now. 

Maybe if there was someone you really trusted, someone that you could just practice with, then—

No. You shake your head, dropping the thought as quick as it comes. It’s insane. It’s the exact opposite of everything your relationship with Jungwon has been for the last eighteen years of your life. 

Still, when a message from him lights up your phone screen a handful of hours later, it takes you a full minute and a string of deep breaths to convince yourself to open it. 

And when you reread the text, an invitation to drive out to a lesser known lookout where the two of you used to go to watch the sunset in high school, you agree easily. If your heart is beating a little too fast in your chest, well, you suppose no one ever has to know about it. 

Years ago, you were the one that discovered the outlook. After a particularly awful day, due mostly to your terrible junior year biology teacher, you’d put your newly acquired driver’s license to good use. You had no destination in mind. You were still new to driving and liked the way that it felt, liked the way it seemed like you could outrun any problem if you just drove far enough. 

A series of wrong turns led you straight to a forested area not too far from the highway. Jutting high out over a nearby valley, the scene you found sprawled out in front of you was gorgeous.

It was early spring, then. Flowers were just beginning to bloom, glowing in the late afternoon sun. You shifted the car into park, shutting off the engine. And then you sat, for hours, just looking out at all of it. 

As the sun faded on the horizon, so did the most pressing of your worries. Looking around you, biology class had begun to feel a lifetime ago. 

You realized that day that you found somewhere special, somewhere that you wouldn’t be willing to show to just anyone. Even then, there was only one person you thought you’d ever share the view with, that you’d ever let into your private little sanctuary. 

So, one month later, when Jungwon came to your house after school with a crease between his eyebrows that usual methods couldn’t seem to soothe, you offered him the passenger seat of your car and the view you’d been keeping all to yourself. 

That day, it became his too. And a tradition of sorts began to form. Whenever either of you was stressed or upset or just needed to get away from it all, you had a shared place to escape to. Somewhere that felt out of reach from everyone else. Somewhere for just the two of you. 

You haven’t been back there with Jungwon for the better part of a year. Part of you is a bit worried as you see his car pull up from your apartment window—this time, he’ll be the one driving—that something happened. 

After all, the two of you usually saved the outlook for difficult times. 

But as you slide into Jungwon’s passenger seat, the only thing he greets you with is an easy smile. 

“Good day?” he asks, handing you his phone so you can pick the playlist for the drive. 

“Fine,” you nod, settling for an R&B album you know you both like. “What about you?” you ask, still wanting to dissuade your earlier concerns. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods, craning his neck as he checks for cross-traffic before pulling onto the main street. “I just wanted to see you. Thought it might be nice to go somewhere quiet. And it’s a beautiful day.” He looks towards the cloudless sky. “I thought the sunset would be nice.”

The drive goes quickly as you pass familiar streets, reminiscing as memories coming back at every turn. 

“Oh my god,” you say as one comes back suddenly. “Remember that time we drove out here because James rejected me at junior prom?”

Jungwon frowns. “James was an idiot.”

It rings true in hindsight. “Yeah, but I was devastated. I cried so hard I got snot on my dress.” It’s easy to laugh at now, even if the sting was unbearable in the moment. “No wonder he said no.”

“He said no because he was a dumbass,” Jungwon argues. “Besides, it can’t be worse than the time we came here because I didn’t make the taekwondo competition team.”

Something about the memory, even now, makes your heart clench a little. “That was just sad,” you tell him softly. “You were so disappointed.”

“I got over it,” he shrugs. “The dartboard you made of my coach’s face helped.”

“Oh my god,” your eyes widen. “I forgot about that.”

Jungwon smiles like it’s a fond memory. “You were so violent.”

You shake your head. “Only for you. I don’t think I’d ever wanted to hit someone more.”

Trading memories like secrets, the two of you eventually reach the right exit. Pulling off the highway, the air around you immediately feels more still. Calmer. 

And when Jungwon pulls right up to the overlook, shifting his car into park and shutting off the ignition, things feel just like you left them. 

The sun is getting close to the horizon now. The valley that stretches out beneath you as far as the eye can see glows in the last rays of daylight. 

Your gaze stretches out too, welcoming that sense of familiarity. “It looks the same,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” Jungwon agrees. “It does.”

Returning here now makes times feel sharper, more obvious. 

“We’ve been coming here for what, six years now?” You shake your head. “I can’t believe it’s been that long. I can’t believe I graduated. Like, I’m just done with university now. I still remember when it felt so far away.”

“Yeah.” Jungwon nods, eyes on the horizon. “Me too.” 

For a moment, the space between you is silent, the air filled with nothing but the sound of your quiet breaths. 

You weren’t the one who asked him here, but if there was ever a place to admit the worries in your mind, you suppose it would be now. 

Quietly, you say, “Can I ask you something?”

Jungwon turns to you, attuned to the serious tone of your voice. “Of course.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me,” you promise. “I know we don’t really talk about this kind of stuff usually, and—”

“___,” he interrupts, “Ask me.”

You take a breath. You can feel his gaze on you, but you can’t quite look him in the eye when you ask, “Do you think Sophia was right?”

“About what?” His shoulders stiffen. “Sunghoon?”

“No,” you shake your head, and the tension loosens, but only slightly. “About me.”

“What about you?” he breathes.

“That I…” you trail off, searching for the right words. “That it’s been too long since I was with someone.” 

Even now, you can’t bring yourself to say it. To call a spade a spade. Jungwon reads between the lines easily enough. 

He shakes his head. “It’s your choice to make. Yours and no one else’s, for whatever reasons you want. Don’t let Sophia make you feel bad just because her choice is different from yours.”

“I know,” you sigh. “But sometimes I think she’s right. That the longer I wait, the more difficult I’m making things for myself, like I’m just making the hurdle in my mind bigger and bigger. I mean, the last time I was with someone, you know, like that, was with Jay, and that was already—”

Jungwon’s inhale is sharp. “It was?” 

“See?” you frown, mistaking his surprise for confirmation of your fears. “It’s been so long. Too long. Even you think so.”

“I don’t—” he tries, shaking his head. Now Jungwon’s the one scrambling for words. “I don’t think it’s been too long. I was just surprised,” he says. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, surprised because of how long it’s been.” You laugh humorlessly. “Now even you think I’m a nun.”

“I don’t think that,” he shakes his head. “Like I said, it’s your choice.” 

“Is it though?” you ask. “The more time passes, the more I start to think that the cards just aren’t stacked in my favor.”

Jungwon frowns. “What do you mean?”

Your palms splay against your lap. The last rays of sun stretch over the valley, and your words are spilling out before you can stop them. “Maybe Sunghoon only acted interested because of Sophia. Maybe every time anyone has expressed interest, it hasn’t been genuine.” You sigh. “It’s like, logically I know that’s just the insecurity talking, but the more time passes, the harder those thoughts are to shake.”

For a moment, Jungwon is quiet. When he speaks again, his voice is low, serious. Pleading for your understanding. “___,” he says, “you’re beautiful. Truly. Any man would be lucky for even the smallest piece of your time or attention. I know that it’s hard sometimes, and that those voices and doubts can feel so loud, but I really wish you could see yourself the way other people do. The way I do.”

“Jungwon…”

“If you decide to have a relationship with someone, one of any nature, then it should be because you want to, not because you feel like you have to or because you’re trying to prove something.”

“What if I never get over it?” you ask, voice small, hardly a whisper. “What if I never get past this fear?”

“You will,” Jungwon promises. “It might not happen as fast as you want it to or in the way you expect it to, but you will.”

It’s so him, you think. So Jungwon to have more faith in you than even you ever could. He’s been here since the beginning, and he’s not going anywhere. He’s seen you face obstacles and challenges before, and he’s always done everything in his power to help you overcome them. 

Maybe this is no different. Maybe the only thing you ever needed was some help from Jungwon. 

Maybe…

No. Even with your logic twisting things to your favor, you know that this is different. This is different from asking for a favor or some moral support. If you ask Jungwon to do this for you, you’re crossing a line. One that you’re not sure you’d be able to come back from. 

The friendship you have isn’t just something you’re unwilling to risk. It has quite literally become something you don’t know how to live without. You’ve never had to try, never even had to imagine a life without Jungwon at your side. 

The only time that came close was during your first year of university, during your relationship with Jay, and that had been nearly enough to wreck you. The potential fallout from this could be worse, so much worse. You won’t risk it. 

But then, unbidden, your mind supplies a memory. One from his couch, little more than a week ago. 

“You can ask me,” he’d told you, earnest in his delivery, “anything you want me to do.” He said it himself. He promised you. “I’ll say yes.”

So, before you can lose your grip on the last remnants of courage you have, you ask, “Would you ever…”

It’s as far as you get before your bravery fails you, words trailing off into nothingness. 

You wish you could take them back when Jungwon asks, a little breathless. “Would I ever what?”

You shake your head. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid. Just forget I said anything.”

But he won’t let you get away so easily. “Ask me.”

And you swear, it’s like he knows. His gaze bores into yours, searching, pleading, desperate, like he can see you all the way down to your bones. Like even the most secret of your thoughts have been laid bare before him. 

“___,” he whispers your name. “Ask me,” he repeats. 

“I just…” Your eyes screw shut. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. “What if we…”

“What if we what?”

You open your eyes, but only to look down towards your lap. “I trust you,” you whisper. In the silence of his car, it feels like you’re shouting. “More than anyone. Maybe I’ll be able to get over that hurdle in my mind if I just let you—”

“Let me what?” he asks. “Touch you?”

The breath you draw is ragged, shallow, as he hits the bullseye with little effort. Your fingers find a loose thread on the sleeve of your sweater. You know better, but you pull anyway. “Yeah,” you exhale. “If you…” You can’t look him in the eye, even now. It’s hardly a whisper, but you can’t bring yourself to say it any louder. “If I let you touch me.”

Jungwon’s inhale is sharp, his shudder involuntary. He leans across the center console, closer to you. Closer, closer, closer, until he stops, lips parting, face inches from yours.

He takes a deep breath in, holding it as his eyes search your face even as you keep yours turned down. Your heart hammers in your chest so violently you think it must be trying to escape. You still can’t look at him. 

Jungwon’s breath escapes him in a shallow huff, dusting across your cheekbone. He lingers there for a second, like he can’t stand the thought of distance. 

Then, without a warning, he sits back in his seat, knuckles white against the fabric of his jeans.

“I can’t,” he tells you.

You look up, eyes widening in surprise. “What?”

“I can’t,” he repeats. This time, he’s the one avoiding eye contact. You search his features for anything, any kind of explanation, but all you find is the tense set of his jaw, the heat that still simmers in his gaze. The restraint holding him back. 

And suddenly, shame flashes through you. White hot humiliation that stings all the way down to your bones. It was one thing to imagine rejection from faceless men. But feeling it now, from him, from Jungwon, is so much worse than anything your mind ever conjured. 

Trying not to let accusation sit too heavy in your tone, you whisper, “You promised.” It’s so pathetic, but there’s nothing left of your pride at that point. “You told me you’d say yes to anything.”

Jungwon flinches. “And I’m trying,” he tells you, an edge to his voice that sings with desperation. “Believe me, I am. I’m doing my best to make this about you, but…”

“But what?” You scoff. “You changed your mind? The thought of me like that is so repulsive you have to—”

“No.” He won’t let you finish. “But you’re sitting here, looking at me like you’d do anything for it, like you need it, and I can’t just say yes and give it to you because I do too.”

Your anger subsides, replaced with confusion. “What do you—”

“I need it too.” Only then does he meet your eye. Wide in the dying glow of lingering daylight, he’s begging for a bit of your understanding. “I’m trying to be selfless, but if I touch you, that won’t be just for you.”

Your brow creases. You still don’t get it. “I don’t—”

Jungwon releases a shaky exhale. “I’ve been thinking about getting my hands on you since I was old enough to know what it meant. Since I was old enough to want things like that at all.”

It’s all too much, too sudden. “Jungwon, what—”

“I know that you still think of me as the kid you grew up next to, and I’ve been doing my best not to shatter the illusion because you like me like that. But you come home from a date telling me it didn’t work out, telling me that boys don’t like you, and all I can think is good.” His hand curls into a fist, knuckles white. “I could do it so much better anyway.”

“I didn’t…” You shake your head. It doesn’t make sense. “You never—”

But Jungwon isn’t done yet. “You’re sitting here asking me to touch you, but I— fuck, ___. I can’t. Not when you’re only asking because you think it doesn’t mean anything to me. That it won’t change anything for me. You tell me that you trust me, and it’s the sweetest thing about you. I can’t take advantage of that.” His breath is practically heaving now, like he’s just finished running. “I can’t use your trust and break it like this.”

The sun dips past the horizon. The only lingering remnants of daylight cast his face into a gentle glow. Even as shadows begin to trace his features, he’s still Jungwon. Your Jungwon. But no matter how many times you spin his words through your mind, you can’t form them into something you understand. Something you have any idea what to do with. 

“I…” It’s so confusing. It’s entirely too much. All you can think is, “Why did you never say anything?”

Jungwon laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Would it have changed anything? I know you. You run when you get scared. You like me like this, your harmless little friend. You said it yourself, you think you know everything about boys like me. And you needed a friend. So that’s what I’ll be. Your friend. But I can’t say yes, not to this.”

“What if—”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off. “I know you think I can handle anything, but don’t tell me things you don’t mean.”

“Jungwon,” you try softly. 

His fingers wrap around his steering wheel, knuckles turning white. “Just let me drive you home,” he pleads.

“But—”

“Please,” he whispers, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look so broken. “I know it was too much, that it’s not fair to you, but I can’t… I don’t think I can look at you right now and see all that confusion. So just,” he begs again, “please. Let me take you home.”

You want to press the issue, want to keep going until you have even a small fragment of understanding to call yours, but Jungwon is no stranger to making sacrifices for you. It seems he’s been making even more than you ever realized. 

Tonight, right now, you can do the same for him. 

“Okay,” you whisper. 

The drive home passes in silence. Heavy, thick, uncomfortable like a blanket on a sweltering summer night. Neither of you bother to turn on the music this time. The only company to the quiet are the thoughts spinning through your mind, the moon that begins to shine as dusk turns to night. 

Still, as he eases into the driveway just in front of your apartment, you can’t help but whisper, “Good night, Jungwon” as you step out of the passenger seat. 

Whatever has passed between you, whatever terrible precipice the two of you have just fallen from, he doesn’t seem to be able to either. 

“Good night, ____.”

By the time you make it inside, he’s gone. You know it will be, even before you check for his car from your bedroom window.

…..

“Um,” you begin, entirely unsure how to start the conversation. Across from you, Sophia sits on her favorite kitchen stool, scrolling through her Instagram feed while you wait for the pasta water to boil. “Something happened.”

“Mm?” She hums halfheartedly, eyes still trained on her phone screen. 

Your words come out too fast, like you’re in a rush to have them over with as quickly as you can. “I was with Jungwon a few nights ago, and—”

“Oh my god,” she interrupts as she finally looks up, phone forgotten as she sets in on the counter. “You two finally hooked up?”

“What?” Your face pales at just how close she is to the truth. “Why would you even ask that? We’ve never even come close.” Well, of course, except for the incident you’re currently trying to explain. That you’ve been tiptoeing around for the better part of a minute. 

“Are you kidding?” Sophia deadpans. “That boy looks at you like he wants to eat you.”

You splutter. “He does not.”

Sophia rolls her eyes. “He wouldn’t look at me for a week after I set you up with Sunghoon. And I thought he was gonna kill me that day he saw us at the cafe. All I did was mention the possibility of you having sex with someone that wasn’t him, and it’s like he was writing my name on some imaginary death note.”

“You don’t even watch anime,” you point out. 

“I know the reference,” she argues. 

Then, something more pressing draws your attention. “You did it on purpose,” you accuse, realization dawning. “You kept pushing the subject that day to see how he’d react.”

“No,” she denies, shaking her head. “I really do think you should put yourself out there more. Whether it’s Sunghoon or him or someone entirely different. Although,” she considers, “it is always kind of fun to see him get like that. Jungwon’s one of those people you don’t really expect it from, you know? He’s always so calm and collected. But I don’t know if I’ll try it again,” she looks at you, faking a shudder. “He’s scary when it comes to you.”

Any other day, in any other situation, you’d protest. You’d insist that Jungwon is entirely unaffected by you and your romantic choices. That Sophia must have been imagining things that day. 

But Jungwon has already basically confirmed every last one of her claims, whispered them to you himself from the secrecy of his driver’s seat.

It’s the reason you invited her over today. To talk. To get a different perspective. To help you work through what happened. 

Now, though, you just have a question. 

“Why…” You still can’t wrap your mind around it. “Why did no one ever say anything?”

Sophia senses the shift, the way you go from defense to acceptance. From arguing to spiraling. 

“Oh, ___,” she pouts. “My poor, sweet, oblivious ____.”

“I’m not oblivious,” you argue. 

“Not usually,” she agrees. “But it’s like you have this blind spot when it comes to him. He’ll be in the middle of undressing you with his eyes and you’ll start telling some story about the matching diapers your moms bought when you were babies.”

“They were pajamas,” you correct.

“Whatever,” Sophia waves it off. “The point still stands. That boy wants you. Like, biblically.”

It’s consistent. It’s as much as Jungwon himself told you himself. But something about it makes you feel so terribly defeated, so completely unaware of everything you thought you knew about your friendship. About him. About yourself. 

A bit helplessly, you ask, “What am I supposed to do?”

Sophia takes one look at you, at the dejection clouding your features, and sighs. “Can I be honest with you?”

You nod. 

“I think you’re asking the wrong question. It’s not about what you’re supposed to do. It’s not about what Jungwon wants or what I think about your weird, sexually charged friendship.” Then, she asks the million dollar question, “What do you want to do?”

But that’s exactly the problem, you think, because, “I don’t know,” you admit. “I mean, I’ve never thought about it. He’s always just been Jungwon to me.” Pausing for a moment, you suppose you have little pride left to lose. You might as well be honest. “But the other night, when I was with him. I started thinking about… things.”

“Things,” Sophia repeats. She leans in closer, resting her chin against her palm as she asks, “What kinds of things? Feel free to be graphic, by the way.”

“Sophia.”

She pouts sympathetically. “You might not know right away. You’ve spent your entire life thinking of him as some untouchable, sexless entity. Which is kind of crazy, by the way. Like, have you seen the guy?”

You sigh. “Sophia—”

“I’m just saying, it might not happen overnight.” She looks at you, and you feel a sudden surge of gratitude for your friend. She may be wildly different from you in more ways than one, but she means it when she says, “It’s okay. Jungwon will understand, too. If you need some more time to decide if you want to jump his bones or not. He’s probably already been waiting since, like, junior prom. What’s a little longer?”

A little longer, you think. Part of you already spins with doubt, waiting for someone else to supply exact answers. How long is a little longer? When should you make your decision? How long is it supposed to take for you to know if your best friend of eighteen years is meant to stay as just that, or if the relationship between you has been building, slowly, surely, undeniably, into something else this whole time?

But you suppose that’s what Sophia means when she says it’s okay. What Jungwon meant when he told you it was alright to do things at your own pace, on your own time. You don’t need someone else to decide for you. 

The difficulty isn’t a flaw—it’s a sign that this decision is one that matters to you, one that’s worth taking your time with. 

So you do. 

You think about it while you fine tune your resume for yet another job application. You think about it while you snip thorns off of roses at the flower shop, humming along absentmindedly to the playlist in the background. 

You think about it in the shower and while you dinner. When your mom calls you and tells you about the new bulbs she just bought for her garden, the one that time and experience have allowed her to grow into something beautiful and thriving. 

You think about it when you reach into the bottom drawer of your dresser one evening, pulling out the gift Jungwon gave you when you graduated high school nearly five long years ago. 

A photobook, full of all your favorite memories together. Something to remember him by, he’d told you, so you wouldn’t miss him too much when you went off to university one whole year ahead of him. 

In every picture, you’re smiling, grinning so wide you think your face must be in danger of splitting in two. And you’re so lucky, you think, to have someone to share all of these memories with. To have someone who’s been in your life for so long, who’s always been exactly what you needed. 

And then, staring at a picture of the two of you in high school, his arm around your shoulders as the two of you laugh into the camera, you think it’s obvious. 

You don’t have to make a choice between the Jungwon you know and the one you’re afraid to discover. Jungwon has been, and always will be, Jungwon. The way he smiles at you, because of you, isn’t an illusion, and the love he offers you isn’t conditional. 

He’s been your friend for as long as you can remember, and he will be for the rest of your life. Your feelings and hopes and desires may have shifted, but he isn’t going anywhere. 

He’s not scared of the truth, you realize. He never was. But he knew that you would be. 

So he fed it to you slowly until it was too prominent to deny anymore. And even then, he gave you space. Time. Let you come to your own conclusions. 

And somehow, that makes all the difference. 

You think of the game you used to play as kids, the one where you put on your best dress and let him pick wildflowers for you from his back yard. The one where you used the welcome mat from his porch as a makeshift aisle. The one where every time you walked down it, he was the one waiting for you at the end. 

You smile, nearly identical to the picture still splayed open across your lap, and you think that maybe there was never really a choice at all. 

…..

Your knuckles barely rap against the door three times before you hear shuffling on the other side. Footsteps drawing closer until the latch opens, until the door draws back and you see him standing there. Jungwon. 

If he’s surprised to see you, he doesn’t show it. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a plain, fitted black t-shirt, you don’t think he was expecting company. 

“Hi,” you breathe. “Can we talk?”

Jungwon still says nothing, but he opens the door a bit wider, gives you space to walk in. Standing in the entry, you take your shoes off, setting them neatly with the others before drawing back up to full height. Prolonging the inevitable as if it makes any part of what you’re about to do easier. 

You finally drag your eyes back to Jungwon. He’s already looking at you, expression unreadable. His hands are loose at his sides, but his posture is just slightly unnatural. Just a little too stiff. You know him. He’s nervous. 

Finally, you break the silence building between you. “I’ve been thinking,” you tell him. 

“About what?” he asks.

“You,” you admit. “Us.” A string somewhere pulls taught. A thread loosens. 

Jungwon sighs, his exhale shaky. His hand curls to a loose fist before he tucks it into his pocket. “And?”

“I—” Your decision is still solid, not something you’ll back away from. But the words are harder to work out than you expected. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had in my life.”

Jungwon nods. “I know.”

“So,” you try, “it feels weird to suddenly have these thoughts about…”

He won’t let you leave things unsaid, not this time. “About what?”

“You know,” you try to deflect.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “but I’m gonna make you say it.”

You fidget a bit, eyes dropping, but you didn’t come all the way here because you weren’t sure. You know exactly what you want to tell him. 

So you explain, “I just… you asked me, after my date with Sunghoon, what I was looking for.” It feels like a long time ago now, like a distant memory. “And I always felt like I didn’t know, but when I think about it, I always think about…”

“What?” Jungwon breathes.

“You.” Your eyes meet his. This time, neither of you looks away. “I think about you. I don’t have to try and come up with the best answer to my favorite hobbies because you already know. You know me better than anyone and you make me feel good about myself and all the things I usually don’t like. I don’t feel awkward or uncomfortable around you, and I don’t feel like I have to explain myself to you.”

Jungwon’s breath is coming heavier now. He takes half a step towards you, almost subconsciously, as if distance is something he’s finding more difficult to tolerate. But he knows you aren’t done, so he lets you continue. 

“And then,” you add, “I was thinking about the difference between our friendship as it’s always been and the kind of relationship I think I want. And the only thing that’s really different is, you know, the sex.” Your words are spilling now, faster than even you can keep up with. “But even then, when I was trying to think of someone who I trusted enough to be with like that, the only person I thought of was—” 

“Me,” Jungwon finishes, gaze unreadable. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. “You. I don’t want to go on blind dates with Sophia’s coworkers or find random guys to hook up with. I just want you. It’s always been you. I want all of it to be you.”

Jungwon’s eyes shutter, brows going slack as he takes a deep inhale. 

But you want to give him the same courtesy he’s been extending towards you this entire time. The decision, you want him to know, will always be his to make. “I know it might seem weird or sudden or out of the blue,” you tell him, “but I just needed you to know.” Thinking of his earlier promise you clarify, “You don’t have to say yes. I don’t even know if I’m really asking you anything—”

“You think about me?” he interrupts. “When you think about what you want in a relationship?”

The bluntness of it all still makes you want to squirm. But you hold steady. “Yeah,” you tell him.

“And when you think about having sex,” He’s so direct. It makes you want to hide your face behind your hands. “That’s me too?”

You can’t quite manage words this time, but your nod is confirmation enough. 

Jungwon exhales, even harsher than before. “Are you just curious?” he asks. “It’s fine if you are, but I can’t— we can’t do this if you’re just trying to scratch an itch. If you’re just doing it to move on, to get over a fear.”

“I…” you’re trying to read between the lines, to make sure that you understand what he’s saying. It seems obvious, but there’s a strange haze in your mind that has you doubting everything, including your own judgement. “If we do…”

Jungwon doesn’t seem to have the same reservations for spelling it out. “If we have sex.”

“Oh,” you breathe. And then, “No.” You shake your head. 

“No?” He echoes. 

“I…” You trail off, trying to find the right words to explain. “I’m not—There’s no fear when it comes to you. I’m not trying to get over anything. And there’s no one else that I even want to be with like that, so…” You trail off, searching for the words. “You told me it was my choice, and I guess I just want you to know that it’s yours, too. You don’t have to agree to anything, because you’re afraid of disappointing me or hurting my feelings or—”

“___,” he whispers your name, the sound nearly broken on his lips. You look up at him, eyes wide. “Come here,” he begs. 

It only takes two tiny steps for you to stand just before him, for your chests to nearly brush. For a moment, Jungwon does nothing. Then, his arms come up, one circling around your shoulders, the other against the small of your back as he pulls you flush to him. 

The side of your face rests against his chest, his heartbeat erratic under your cheek. You hear him sigh and feel the way his breath flutters through your hair. 

He leans back, just slightly, and you follow the movement, chin tilting upwards as your eyes meet his. The hand wrapped around your shoulders slowly unravels itself. He brings his hand up to your temple, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. 

His other hand stays steady against the small of your back. 

Jungwon’s fingertips linger against the shell of your ear for a moment. You suppress a shudder as he begins to drag them down, tracing the line of your jaw until they come to settle just beneath your chin. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers.

You nod, the movement making his fingers press more firmly into your skin. 

Then, slowly, he begins to lean towards you. His nose brushes against yours, once, twice, a third time. 

“I’ve thought about this,” he admits. “More times than I can count.”

He’s told you as much before, but now, with his hands on you and his lips just inches away, it feels different. It feels real. 

“I imagined you looking at me,” he hums, pressing a kiss to your jaw, “with those big, wide eyes.” Another kiss, this time to the curve of your cheekbone. “Clinging to me,” a kiss to your eyelid as it flutters shut. “Sighing.” The tip of your nose. “And I’d try to hold back, but—”

“You don’t have to,” you shake your head. It comes out quieter than you mean for it too. It’s ridiculous, maybe, but even now, you feel shy. 

“You mean that?” he asks, lips hovering so close you can feel their warmth. 

You nod, nose brushing against his. 

Jungwon sighs, takes a deep breath. And then he presses forward, just enough, until his lips finally brush against yours. 

His grip tightens against you, fingers bunching the fabric of your shirt that rests against the small of your back. 

He’s gentle, so impossibly sweet as his lips find yours. Upper lip slotting between both of yours, he tugs slightly against your bottom lip. Releases it with a soft, wet sound. Smiles against you as you giggle into him. 

When his lips find yours again, it’s with renowned fervency. The pressure is more insistent this time, more demanding as he uses the hand beneath your jaw to angle you his liking. 

Jungwon takes the lead, pausing, soothing his touch against your skin while you adjust to his pace. 

Your hands find his hair, tangling in the strands near his neck. You tug, an involuntary response when you feel his teeth against your bottom lip, and he groans, shuddering against you. 

Without breaking connection, he moves, walking backwards, leading blindly, until he sits down on the same couch you’ve been sharing moments on for weeks now. This time, he tugs you down with him, pulling you flush against his lap. 

You feel it then, the evidence of just how affected he is. As if the drunk flush on his cheeks and swollen, red tint of his lips weren’t enough. 

Jungwon wraps both hands around your waist now, pulling you tighter to him as your fingers cup his jaw, tracing, gripping. 

You feel it then, his tongue against the seam of your lips, and you part them without a second thought. 

Jungwon waits until you’re breathless above him to decide that he’s had enough of this position. Using the leverage of his hands around you, he maneuvers your body until you're flat against the cushions, head propped against the pillow that sits by the armrest. 

Hovering over you now, he uses his hands to brace himself on either side of your head. Eyes trained on your features, on the evidence of his ministrations. His gaze gets darker, heavier, as he takes in the sight of you beneath him. Skin flushed, lips swollen and parted in anticipation, in permission. 

Jungwon’s had his fantasies. Has kept them close to his chest and in the back of his mind for longer than he’d be willing to admit. But the sight of you now. Under him, reaching for him, begging for him, is enough to shatter every wet dream he’s had since he was a teenager. 

Jungwon doesn’t maintain distance for long. Leaning down, he invades all of your senses. All you can see, even with your eyes screwed shut, is him. All you can feel is his lips, warm and insistent against your, the press of his hands on you, hovering just above the sliver of skin where your shirt had ridden up over your waistband. Every sound, every scent, every taste—it’s all him. Something warm and familiar and entirely new all at once. 

His hand plays with the fabric of your hem for a moment, testing the waters. When all you do is kiss him back—harder—he decides to press his luck. Fingertips dancing against the bare skin of your lower stomach, he starts to drag your shirt upwards. 

The air of his apartment is cool, even if his touch is anything but. It makes every inch of exposed skin that much more sensitive, goosebumps rising as his fingertips trace patterns against you. 

His lips press against yours, a new angle, as a sound loosens itself from your chest. He swallows it, tongue pressing against you like he wants to savor it, like he’d do anything to hear it again. 

He has your shirt nearly to your ribcage now, fingers tracing against the bottom seam of your bra, nerves singing with something new as you arch up against him. You need more. 

Friction, pressure, touch, it doesn’t matter. You’ll take whatever he gives you. 

Then, suddenly, you remember. Pulling back slightly, his lips chase yours. 

“Wait,” you pant, the syllable muffled as he presses another kiss against you. 

Once your request registers, he stops, mouth still brushing against yours. Leaning back slightly, he frowns. His chest still heaves when he asks, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, breathless. “But what about Jake?”

“What?” Jungwon asks above you. You don’t seem to be the only one struggling with coherent thought.

“Jake,” you repeat. “What if he comes in?”

He wouldn’t see anything, not really. Even the expanse of your bare torso is covered by Jungwon’s body on yours. But still, something in you hesitates. This, all of it, is for you and him. No one else. 

Jungwon shakes his head. “He’s not home.”

“What if he comes back?”

“He won’t,” Jungwon insists. “He’s visiting his family for the weekend. He won’t be back until Monday.”

Still breathing hard, it’s as if your interruption knocked sense back into him. Palm still splayed against your ribs, he rubs gentle strokes with the pad of his thumb. 

Looking down at you, his eyes crinkle slightly at the way you look so sweet under him, so shy despite what you’d been doing only moments earlier. 

“Hey,” he leans down, nudging his nose against yours, “You doing okay?”

You nod, but you still don’t match his gaze. 

“Yeah?” he confirms, “Then look at me.”

It takes a moment, but you do. Your cheeks only redden further, flush more apparent than he’s ever seen it before when you finally meet his eye. 

Something in his chest swells. You might be a year older, but fuck if it doesn’t make him feel like such a man knowing that he’s the reason you look like this, that he’s the one who did this to you. 

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers, grinning when you look away again. He presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. A chaste peck against the seam of your lips. “My beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Jungwon,” you whine. 

“What?” he asks. “It’s true.”

“I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

“I can take a break to compliment you?”

You flush again, hands coming up to cover your face. 

“Ah, ah,” Jungwon tsks, fingers wrapping around your wrists. “I asked you to look at me.” He pulls, gentle but insistent, until your hands fall away. Until he can once again look you in the eye. 

“How long are you just gonna stare at me?” you ask.

“As long as you’ll let me,” he grins. 

“Jungwon,” you whine again. 

“Why?” he asks, practically cooing at you now. “Is my baby shy?”

You shudder at the pet name, and it awakens something devious in him. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “I see. You’re getting impatient. Need me to touch you. Is that it?”

All you do is whine, but it’s a good enough answer for him. 

“C’mon,” he urges, leaning back. “Up.” 

You frown at the sudden distance, a furrow creasing your brow. 

“The first time we have sex is not going to be on my living room couch,” he explains. Taking your hand in his, he guides you instead towards his bedroom. 

And it’s not like you’ve never been here before, but something about the low light, the weight of what you’re about to do, makes it feel like uncharted territory. 

You step into the room, even further than Jungwon, eyes trained on the queen size bed pressed up under the window on the far side of the room. 

Your back to him, you hear Jungwon pull the door shut. It latches into place with a quiet click. And then, behind you, he asks, “What are you thinking about?”

“You,” you admit, turning to face him as you sit on the edge of his bed. “Us. I never thought…” you trail off, palm smoothing against the top of his sheets. “I never thought we’d be here.”

“I did,” Jungwon tells you. 

“Really?” Your eyes widen when you look at him. 

“Maybe thought is the wrong word,” he amends. “But I hoped.” He’s quiet for a moment, emotions playing out across his features. “Now that you’re here, I…” he hesitates, trying to find the words. “I don’t want to do anything wrong,” he admits. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t.” You shake your head. “I told you. I trust you. That includes this, too.”

Jungwon looks at you, gaze open. “You mean that?”

“Of course,” you nod. 

Some of the tension drains from his broad shoulders, but he stays where he is, silhouette shrouded in the dim light of his bedroom.

This time, it’s you who takes charge. 

“Jungwon,” you whisper, an echo of your earlier embrace in his entry way. “Come here.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His footsteps are even, steady, as he makes his way towards you. All the way until he stands just before you, looking down at where you sit on his sheets. 

His hand comes to your cheek, thumb tracing patterns against your skin as you lean into his touch. 

“Up,” he instructs. “Back against the pillows.” His hand falls from your face, trails down until his fingers interlace with yours. He follows in your wake as you move according to his instructions, all the way until you’re in a ghost of the position from his couch. 

His body hovers over yours, breath warm as it fans against your cheekbone. 

Again, his fingers find the hem of your shirt. This time, he’s less shy about pressing it upwards, all the way until it sits against the band of your bra. 

Plain, black, built more for comfort than arousal. But you know Jungwon. He’ll take you as you are. 

“Jungwon,” you breathe, just as his fingertip slips beneath the band. It takes him a moment to tear his eyes away, to look up and meet your gaze. “Kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Lips meeting yours, the slow build from before is gone. He knows what he’s searching for now, has already learned what rhythm makes you breathless fastest, palms splaying against his chest like you’d do anything to be closer. 

His hand comes to your hip, then slides to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You shudder as he guides it open, pliant to his touch. Jungwon uses the newly created space to slot his leg in between yours. 

The shift has him brushing against you where tension is beginning to gather, exactly where you’re beginning to ache. 

It feels good, but there’s something frustrating about it. The way sensation builds and falls in the same maddening ebb and flow, like the sea of an uncharacteristically quiet day. 

You already know it’s not enough. Against his lips, you whine. A pathetic little sound that stays half trapped in your throat. But Jungwon understands. 

Sees the way your hips are starting to roll against him, the way your brow creases in concentration as you try to find a better angle. 

Leg still between yours, he lets his fingertips ghost over the planes of your bare stomach, dragging downwards until he’s exactly where you want him. 

You whine against his lips and he shudders. “Is this what you need?” 

You can hardly respond, can hardly think as his fingers dip below your waistband. Far more precise, it doesn’t take long to have you seeing stars. 

He’s still kissing you, and you do your best to return it, but the sensations he levels you with are more than a little maddening. Lips parted against his, your mouth is practically slack as he works against you. 

“Feels—good,” you sigh, eyes screwing shut. 

“I can tell,” he whispers, some kind of awe in his voice. “Look at you.”

You’re so close. Jungwon can tell, too. He’s frantic now, movements tighter, faster as he watches the way your face twists in pleasure. 

Your hand closes around his wrist, stopping him. “Jungwon,” you pant, the sound of his name hardly coherent. “Wait.”

Immediately, his hand stills. He doesn’t pull away though, just leaves it there, against you. 

The sensation sends a fresh, aching throb pulsing from somewhere deep within you. Jungwon feels it too, against his fingertips, and groans. 

Remembering himself, he asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “I just… I’m ready.”

Jungwon thinks he knows what you mean. He’s imagined those same words from you before. A million times, in a million different contexts. But the sight of you beneath him, eyes wide, lips parted, so terribly sweet, is so much better than he ever dreamed. 

“I want you,” you whisper, tugging at his wrist. “Please.”

Jungwon won’t make you wait. Fingers still hidden beneath your waistband, he slides them towards the top now, pulling, all the way until you’re bare beneath him. 

He presses a kiss against your hip, just shy of where he was moments before.

He helps you slide your shirt over your head and shudders when your bra follows in its wake. He marvels at the feeling of your hands, smaller than his, tugging at his shirt, his jeans, until the two of you are in an equal state of undress. 

Again, because it’s true and because he can’t help himself, he whispers, “You’re beautiful.”

You’re still shy, even more so with the weight of his gaze on you, but you manage, “So are you.” It’s his turn to flush.

Hands pressing against your shoulders, he guides you to lay down again. Hair fanning out against his pillows, he thinks you look a bit like an angel here, tangled in his sheets. 

He’d tell you, if he weren’t so distracted by the sudden feeling of your leg coming to wrap around his waist. 

Skin against skin, it feels even closer than before. Warmer, Softer. 

“Jungwon,” your brows pull downward, eyes fluttering shut as you chase the sensations that have begun to drown you. “Please.”

He moves slowly, not from hesitation. Jungwon doesn’t think he’s ever been so sure of anything in his life. But he knows what this means to you, to him. He wants to take his time, wants to let every part of you adjust to him until you feel like an extension of one another, until your bodies can’t quite tell where one ends and the other begins. 

He swallows your gasp as he presses into you. Brows furrowed, lips parted, he drops his head into the crook of your neck, scattering soothing kisses down the length of your throat. 

“Feels so good,” he encourages as you whimper, adjusting. “Perfect, like you were made for me.” 

The sentiment rings true, now and later, when he feels you relax around him, when he starts to move. 

Slowly, reverently, at a pace that lets him press as deep as possible. 

He brings his hand from your hip to the space just beneath your navel, palm splaying over your lower stomach, just above where he presses inside of you. Pushing down slightly, the added pressure makes you whine, tightening around him. 

Jungwon groans, a long, deep sound that vibrates between your bodies. 

“Jungwon,” you whisper, when the ache starts to sing, when the pressure starts to build. When you close your eyes and see stars behind them. 

“I know,” he pants, like he feels it too. “It’s okay,” he assures. “I have you.”

It’s a reminder of what brought you here in the first place. And the sound of his voice is all you need. 

Keening high in your throat, every muscle, every nerve, every fiber in your body goes taut. Tightens, pulls, before it releases. Jungwon leans down, lips parted against your collarbone as he groans, falling over the same edge only moments after you. 

The shower he runs for you is warm, the touch he washes your hair with soothing as he rinses soap from your scalp. 

The sheets are soft as you crawl between them, Jungwon’s chest firm as he pulls you tight against him. 

“Sleep,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss against your temple. 

Body exhausted, mind sated, it doesn’t take long for you to do as he says. In his arms, the rest that finds you is deep and dreamless. 

…..

“Name?” Across from you, the secretary that sits at the front desk looks bored out of her mind. As if she’s seen one too many potential new hires and doesn’t think they’re worth remembering at this point. 

You give her your name, and she types a brief note into her computer. Doesn’t bother memorizing it, but you won’t let that get to you, not today. 

“You can sit over there.” She gestures towards the row of chairs against the far wall of the reception area. With a smile so tight you think her jaw must hurt, she adds, “I’ll call you when they’re ready.”

It’s not much. It’s barely even polite, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. Not when this is the first real company you’ve stepped foot in in months. When this is the first time you’ve gotten a string of congratulations in the subject line of your email inbox instead of rejections.  

Still, it isn’t a sure thing. A test run, the hiring manager had called it. A week of in-person work at the company to see if you’ll be a good fit, if they’re willing to formally offer you a position. 

An extension of the already lengthy interview process you’ve been subjected to for the last six weeks. But it’s far more than you’ve gotten from anywhere else. 

It’s enough to have hope soaring in your chest, even at the prospect of a week of what is essentially unpaid labor.

Sliding down into the chair, you tug at the sleeve of your blazer, smooth the collar over one final time. 

In your mind, you rehearse the answers you gave during your interviews. You’re not sure if you’ll be asked again, but you figure it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

You’re interested in the position, because the company’s mission statement excites you. You think it aligns well with your experience and your hopes for a future career. 

Are you good with deadlines? Better than nearly everyone you know. Do you work well under pressure? Absolutely. Where do you see yourself in five years? Advancing in your career as a young professional in the same field you earned your degree in. The same field a position at this company would put you in. 

As the minutes pass, you remind yourself to breathe, to relax. The butterflies taking flight in your stomach won’t help you now, so you do your best to banish them. 

And, minutes later, just as the secretary calls your name, you feel your phone buzz. 

Glancing down, you grin at the message that comes through. 

You got this, Jungwon says, the small heart next to his contact name shining like a reminder. Knock em dead

And then, beneath it, 

Can’t wait to see you tonight beautiful 

So, you stand up a little straighter. Shoulders square, chin high. You’re okay, even as your nerves threaten to send your heart beating out of your chest. 

No matter what the results of this so-called trial run are, or every single attempt you’ll surely make after it, you’ll be fine. And if you fail, you’ll try again. 

Whether this ends in an official offer letter or a bold-faced rejection, no matter what, you have Jungwon—rooting for you, thinking of you, waiting for you to come back and tell him all about it. 

Jungwon, your best friend, your favorite person, and probably, if the feelings you’re starting to get whenever he’s near are anything to go by, the love of your life. 

You meet the secretary’s gaze, smiling even as all she does is arch a brow. And then you tell her, “I’m ready.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

[heesvnqie]

Ruin You-sunghoon

pairing: fem!reader x park!sunghoon genre: enemies to lovers, angst, smut warnings: 18+ only, angst, fight, smut,cussing, biting/marking, fingering, begging, size kink, dom!jsunghoon x sub!reader, unprotected sex, possessive behavior, marking, power imbalance word count: 19.7k author's note: this idea purely came out of my late night overthinking sessions...got high hopes for this ff. It's been a while since I wrote Sunghoon so i def missed him lmao. tell me how it came out in the comments! :3

The rain in Seoul that September felt different from back home. It was sharper, colder, the kind that seeped through your coat and settled into your bones. You stood at the main gate of Seoul National University with your suitcase handle gripped tightly in one hand and a soggy orientation map in the other.

Mid-year transfer. Engineering department. Second year. It sounded simple on paper, but the reality of stepping into a campus where everyone already belonged somewhere made your stomach twist. You had chosen SNU for its reputation. Top engineering program in the country. Better scholarship opportunities. A chance to finally push yourself after a year of feeling stuck at your old university.

Your dorm room was on the sixth floor of Building 3. It was a cramped double that smelled faintly of instant ramen and old textbooks. Your roommate, Mina, was a third-year business major with bright pink highlights and a habit of talking nonstop when she was nervous.

The moment you pushed the door open, dragging your suitcase behind you, Mina jumped up from her bed, nearly knocking over a stack of notebooks.

“Oh my god, you’re finally here!” she exclaimed, rushing over with a bright smile. “I was starting to think the rain swallowed you. Here, let me help with that—”

She grabbed one end of your suitcase before you could even respond, wrestling it toward the empty side of the room with surprising determination. You couldn’t help but smile at her energy.

“Thanks,” you said, shaking rain from your hair. “I’m Y/N. And yeah, the rain almost won that round.”

"I’m Mina. Business major, third year, professional stress-eater. I talk a lot when I’m excited, fair warning. Your bed’s the one by the window." Mina laughed, already launching into a whirlwind of words as she cleared space on your desk. "I thought you might like the view even if it’s mostly other dorm buildings. The Wi-Fi password is on that sticky note, and if the hot water sucks in the mornings, just kick the pipe under the sink twice. Trust me, it works."

You dropped your bag on the bed and started unpacking, matching her pace easily. Within minutes you were both chatting like you’d known each other for months. You cracked a joke about surviving on cafeteria food and energy drinks, and Mina fired back with stories about the worst dorm meals she’d had last year. The conversation flowed naturally loud, easy, bouncing between campus tips and random life stories. She matched your energy without missing a beat.

By the time your clothes were hanging in the small closet and your textbooks were stacked on the desk, the room already felt less like a stranger’s space and more like the start of something manageable.

That first night, after ordering late takeout, the two of you sat cross-legged on the floor surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. Mina popped open a can of soda and leaned back against her bed.

“So, engineering… you’re either really smart or a masochist,” she teased. “Which one is it?”

“Both, probably,” you shot back with a smirk, stealing a piece of tteokbokki from her container. “I like the challenge. Plus, I’m not about to let a bunch of circuit diagrams scare me off.”

Mina raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Bold. I like it. You’re gonna need that energy in that department.” She paused, chewing thoughtfully before continuing in a lower voice. “Speaking of… just watch yourself around some of the third-years, okay? Especially in mechanical engineering.”

You tilted your head, curiosity piqued. “Why? Spill.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “There’s this guy. Park Sunghoon. He’s… the danger final boss. Crazy smart, like scary good grades, but he’s got this reputation that clears hallways. People say he’s the reason a couple of students transferred out last semester. He doesn’t start fights for no reason, but when he does…” She made a face. “It gets ugly. And the girls who get involved with him? Most end up regretting it. He’s the type who gets what he wants and then acts like you never existed.”

You shrugged, popping another rice cake into your mouth. “Sounds like every campus has one of those. I’m not planning on getting anywhere near him.

Mina nodded, but her expression stayed serious for a moment longer before she switched back to lighter topics like complaining about her group project partners and asking about your old university. The conversation carried on late into the night, easy laughter filling the small room.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The next two weeks passed in a blur of adjustment. You threw yourself into the chaos of mid-year transfer life with the same forward energy that had always carried you through new situations.

You introduced yourself in every class, asked questions without hesitation when you didn’t understand something, and even managed to charm a few group members into actually including you in discussions.

Some days were exhausting. The engineering workload was heavier than your previous school, and the competition was intense. But you refused to shrink back.

Between lectures, you explored the campus and accidentally found the best coffee spot near the library, joined a casual study group that met in the quad, and dragged Mina to a late-night convenience store run when neither of you could sleep.

You heard Sunghoon’s name a few more times in passing.

In the cafeteria line, two girls whispered about how he had shoved a guy against the wall outside the gym for “looking at him funny.”

In your fluid mechanics class, a guy joked nervously that he’d rather fail the course than ask Sunghoon for notes, even though they were supposedly perfect.

Each story painted the same picture of him being cold, untouchable, and dangerous.

But you still hadn’t seen him. Not really.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The first time you properly laid eyes on Park Sunghoon was on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

You were hurrying across the central quad, umbrella battling the wind, backpack strap digging into your shoulder. Your 2 PM circuit theory lecture was starting in ten minutes on the opposite side of campus, and the rain was relentless. Most students had already ducked indoors.

A small crowd had gathered near the old stone fountain. You slowed down without meaning to, curiosity winning for a second.

In the middle of it all stood a tall figure in a soaked black hoodie. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, water running down the sharp line of his jaw. Even from a distance, his presence cut through the rain like a blade. Two guys lingered behind him, smirking. At his feet, another student was curled on the wet ground, clutching his nose as blood mixed with rainwater.

“You think that was funny?” Sunghoon’s voice carried across the downpour. It was low, calm, almost bored. No yelling but it had a icy certainty.

The boy on the ground mumbled something incoherent. Sunghoon’s foot connected with his ribs in a sharp, deliberate kick. Several people in the crowd flinched. You stopped completely under your umbrella, heart picking up speed.

His face was striking in a way that felt unfair. Pale skin, perfect bone structure, dark eyes completely detached from the violence he’d just caused. He looked like he could’ve been modeling instead of standing in the rain hurting someone. He wiped his knuckles on his sleeve, said something quiet to his friends, and then turned and walked away without another glance. The crowd scattered fast.

You stood there a moment longer than you should have, watching his tall figure disappear toward the engineering buildings. He never looked your way. Not once.

That night, the image stuck with you while you tried to focus on homework.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

Two weeks later, midterms loomed like a storm cloud.

You had claimed the quiet 24-hour study lounge on the third floor of the main engineering library as your new favorite hiding spot. It was almost always empty after midnight. The library had dim warm lighting, big windows overlooking the campus, long wooden tables perfect for spreading out notes and diagrams.

You arrived that night around 11:30 PM with your usual supplies. Your laptop, thick textbooks, highlighters, and a massive iced coffee. Caffeine ought to keep you awake the entire night. You settled into your favorite corner desk near the window, earphones in, and lost yourself in Kirchhoff’s laws and circuit analysis. The rain tapped steadily against the glass, creating a soothing rhythm.

At 1:17 AM the door opened. You didn’t look up right away. Heavy footsteps crossed the room. A bag dropped onto a table with a thud. Chair scraping. The faint scent of rain and cigarette smoke drifted through the air.

When you finally glanced up, your stomach tightened.

Park Sunghoon had taken the table directly across from yours.

He sat with long legs stretched out, one ankle crossed over the other, black hoodie sleeves pushed up to show fresh bruises across his knuckles. His hair was still slightly damp. Earbuds in, he scrolled on his phone for a moment before opening his laptop and diving into what looked like complex engineering software.

He didn’t look at you.

To him, you were just another student in the library. Background noise.

Your pulse quickened. Every rumor, every warning, every distant glimpse flashed through your mind. You considered packing up. There were other floors, other corners. But you stayed. You had claimed this spot first. You weren’t going to let the mere presence of some notorious third-year chase you out.

So you forced your eyes back to your notes.

For the next several hours, the lounge remained almost silent except for the occasional page turn, keyboard clicks, and the rain outside. Sunghoon worked without pause, focused, efficient, intimidating even when doing nothing. At one point he stood up to get a drink from the vending machine, moving with that same effortless, predatory grace you’d seen in the quad. When he returned, he dropped back into his seat and continued like you weren’t even there.

You stole careful glances when you were sure his attention was elsewhere. Up close he was even more striking and more unsettling. The sharp jawline, the way his fingers moved across the keyboard, the complete lack of warmth in his expression.

At 3:42 AM he finally closed his laptop, stretched once with a quiet sigh, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left without a word. He never looked in your direction.

You exhaled slowly once the door clicked shut behind him, tension draining from your shoulders.

He still didn’t know who you were.

And for now, that felt like the only protection you had.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The days after that late-night library encounter blurred together in a mix of caffeine, lecture halls, and the constant hum of midterms approaching. You refused to let one silent night with Park Sunghoon rattle you. If anything, it lit a stubborn spark in your chest. The same one that had pushed you to transfer to SNU in the first place. You weren’t going to hide in your dorm or switch study spots like some scared freshman.

This campus was big enough for both of you.

Mina noticed your extra energy immediately.

“You look like you chugged three espressos,” she said one morning, watching you bounce around the room while throwing together your bag. You were already dressed in a cropped hoodie and jeans, hair tied up messily but purposefully. “Or did something happen? Spill.”

You grinned, slinging your backpack over one shoulder. “Nothing major. Just decided I’m not letting this place intimidate me. Want to grab breakfast at that new café near the arts building before my first class? My treat if you’re quick.”

Mina’s eyes lit up. “You’re dangerous when you’re motivated, you know that?” She grabbed her own bag and followed you out the door, the two of you chatting loudly down the hallway, teasing each other about who would finish their assignments first this week. Your laughter echoed off the walls, turning a few heads. You didn’t mind. It felt good to move through the day with confidence instead of shrinking back.

The café was packed, but you managed to charm your way into a corner table by joking with the barista about the ridiculous engineering workload. Mina shook her head in amusement as you carried the tray back. “You make friends everywhere, don’t you?”

“Keeps things interesting,” you replied with a wink, sliding into the seat. Over coffee and pastries, the conversation flowed easily again. Topics were never constant. It bounced from complaints about professors, gossip about upcoming campus festivals, and Mina’s dramatic retelling of her latest failed situationship. You gave her just as much energy back, sharing funny stories from your old university and declaring that this semester was going to be different. Better.

But even as you laughed and planned weekend study sessions, Sunghoon’s detached face from the quad and the library lingered somewhere in the back of your mind.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The following week brought your first real group project meeting for a major circuits course. You arrived at the assigned study room early, claiming the best spot near the whiteboard and immediately starting to organize the materials. When the other three members trickled in, two guys and one girl, you greeted them with bright smiles and easy questions about their weekends, quickly breaking the initial awkwardness.

By the end of the two-hour session, you had volunteered to handle the most complicated simulation part, cracked a few jokes that had everyone relaxing, and even convinced the quietest member to speak up more. As you packed up, one of the guys, Jaehyun, lingered.

“You’re pretty fearless for a transfer student,” he said, half-impressed, half-teasing. “Most people stay quiet in these groups.”

You shrugged, zipping your bag. “Quiet doesn’t get the project done. Plus, I actually like this stuff. See you next session?”

He nodded, smiling a little wider than necessary. “Yeah. Definitely.”

You waved goodbye and headed out, feeling the familiar rush of satisfaction that came from pushing through new situations. Still, as you walked across campus, you couldn’t help but scan the pathways out of habit. No sign of the tall figure with the sharp gaze. Good.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

Thursday evening found you back in the same 24-hour study lounge. This time you arrived earlier, around 10 PM, determined to get a solid head start on problem sets. You wore a comfortable oversized sweater and leggings, hair loose after a long day. The rainy season had eased into a light drizzle, tapping softly against the windows.

The lounge was emptier than usual. You spread out your notes, plugged in your earphones, and lost yourself in the work, occasionally humming under your breath when a concept finally clicked.

At 11:45 PM the door opened again.

You glanced up casually then froze for half a second.

Park Sunghoon walked in, but he looked different tonight. Instead of the usual dark hoodie, he wore a fitted black crewneck sweater that showed the lean muscle of his shoulders, paired with dark grey sweatpants and slightly scuffed sneakers. His hair was dry this time, falling neatly across his forehead, though a faint bruise still colored the side of his left hand. He carried a large coffee and his laptop bag, moving with that same quiet, commanding presence.

He didn’t acknowledge anyone else in the room. His eyes swept over the space once before he chose a table two rows away from yours, still close enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne mixed with fresh rain when he passed.

Your heart picked up its pace, but you forced yourself to look back down at your notes. He still doesn’t know who I am, you reminded yourself. Act normal.

For a long stretch, the lounge stayed quiet. You focused hard on your work, solving one problem after another, occasionally tapping your pen against the desk when you thought through a tricky equation. At one point you caught yourself muttering a soft “Yes!” when a simulation finally ran correctly. You winced internally, hoping he hadn’t heard.

He had his earbuds in again, completely absorbed in whatever was on his screen. From the occasional glances you dared to steal, it looked like advanced thermodynamics notes mixed with lines of code. His long fingers moved across the keyboard with precision, jaw set in concentration. There was something almost hypnotic about watching him work , the way his sharp features softened just slightly when he was focused, the subtle furrow between his brows.

He got up once around 1:20 AM to refill his coffee at the machine near the entrance. As he walked back, his path brought him closer to your table than necessary. For a brief moment, his eyes flicked in your direction, not really seeing you, more like registering that someone else was still here this late. His expression remained blank, indifferent. He returned to his seat without a word.

You let out a slow breath.

The hours stretched on. Around 2:30 AM, you stood up to stretch your legs and grab a snack from your bag. As you moved, your pen rolled off the table and clattered loudly onto the floor, stopping near Sunghoon’s table.

You froze.

Before you could decide what to do, he glanced over. His dark eyes landed on the pen, then lifted slowly to your face. For the first time, he actually looked at you. Really looked. It lasted only a couple of seconds. No recognition. No spark of interest. Just mild annoyance at the interruption, maybe.

You walked over quickly, keeping your steps confident. “Sorry about that,” you said lightly, bending to pick up the pen. Your voice came out steady, even a little casual. “Late-night brain fog.”

Sunghoon didn’t reply. He simply watched you for another beat, then turned his attention back to his laptop as if you had already ceased to exist. No smirk, no cutting remark. It was just cold dismissal.

You returned to your seat, cheeks slightly warm but refusing to show it. Inside, your mind raced. That was the closest you had ever been to him. Close enough to notice the small scar near his eyebrow and the way his shoulders tensed slightly when he was irritated.

The rest of the night passed in tense silence. He left first this time, around 4:10 AM, packing up without looking back. You stayed another thirty minutes, finishing your last set of problems before finally heading back to the dorm, mind buzzing with a confusing mix of adrenaline and unease.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The weekend brought a much-needed break. You dragged Mina to a small off-campus market on Saturday afternoon, the two of you linking arms and weaving through stalls, trying street food and bargaining for cute keychains. Your laughter rang out often as you teased her about her terrible sense of direction and posed dramatically for silly photos.

“See? This is why we’re perfect roommates,” Mina declared, biting into a hot fish cake. “You make everything fun.”

You bumped her shoulder playfully. “Someone has to keep the vibe alive around here.”

Even as you enjoyed the normalcy, your thoughts drifted back to the study lounge. To the way Sunghoon had finally looked at you even if only for a moment and seen nothing of importance.

Little did you know that the fragile distance you had been clinging to was about to shrink, slowly but inevitably.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The next few days felt like walking a tightrope you pretended wasn’t there. You kept your usual rhythm. Loud laughs in the hallways, quick-witted comments during lectures, and dragging Mina into spontaneous plans but something had shifted under the surface.

That brief moment in the study lounge when Sunghoon’s eyes had actually landed on you kept replaying in your head at the worst times. Not because he had been cruel. But because he had been so… indifferent. Like you were background noise in his perfectly controlled world.

You hated how much it stuck with you.

Friday afternoon brought your circuits lab. The room buzzed with the usual chaos of soldering irons, muttered curses, and the smell of hot metal. You arrived early as always, claiming a workstation near the front and immediately starting to organize the equipment. When your lab partner, a quiet guy named Minjun, showed up looking stressed, you flashed him a bright grin.

“Hey, no dying on me today,” you teased, handing him a pair of safety goggles. “We’re finishing this circuit without any sparks flying except the good kind. You take the voltage measurements, I’ll handle the wiring. Teamwork makes the dream work, right?”

Minjun relaxed a little, chuckling. “You’re way too energetic for a Friday lab. How do you do it?”

“Pure survival instinct,” you replied, already clipping wires with focused movements. Throughout the session you kept the energy up by cracking jokes when something went wrong, hyping Minjun up when the readings finally matched the simulation, and even helping the pair next to you when they got stuck. By the end of the three hours, your station was the loudest and most productive one in the room. The TA even complimented your setup.

As you packed up, Minjun lingered. “You’re pretty cool for a transfer student. A bunch of us are grabbing drinks at the campus bar tonight. Wanna come?”

You thought about it for half a second before nodding. “Yeah, why not? Text me the details.”

Mina was thrilled when you told her later.

“Finally! You’ve been all study-mode lately,” she said, raiding your closet for something to wear. She held up a black top. “This would look killer on you. Show off that ‘I’m a badass engineering girl’ energy.”

You laughed and snatched it from her. “Only if you promise not to ditch me for some business major guy.”

“Deal.”

The bar was crowded and noisy, filled with students blowing off steam before midterms really hit. You arrived with Mina, already in high spirits, ordering drinks and pulling her onto the small dance floor area when your favorite song came on. You moved confidently, laughing when Mina tried (and failed) to match your rhythm, shouting lyrics together and drawing a small group of people into your orbit.

For a couple of hours, you let yourself forget about quiet study lounges and sharp-eyed third-years. You were just Y/N . The loud, bold, enjoying the night Y/N.

But around 11:30 PM, the atmosphere shifted.

You were at the bar grabbing another round when you felt it that heavy, unmistakable presence. You turned your head slightly and there he was.

Park Sunghoon.

He stood near the back wall with two of his usual friends, leaning casually against the dark paneling. Tonight he wore a black leather jacket over a plain white tee, the jacket slightly worn at the cuffs, paired with dark jeans. His hair was styled a little messier than in the library, falling across his forehead in a way that somehow made his sharp features look even more god-like under the low bar lights. A faint bruise still lingered on his knuckles, but he looked relaxed or as relaxed as someone like him ever seemed.

He wasn’t looking at you. As usual.

His group was talking among themselves, and Sunghoon’s expression remained detached, almost bored, as he scanned the room once. His gaze passed over you without pausing. You quickly turned back to the bartender, heart hammering harder than you wanted to admit.

Mina appeared beside you, eyes wide. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, forcing a casual smile. “Don’t stare.”

But you couldn’t help stealing another glance as you waited for your drinks. Someone approached Sunghoon’s group. It was a girl, pretty and clearly tipsy. She smiled up at him, touching his arm lightly. Sunghoon looked down at her, said something short, and the girl’s smile faltered. His friends laughed. The girl retreated a moment later, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Cold. Efficient. Cruel in the most casual way.

You grabbed the drinks and dragged Mina back to your group, throwing yourself into the conversation with even more energy than before. Laughing louder. Dancing harder. Pretending the knot in your stomach wasn’t there.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The week after the bar night passed in a whirlwind of midterms and barely enough sleep. You powered through it the only way you knew how — with loud determination and zero room for overthinking. Between back-to-back exams and late-night cramming sessions in the library where Sunghoon had become a silent shadow, you felt the need for something outside of engineering textbooks and quiet tension-filled nights.

Mina noticed it first, as usual.

“You’ve been glued to problem sets for days,” she said one afternoon while you were both sprawled on your dorm room floor. “You need a break before you turn into a circuit diagram yourself. There’s a club fair happening tomorrow near the student center. Come with me?”

You rolled onto your stomach, propping your chin on your hands. “Clubs? I was thinking of something low-key.”

Mina grinned mischievously. “Low-key is boring. You? You thrive on chaos. Let’s go check out the Debate Club. I heard they’re doing trial debates this semester. It’ll be fun, arguing with people on purpose instead of just in group projects.”

You laughed, the idea sparking immediate interest. “Debate? Bold. I’m in. But if I get too competitive and embarrass you, that’s on you.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” she shot back, already pulling you up to pick outfits for the fair.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The club fair was lively, filled with colorful booths, music, and upperclassmen enthusiastically pitching their groups. You moved through the crowds with your usual energy, stopping at a few booths. The photography club caught your eye for a moment, and the dance team made you pause longer but Mina kept steering you toward the far end.

The Debate Club table was surprisingly packed. A tall banner with “SNU Debate Society” hung behind it, and several members were engaged in animated discussions. You scanned the area casually, grabbing a pamphlet.

Then your stomach dropped.

Standing near the back of the booth, arms crossed as he listened to someone speak, was Park Sunghoon.

He looked different in daylight, wearing a clean black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, revealing those familiar faint bruises, paired with dark trousers. His hair was neatly styled, falling across his forehead in that effortlessly sharp way. He wasn’t smiling, but he nodded occasionally, exuding that same quiet authority that made people instinctively give him space.

You quickly looked away, heart racing. “Mina… you didn’t mention he might be here.”

Mina followed your gaze and her eyes widened. “Wait...he’s in debate this year? I thought he only did it sporadically. Shit. We can leave if you want.”

You straightened your shoulders, forcing a confident smile. “No. We’re already here. I’m not running just because he exists. Let’s see what it’s about.”

The club advisor, Professor Kang, a sharp-tongued man in his forties known for his no-nonsense style stepped forward and clapped his hands. “Alright, new faces and returning members! We’re doing a quick trial debate today to gauge interest and team dynamics. Nothing too formal. We’ll split into two teams for a practice round on the topic ‘Is competition in academics more harmful than beneficial?’”

Mina leaned over and whispered excitedly, “This is perfect for you. You argue with professors in class all the time.”

Before you could respond, Professor Kang started dividing people. Names were called, and teams began forming. Mina, ever the chaos agent and clearly in a playful mood, suddenly shot her hand up when he asked for a volunteer to lead one side.

“She’ll do it!” Mina announced loudly, pointing straight at you with a grin. “Y/N’s great at this. She’s bold, quick on her feet, and she never backs down. Perfect opposition leader material.”

You shot her a wide-eyed look, half-amused, half-“I’m going to kill you later.” But you didn’t deny it. Instead, you raised your hand properly, stepping forward with a confident smirk. “Yeah, I’ll take it. Sounds fun.”

A few people clapped. Professor Kang nodded approvingly. “Great. Y/N leading the opposition. Now, for the proposition leader…”

His eyes scanned the group. Several members looked away, clearly not wanting the pressure. Then, from the back, a hand rose slowly.

Park Sunghoon stepped forward, the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, almost mocking smirk. His dark eyes swept over the group before landing directly on you for the first time with real focus.

“I’ll take it,” he said, voice low and smooth, carrying easily across the room.

Your world stopped.

The air felt suddenly thinner. That smirk was cold, confident, and laced with something dangerously unreadable and was aimed straight at you. For a split second, everything else faded. The chatter of the club, Mina’s surprised gasp beside you, the shuffling of papers. It was just you and Sunghoon, standing on opposite sides of an imaginary battlefield he hadn’t even known existed until thirty seconds ago.

He still didn’t know your name. Professor Kang had said it, but it clearly hadn’t registered as important. To him, you were just another bold new face who had volunteered for something most people avoided.

But the way he looked at you now, assessing, slightly amused, like he was already calculating how easily he could dismantle you, sent a shiver down your spine.

Professor Kang clapped again. “Excellent. Sunghoon as proposition leader. Teams, gather your members and prepare your opening statements. You have fifteen minutes.”

Mina grabbed your arm, whispering frantically, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think he’d actually join. Do you want to back out?”

You shook your head, adrenaline already surging through your veins. “No. We’re doing this.”

Professor Kang quickly shifted the venue from the crowded booth to the larger seminar hall nearby so the swelling crowd could fit. What was supposed to be a small, low-stakes trial debate exploded into something legendary within minutes.

Word spread like wildfire across campus. Students poured in from every faculty. Engineering majors, business students, even people from the arts faculty. The small seminar room overflowed. People stood in the hallways, craned their necks from doorways, and someone had pulled out a small portable stage at the front. Phones were recording. The entire college seemed to have gathered.

Professor Kang looked both surprised and delighted. “Very well. We’ll treat this as a full formal debate. Opening statements, then open rebuttals and cross-examination. Topic remains: ‘Is competition in academics more harmful than beneficial?’ Sunghoon starts.”

The room fell into a charged hush as Sunghoon stepped up to his podium. That faint smirk was already on his face, growing wider as he scanned the massive crowd.

“Competition in academics is not a driver of success. It is a silent destroyer,” he began. “It turns learning into a battlefield where students are ranked, compared, and discarded. We see the results every semester. Rising anxiety disorders, burnout, and students sacrificing their health and sanity for a 0.1 GPA difference. True education should foster collaboration and curiosity, not this brutal survival of the fittest. Competition doesn’t create excellence. It creates casualties.”

His words landed heavily. The audience murmured in agreement.

But you stepped forward, heart pounding but voice ringing out strong and full of conviction.

“Competition is the very engine of human progress,” you fired back. “Without it, we settle for average. Every major breakthrough in engineering, medicine, and technology came because someone refused to accept the current standard and competed to do better. Remove competition and you remove the fire that pushes us forward. Yes, it creates pressure but pressure creates diamonds. The solution isn’t to eliminate competition. It’s to build better support systems while keeping the drive that makes us exceptional.”

The crowd reacted with scattered applause and murmurs. Then the real battle began.

Sunghoon’s smirk grew wider as he stepped closer to the center of the stage during rebuttals. “Diamonds under pressure? Romantic, but naive. Most students aren’t diamonds. They’re glass. They crack. Studies from top universities show that hyper-competitive environments correlate directly with increased depression and dropout rates. You glorify a system that rewards the ruthless while ignoring the majority who suffer silently. That isn’t progress. That’s cruelty masked as motivation.”

You met him in the middle of the stage, voice rising with determined energy. “And you propose what exactly? Removing all competition so we can all hold hands and achieve mediocrity together? That’s not compassion, that’s complacency! History proves competition drives innovation. The countries and institutions that embrace healthy competition lead the world in patents, discoveries, and breakthroughs. Your argument protects weakness instead of building strength. We need competition to evolve, not coddling to stay stagnant!”

The tension skyrocketed. Both of you were now fully in the center, facing each other directly. The rest of the debaters had stepped back, letting the two of you dominate.

Sunghoon’s smirk was at its wides. Sharp, almost exhilarated as he fired back. “Healthy competition? There’s no such thing in this cutthroat environment. It becomes toxic the moment rankings and scholarships are on the line. Students aren’t evolving. They’re surviving. Your idealism ignores the human cost. We need reform, not more fuel on the fire!”

You raised your voice, frustration colliding as you shouted, “Then fix the support systems instead of blaming the drive to improve! We don’t lower the bar because some can’t reach it. We help them jump higher! Your argument is fear disguised as empathy. I’d rather struggle and grow than live in a world where no one even tries to be exceptional. Competition made this university great. It will keep pushing us forward whether you like it or not!”

Even Sunghoon’s friends, standing near the front, looked visibly shocked at the sheer determination and fire in your voice. Their usual smug expressions replaced with wide-eyed surprise as they exchanged glances.

The crowd, the professors, and the college was completely hooked. Phones started lowering as people got lost in the moment. Someone cheered loudly. Then another. Soon the entire hall was erupting. Students shouting encouragement, clapping, and forgetting they were supposed to be recording. The energy was pure and raw.

Sunghoon laughed once. It was low and dangerous but his smirk never faded as he leaned in slightly, voice loud and cutting. “Fighting to rise? At what cost? Sleep deprivation? Destroyed relationships? A generation of burnt-out high achievers? Your ‘rise higher’ philosophy is exactly why so many students break. Competition doesn’t build character. It reveals who was already broken by the system!”

You were practically toe-to-toe now, shouting back with everything you had. “As I said! Fix the support, not the standard! We don’t lower the bar because some can’t reach it. Your argument is defeatist and lazy.”

The hall exploded. Students were now fully cheering, some standing on chairs, completely absorbed. Phones were forgotten in hands as the raw clash between your fiery personality and Sunghoon’s cold, calculated precision captivated everyone.

Professor Kang finally stepped in, raising his hands with visible excitement. “Enough! That was one of the most intense debates this society has ever seen.”

The room erupted in thunderous applause.

Professor Kang continued, “Y/N. Excellent. You're passionate, unyielding defense of competition as a force for growth. Sunghoon. Amazing. you're compelling, ruthless highlighting of its human cost. We’ll announce official team decisions next week. Now scramble! It's late already!

As the crowd slowly began to disperse in a buzz of excited gossip, Sunghoon walked past you on the stage. His arm brushed yours deliberately. He leaned in just enough for you to hear.

“Not bad at all… Y/N.”

He pulled back with that same wide, dangerous smirk and disappeared into the sea of students.

You stood there, breathing hard, adrenaline still flooding your system.

The unfamiliarity and distance was officially gone.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The applause was still ringing in your ears as you stepped off the small stage, legs feeling slightly unsteady from the adrenaline crash. The seminar hall was buzzing with excited chatter. People replaying moments from the debate, whispering about how intense it had gotten, and already spreading clips on campus group chats.

Before you could even catch your breath, Mina came barreling through the crowd, eyes wide with a mix of amazement and disbelief.

“Oh my god, Y/N!” she practically screamed, grabbing both your arms. “That was insane! You were on fire up there! The way you went head-to-head with him… I swear the whole campus is going to be talking about this for weeks. You were amazing!”

You let out a breathless laugh, still riding the high. “Thanks… I guess? I didn’t plan on it turning into an all-out war.”

Mina pulled you into a quick hug, then pulled back with a more serious expression. “But seriously… that was Park Sunghoon. Like, the Park Sunghoon. I’m low-key worried now. He looked way too into it, and that smirk he had? He’s not the type to just let things go. What if he decides to pick on you because of this?”

She brushed it off quickly with a wave of her hand, trying to sound casual. “Never mind. It’s fine. You two don’t even run in the same circles anyway. You’ll probably never actually meet him outside of this one random debate. It was just a one-time thing.”

You nervously laughed, rubbing the back of your neck. The sound came out a little too forced. “Yeah… about that…”

Mina raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You hesitated for a second before admitting, “When I pull all-nighters in the library… he does come. To the same study lounge. Multiple times already.”

Mina’s eyes widened comically. “Wait… what?! You’ve been sharing late-night library sessions with Park Sunghoon and you didn’t tell me?!”

“It wasn’t like we talked or anything,” you said quickly, trying to downplay it. “He just… sits there. Works. Leaves. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

Mina stared at you like you had grown a second head. “Y/N. This is Park Sunghoon we’re talking about. The guy who ruins lives for fun. And now he knows your name and saw how fiery you can get? This is not ‘not worth mentioning’ territory!”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool even as your stomach twisted a little. “It’s fine. He still barely acknowledges I exist. It was just a debate. Nothing’s going to happen.”

But even as you said the words, you couldn’t shake the memory of that final smirk and the way he had leaned in to say your name.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The rest of the day passed in a blur of campus gossip. Everywhere you went. The cafeteria, the quad, even your afternoon lecture. People were talking about the debate. Some congratulated you. Others gave you wary looks, like they couldn’t believe you had gone toe-to-toe with Sunghoon and walked away intact.

By evening, you were exhausted. You told Mina you were going to the library again to catch up on missed work. She gave you a long, concerned look but eventually let you go with a warning to “be careful.”

The 24-hour study lounge was quieter than usual that night. You arrived around 11 PM, claiming your usual corner desk near the window. You spread out your notes and tried to focus, but your mind kept drifting back to the stage, to the way Sunghoon had looked at you while arguing.

At 12:47 AM the door opened.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The familiar faint scent of cologne reached you first. Heavy footsteps. The scrape of a chair.

When you finally glanced up, Sunghoon was there.

He wore a dark navy hoodie tonight, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he’d run his hand through it multiple times. A fresh bruise marked his right knuckles. He dropped his bag at a table two rows away, closer than usual and sat down without a word.

He didn’t look at you.

But the air felt heavier. Different.

You forced your eyes back to your notes, heart beating a little faster. For the next hour, the lounge stayed silent except for the occasional keyboard clicks and page turns. You caught yourself stealing glances. He was working intently, jaw set, but every so often his eyes would flick in your direction, brief but unreadable.

At 2:15 AM you stood up to stretch and get a drink from the vending machine. As you walked back, your path took you past his table. You kept your steps confident, refusing to shrink.

Just as you passed him, Sunghoon spoke without looking up from his laptop.

“You argue well.”

His voice was low, almost casual, but it stopped you in your tracks.

You turned slightly. “Thanks… I guess.”

He finally lifted his gaze. That smirk was back. Smaller this time, but still dangerous. “Don’t let it go to your head. I still think your opinion is idealistic bullshit.”

You couldn’t help the small, defiant smile that tugged at your lips. “And I still think yours is defeatist. Guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.”

For a moment, the two of you just looked at each other. There was no shouting. No crowd. Just quiet, charged tension in the empty lounge.

Sunghoon leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. “We’ll see.”

Then he went back to his work like nothing had happened.

You returned to your seat, pulse racing, a confusing mix of nerves and strange excitement settling in your chest.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The days following that day felt strangely quiet.

You didn’t see Sunghoon in the study lounge for an entire week. Then another. The late nights became peaceful again.

Just you, your notes, the soft hum of the air conditioning, and the distant sound of occasional rain against the windows. No heavy footsteps. No faint scent of cologne. No sharp, assessing gaze from across the room.

At first, you were tense every time the door opened. But as the days stretched into two full weeks without a single sighting, you slowly started to relax. The knot in your stomach loosened.

The constant low hum of anxiety faded. You even joked with Mina about it one night while the two of you were eating ramen in your dorm.

“See? I told you it was nothing,” you said, slurping noodles confidently. “One debate and he’s already bored of me. Back to normal life.”

Mina still looked a little worried but eventually laughed along. “Yeah, maybe. Just… stay out of his way anyway. That guy is trouble.”

You threw yourself back into your usual rhythm with renewed energy.

Loud laughter in group projects, dragging Mina to late-night convenience store runs, charming your way through tough labs, and even joining a few casual study sessions with Jaehyun, Minjun and his friends. The campus gossip about the debate slowly died down, replaced by study stress and upcoming festivals. Life felt manageable again.

Until that Friday evening.

It was just a weekend before midterms, and the campus was buzzing with last-minute panic. You were walking through the quieter second-floor corridor of the engineering building after a long group meeting, backpack heavy on your shoulder, mind already planning your all-nighter. The hallway was nearly empty. Most students had headed back to their dorms or the library.

You turned the corner casually. And stopped dead.

Park Sunghoon had a girl pressed against the wall, his hand wrapped firmly around her throat. Not enough to fully cut off her air, but enough that she was gasping, eyes wide with a mix of fear and fury. Tears streaked her face. She looked familiar. One of the girls you’d seen him with before, possibly an ex.

“You think you can run your mouth about me and just disappear?” Sunghoon’s voice was low, trembling with barely restrained rage. “I told you what would happen if you kept spreading lies.”

The girl clutched at his wrist, voice hoarse. “We’re done, you psycho! Let go—”

He tightened his grip slightly. The girl whimpered.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You must have made a small noise because Sunghoon’s head snapped toward you instantly. His dark eyes locked onto yours, wild, furious, and dangerous.

For a split second, everything froze.

Then you ran.

You spun on your heel and sprinted down the corridor, footsteps echoing loudly. You didn’t look back. You took the stairs two at a time, burst out of the building into the cool evening air, and kept running until you were deep in the central quad, chest burning and mind spinning.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

That night, despite the knot of fear in your stomach, you still forced yourself to go to the study lounge. You refused to let him scare you out of your routine. The lounge was quiet and dimly lit when you arrived just after 1 AM. You settled into your usual corner desk, spreading out your notes and textbooks, trying to lose yourself in problem sets.

The door slammed open at 1:47 AM with enough force to rattle the windows.

Sunghoon stormed in.

He looked like a storm barely contained. His hair was disheveled, jaw clenched so tightly the muscle ticked, and his eyes burned with raw, barely controlled fury. The black leather jacket he wore was slightly askew, and his knuckles were freshly bruised and split this time. He definitely had beat the hell out of someone this time. He moved with aggression, every step heavy and threatening.

His eyes scanned the lounge and his gaze locked onto you instantly.

You started packing up immediately, heart hammering as you shoved notebooks and pens into your bag. Before you could stand, he crossed the room in long strides and slammed his bag and laptop down on your table with a violent thud. The sound echoed sharply in the empty lounge.

“Running away again, baby?” he growled, voice low and shaky with barely restrained anger. He leaned over the table, towering above you, breathing hard. “You saw something you shouldn’t have and decided to sprint like a fucking coward?”

You straightened up, refusing to cower.

“In your fucking dreams.” Your voice came out surprisingly sharp and defiant.

Sunghoon laughed. Itwas a low, mocking sound that sent chills racing down your spine. His smirk returned, sharp and dangerous, but his eyes were still burning with fury.

“Sit down,” he ordered, voice still trembling as he dropped heavily into the chair directly across from you.

You glared at him for a long, tense moment before slowly sinking back into your seat. The lounge felt suffocatingly small. The tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a knife.

He stared at you across the table, fists clenched on the surface, breathing uneven. For several long seconds, neither of you spoke. The air crackled with everything unsaid. The debate, the corridor, the library nights, the way he now knew exactly who you were and what you had witnessed.

Finally, his voice came out rough and dangerous. “You saw too much.”

“I didn’t ask to see it,” you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady. “I was just walking through the corridor.”

Sunghoon leaned forward, dark eyes never leaving yours. “And now you’re a problem.”

The way he said it. Quiet, threatening, and full of warning. It made your pulse spike. But that stubborn fire in you refused to back down completely.

You met his gaze head-on, chin lifted. “Then what are you going to do about it?”

Sunghoon’s smirk deepened, slow and dangerous, as he stared at you like he was deciding exactly how much trouble you were worth.

The lounge stayed deathly silent. No more words passed between you. The air was thick with tension. His eyes, still dark with leftover fury from the corridor incident, never left yours. The usual cold indifference was gone. It was replaced by something sharper, more personal.

You held his gaze for several long, charged seconds, refusing to be the first to look away. Your heart was pounding, but you kept your expression steady, chin slightly lifted. The memory of his hand around that girl’s throat flashed in your mind, mixing with the fire from the debate stage.

Then you stood up.

You gathered the rest of your things with deliberate movements, zipping your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. Without saying another word, you turned and walked toward the door.

Sunghoon didn’t speak.

He didn’t try to stop you.

But you could feel his darkened eyes burning into your back the entire way out. The weight of his stare followed you until the door clicked shut behind you.

The cool night air hit your face the moment you stepped outside the library. You walked fast across the quad, the echo of your footsteps mixing with the soft rain. Your mind was spinning, filled with fear, adrenaline, anger, and a strange, unwelcome spark of something else you didn’t want to name.

You didn’t look back.

But you knew he was still watching.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The next week was midterms.

The campus turned into a pressure cooker. Lectures became frantic review sessions. Group chats were flooded with panicked questions. The libraries were packed with students surviving on caffeine and sheer willpower. You barely had time to breathe, let alone think about Sunghoon.

You avoided the usual study lounge completely, choosing busier floors or studying in your dorm with Mina when she was around. The memory of that silent confrontation still lingered, but midterms gave you the perfect distraction.

Mina was your lifeline through it all.

“You look like death,” she said one night as the two of you sat on the floor surrounded by notes and empty coffee cups. “When was the last time you slept?”

You laughed tiredly. “I’ll sleep when midterms are over. Right now I just need to pass fluid mechanics.”

She nudged your shoulder. “You’ve got this. You’re the same girl who went toe-to-toe with Park Sunghoon in front of the entire campus. A few exams won’t break you.”

You smiled, but the mention of his name still made your stomach twist. You didn’t see him during midterms week.

Not once.

It was like he had vanished into his own storm of exams and whatever trouble he usually got into. The campus felt almost peaceful without his presence looming. You focused on your papers, your group presentations, and the occasional late-night study sessions with Jaehyun and Minjun. Life narrowed down to surviving one exam at a time.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted but relieved. The last exam was over. The campus slowly started to breathe again as students emerged from their rooms like survivors of a war.

That Friday night, you finally allowed yourself to relax.

Mina dragged you to a small off-campus café to celebrate. The two of you sat by the window, drinking overpriced lattes and laughing about the ridiculous questions on the circuits exam. For the first time in weeks, you felt light.

Until you looked out the window.

Across the street, leaning against a lamppost under the streetlight, was Sunghoon.

He was alone, hands in the pockets of his black jacket, hair slightly messy from the wind. His eyes were fixed on the café, precisely on you.

Your laughter died in your throat.

He didn’t move. He just watched you with that same darkened intensity, the corner of his mouth lifting into the faintest smirk when your eyes met.

Mina followed your gaze and froze. “Oh shit… is that—?”

“Yeah,” you muttered, quickly looking away. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

You left the café before finishing your drink, heart racing the entire walk back to the dorm. Sunghoon didn’t follow.

But you knew the peace was over.

He was done waiting.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

You avoided the usual study lounge completely, choosing busier floors or studying in your dorm with Mina. The memory of Sunghoon’s darkened eyes and the heavy silence still lingered, but you pushed it down. Midterms results came out the following Monday, and the department posted them on the main notice board near the engineering building.

You checked yours first.

Second Year Rankings:-

Y/N — 97.7

Jaehyun— 96.2

Minjun — 95.8

You stared at the board for a long moment, a small, proud smile tugging at your lips. First in your year. All the late nights, the stress, the refusal to back down. It had paid off.

Out of pure curiosity, you scanned the third-year board next.

Third Year Rankings:-

Park Sunghoon — 98.9

Jay Park — 97.4

Jake Sim — 96.8

You let out a soft laugh.

Of course he was top.

98.9.

The guy was infuriatingly good at everything. Including beating people.

Shaking your head, you turned away from the board and headed to class.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

That afternoon, the engineering department held a joint senior-junior lecture on advanced sustainable systems. It was mandatory for second-years and open to third-years for extra credit. The lecture hall was packed when you arrived. You found a seat near the middle and settled in, pulling out your notebook.

Then Jay and Jake walked in. You obviously knew them. They were Sunghoon's friends. You and Mina called them the "the brat's sidechicks" as an internal joke.

They spotted you almost immediately. Jake grinned and slid into the seat next to you. Jay took the one on your other side.

“Hey, debate girl,” Jake whispered, nudging your arm. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Congrats on topping second year, by the way.”

You smiled, rolling your eyes. “Thanks. You guys killed it too. 98.9 for Sunghoon… that’s insane.”

Jay chuckled softly, leaning in a bit too close on your other side. “He doesn’t do anything halfway. Perfectionist to the core. Unlike some people who probably pulled all-nighters just to scrape by.”

Jake snickered. “Yeah, we saw your ranking. Impressive for a transfer. But tell us. Did you really stay up till 4 AM every night, or are you secretly a genius pretending to struggle?”

You gave them a flat look, but there was a small smile on your lips. They were annoying, just like you expected from Sunghoon’s circle. Cocky, teasing, and a little too comfortable pushing buttons.

The lecture started, but the two of them kept whispering throughout, making snide little comments about the professor’s slides and occasionally dragging you into their banter. Halfway through, Jake leaned in way too close, his voice dropping into a mischievous whisper.

“So, debate girl… since we’re all being honest here. When you’re pulling those late all-nighters in the lounge, do you ever… you know… get a little hot and bothered thinking about certain tall, brooding third-years who also happen to be there?”

Jay snickered on your other side, leaning in as well. “Yeah. Be honest. Does the silent tension with Sunghoon ever make you wonder what it would be like if he wasn’t so… cold? Or do you like the chase?”

You blinked, caught completely off guard by how weird and pervy the question was. Your cheeks burned slightly, but you quickly recovered with a sharp glare.

“You two are disgusting,” you muttered, trying to focus on the lecture.

Jake laughed quietly. “Hey, fair’s fair. You can ask us something too. To even it out.”

Jay smirked. “Yeah. Anything. We’re feeling generous.”

You hesitated for a second, then curiosity and a bit of petty revenge won.

“How many exes does Sunghoon actually have?” You asked.

Jake let out a low whistle. Jay raised an eyebrow, looking mildly amused.

“Bold question,” Jay said, leaning back slightly. “Let’s just say… more than a few. He doesn’t do relationships. He does… situations. Most of them don’t last long. A couple of months at most. Then they get too clingy or start talking, and he ends it. Cold.”

Jake grinned, clearly enjoying this. “Soojin was the latest. The one you must have seen him with in the corridors. She thought she was different. Turns out she wasn’t. He’s had at least five or six serious ones in the last two years. The rest were just… casual. Why? You planning on adding your name to the list?”

You rolled your eyes. “In his fucking dreams.”

Both of them laughed quietly.

“Feisty,” Jake teased. “We like that. Sunghoon might too.”

The rest of the lecture passed with more annoying little jabs from them, but nothing too serious. When it ended, Jake bumped your shoulder one last time.

“See you around, debate girl. Try not to get on Sunghoon’s bad side. Or… maybe do. It’s more fun that way.”

You waved them off and headed back to your dorm, mind spinning with the new information.

Sunghoon’s world was darker and messier than you had imagined.

And you had somehow caught his attention.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The days after the joint lecture passed in a surprisingly normal rhythm.

Midterms had ended two weeks ago, so the pressure had finally eased. You no longer needed to pull all-nighters just to survive. Instead, you settled into a calmer routine. Attending lectures, finishing regular assignments at reasonable hours, and actually getting decent sleep for the first time in months. Life felt manageable again.

You spent most evenings with Mina, the two of you binge-watching dramas, complaining about professors, and dragging each other to late-night convenience store runs.

You and Mina even joined a few casual hangouts with Jaehyun and Minjun, laughing over bad cafeteria food and group project horror stories. The campus felt lighter without the constant shadow of midterms.

Sunghoon was still around. You caught glimpses of him across the quad or in the distance during lectures but he didn’t approach. The heavy tension from the lounge and the corridor seemed to have settled into a strange, watchful silence. You told yourself it was fine. You didn’t need to think about him.

Until that Saturday night.

Mina had dragged you to a big off-campus party hosted by some third-year business majors. The house was packed, music blasting, red cups everywhere. You had only planned to stay for an hour, but the energy was contagious. You danced with Mina, laughed with a group of juniors, and even had a few drinks. Just enough to feel light and carefree.

Then you saw Soojin.

She was in the corner with a group of girls, eyes locked on you. When she noticed you looking, she smirked and walked over, drink in hand.

“So you’re the new girl causing drama with Sunghoon,” she said sweetly, but her eyes were sharp. “Cute. Just a heads up. He’ll use you and throw you away like the rest of us. Don’t get too attached.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I’m not attached to anything involving him.”

Soojin laughed, but it was bitter. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that. He’s poison. And you’re already drinking from the cup.”

She walked away before you could respond, leaving a sour taste in your mouth.

You needed air.

You slipped upstairs to the terrace, the cool night breeze hitting your face. The music was muffled up here. You leaned against the railing, staring at the city lights, trying to shake off the encounter.

The door behind you opened.

"You found me-" You turned, expecting Mina.

It was Sunghoon.

He stepped out, closing the door behind him. He looked good. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy from the party. His eyes found you immediately.

You straightened up. “What are you doing here?”

He walked closer, stopping a few feet away. “Same as you. Needed air.”

The terrace was quiet except for the distant bass from downstairs. The tension between you two was back. Thick, unspoken, and electric.

Sunghoon leaned against the railing beside you, looking out at the city. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he glanced at you.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You were surprised by the question. “Yeah. Just… Soojin being Soojin.”

He scoffed. “She’s always been a dramatic. bitch”

You turned to face him fully. “She warned me about you. Said you’d use me and throw me away.”

Sunghoon’s eyes darkened slightly. “And what did you say?”

“I told her I’m not interested in anything involving you.”

He smirked, but it was smaller than usual. “Smart girl.”

The silence returned, but this time it felt different. Almost comfortable. The city lights twinkled below. The breeze was cool. For a moment, it didn’t feel like you were standing next to the campus nightmare.

Sunghoon spoke again, voice low. “You’re not like the others.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment or a threat?”

He looked at you, eyes intense. “Both.”

The door opened again. This time it really was Mina.

“Y/N? There you are— oh.” She froze when she saw Sunghoon.

Sunghoon straightened up, giving you one last look before walking past Mina and back inside.

Mina rushed over. “What the hell was that?!”

You sighed, leaning back against the railing. “Just… complicated shit.”

The party continued downstairs, but up on the terrace, something had quietly shifted between you and Sunghoon.

And you had no idea what to do with it.

The party downstairs was still in full swing when you and Mina finally left the terrace.

Mina wouldn’t stop talking the entire walk back to the dorm.

“I can’t believe you were alone with him on the terrace! What did he say? Did he threaten you? Did he try to kiss you? Wait — no, that would be bad. But also hot. Wait, no — bad! Very bad!”

You laughed tiredly, unlocking the door. “Nothing happened. We just… talked. Sort of. He asked if I was okay after Soojin was being a bitch.”

Mina stared at you like you had grown two heads. “Sunghoon asked if you were okay? The same Sunghoon who chokes his ex in corridors? I need to sit down.”

You collapsed onto your bed, still buzzing from the alcohol and the strange moment on the terrace. “It was weird. He seemed… almost human for a second.”

Mina flopped down next to you. “This is dangerous territory, Y/N. You know that, right?”

“I know.”

But you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had looked at you on the terrace.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The week after the party settled into something almost dangerously normal. You threw yourself into lectures, group projects, and late-night study sessions with Mina, pretending the terrace conversation with Sunghoon hadn’t lodged itself under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t quite pull out.

He hadn’t approached you again. No more heavy stares across the quad, no late-night library run-ins. Just the occasional glimpse of his tall figure moving through campus like a shadow that refused to fully disappear.

You told yourself it was a relief.

It was a humid Thursday evening when everything tilted again.

You’d stayed late at the engineering building finishing up a lab report, the sky already bleeding into deep violet by the time you stepped outside. The air smelled like coming rain. You cut through the quieter path behind the arts faculty building. A shortcut Mina swore by, earphones in, mind half on dinner plans and half on the upcoming assignment deadline.

Then you saw it.

Half-hidden by the low stone wall and overgrown ivy near the back exit, under the dim glow of an old lamppost… Park Sunghoon.

He had some girl pressed against the wall, one hand braced beside her head, the other tangled in her hair. She was kissing him like she was drowning and he was oxygen. The kiss was desperate, messy, all trembling hands and soft sounds you couldn’t hear but could somehow feel. Sunghoon kissed her back with that same controlled intensity he brought to everything else. Sharp, consuming, almost clinical in how perfectly he tilted her chin to deepen it. His black shirt was slightly unbuttoned at the top, hair messy from her fingers, the faint bruise on his knuckles still visible even from this distance.

You stopped dead in your tracks, hidden partially by the shadow of a nearby tree. Your stomach twisted hard. Not quite jealousy. Something sharper. Hotter. More confusing.

He pulled back just enough to say something low against her lips, that dangerous little smirk you knew too well curling at the corner of his mouth. The girl laughed breathlessly, pulling him back in.

You couldn’t look away.

“See something interesting, debate girl?”

The voice came from right beside you, low and teasing. You nearly jumped out of your skin.

Jake stood there with his hands in his pockets, grin wide and wicked like he’d been watching you watch them for the past minute. Jay leaned against the tree on your other side, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in mock surprise.

“Shit—” you hissed under your breath, yanking your earphones out.

Jake chuckled softly, eyes flicking toward the scene in the distance. “Didn’t know you were into voyeurism. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t— I didn’t mean to—” You glared at both of them, cheeks burning. “I was just taking a shortcut.”

“Sure,” Jay drawled, voice dripping with amusement. “And we just happened to find you standing here like a statue, staring at Sunghoon tongue-fucking some poor second-year who doesn’t know any better yet.”

Jake leaned in closer, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Jealous, Y/N? You’ve got that little frown going on. It’s cute.”

“I’m not jealous,” you snapped, maybe a little too quickly. Your eyes betrayed you, darting back to the lamppost for half a second. Sunghoon had the girl’s leg hooked around his hip now, kissing her like he had all the time in the world and zero interest in being gentle about it.

Jay let out a low whistle. “Damn. He’s really going for it tonight. That’s Hyejin, I think. Or was it Minji? Hard to keep track.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake shrugged, still grinning at you. “None of them last. You know that already, right? He’ll kiss her stupid, fuck her even stupider, then act like she doesn’t exist by next week.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze away. “I don’t care what he does.”

“Mhm,” Jay hummed, clearly not believing a word. “That’s why you’re still standing here instead of walking away like a smart girl would.”

The three of you stood in silence for another moment, the distant sounds of kissing and soft gasps carrying through the humid air. Sunghoon’s hand slid down the girl’s waist, possessive and sure. Your chest felt tight.

Jake bumped your shoulder lightly. “C’mon, debate girl. Let’s get you out of here before you see something that’ll keep you up all night for the wrong reasons.”

They started walking, and you fell into step between them almost automatically, cheeks still warm with a confusing mix of embarrassment and something you refused to name.

The walk back to your dorm was filled with their relentless teasing.

Jake kept throwing his arm around your shoulders dramatically. “You should’ve seen your face. Pure heartbreak. I thought you were gonna march over there and pull him off her by the hair.”

“I was not,” you muttered, shoving his arm off.

Jay laughed on your other side. “She’s got fire on the debate stage but gets shy watching Sunghoon kiss someone? Interesting.”

“Shut up,” you groaned, but there was no real heat in it. Their teasing was annoying… but weirdly comforting. Like they were letting you in on the chaos of Sunghoon’s world whether you wanted it or not.

By the time you reached the entrance of Building 3, the rain had finally started falling again. That same sharp Seoul rain that always seemed to show up at the worst moments.

Jake stopped at the bottom of the steps, smirking. “Try not to dream about what you saw tonight, yeah?”

Jay gave you a lazy salute. “Night, debate girl. Don’t let the big bad wolf ruin your sleep too much.”

You flipped them off half-heartedly and headed inside, footsteps echoing up the stairs to the sixth floor.

Mina was sprawled on her bed when you pushed the door open, scrolling on her phone. She took one look at your face and sat up.

“Okay… what happened?”

You dropped your bag, flopping face-first onto your own bed with a groan.

“I saw Sunghoon kissing some girl. Like… really kissing her. And then Jake and Jay found me staring and wouldn’t stop teasing me the entire walk back.”

Mina was quiet for half a second before bursting into laughter. “Oh my god. This is getting so messy. Are you okay?”

You turned your head just enough to look at her, voice muffled by your pillow.

“…I don’t know.”

The rain tapped harder against the window.

And somewhere across campus, Sunghoon was probably still wrapped up in someone who wasn’t you.

But the way he’d looked at you on that terrace… the way his eyes had burned into your back when you left the lounge… it all felt like the beginning of something inevitable.

You closed your eyes, heart still racing.

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The next few days blurred into a strange game of cat and mouse you never signed up for.

You tried to avoid the usual paths. Steering clear of the arts building at night, picking different routes to class, even changing your late-night study spot to a busier floor in the main library. But campus was only so big, and Sunghoon had a way of existing everywhere at once.

Thursday afternoon found you in the central quad after your last lecture, sitting on a bench with Mina as she dramatically recounted her latest group project disaster. The sun was out for once, warm and golden, and for a moment everything felt light.

Until Jake and Jay appeared like they’d been summoned by chaos itself.

“Debate girl!” Jake called out, jogging over with that signature mischievous grin. Jay followed at a more relaxed pace, hands in his pockets, already smirking like he knew something you didn’t.

Mina raised an eyebrow. “Friends of yours?”

“Something like that,” you muttered.

Jake flopped down on the bench beside you without invitation, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “We’ve been tasked with Operation: Keep Y/N Away From The Walking Red Flag.”

Jay leaned against the bench arm, looking down at you. “Sunghoon’s been in a mood since that party. We figured we’d do you a public service and kidnap you before he decides to corner you again.”

You shrugged Jake’s arm off, but you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “I don’t need babysitters.”

“Clearly you do,” Jay countered smoothly. “We saw the way you froze watching him devour Hyejin against that wall. Looked like you needed rescuing then, and you still do now.”

Mina’s eyes went wide. “Wait— what? What details about the incident did I miss?”

Jake launched into a very exaggerated retelling, complete with hand gestures and dramatic gasps, while you buried your face in your hands. By the end, Mina was laughing so hard she was leaning against you for support.

“Come on,” Jake said, standing up and offering you his hand. “We’re dragging you to the off-campus café. Our treat. Consider it damage control.”

You hesitated, glancing around the quad like you might spot Sunghoon lurking. Jay noticed.

“He’s at the gym right now,” Jay said quietly, reading your mind too easily. “Won’t be done for another hour. You’re safe, promise.”

Against your better judgment, you let them pull you up. Mina tagged along, clearly entertained by the whole situation. The four of you walked across campus, Jake and Jay flanking you like oversized, annoyingly attractive bodyguards.

At the café, they claimed a big corner booth and refused to let you pay for anything.

“Think of it as reparations for our best friend being a walking emotional hazard,” Jake said, sliding a strawberry latte toward you.

Jay leaned back, stirring his iced americano. “He’s not a bad guy. Not really. He’s just… complicated. But you? You’ve got that fire. You went toe-to-toe with him in front of the whole campus. Most girls either run or throw themselves at him. You did neither. It’s got him interested.”

“Interested?” you echoed, voice drier than the pastries on the table.

Jake grinned around a bite of cake. “Very. He hasn’t shut up about the debate since it happened. Keeps calling you ‘that loudmouth transfer’ but there’s this look in his eyes…”

Mina kicked you under the table, eyes sparkling with gossip. “See? Told you it wasn’t nothing.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks felt warm. “I’m not trying to get his attention.”

“Too late,” Jay said with a shrug. “You already have it. So we’re here to help you navigate the chaos. Rule number one: don’t be alone with him when he’s in one of his moods. Rule number two: if he starts smirking like he wants to eat you alive, run.”

“Or don’t,” Jake added with a wink. “We won’t judge.”

The afternoon passed surprisingly easily. They teased you relentlessly but also fed you snacks, told embarrassing stories about Sunghoon from first year (including the time he got caught smoking on the roof and charmed his way out of trouble), and generally acted like chaotic older brothers who enjoyed stirring the pot.

When it started getting dark, they walked you and Mina all the way back to your dorm building again.

“Same time tomorrow?” Jake asked, leaning against the entrance door. “We’ll keep playing interference.”

“You don’t have to—”

“We want to,” Jay cut in, surprisingly sincere for once. “Sunghoon’s our boy, but we’re not blind. You’re good for the chaos around here. Don’t let him scare you off completely.”

They left with matching grins and lazy waves, disappearing into the evening crowd.

Mina closed the dorm door behind you two and immediately turned. “Okay. They’re kinda hot. And weirdly protective? What alternate universe did we fall into?”

You collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

“I have no idea.”

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The “same time tomorrow” became a dangerous little routine.

For the next few days, Jake and Jay kept appearing like chaotic guardian angels. Steering you away from Sunghoon’s usual haunts, dragging you and Mina into random cafés, empty study rooms, or late-night convenience store runs. Their teasing never stopped, but underneath it you could tell they were genuinely trying to give you breathing room.

Until Friday night.

Mina had convinced you to join another off-campus gathering. This one smaller, at a quiet bar near the back gate that mostly engineering and business majors frequented. “Low stress,” she promised. “Just drinks and vibes.”

You should’ve known better.

You were halfway through your second drink, laughing at something Mina said, when the air in the room shifted. That familiar heavy presence settled over your shoulders like a warning.

Sunghoon had just walked in.

And he wasn’t alone.

Hyejin, the same girl from behind the arts building was tucked against his side, one of his arms slung casually around her shoulders. She looked flushed and pleased, leaning into him like she belonged there. Sunghoon’s expression was its usual detached mask, but his hand rested possessively on her waist as they moved through the crowd. His eyes scanned the room once… and immediately locked onto you.

Your stomach dropped.

Jay and Jake were already at a table in the corner. The moment they spotted Sunghoon, Jake muttered a quiet “shit” and tried to wave you over to them, but it was too late.

Sunghoon’s gaze didn’t waver. That dangerous little smirk slowly curved his lips as he leaned down to say something in Hyejin’s ear. She glanced in your direction, her smile turning sharp and catlike.

Mina grabbed your wrist. “We can leave—”

“No,” you said quietly, forcing your shoulders back. “I’m not running.”

Jake and Jay appeared at your side like magic, flanking you again.

“Bad timing,” Jay murmured under his breath. “He wasn’t supposed to show up here tonight.”

Sunghoon didn’t come straight over. Instead, he guided Hyejin to a table not far from yours, close enough that you could see everything. Close enough that every time he leaned in to speak to her, every time his fingers brushed her arm or tucked her hair behind her ear, you felt it like a spark against your skin.

Hyejin played it up, laughing too loudly at whatever he said, touching his chest, pressing close. Sunghoon let her. But his eyes kept drifting back to you. Dark. Unreadable. Challenging.

Jake leaned in, voice low. “We know our bestfriend. He’s doing this on purpose. Don’t give him the reaction he wants.”

“Too late,” you muttered, gripping your glass tighter. “I already want to throw my drink at his head.”

Jay chuckled despite the tension. “Violent. We like it. But seriously. Breathe. He’s testing you.”

Sunghoon finally stood, murmuring something to Hyejin before walking over to your group with that effortless, predatory stride. Hyejin stayed at their table, watching with narrowed eyes.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Sunghoon said, voice low and smooth as he stopped right in front of you. His gaze flicked to Jake and Jay for a split second. Like it spoke a silent 'what the fuck are you two doing' before returning to you. “Keeping my friends busy, Y/N?”

Jake threw an arm around your shoulders again, grinning. “Just making sure she doesn’t get bored. You know how it is.”

Jay nodded, casual as ever. “We’ve been showing her the better side of campus life. Less choking in corridors, more actual fun.”

Sunghoon’s jaw ticked, but that smirk stayed in place. He stepped closer, towering over you, the scent of his cologne cutting through the bar smell.

“You don’t need them babysitting you,” he said quietly, eyes locked on yours. “You’re a big girl. You proved that on the debate stage.”

The tension crackled. Hyejin was staring daggers from across the room now. Mina looked ready to jump in. Jake and Jay stayed close, but even they seemed to know this moment had been coming.

You lifted your chin, meeting Sunghoon’s gaze head-on. “And you don’t need to parade your latest toy around just to get my attention. It’s pathetic.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Amusement, irritation, maybe eveb heat. He leaned in just enough that only you could hear.

“Jealous, baby?”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Before you could snap back, Jake cleared his throat loudly. “Alright, big guy and girl. Let’s not cause a scene. We were just leaving anyway.”

Jay was already gently steering you toward the door, Mina grabbing your bag. Sunghoon didn’t stop you this time, but you felt his stare burning into your back the entire way out . The same way it always did.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The cool night air hit you like a slap as you stepped outside. Jake let out a long breath.

“Well… that went about as well as expected.”

Mina was still wide-eyed. “He brought her here? On purpose?”

“Obviously,” Jay said, running a hand through his hair. “He’s done playing hide and seek. He knows we’ve been keeping you away from him.”

You walked in silence for a bit, the four of them sticking close as they escorted you back toward the dorms again. Jake kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected Sunghoon to appear out of the shadows.

At the entrance of Building 3, Jay stopped you before you went inside.

“Look… he’s complicated as hell. But the fact that he’s bothered enough to pull this shit?” He shrugged. “Means you’re under his skin. Just be careful, yeah?”

Jake gave you a softer smile than usual. “We’ll keep running interference as long as you want. But eventually… you’re gonna have to decide if you want to keep running or finally face him.”

You nodded, throat tight, and headed upstairs with Mina.

Later that night, lying in bed while rain pattered against the window, you couldn’t stop replaying the way Sunghoon had looked at you. It had looked possessive, irritated, and even hungry.

Hyejin was on his arm.

But his eyes had been on you the whole time.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

Saturday night arrived wrapped in neon lights and the low hum of bass.

Jay and Jake had ditched the usual “babysitting” duty for once. They told you they had plans with “the guys” which everyone on campus knew meant Sunghoon and the rest of their tight little circle. You tried not to think about it. You really did.

Instead, you and Mina holed up in your dorm with takeout and a drama, pretending everything was normal.

Meanwhile, across campus in a private room at one of the more exclusive off-campus lounges, the boys were sprawled out like they owned the place.

Sunghoon sat in the corner booth, legs stretched out, nursing a glass of whiskey. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers tapped restlessly against the glass. Hyejin had tried to come along earlier but he’d brushed her off with a cold “not tonight.” She hadn’t taken it well.

Jake leaned back, spinning an empty soju bottle on the table. “So… you gonna keep pretending you’re not obsessed with the transfer girl or what?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “She’s not obsessed with me?”

Jay snorted, kicking his feet up. “She’s trying not to be. We’ve been keeping her busy so she doesn’t have to deal with your moody ass. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Sunghoon’s smirk was slow and dangerous. “You two have been playing guard dogs for her. Cute.” He took a sip, voice dropping. “How’s she doing? Still acting like she doesn’t care?”

Jake grinned. “She cares. Saw the way she looked at you and Hyejin last night. Jealousy looks good on her. Fire in her eyes and everything.”

“She called Hyejin my ‘latest toy’,” Sunghoon said quietly, almost amused. “Got under my skin more than it should’ve.”

Jay laughed. “Because it’s true. You’ve been dragging that girl around like a prop ever since Y/N started avoiding you. Real mature, man.”

Sunghoon didn’t deny it. He just stared into his glass, jaw tight. The silence stretched for a moment before he spoke again.

“She’s different.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Jake said, suddenly more serious. “She went head-to-head with you in front of the entire school and didn’t flinch. Most girls throw themselves at you or run away crying. She just… matches your energy. It’s kinda hot.”

Jay nodded, stealing a fry from the table. “We like her. She’s got spine. Doesn’t take your bullshit. But she’s also not stupid. She knows your reputation. The corridor thing with Soojin? She saw that. She’s scared, but she’s also stubborn as hell.”

Sunghoon’s expression darkened at the mention of the corridor. “She ran.”

“Can you blame her?” Jake raised an eyebrow. “You had your hand around your ex’s throat. Not exactly boyfriend material.”

Sunghoon stayed quiet, but his knuckles went white around the glass.

The conversation drifted after that. Classes, upcoming exams, stupid stories from practice but Sunghoon kept circling back. Asking small questions about you. What you talked about. Whether you mentioned him. How you laughed with Mina and the others.

Jake eventually groaned, throwing a napkin at him. “Dude, just talk to her like a normal person instead of doing this possessive staring shit. Or keep using Hyejin as a shield. Your choice.”

“I’m not using her as a shield,” Sunghoon muttered.

Jay smirked. “Sure you’re not.”

The night went on, the three of them falling into their usual rhythm. Sunghoon brooding in the corner while Jake and Jay roasted him between shots. But underneath the banter, something was shifting.

Even his best friends could see it.

You were no longer just another girl who caught his attention.

You were becoming a problem he didn’t want to solve.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

Back in your dorm, your phone buzzed.

Jake: he’s in a mood tonight. keep avoiding the usual spots tomorrow 😂

Jay: we tried to talk sense into him. he’s hopeless. you good?

You stared at the messages, heart doing that stupid flip again.

Mina peeked over your shoulder. “They’re really out here playing double agents, huh?”

You set the phone down and leaned back against your pillows, the distant sound of rain filling the room.

“Yeah… they are.”

But you both knew it wouldn’t last forever.

Sunghoon was done playing games.

And Jay and Jake? They could only run interference for so long before their best friend decided to stop waiting.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

Sunday night broke the fragile peace you’d been clinging to.

You’d gone back to the 24-hour study lounge after midnight, telling yourself you were done hiding. The place was nearly empty, just the soft hum of the AC and rain streaking down the tall windows. You claimed your old corner desk, earphones in, determined to finish a problem set.

At 1:32 AM the door opened with a slow, deliberate push.

You didn’t have to look up. You already knew.

Heavy footsteps crossed the room. A bag dropped onto the table directly across from yours, closer than he’d ever sat before. The scent of cigarette smoke, and that expensive cologne hit you like a warning.

You kept your eyes on your notes, pen moving across the page even as your pulse spiked.

Sunghoon didn’t speak at first. He just sat there, long legs stretched out, watching you. The silence stretched, thick and electric, until you finally glanced up.

His dark eyes were already locked on you. No smirk this time. Just raw, unfiltered intensity. Hair slightly damp from his late-night shower, black hoodie unzipped to show the sharp line of his collarbones, knuckles still faintly bruised. He looked like sin wrapped in control.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said lowly. His voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

You leaned back in your chair, refusing to shrink. “Smart of me, don’t you think?”

He stood up slowly, rounding the table until he was right beside you. Towering. Close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze. He placed one hand on the back of your chair, the other on the table, effectively caging you in without touching you.

Your breath caught.

“Running away with my friends every time I get close?” He leaned down, voice dropping even lower, rough around the edges. “Cute, Y/N. But I’m done with the games.”

Heat rolled off him. You could feel it against your skin. That dangerous mix of anger and something darker, hungrier. His eyes dragged slowly down your face, lingering on your lips for a beat too long before flicking back up.

“I heard you watched me with Hyejin,” he murmured, almost amused. “I saw the way you looked at us. Tell me… did it piss you off?”

Your cheeks burned, but you held his stare. “You’re delusional if you think I care who you’re kissing.”

Sunghoon’s smirk finally appeared. Slow, sharp, and devastating. He leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.

“Liar.”

The single word sent a shiver straight down your spine. You hated how your body reacted. Heart hammering, skin tingling, thighs pressing together under the desk.

Before you could snap back, his fingers caught your chin, tilting your face up to his. Not rough, but firm. Controlling. His thumb brushed your lower lip, dark eyes burning.

“You’ve been in my head since that fucking debate,” he growled softly. “That fire in your eyes when you yelled at me in front of everyone… the way you didn’t flinch when I got close. No one talks to me like that.”

His face was inches from yours now. You could feel his breath, warm against your mouth. The tension was suffocating. Heavy, electric, months of slow-burn finally snapping.

You whispered, voice shaky but defiant, “Then what are you gonna do about it?”

Sunghoon’s control fractured.

He kissed you like he’d been starving for it.

Hard. Possessive. All teeth and heat and barely restrained violence. One hand slid into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head how he wanted. The other braced on the table as he leaned over you, devouring the small gasp you let out.

It wasn’t sweet. It was months of tension exploding. It was angry, desperate, addictive. His tongue swept into your mouth like he owned it, and for a moment you kissed him back just as fiercely, fingers fisting in his hoodie, pulling him closer.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat, half groan, half warning and bit your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown dark, breathing ragged, that dangerous smirk smeared across his swollen lips.

“Still think you don’t care?” he rasped.

You were dizzy, lips tingling, chest heaving. The lounge suddenly felt too small, too hot. Rain hammered against the glass like it was trying to get in.

Sunghoon didn’t wait for an answer. He kissed you again, slower this time but no less devastating, one hand sliding down to grip your waist, fingers digging in like he was afraid you’d disappear.

When he finally pulled away, forehead resting against yours, voice rough and low:

“You’re mine to ruin now, baby.”

You didn’t go back to your dorm until almost dawn.

And when you did, lips still swollen and mind spinning, you knew nothing would ever be the same again.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The next morning came too bright and too soon.

Your lips still felt tender, slightly swollen from the way Sunghoon had kissed you like he wanted to consume you whole. Every time you looked in the mirror, the evidence stared back at you. Pink and puffy, impossible to hide. You tried to cover it with lip balm and a hoodie pulled low over your face, but Mina still did a double-take the second you stepped out of the dorm.

“Girl… what the hell happened to your mouth?” she whispered as you started walking toward campus.

You avoided her eyes. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she grinned, linking her arm with yours. “That looks suspiciously like—”

Before she could finish, Jake and Jay appeared at the main gate like they’d been waiting for you. The moment they got close, both of them froze.

Jake’s eyes zeroed in on your lips instantly. His grin spread slow and wicked. “No fucking way.”

Jay let out a low whistle, stepping closer to inspect you like you were a crime scene. “Well, well, well… look who finally got a taste of the devil. Those lips are swollen, debate girl. Sunghoon doesn’t do gentle, does he?”

Your face burned. “Shut up.”

Mina’s jaw dropped. “Wait— Sunghoon?! Last night?! In the library?!”

Jake threw his arm around your shoulders, laughing. “We told you he was restless. Damn. He really went for it, huh? You look like you got attacked by a very determined vacuum.”

Jay smirked, walking on your other side. “Proud of you for surviving. Most girls tap out after five minutes. You’ve got his attention and his teeth marks. Iconic.”

You shoved both of them, mortified but unable to stop the small smile tugging at your sore lips. “You two are the worst bodyguards ever.”

“Clearly we suck at our job,” Jake said cheerfully. “We were supposed to keep him away from you, not deliver you straight into his mouth.”

The four of you kept walking across the central quad, their relentless teasing filling the morning air. Mina kept shooting you wide-eyed looks, equal parts horrified and thrilled.

Then you saw it.

Near the fountain where you’d first properly seen Sunghoon weeks ago, he was standing with Hyejin. Her voice was raised, sharp and upset. His posture was cold, arms crossed, face completely blank.

“I’m done,” Sunghoon said flatly, voice carrying just enough for you to hear as your group approached. “Whatever this was, it’s over. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. We’re finished.”

Hyejin looked stunned, then furious. “You’re such an asshole! You used me to make her jealous, didn’t you?!”

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. “And it worked. Leave.”

He turned away from her without another word, leaving her standing there fuming. The second his eyes found your group, specifically you, that dangerous smirk returned. His gaze dropped straight to your swollen lips and darkened with obvious satisfaction.

Without hesitation, he changed direction and fell into step right beside you, slipping easily between you and Jake like he belonged there.

“Morning,” he said casually, voice low and rough, eyes still glued to your mouth. His fingers brushed against yours for half a secon, deliberate, teasing before he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Jake choked on a laugh. “Dude. You just dumped Hyejin in public and immediately came to claim your new girl? Zero chill.”

Jay shook his head, amused. “We literally just finished teasing her about the swollen lips. Timing is insane.”

Mina was staring between the two of you like she was watching a drama unfold in real time. “This is… a lot.”

Sunghoon ignored all of them, leaning down slightly so only you could hear. “Sleep well, baby?”

The memory of his mouth on yours, the way he’d gripped your hair, the low growl in his throat. It all rushed back. Your cheeks heated.

You shot him a defiant look even as your pulse raced. “Better than you, probably.”

His smirk widened. “True. I couldn’t stop thinking about how you tasted.”

Jake groaned loudly. “We’re right here, man.”

“Walk faster then,” Sunghoon replied without missing a beat, eyes never leaving you.

The five of you continued across campus together . Mina still in shock, Jay and Jake exchanging knowing glances and throwing occasional teasing comments, while Sunghoon walked dangerously close to your side.

Every now and then his hand would brush yours. Sometimes his shoulder bumped yours. He didn’t say much else, but the way he looked at you, possessive, heated, satisfied said everything.

The distance was gone.

And as the morning sun climbed higher, you realized something terrifyingly clear.

Park Sunghoon had decided you were his.

And he wasn’t planning on letting you go.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

That same night, the universe decided to throw gasoline on the fire.

A big off-campus party was happening at one of the third-year business majors’ houses. The kind with too many people, too much alcohol, and way too many bad decisions. Mina dragged you there saying you needed to “loosen up after the library incident.” Jay and Jake were already there when you arrived. And of course… so was Sunghoon.

The moment you walked in, his eyes found you through the crowd like a predator locking onto prey. He was leaning against the wall in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly hot. His gaze dropped to your still-swollen lips and darkened instantly.

The dares started innocently enough.

Truth or Dare in a crowded circle on the living room floor. Jake was the instigator, as always.

First few rounds were tame. Then Jay smirked and looked straight at you and Sunghoon sitting across from each other.

“Y/N. Truth or Dare?”

“Dare,” you said, refusing to back down.

Jay’s grin turned evil. “Kiss Sunghoon. On the mouth. Thirty seconds.”

The circle exploded with hoots and whistles. Sunghoon’s smirk was slow and dangerous as he leaned back, legs spread, waiting.

You crawled across the circle, heart pounding. The second your lips met his, the kiss turned hungry. His hand gripped the back of your neck, pulling you in harder, tongue sliding against yours like he’d been waiting all day for this. The thirty seconds felt like thirty minutes. When you finally pulled away, breathing hard, the whole room was losing it.

“Fucking hell,” Jake laughed. “That wasn’t a kiss, that was foreplay.”

Sunghoon’s eyes stayed on you the entire night, dark and promising.

More dares followed. Someone dared Sunghoon to sit you on his lap for the next three rounds. He did. Hands possessively on your hips, lips occasionally brushing your neck when no one was looking, whispering filthy little things in your ear that made your thighs clench.

Then came the final dare.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” Mina announced, spinning an empty bottle. It landed pointing directly between you and Sunghoon

The room erupted.

“Get in the closet, you two!”

“No escaping this time!”

Sunghoon stood first, offering you his hand with that signature dangerous smirk. You took it. The second the closet door shut behind you, the noise of the party became muffled.

It was dark. Tight. Just enough space for the two of you.

Sunghoon didn’t waste a single second.

He shoved you against the wall, mouth crashing into yours with raw hunger. This wasn’t the controlled tension from the library . This was weeks of frustration exploding.

“Been hard since I saw how swollen your lips were this morning,” he growled against your mouth, hands already sliding under your top. “Thinking about how they looked wrapped around my cock instead.”

You moaned into the kiss as he palmed your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples. His hips pressed forward, letting you feel exactly how hard he was through his jeans.

“Sunghoon—” you gasped.

He dropped to his knees fast, yanking your pants and underwear down in one rough motion. No teasing. No patience left. He threw one of your legs over his shoulder and buried his face between your thighs like a man starved.

His tongue was relentless. Licking, sucking, fucking into you while two fingers curled deep inside. You had to bite your hand to keep from crying out too loud. The wet sounds were obscene in the small closet.

When you came on his tongue, shaking and whimpering his name, he stood up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like it was nothing.

Then he spun you around, pressing your chest against the wall.

“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he rasped, already undoing his belt. “Been dying to feel this tight pussy since the debate stage.”

He pushed in with one deep thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You both groaned at the feeling. He was big, stretching you perfectly, and he didn’t give you time to adjust. Just started fucking you hard and deep, one hand over your mouth to muffle your moans, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck— so good,” he panted against your neck, biting down as he pounded into you. “This pussy is mine now. Say it.”

“Yours— Sunghoon, fuck—”

The seven minutes were long gone. No one came to get you. The sounds of the party continued outside while he fucked you like he owned you.

When he finally came, he buried himself deep and groaned your name against your shoulder, hips stuttering.

You stayed like that for a moment, panting, sweaty, his cock still inside you before he slowly pulled out and turned you around to face him.

He kissed you again, slower this time but still hungry.

“Told you I’d ruin you,” he whispered, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

The next few days after the party were a whirlwind of stolen touches, heated kisses in hidden corners, and Sunghoon’s sudden inability to keep his hands off you.

He walked you to every class. Sat with you in the cafeteria like it was the most natural thing in the world. Kissed you against your dorm door at night until Mina started banging on the wall telling you two to “get a room.” Jay and Jake gave up pretending they were bodyguards and just started roasting both of you instead.

But Sunghoon still hadn’t said anything official.

Until that Friday night.

It was raining again. That sharp, cold Seoul rain that always seemed to show up when things got intense. You were back in the 24-hour study lounge, the same place where everything had started. Only this time, Sunghoon was sitting right next to you instead of across the table.

You were trying to focus on notes when he suddenly closed your laptop.

You looked up, startled. “What—”

He turned toward you, one arm resting on the back of your chair, the other reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His dark eyes were serious in a way you’d rarely seen.

“I’m not good at this,” he said quietly, voice low. “The whole… relationship thing. I’ve never done it. Never wanted to.”

Your heart started beating faster.

He leaned in closer, forehead almost touching yours.

“But I can’t stop thinking about you. Not just fucking you. Though trust me, I think about that constantly.” His lips curved into a small, dangerous smirk for a second before softening again. “I think about you arguing with me. The way you don’t flinch when I get intense. The way you looked at me the morning after I dumped Hyejin like you were proud of me for finally choosing right.”

He took your hand, threading your fingers together.

“I don’t want anyone else looking at you. I don’t want anyone else touching you. I don’t want to hide this anymore.” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Be my girlfriend, Y/N. For real. Not just whatever the fuck we’ve been doing.”

The rain pounded harder against the windows.

Sunghoon’s usual cold mask was completely gone. He looked almost vulnerable, waiting for your answer like it actually mattered.

You smiled, slow and teasing, even as your chest felt too full.

“Took you long enough, Park Sunghoon.”

He let out a breathless laugh, the tension breaking. Then he was pulling you into his lap, kissing you deep and slow and sweet in a way he’d never done before.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “Officially. And I’m yours. Even when I’m an asshole. Even when shit gets messy.”

You kissed him again, softer this time.

“I know what I signed up for.”

He smirked against your lips. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”

The two of you stayed like that for a long time. Tangled together in the quiet lounge while the rain fell outside.

Later that night, when he walked you back to your dorm, he held your hand the entire way. No hiding. No games.

When you reached your building, he pulled you in for one last kiss, deep and claiming, before murmuring against your mouth:

“Girlfriend.”

You smiled. “Boyfriend.”

His eyes flashed with something warm and possessive.

“Say it again.”

You laughed softly. “My boyfriend.”

Sunghoon groaned, kissing you harder. “Fuck. I like the sound of that way too much.”

The next morning, the entire campus would know.

Park Sunghoon had a girlfriend.

And he wasn’t planning on keeping it quiet.

<𝟑 .ᐟ

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[soulenha]

Perverted Boyfriend ✴︎ Park Sunghoon

𑣲⋆ 박성훈 ❤︎ Fem!reader ✴︎ extremely suggestive mdni pervert behaviour freaky sunghoon masterbation oral [f!receiving] more...

⋆.𐙚 ̊ - Perverted boyfriend Sunghoon who loves you like a normal man from the out and hides his true perverted self from you. No reason why.

Haze' note : I do not support pervert behaviour. Just making it clear. I got inspiration from a Jungwon fic and decided to write a Sunghoon perverted fic after seeing how he knocked on the bathroom door while Sunoo was in it. Lol- I'm not saying Sunghoon is a pervert! Don't cancel me!!

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who cannot wake up and have a good day if he doesn’t eat you out first thing as his breakfast. He needs you dripping down his chin, legs trembling around his shoulders as your sweet release becomes his first ever source of food. 

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who randomly walks into the bathroom while you are taking a shower with you being completely unaware that he is there. He loves the thrill of just watching you while you were in your natural state while you were completely oblivious. 

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who records videos during intimacy and promises to not watch without you but always does because he loves jerking off to your pretty moans in risky places like his office cabin or a restaurant bathroom. Man is obsessed and down bad for you and he isn’t ashamed of it. 

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who sees you walk inside the bathroom and tries to get in, only to fail and pout when he realises that you locked the door and refused to open it for him to enter. He needs to be near you at all times, doesn’t matter the situation.

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who “borrows” your panties from your closet [please don’t] when you go out and uses it to pleasure himself until he has the entire bed soaked by his release because it was the only way he could be freaky without being seen as a weirdo by you. [This ain’t it]

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Gets extremely jealous but extremely hard when some other man tries to flirt with you because he loves seeing the man’s face twist with discomfort when they spot the peaks of hickeys around your collarbone. He loves making it loud and clear that you belong to him and only him. 

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who wakes up in the middle of the night with a hard-on simply because you cuddled him and then sucks your nipples through your shirt until he releases in his own boxers before going back to sleep.

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who loves having intimacy where they shouldn’t. Like a public park, in your parents or his parents house, at a restaurant’s unisex restaurant or a rollercoaster ride. Doesn’t matter the place, he needs to make you come around his fingers, his tongue or his cock everyday like it's a ritual. 

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who loves the thrill of getting caught in the act while in public with you struggling to keep your moans to yourself. He wants to leave his mark on you from everywhere you have been. From local places to foreign trips, he makes sure to fuck you right everywhere. 

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who takes secret pictures of you when you think you don't know. Lewd and non-lewd. His weird obsession of you having no idea what he has of you makes him feel like he would bust right inside his boxers while you both would be having a normal conversation.

PervertedBoyfriend!Sunghoon  -  Who randomly gets hard if you simply moan from pleasure of food or visiting a place or just a happy squeak. When it comes to you, he is the worst and the best man in every sense of morals. 

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