anjali

shit, this is red too. 🍎

[pandebonon]

hello there!!⠀\⁠(⁠๑⁠╹⁠◡⁠╹⁠๑⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠♬

©2006⠀ ⠀colombian⠀ ⠀eng/esp.⠀ ⠀writing blog⠀·⠀recs blog

not doing much stuff. drooling over svt and piwon is my only important daily activity. i also ramble about my academic life every once in a while.

gif not mine!! got it from this pin

[vernonverse]

BAMBI EYES ✶ Chwe Vernon

SYNOPSIS. Slowly falling in love with your plug.

PARING. Plug!Vernon x F!Reader.

GENRE | TAGS. One-shot, non-idol!au, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, smut.

WC. 14.9k+

RATING. Explicit adult content (MINORS DNI).

WARNINGS. Reader is dealing with anxiety, insomnia, mental health struggles, and here nobody believes in seeking medical help (apparently), just the plug, mentions of food, Scream (1996) spoilers (in case you never saw it), drug purchase, smoking, drug use, drug use before sexual activities, shotgunning, oral (f. and m. receiving), fingering, pussy eating, cum eating, multiple orgasms, blowjob, unprotected sex, dirty talk, hand kink, pulling out, cum-shot.

AN. I literally just brought this to another format, with a few small changes. And now I’m actually, actually back. Anyway, hope you enjoy it, and let me know what you think! <3

🎧 SOUNDTRACK. chocolate - the 1975, ojitos lindos - bad bunny, junk of the heart (happy) - the kooks, like real people do - hozier, disconnected - 5 seconds of summer, don’t come down - the maine, satellite - harry styles, fallin' for you - colbie caillat, drop dead - olivia rodrigo.

The streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. You pull your jacket tighter around your shoulders, checking the time on your phone screen for the fifth time in two minutes.

9:14 PM.

A very old blue jeep is parked halfway down the block, engine off, exactly where the dropped pin had indicated. As you approach, the driver’s side door clicks open.

Vernon steps out, casually pulling back the hood of his dark sweatshirt. He looks even more handsome than in the picture he sent earlier, which only makes you more nervous. His relaxed, unbothered posture immediately contrasts with your stiff and coiled tension. He leans against the car door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watches you close the distance.

You stop a few feet away, practically vibrating with nerves. “Vernon?”

“Yeah.” His voice is low, carrying a slight rasp. He doesn’t move toward you, leaving a comfortable gap between to let you dictate the space. “You’re Chan’s friend.”

“Y/N,” you supply quickly, voice slightly breathless.

It was Chan who gave you his number after seeing you have an anxiety attack. He said Vernon was the seller with the best prices and the best products, that his stuff would definitely help you relax, and that he was a reliable guy.

Which is what brought here.

Vernon offers a small, crooked smile. “Nice to meet you, Y/N.” He pause, his eyes scanning the empty street before settling back on you. “Chan said you’d be reaching out. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you’d actually show up after our texts earlier.”

“I... yeah.” You bite your lip hard, wrapping your arms around yourself against the night wind. “I’m sorry if the timing was weird, I just really needed to find a way to settle my head tonight.”

He nods slowly, his expression understanding. Vernon doesn’t treat your confession like a burden or a business pitch; he just listens. “No need to apologize. Chan’s a good guy. He wouldn’t have sent you my way if he didn’t think I could help you out.”

Vernon shifts his weight and reaches into his pocket. You instinctively flinch, taking a quick half-step back. The movement is entirely involuntary, a byproduct of the buzzing, suffocating anxiety that had driven you out here in the first place.

He freezes, slowly pulling his hand back out empty and resting it visibly on the roof of the car. His expression shifts, the casual politeness melting into something far more observant, and surprisingly gentle. He takes in the way your shoulders are practically up to your ears, the way your hands grip your phone and arms like a lifeline, and the wide, panicked look in your eyes.

“Hey,” Vernon says softly, dropping his voice a register. “Take a breath. You’re okay. I’m not here to make things harder for you.”

“I know, I just—” You swallow hard, embarrassed heat rising to your cheeks. “I’m not really used to this. Meeting strangers in the dark. It’s… a lot.”

“I get it. But you don’t have to look at me like I’m about to bite. You’re making yourself self-conscious.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening even further. “I am?”

“Yeah.” The corner of his mouth ticks up, and he scratches the back of his head. “Don’t be, though. It’s a compliment. Most people around here try too hard to look like they aren’t feeling anything.”

The tension in your chest doesn’t vanish, but the sheer directness of his gaze makes the frantic buzzing start to slow.

Vernon finally reaches into his pocket again, moving slowly and deliberately this time, and pulls out a small paper bag. He holds it out, stretching his arm far enough that you don’t have to step completely out of your comfort zone.

“Here. The mellow option, like you asked. Should help quiet things down.”

As you reach out to take it, your fingers briefly brush against his. His skin is warm against the chill of the night air.

“Thanks,” you murmur, finally feeling the tight band around your chest loosen.

“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and opens his car door, but pauses before sliding into the driver’s seat, looking over his shoulder one last time. “Get home safe. Let me know if you need anything else. And seriously, breathe. You’re doing fine.”

As his taillights fades down the empty street, you stand on the sidewalk and take your first full, deep breath of the entire day.

“Sorry for the odd hour,” you say for the thousandth time, pulling your cardigan tighter around yourself. “I just… I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut up. It’s okay if you want to charge me a delivery fee or something for the trouble.”

You’d been buying from Vernon for about a month. Almost every Tuesday, you left him a message to drop your usual order. Today, however, was Thursday, and you had been awake for nearly twenty-four hours without managing to close your eyes for even a single second. So you figured, why not see if he was awake and willing to sell you something strong enough to finally put you down?

And after a month of buying from him, you had decided it was okay to let him come up to your building floor instead of making him meet you out on the street. He had proven himself to be surprisingly reliable—exactly like Chan had promised you—, after one day when you could barely get out of bed, and he’d offered to bring your order up himself.

Now he was standing in the hallway of your building, looking like he hadn’t gotten much more sleep than you had, yet somehow far more awake than anyone had the right to be at this hour. And the craziest thing of all? He looked incredibly handsome, while you are pretty sure you looked hungover despite not having consumed a single drop of alcohol.

Vernon lets out a low, easy breath, shaking his head. “You’re good. I don’t sleep much anyway, so you’re not exactly interrupting a deep slumber.” He reaches into his pocket, his movements slow, as if he’s in no hurry at all. “Tell you what, I’ll give you the loyal customer discount tonight, Bambi.”

You blink, the name catching you off guard. “Bambi?”

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze softening as it fixes on yours.

“Yeah.” Vernon tilts his head, studying your face with an intensity that makes your heart skip. Then he points at his own eyes with his index finger. “It’s the eyes. Yours are big and curious… like you’re seeing the world for the first time.”

You feel a flush of heat creep up your neck, and you look down at your slippers, trying to deflect. Vernon does that quite often; making you blush so hard you never know where to hide your face, that is. You don’t even know if that’s his actual intention or if he’s just naturally nice.

“If that’s the case, then I must look like a really tired bambi. Bags under my eyes and everything.”

Vernon chuckles, the warm sound seeming to fill the empty hallway. “You still look cute, though.” He shrugs, far too casually for your liking. “Just… don’t go bolting into traffic or anything like that. I need my favorite customer in one piece.”

The blush deepens, spreading across your face until even your ears feel hot. You duck your head further, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

You wanted to know if he was genuinely flirting with you or if it was just something he said to all his clients. You were still confused about how you felt about those two possibilities, but the first was the only one that made your stomach do those strange, fluttery little flips.

“Oh, I’ve got a new indica blend coming in next week,” Vernon continues, his tone slipping back into his usual seller mode. “I’ll bring some by. It’ll help you sleep like a rock, I promise.”

You manage a small, shy smile, finally looking back up at him. “You’re like a specialized pharmacist at this point. Should I be tipping you extra, or will a thank-you card do it?”

A slight smile appears on Vernon’s face, and he straightens up and takes a step back, preparing to head toward the elevators, but he pauses to look you in the eye one last time, making sure the panic has truly subsided. The teasing light in his expression fades into something sincere and unexpectedly sweet.

“Neither,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “You being less anxious is enough for me. That’s the only tip I need, Bambi.”

He turns to leave, tossing a lazy wave over his shoulder and leaving you leaning against your doorframe.

The phone screen goes dark, but the words “anything you want” seems to burn brightly behind your eyelids.

For the past twelve hours, you’d been pinned to the mattress since your alarm first went off in the morning. But those three words from Vernon acted like a sudden shot of adrenaline straight to your heart, breaking the paralysis and making you throw the heavy duvet off and practically scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood floor with an urgent slap.

Your apartment was the physical manifestation of a terrible mental health week. Half-empty water bottles clustered on the nightstand, clothes draped over every available surface like exhausted ghosts, and a tragic pile of unopened mail sat on the kitchen counter.

“Oh God,” you mutter, grabbing a laundry hamper and sprinting through the living room.

Sweatshirts, socks, and a pair of jeans are aggressively lobbed into the laundry basket. Books that had been discarded on the floor are shoved haphazardly onto shelves. A collection of coffee mugs is swept into the sink and buried unceremoniously beneath a layer of dish soap bubbles just to hide the evidence.

You move at a dizzying speed, pausing only to catch your breath and aggressively fluff the flattened sofa cushions.

Despite the sheer panic of the impromptu cleaning spree, there’s an undeniable warmth spreading through your chest. You’re nervous, yes—your hands shake slightly as you kick a stray pair of sneakers into the hall closet—but beneath the nerves, you’re overwhelmingly happy.

Vernon is coming over. Not just to drop off your usual or make a quick exchange in the doorway, but just… coming over. To keep you company.

It hits you right then, standing in the middle of the slightly less disastrous living room, just how drastically things have shifted between you two. Somewhere along the line, the boundaries had blurred, melted, and completely re-formed into something entirely different.

Lately, he hasn’t just been your plug—he’s been your friend too. And you’ve been texting. A lot.

It had started innocently a few weeks ago, after he dropped off a new indica strain at your doorstep, one that worked a little too well on you. Pleasantly immobilized and entirely trapped in your own head, you had spent twenty minutes staring at your palms before deciding they actually looked like clouds, and texted him to give feedback.

Most people in his line of work would have ignored it, or maybe replied with a laughing emoji. But Vernon had replied three minutes later, and after a single text, a floodgate opened. The sheer relief of not being mocked, of having someone lean into the absurdity of the moment, made you feel unexpectedly safe with him.

The texts didn’t stop the next morning, when you sent a mortified apology and he replied with a picture of a fluffy cloud. From there, it became a daily routine with good mornings, random memes, complaints about the weather, late-night philosophical tangents, and very, very high debates. Vernon had slowly woven himself into the absolute fabric of your day-to-day life.

But today was Tuesday, and normally, by 2:00 PM on a Tuesday, you would’ve texted him for the usual. Except today, you didn’t. And when you didn’t, he texted you first to check how you were doing.

The conversation didn’t take long before Vernon calmed you down in his usual quiet, steady way, and then, casually as always, he offered to come over. And you accepted immediately—even if it was just for him to sit with you and keep you company—which had led you to this moment, where you’re trying to shove dust under the living room rug.

A firm knock at the door pulls you violently out of your thoughts.

Smoothing down your oversized sweater and taking one last, desperate look at the living room to ensure no rogue laundry was visible, you walk to the door and pull it open.

Vernon stands in the hallway wearing a faded gray hoodie with the strings pulled unevenly and a pair of jeans. But it isn’t his clothes that catch your attention; it’s his hands. He isn’t holding a small bag or his phone. He’s holding two massive, grease-stained brown paper bags from the twenty-four-hour diner down the street, along with a cardboard drink carrier balancing two milkshakes.

“Hey, Bambi,” he greets you, his voice carrying that familiar low rasp. The corner of his mouth ticks up into a soft, unmistakable heart-shaped smile. “Hope you like fries, because I bought, like, an insane amount of them.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” you breathe out, the last residual knot of anxiety in your chest instantly dissolving at the sight of him. You can’t believe how absolutely gorgeous he looks standing there in your doorway, looking like he just rolled out of bed, dressed in the most casual clothes imaginable.

“I know.” He shrugs, stepping past the threshold as you step aside to let him in. Vernon kicks his shoes off by the door with an easy familiarity that makes your heart flutter. “But you said you couldn’t get out of bed today. Which means you definitely didn’t cook. And I couldn’t have you passing out on me. I need someone to help me eat all of this.”

He carries the food into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. The smell of hot, salty fries, grilled burgers, and heavy diner food fills the apartment, instantly making it feel infinitely cozier, and your stomach lets out an angry, shameless growl.

You hover awkwardly by the armchair. “I... I really meant it, you know. I don’t have any cash on me. I feel awful making you drive all the way out here.”

Vernon stops unpacking the bags and stands up straight, turning to face you. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, his expression softening completely. He reaches out, his warm fingers lightly catching your shoulder, just enough to straighten you and make you look at him.

“I am not here for your money, Bambi.” The sincerity in his voice and eyes pines you to the spot. He has amazing eyes. “Nor am I here to be your delivery guy. I’m here because it’s Tuesday, you were having a bad day, and I wanted to see you. Do you understand?”

You bite your lip to suppress a smile, the warmth of his fingers sending a rush of electricity straight down your spine. “Yeah. I understand.”

He smiles softly. “Good,” he says, letting his hand drop, though his eyes linger for a second longer on your face before he turns back to the food. “Now, grab some napkins, Bambi. We’ve got a situation here with these milkshakes.”

You settle onto the floor, using the coffee table as a dining table. The food is incredible and exactly the kind of heavy, comforting, terrible-for-you meal that bypasses anxiety almost entirely and goes straight to the soul.

“Alright,” Vernon says around a mouthful of fries, leaning back against the base of the sofa. “We need a movie. Something that requires zero brain power but also something we can yell at.”

“Yell at?” you ask, dipping a fry into your milkshake. Vernon watches the fry-in-milkshake maneuver with mild disgust but don’t comment.

“Yeah. A classic. Something where the characters make terrible decisions and we get to judge them from our moral high ground on the floor.”

You scroll through a streaming service for ten minutes before finally settling on Scream.

“It’s the perfect choice,” Vernon argues as the eerie opening music swells through the television speakers. “The ultimate movie about teenagers who think they know all the rules of surviving getting absolutely humbled by another pair of teenagers in a cheap Halloween mask.”

“Sidney is actually smart, though,” you counter, pulling your knees to your chest. “She managed to not get killed in seven out of seven films.”

Vernon scoffs, pausing halfway through a bite of his burger. “Thanks to the power of being the protagonist, of course.”

You shake your head with a laugh. “Well, I stand by my opinion.”

He chews slowly, nodding as he points at you with his index finger. “A woman who stands her ground. I respect that.” You let out a small giggle, and Vernon swallows before continuing. “But she ran up the stairs instead of out the front door, Bambi. She literally locked the deadbolt and then trapped herself on the second floor when she had a clear shot to the yard.”

“It’s a classic trope!” you defend your point, laughing as Vernon rolls his eyes. You feel so at peace in his presence that you no longer remember a single thing that affected you in the last twenty-four hours.

“It’s a death wish! That was the entire problem!”

You eat and argue nonstop, the tension of the day bleeding out of you with every passing minute you spend in his presence. You debate the rules of surviving a slasher, whether you would actually make it out alive in Woodsboro, and roast the characters’ survival instincts.

“I know I would probably die,” you state with conviction, biting the end of the straw, “but it would never be because I went to investigate some strange, suspicious noise. Especially not if I were alone.”

Vernon chuckles, nodding along. “Ditto!”

You grab another fry, pointing it at the screen as Billy Loomis leans through Sidney’s bedroom window.

“Okay, but you have to admit, Billy and Stu are objectively very attractive. The whole ’90s grunge, floppy hair thing? It works.”

He pauses mid-chew. Slowly, his eyes slide from the TV to you, his expression flattening into an unimpressed, deadpan stare. “They look like they haven’t showered in a month.”

“Yeah, but look at the cheekbones,” you insist, another teasing smile breaking through the heavy exhaustion. “It’s attractive.”

“If the attractive is homicidal bedhead, sure.” Vernon scoffs, pointedly taking a long, exaggerated sip of his milkshake. “Good to know your bar is literally on the floor, Bambi.”

He shifts slightly, stretching his long legs out and casually crossing his arms, his tone perfectly nonchalant but carrying a subtle defensive edge.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous of fictional ’90s teenagers,” you laugh between words, the sound bright and entirely devoid of anxiety. It would be completely ridiculous if he were, considering he looked like he’d stepped straight out of a ’90s movie himself.

“I’m deeply concerned for your survival instincts,” he corrects smoothly, not missing a beat, though he aggressively dunked a fry into his ketchup. “Remind me to never let you go to a Halloween party alone.”

As the movie shifts from eerie suspense to full-blown terror, the food begins to take its toll. The frantic, anxious energy that has kept you awake for the last twenty-four hours is suddenly entirely depleted. The apartment is warm, the couch against your back is soft, and the low, steady sound of Vernon’s voice beside you is the most effective sedative you’ve ever experienced.

Without realizing it, you begin to slide sideways. The debate over whether throwing a landline phone at the killer was actually an effective evasion tactic fades into background noise. The edges of your vision blur, the flashing light from the television softening into indistinct, hazy color. With a soft sigh, your head tips over, landing gently against the solid, warm curve of Vernon’s shoulder.

On the screen, Tatum screams. In the living room, Vernon stiffens completely. He had been mid-sentence, ready to deliver a scathing critique of Dewey’s police work, when he feels the sudden weight against his arm. He stops talking immediately, his jaw snapping shut. Slowly, carefully, he turns his head just a fraction to look down.

Your eyes are completely closed, your breathing already deepening into the slow cadence of genuine sleep. Your face, which had been tight with worry and exhaustion when he first walked in the door, is now entirely smooth. The dark circles under your eyes remain, but the tension in your body is gone. You look very peaceful.

Vernon feels a strange, tight pull right in the center of his chest. He glances at the empty takeout bags, the half-finished milkshakes, and you currently using him as a pillow, realizing he’s never been happier to lose a Tuesday night’s worth of business.

He doesn’t dare reach for the remote to turn the volume down, afraid that even the slightest shift in his muscles will wake you. He doesn’t reach for his phone either, which is buzzing in his pocket with texts of customers he no longer cares about.

Instead, Vernon adjusts his posture by a millimeter, shifting his weight just enough to give your head a better angle against his shoulder. He carefully leans his own head back against the sofa cushions, letting out a long and silent exhale.

On the screen, the survivors run for their lives. In the quiet of the apartment, Vernon sits perfectly still, entirely content to stay trapped in this exact position for as long as you need to sleep.

The next day, when you wake up tucked comfortably into your bed, everything is organized, clean, and back in its proper place. And unless you somehow did all of this in your sleep, there’s only one person who could have done it, even if he’s nowhere to be found in the morning.

Vernon drives with an relaxed posture, one hand resting lightly on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the center console. He doesn’t press for conversation, letting the low volume of the radio fill the space between you. Every so often, you catch him stealing a quick glance in your direction, his eyes checking to make sure you’re still breathing easily.

About an hour ago, you’d texted him about how awful your day had been, and within minutes he was at your door, ready to take you for a drive to clear your mind.

After a couple of minutes of driving, the dense architecture of the city gives way to the open stretches of the coastal highway. The streetlights grow sparse, replaced by the vast, ink-black expanse of the sky. The air rushing through the slightly cracked windows shifts from the smell of concrete to the sharp and cold scent of ocean mist and salt.

Vernon finally slows the car, the tires crunching against gravel as he pulls into a deserted overlook. The headlights sweep across a wooden barricade before he kills the engine, plunging them into darkness. Out the windshield, the ocean stretches endlessly, moonlight catching the white crests of the churning waves below.

“I didn’t know you liked the beach,” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around your frame. The cold seeps through the glass, but the car’s heater still blows warm air at your feet, creating a perfectly cozy contrast.

“I don’t usually,” he shrugs, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shifts his weight, turning slightly in his seat so he can look at you. “During the day, it’s a nightmare. Too crowded, too loud. But at night… it’s different.”

You nod slowly, looking out at the horizon. “It makes everything else feel really small. The ocean, I mean.” You tilt your head slightly, stealing a quick glance at him before continuing. “You look out there and realize how massive it all is, and suddenly worrying about emails or… or literally anything else just feels completely irrelevant.”

“Exactly,” Vernon agrees, leaning his head back against the headrest. He watches the water for a long moment, his profile sharp against the dim light filtering in from the moon. “We construct this entire, agonizing reality inside our heads.”

He pauses, a quiet, almost self-deprecating chuckle escaping his lips. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes looking thoughtful.

“You ever think we’re just brains in jars imagining stuff?”

You blink, caught entirely off guard by the sudden existential pivot. A laugh bubbles up in your chest, breaking the solemn quiet of the car. “Brains in jars? Really? That’s where we’re going at three in the morning?”

“I’m serious,” he defends himself, though the corner of his mouth is ticking upward. “Think about it. How do you know any of this is real? Your brain is just locked in pitch-black darkness inside your skull, hallucinating a reality based on electrical signals. For all we know, we’re just sitting on a shelf in some laboratory, running a simulation.”

“Well, if this is a simulation,” you counter, turning to face him completely and pulling your knees up onto the seat, “then the developers seriously need to patch my software. The anxiety settings are dialed way too high, and the executive dysfunction glitch is making the gameplay terrible.”

Vernon laughs properly then, the sound that echoing in the small space of the Jeep cabin, his gums on full display. “I’ll submit a bug report for you. Tell the admins to turn down the overthinking slider and boost the serotonin drops.”

You want to tell him that this happens every time you’re in his presence, but you aren’t sure if it’s acceptable to flirt with your plug. It’s been two months since you met, and you’re still amazed by how being with him shuts down your nervous system and makes you forget everything. Even if it’s just a phone call, hearing Vernon’s voice calms you like no weed or medicine ever could.

“Please do,” you smile back, resting your cheek against your knees. “But honestly… even if we are just brains in jars, I think I’m okay with whatever hallucination this is right now. It’s the quietest my head has been in days.”

The teasing amusement in Vernon’s eyes softens, melting into something more tender. He reaches across the center console, his fingertips lightly brushing your arm before settling on the edge of your sleeve. It’s a grounding touch, anchoring you to the present moment.

It’s strange how entirely safe you feel sitting in a dark car on a deserted cliffside with a guy who, on paper, you barely know. But looking at him now—the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the attentive way he listens to every word you say, the quiet intelligence in his eyes—you realize he isn’t just a guy or your plug anymore. He’s becoming someone indispensable.

“I really appreciate this,” you whisper softly. You look down at his hand, which is still resting near yours on the console. “You didn’t have to stay with me today, and you definitely didn’t have to drive me out here. So… thank you, Vernon.”

The name hangs in the air for a second. Vernon doesn’t flinch, but a subtle shift ripples through his posture. He’s quiet for a long beat, his thumb tracing a slow, absentminded circle against the fabric of your sleeve.

“Hansol,” he corrects quietly, his voice dropping into a register so low it’s almost a whisper.

You frown, blinking in confusion. “What?”

He lifts his gaze, his eyes locking onto yours, a small smile on his lips. There’s a vulnerability there he usually keeps buried under layers of nonchalance and cool detachment. “My name… it’s Hansol.”

“Oh,” you breathe out, a rush of embarrassment suddenly heating your cheeks. You pull your hands back slightly, feeling suddenly stupid. “Sorry, I thought everyone just called you Vernon.”

The realization hits you like a bucket of cold water. Could Vernon be his moniker? A professional handle used to keep a safe distance between the guys selling drugs and the people buying them? That wouldn’t be unusual in his line of work.

But Hansol doesn’t let you retreat. He shifts his hand, catching your fingers gently before you can pull away completely. His skin is warm, his grip steady and reassuring.

“Some do. It’s my middle name,” he explains, his gaze unwavering. “But people close to me call me Hansol.”

He pauses, letting the weight of that categorization settle between you. He’s drawing a line in the sand, officially pulling you across the boundary from client to someone close to him. You bite your lip to suppress a smile that wants so badly to form on your lips as the thought settles, the bucket of ice water from seconds ago already beginning to warm.

“You don’t have to,” he adds, an uncharacteristic hint of shyness briefly flickering across his features. “I just don’t mind it from you.”

Your heart does a violent stutter against your ribs. The sheer intimacy of the admission is overwhelming. You look at his hand holding yours, then back up at his face. He is waiting, giving you the space to decide what to do with the information.

“So you’re saying I’m close to you?”

Hansol doesn’t hesitate, leaning in just slightly, his thumb continuing the slow circle over your knuckles. “You text me at 1 a.m. and I show up every time. You slept on my shoulder the other night. We’ve talked about everything and anything at this point. I’d say we’re close, Bambi.”

You feel the air leave your lungs. It isn’t just the words; it’s the matter-of-fact way he says them, like it’s the most obvious truth in the world. He’s acknowledging the bond you’ve built in the quiet hours between midnight and dawn, admitting that you’re more than just his client, while you try to ignore the butterflies battering against the walls of your stomach, desperate to escape their cage.

“Hansol,” you test his name out loud. It feels foreign on your tongue, yet somehow incredibly right.

A small, devastatingly heart-shaped smile breaks across his face at the sound of his name in your voice. “Yeah. That’s it.”

You stayed at the overlook for another hour, the atmosphere in the car fundamentally changed. By the time his Jeep rolled to a stop outside your apartment building, the sky had begun to bruise with the first deep purples and blues of early dawn.

“I guess this is my stop,” you observe hesitantly, not wanting to get out of his car and put an end to the moment.

“Looks like it,” Hansol says. “You gonna be okay today?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I think I am. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime, Bambi.”

You push the door open, stepping out into the crisp morning air, and turn back to look at him through the open door. “Drive safe, Hansol.”

“Always,” he replies, a smile lingering on his face at the sound of you saying his name. Then he leans across the passenger seat, catching the door frame to stop it from closing completely. Hansol tilts his head, eyes lazily tracking over your messy hair and the oversized sweatshirt you’re still wearing. “You looked extra Bambi today.”

The blush is instantaneous. It surges up your neck and floods your cheeks with a furious heat. Your jaw drops slightly, a flustered, embarrassed laugh escaping you as you struggle to find a comeback.

“Shut up!” you finally manage to stammer out, ducking your head to hide your flaming face.

Hansol lets out a low, victorious laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He pulls his hand back, letting you close the door, and you watch his taillights disappear into the morning light, your heart still racing.

Hansol doesn’t have much time tonight. His phone is already vibrating in his pocket with three other drop-offs pinned on his map, but when he reaches your door, his pace slows into effortless strides. He reaches out and gives the wood a lazy but firm knock.

When the door opens, the warm chamomile scent of your apartment spills out into the sterile hallway. You look tired as always but your eyes brightened the second they landed on him, dressed in his usual uniform of neutral colors, a hoodie pulled up just enough to frame his features, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Right on time,” you greet him, a smile spreading across your face as you lean against the doorframe where he usually stands.

He doesn’t say much at first, just offers a small, knowing tilt of his head as he hands over the plain brown bag. His fingers brush yours briefly during the exchange, a spark of heat that lingers longer than the transaction warrants.

You take the bag, your brow furrowing as you feel the weight and the shape of the contents inside. You peer in, eyes widening slightly. “Did you mean to put two in the bag?” you ask, looking back up at him.

“Yep,” he answers simply, his voice low and gravelly in the quiet corridor.

“But I only paid for one.”

“I know. The other one is on me.”

You hesitate, confused, chewing on your lower lip. “Is this like a promo, or are you high right now?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, that effortless charm radiating off him even in the dull atmosphere of the hallway. “Neither. You’ve had a rough week. Figured Bambi needed a little extra today.”

“That’s really sweet. But you don’t have to do that.”

He shifts his weight, closing the distance between you by just enough to make the air feel different. You hold your breath, acutely aware of how little space remains. Just a few inches more and your lips would touch.

“I want to.” Hansol’s voice is firm. “You’re not just a client. You know that, right?”

You look down at the bag, then back at him, your heart sinking into a slow, heavy thud. “Yeah. I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to assume.”

“Well, now you can assume a little,” he says, his gaze not wavering. “Also, tell me how that one hits. I picked it thinking of you, Bambi.”

You breath hitches. “You picked a strain thinking of me?”

“Yeah,” he replies nonchalantly, one shoulder rising in a casual shrug, as if he hadn’t just quietly flipped your entire world upside down. “Chill, warm, kinda sweet. Like you. Don’t overthink it.”

You let out a shaky laugh, leaning your head against the wood of the door. “Too late. I’m absolutely overthinking it.”

Hansol checks his phone screen, a flicker of genuine regret crossing his features. “I gotta go. Others are waiting,” he mutters, his gaze falling to your lips for the briefest moment before pulling back up to meet yours. “I wish I could stay longer.”

“Me too,” you admit without hesitating, looking up at him through your lashes. You don’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but it’s there, and it makes Hansol smile beautifully.

A genuine, incredibly warm smile breaks across his face at your words, not his usual confident smirk, but something entirely soft and real, gums showing and the heart shape of his lips coming back. He begins to back away toward the elevator, his eyes never leaving yours until he finally has to turn around.

He reaches the elevator and presses the button. Just as the bell chimes and the doors begin to groan open, you step out into the hallway, your voice echoing off the walls.

“Hansol!”

He pauses, one foot already inside the elevator. He turns his head, a playful, expectant look on his face. “What’s up, Bambi?”

“Nothing big,” you begin, hands gripping the doorframe behind you. “Just... wanted to know if you ever think about me when we’re not together or texting.”

He doesn’t even hesitate, the metal doors framing him like a portrait. “I think about you pretty much all the time.” he claims. “Even when we are texting.”

The honesty of it makes your stomach flip, the padlock that holds the butterflies in your stomach slowly loosening. “Good,” you manage softly.

“You’re flirting with your plug right now, Bambi,” he points out, his voice dropping an octave, teasing yet dangerously sincere.

“Maybe,” you counter, shrugging as a bit of courage grows. “Is that illegal?”

“Mm, no, not really. Especially if I flirt back.”

“And would you?”

The elevator starts to beep, a warning that the doors were going to close. He steps fully into the car, leaning his shoulder against the back wall, looking at you with a heat in his eyes that makes your knees weak.

“Have been for the past three months,” Hansol confesses, his smirk widening as the doors begin to slide shut. “Just hiding behind a lot of self-control.”

You let out a breathy laugh, your face flushing a deep crimson. “Hm. Self-control’s kinda hot.”

“So is the girl in her doorway,” he shoots back.

The doors click shut, severing the connection and leaving you standing in the hallway with a racing heart and a bag held tight to your chest. Behind those closed metal doors, Hansol is already checking his map for the next stop, but his mind is still back at that doorway.

When Hansol shows up at your apartment a few weeks later, you’re so nervous about the night’s activities that you almost forget how to open the door.

He’s wearing a simple gray shirt and black sweatpants, a baseball cap with the brim facing backward. He smells like soap, faint weed smoke, and something woodsy underneath it all. He leans against your doorframe the same way he’s been doing it for months now, and you are instantly, completely doomed.

Earlier this same day, you’d asked Hansol if he knew how to shotgun after the two of you saw it in a movie two nights before. Gently—and flirtatiously—he explained that it wasn’t that difficult, asking if you wanted to try it next time since it would involve the two of you getting closer than you ever had before.

Hansol always made you feel safe, and you knew he wouldn’t laugh at you, so you saw no reason not to try, even if there was still a chance you’d chicken out.

“You nervous?” he asks after you make room for him to come in. He slips off his shoes and tosses his keys onto the coffee table.

“A little,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

His mouth curves lazily, his eyes crinkling just a fraction at the corners. “Cute.”

You roll your eyes, quickly looking away. You have to. Because if you don’t, Hansol will see exactly how hard that single word hits, and then you’ll never recover.

You guide him toward the balcony where you usually light one up. There’s only one beach chair out there, something you bought at a thrift store right after moving in and renewed yourself. The balcony is so small that the chair is practically wedged between the railing and a tiny patio table, alongside a forgotten fern surviving purely on its own willpower.

After a brief, pointless argument about it, you let Hansol keep the chair while you lean against the railing with your back to the city. Your knees bump together with every small, abrupt movement any way, the balcony too cramped for there to be any real distance between you.

Hansol sets the tin on the tiny table and flips it open. You lean in slightly to get a better look at the contents.

“This isn’t your usual stuff,” he says by way of introduction. He’s not looking at you yet, just at the tin as he pulls out the papers, setting everything in order with that unhurried precision of his. “Just so you know.”

You look at it, then at him. “Should I be worried?”

“No.” Hansol says it simply. “I wouldn’t bring something that’d mess you up, Bambi. You just…” He meets your eyes for a second to reassure you even though he already knows you trust him blindly. “Your usual is too mellow for this. You’d just fall asleep on me.”

“I don’t fall asleep that easily.”

He gives you a look so unimpressed it makes you laugh. “You fell asleep the last time.”

You would argue it wasn’t really the weed; it was Hansol. With him, you felt safe enough to fall asleep whenever and wherever, to finally shut out everything that usually kept you awake.

After a couple weeks, it had become a routine: he’d make his deliveries, then stay a while to keep you company until you drifted off. Eventually, you started smoking together, and usually he’d just share whatever you normally rolled for yourself, never seeming too concerned about how hard it hit, just worried that you’d sleep soundly.

Something about the way he speaks, though—matter-of-factly, like he knows you too well by now—makes your chest feel like it’s leaping out of place before crashing back down where it belongs.

“That was different,” you finally say, resting your elbows against the railing behind you.

“You were out in twenty minutes, Bambi.”

“Well, I was tired.”

“You were cooked,” he counters, no judgment in his tone, just a fact. Because—shockingly—he knows your tolerance as well. Of course he does. “This is something in between. Hybrid. It’ll relax you, but it’ll keep you here. You’ll actually feel it without it running you over.”

You look at the bag again. “Where’s it from?”

“Same guy. Different batch.” Hansol picks it up again, turns it once in his fingers with the easy confidence of someone who can read these things on sight. “It’s good. Not complicated. You’ll like it.”

You believe him. That’s the thing about Hansol knowing exactly what you smoke—about him knowing you. He’s never steered you wrong. He remembers what worked, what didn’t, what made you text him at midnight saying never again. He filed it all away somewhere without making it a thing, and now he just knows.

“Okay,” you say, your teeth catching your lower lip.

Hansol smiles, and then he tears the paper with a casual precision that shouldn’t be interesting to observe. It is. You try not to examine that too closely as he spreads everything even, long fingers working slow and deliberate, and there’s something almost meditative about the way he does it, no wasted movement or fumbling. Just ease.

He rolls it between his palms, smoothing it down. Then he raises it to his mouth, the lick slow as he seals the edge, and runs his thumb along it afterward, pressing it closed with the kind of focus that makes you look up at the sky for a second because you have absolutely no business staring at his mouth or tongue.

A few seconds later, he holds it up once, looking quietly satisfied with his work. Then he flicks the lighter, the flame catching small and warm in the dim space of the balcony. He brings it to the tip, cupping his hand around it out of habit even though there’s barely any wind, and draws in slowly, the paper crackling faintly as the cherry burns bright orange and the scent of marijuana slowly surrounds you both.

He holds it in for a moment, then lets it out slowly through his nose, unhurried. A thin ribbon of smoke drifts upward toward the sky before disappearing completely. He takes another drag, longer this time, and leans back into the chair, his head tipping slightly against the wall behind him, eyes closing for just a second like he’s savoring it.

There’s no explaining the reactions moving through your body just from watching him in action. The aching tension low in your stomach, the way your thighs press together instinctively, the strange heat that blooms every time his mouth closes around the joint.

Almost as if he’s reading your thoughts, Hansol looks at you and holds it out. Not pushy or expectant, just offering you, his elbow resting on his knee and the smoke curling up lazily between his fingers. He watches you with that expression you still haven’t figured out how to read, somewhere between patient and quietly amused.

You take it from him and bring it to your lips without overthinking it, one elbow still resting against the concrete behind you, the light breeze pushing your hair back from your face. You wrap your lips around the joint and draw the smoke slowly into your lungs, letting it settle there for a moment and holding it for a beat. The warmth spreads through your chest in a slow unfurl that reaches all the way to your fingertips.

When you exhale, the smoke slips from your mouth in a thin stream, immediately snatched away by the night breeze. Hansol’s eyes follow it for half a second before they drift back to your face.

“There you go,” he says, voice low and approving enough to make heat crawl right back up your neck.

You take one more hit, feeling the night softening slightly, the city sounds below drifting to a different register, the small balcony going quieter around you. Then you throw your head back to exhale the smoke, watching it disappear into the dark sky above you.

When you lower your gaze again, you catch the way Hansol’s eyes have drifted down the line of your throat to your collarbone, lingering there for just a second too long. The look sends another rush of heat through you, and he notices you noticing. His gaze flicks back up immediately, but not before the corner of his mouth curves faintly, subtle and almost guilty, like he got caught staring but doesn’t regret it nearly enough.

You pass the joint back to him, and he takes it from you, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange without either of you commenting on it. Hansol holds it loosely between his fingers and watches you for a moment with that same unreadable patience.

“Feeling it?”

“A little.” You shrug lightly, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the weed. “Give it a minute.”

Another crooked smile tugs at his mouth as he nods. Hansol brings the joint to his lips, dragging in slowly before blowing another lazy cloud of smoke into the night air. “Good,” he whispers, smoke still curling lazily from between his lips.

You can’t explain why the sight feels so unfairly appealing, heat now unfurling lower in your body at something so simple. It’s not like you’ve never seen him do this before, because you did. Except tonight, everything about Hansol feels amplified somehow; his hands, his mouth, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Even the way he looks at you feels… different, settling somewhere beneath your skin and and camping there.

Hansol takes another hit, the cherry burning bright for a moment before he pulls the joint away. He holds it there, and you watch his throat move slightly as he swallows the smoke. His eyes are half-closed, fixed somewhere out toward the city. He looks completely unbothered in a way that makes you feel the exact opposite.

Then he looks at you as he exhales one more time, his eyes searching yours through the haze. His brows arch slightly, and his voice comes out lower, roughened by the smoke he was holding in. “Ready?”

A wave of shivers travels across your skin like it has nowhere else to go. The butterflies in your stomach aren’t just fluttering anymore, they’re frantic, crashing wildly against your ribs every time your eyes meet his beautiful, inviting brown ones.

You’ve been thinking about this moment in various versions ever since you sent that text this morning. You’ve been thinking about it in the abstract, in the safe, theoretical space of it’s just a thing people do, it doesn’t mean anything, plenty of people do this without making it weird. You’ve spent hours constructing a very reasonable internal argument about proximity and exhaled smoke and the entirely non-romantic history of the practice.

All of that argument completely falls apart the moment Hansol says the word.

You just nod, pressing your lower lip between your teeth again before whispering, “Yeah.”

He explains how everything will work, walking you through each step, and even pulls his phone out of his pocket to show you a TikTok video in case it’s easier to learn visually. And maybe it’s ridiculous, but you love the effort he puts into making sure you feel comfortable, safe, completely at ease with him.

Hansol then sets the joint down on the edge of the glass ashtray. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he shifts in your thrift-store beach chair, making space for you between his knees. Then he taps his thigh twice.

“C’mere, Bambi.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

The balcony is already tiny, but the space between the chair and the railing suddenly feels like a tightrope. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, not sure if you heard right, your heart doing a wild, erratic dance in your chest. Once again, Hansol doesn’t pressure you; he just waits, his hand resting casually on his knee, his brown eyes going completely dark and focused entirely on you.

Stepping forward, you slowly let go of your grip on the railing. Before your nerves can make you chicken out, you step into his space and sit down across his lap.

The shift in perspective is dizzying. Suddenly, you’re completely enveloped in his presence, somehow even more than before. The fabric of his shirt is thin enough that you can feel the solid heat of his chest underneath it. His hands move instinctively, settling firmly around your waist to steady you on his lap. His grip is grounding, holding you securely against him.

Looking down at Hansol, you realize just how close your faces are, the kind of close he mentioned earlier. With the brim of his baseball cap turned backward, there’s nothing shading his eyes. You can see every tiny detail of Hansol: the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the heart-shaped curve of his mouth, the tiny freckles scattered across his nose, the intensity in his gaze as he looks up at you.

“Still nervous?” His voice drops so low and raspy it sends another wave of shivers straight down your spine, and you can barely hide the way your body reacts to it.

Your hands slowly find a home against his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “A little more now,” you admit honestly, not finding any reason to lie or hide it.

“Don’t be.” Hansol lets out a breathless laugh that brushes against your lips, the vibration hitting your chest. “I’ve got you, Bambi.”

And you believe him.

Without ceremony, Hansol picks up the joint from the table and takes a long drag before turning fully toward you. When he leans in, it’s slow and unhurried, making you understand immediately that he’s giving you time to adjust, or back out, if you want to. Mostly, because he’s Hansol, and well… he does everything at his own pace while respecting yours just as carefully. Rushing doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.

You lean in too, not much, just enough to show him that everything’s okay, that you are okay with this, that he can proceed however he wants. And you can see the exact moment his expression shifts with understanding, settling in his eyes like he expected nothing less.

Hansol parts his lips and exhales smoothly. The smoke comes out slow, and you inhale it in through your lips exactly the way he taught you to, barely touching him, but close enough that the warmth of his breath folds into yours.

Your eyes close immediately, and you hold it in for a beat, then another, the whole world narrowing down to the inch of space between your mouths, the solid heat of his hands at your waist, and the distant sound of the city existing somewhere far below, fading into something completely irrelevant.

You let it out and open your eyes to find that Hansol still hasn’t moved back. He’s watching you attentively from beneath his lashes, and there’s nothing patient or unreadable about his expression anymore.

Perhaps the marijuana is clouding your better judgment, but the look in his eyes feels different now, focused in a way that makes your stomach do a double twist. He looks like someone who has already made up his mind and is simply waiting for the exact right moment to act on it, maybe searching for the perfect opening before finally giving in to what he’s been holding back.

You suspect it’s the same for him as it is for you.

When his gaze drops to your mouth, you’re convinced this new hybrid he bought is playing tricks on your mind, especially when his eyes linger there long enough to make your breathing go shallow before finally lifting back to yours again.

“Again.” Hansol’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s definitely not a question.

You don’t trust your voice right now, so you just nod.

He picks up the joint again and takes another slow drag, the cherry burning warm between your bodies. You watch his throat move as he holds the smoke in, and it absolutely shouldn’t make you all hot and bothered but it does. His hands still haven’t left your waist, one thumb tracing a small arc just above your hip—probably unconscious, probably not even something he realizes he’s doing—and somehow the touch burns straight through the thin fabric of your shirt

Hansol turns back to you even closer this time. Or maybe you’re the one who moved in closer. Truthfully, you stopped keeping track of who’s been closing the distance first somewhere minutes ago, if the distance between you even really exists anymore.

He exhales, and you inhale him in again, and this time, when it’s over, neither of you pulls away. You stay in the half inch that remains, sharing the same air, and letting the moment stretch itself, his eyes fixed on yours.

There had been a few moments during this strange new friendship with your plug when you’d caught yourself wanting him to kiss you, or wishing you had enough courage to kiss him first. But this was different. Now the desire felt overwhelming, practically screaming inside your head as you stared at his mouth from impossibly close range, silently hoping he could somehow read your thoughts and finally close the tiny distance still separating you.

“Hansol…” His name leaves your lips like a shaky plea. Maybe just to say something, maybe just to fill the space before it you swallows you whole.

“Yeah?” he murmurs back. His pupils are enormous, and just by looking at them, you think he already knows exactly what you’re thinking. “What do you want, Bambi?”

Your fingers tighten slightly against his shoulders, your pulse so loud you’re convinced he can feel it where your bodie1s are pressed together. “I—” The word catches in your throat before it can fully form.

For a second, all you can do is look at him, at the way his eyes keep flicking down to your mouth, at the patience still somehow woven through the tension sitting heavy between you. And then Hansol’s thumb drags slowly against your waist again, grounding and dangerous all at once, and your breath stutters.

His hand comes up to grip your jaw gently, thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth, and for one dizzy second you’re sure he’s finally going to kiss you. But instead, he keeps you there, close enough to feel his breath against your lips as his eyes lock onto yours.

“Tell me what you want, Bambi,” he breathes, voice rough and impossibly steady at the same time. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

“Kiss me. Please.”

The words come out almost breathless, but the effect they have on Hansol is immediate. His eyes darken even more, and everything you can’t read in his expression is in his pupils, which dilate even further, if that’s even possible. His thumb brushes once across your jaw, and for a second, he just looks at you, like he’s letting himself fully believe you mean it.

Then his mouth curves faintly at the corner, a flicker of almost disbelieving amusement in his gaze. “Yeah?” he murmurs again, his voice low enough to melt straight through you.

You nod before he’s even finished speaking, and that’s all it takes for Hansol to stop hesitating. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches over blindly, pressing the glowing cherry of the joint into the glass ashtray until it goes out completely. The second his hand is free again, it returns to your waist, his grip firm as he pulls you that final, infinite inch closer.

When his lips meet yours, the sheer relief of it makes you exhale a soft sigh right into his mouth. It’s everything you’ve been agonizing over for the past three months, amplified by a thousand.

It starts slow, exploratory and incredibly filled with the same patient precision he applies to everything else. Your hands slide up from his shoulders to tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, right beneath the edge of his backwards cap, and Hansol lets out the quietest grunt against your lips like he’s been wanting this just as badly as you have.

His hands at your waist tighten, pulling you flush against his chest until there’s nothing left between you. He adjusts you slightly so you’re seated more securely against him, surrounded by the solid warmth of his body, a jolt of electricity traveling straight down to your toes at the feeling of him pressed against you.

Tilting his head, Hansol parts your lips with his own, the kiss deepening into something that makes your head spin faster than any pot ever could. He tastes exactly like you imagined: sweet and earthy, like the lingering haze in the air around you, mixed with something unmistakably, comfortingly him.

The feeling of being held so securely, combined with the gentle, creeping warmth of the hybrid strain, makes everything around you fade. The apartment, the city sounds below, the cold night breeze, the small balcony; it all completely disappears. There is only the solid weight of Hansol beneath you, the steady, grounding grip of his hands on you, and the rhythm of his mouth moving deliciously against yours.

The butterflies in your stomach have ignited into a heavy heat that pools low in your belly as his tongue sweeps against your lower lip, coaxing you to open up more to him. You follow his lead blindly, completely lost in the sensation of his hands mapping the curve of your spine and his mouth devouring your every breath.

When you finally, breathlessly, pull back just enough to draw air into your burning lungs, you don’t go far. You rest your forehead against the brim of his cap, eyes closed, chest heaving. You can hear Hansol breathing just as heavily, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin along your jawline.

“You okay, Bambi?” he asks into the tiny space between your lips, a lazy, satisfied smile evident in the rough timbre of his voice.

You open your eyes to find him looking up at you with an expression so soft, so completely stripped of that unreadable patience, that it makes your heart ache in the absolute best way possible.

You nod, biting your lip to keep yourself from kissing him breathless again. “Better than okay,” you answer, nodding frantically, your hands sliding down to frame his face as you lean in briefly.

His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering along your jawline. Hansol’s voice is soft when he speaks, a faintly amused crease forming between his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“I’m great,” you assure him, leaning into his touch. You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh, still in disbelief at what just happened. You just kissed. No, you just kissed Hansol. “Didn’t expect tonight to go like that.”

Hansol’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Me neither. Not complaining though.”

Another flustered laugh escapes you, and you rest your forehead against his shoulder for a second to hide your face. “Just so you know... I literally asked you to come over to teach me how to shotgun. Not make out with me on my balcony.”

He hitches you a little higher on his lap. “Okay but... you didn’t exactly stop me.”

“I didn’t want to stop you,” you admit softly, looking back up at him, the honesty leaving you feeling completely vulnerable in his arms.

His gaze drifts down to your lips again, the air crackling with a heat that has nothing to do with the weed. “I want to kiss you again,” he confesses, his thumb brushing lightly against your lower lip. “Is that okay?”

You nod, too caught up in the intensity of his stare to manage words. Hansol leans forward, his hand cupping your jaw as he closes the distance between you again. He kisses you slowly once more, as though savoring every second. One hand slides from your jaw into your hair, while the other keeps you firmly anchored against him—not that you plan to go anywhere while he keeps kissing you like that.

You melt into his embrace, losing yourself in the taste of him further. You feel him grin against your mouth, his hands slipping under the back of your shirt to find the bare skin of your back. His palms are warm, and the slow drag of them up your spine makes you shiver. You feel the heat of his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, and it’s not enough. You want to feel his skin beneath your fingers.

When he pulls back this time, it’s only far enough to start peppering your jaw with kisses. Your breath hitches as his lips move lower, skimming down the column of your throat until you can feel the heat of his mouth even through your shirt.

“Hansol,” you gasp against the crown of his head, hands reaching up to push his cap down and thread your fingers into his hair. “The balcony isn’t very private.”

He hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t stop the delicious maddening, drugging kisses he’s placing along your collarbone. “Your neighbors can see?”

A moan escapes your lips when he bites your most sensitive spot. You shake your head, trying to force words out. “Just the people below.”

He pulls back to look at you with a crooked smile. Hansol rests his forehead against yours, hand still cupping your face. “Sorry. I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he admits, not a hint of shyness on his face.

“You have?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

“Of course I have.” Hansol chuckles, like it’s almost absurd to think otherwise, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “From the moment our eyes met.” He pauses briefly, then adds, “You’re impossible not to want, Bambi.”

Your breath hitches at his words, a blush spreading across your cheeks. “I want you too,” you whisper, suddenly feeling more bold. “I’ve wanted you since the first time I saw you under that shady streetlight.”

His grip on your waist tightens, his lips hovering just over yours. “Is that so?”

“It is.” You nod, unable to tear your gaze away from his.

With a single movement, Hansol stands up with you still in his arms, making you let out a small squeal as you wrap your legs around his waist to steady yourself, your arms linking around his neck, and face burying in the curve where his shoulder meets his neck.

He moves with an easy strength that makes your head spin, carrying you as if you weight nothing at all. The world tilts on its axis, the view of your tiny balcony shifting into a dizzying blur of city lights and dark sky. This side of him is almost enough to give you whiplash, but you can’t help but loving it.

As he moves, you inhale deeply, and the scent of him is a heady, overwhelming cocktail: the clean soap from his shower, the earthy tang of the weed clinging to his shirt, and something underneath it all that is just purely, intoxicatingly Hansol, something you’re still trying to figure out.

You feel him shift his grip, one hand supporting your thighs as he navigates the threshold of the sliding glass door. There’s a moment of slight awkwardness as he sidesteps into the living room, the cool night air replaced by the still, warm atmosphere of your apartment. But he doesn’t put you down. Instead, he kicks the door shut with the back of his heel, the soft thud echoing in the sudden silence.

The only light comes from the faint glow of the city filtering through the windows, casting long, distorted shadows across the room. It paints his features in soft grays and deep blacks, highlighting the line of his jaw and the curve of his lips. In the dim light, he looks less like your friendly neighborhood plug and more like a fantasy brought to life.

The effects of the weed hums pleasantly in your veins, a syrupy sensation that makes everything feel slow-motion and dreamlike. Every nerve ending in your body is awake and singing, amplifying the feeling of his body against yours, the texture of his shirt under your cheek, and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your chest.

Hansol crosses the small living room in three long strides and gently lays you down on the cushions of your couch. He doesn’t move away, though. He follows you down, one knee on the cushions between your legs, his hands bracketing your head as he leans over you. His body cages you in a welcome weight that makes you feel incredibly safe.

“You’re suddenly quiet,” he observes, his voice still a low, gravelly whisper.

His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, the simple touch sending a cascade of sparks across your skin. The hybrid strain he brought is doing exactly what he promised: you’re relaxed, your limbs heavy and pliant, but your mind is sharp, hyper-focused on him. Every tiny detail is magnified—the way his eyes seem to drink you in, the sheer heat radiating from his body.

“Just… processing,” you manage to breathe out.

A slow, lazy smile spreads across his lips. “Processing what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing vaguely at the space between you. “Us. And the fact that you just carried me out of my own balcony like I was a sack of potatoes.”

Hansol lets out a low chuckle. “A very cute sack of potatoes.” He leans down, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch. “I can process with you, if you want.”

You don’t need to answer. You just slide your hands from his shoulders up into his hair, your fingers sinking into the soft, thick strands. You pull his head down, and this time the kiss isn’t slow or exploratory. It’s hungry, desperate, a release of all the tension that has been building between you for months.

His mouth meets yours with equal force, his tongue sweeping past your lips to tangle with yours in a slick, heated dance. It’s messy and perfect and everything you’ve been craving. His hands leave the couch, one sliding down your side to rest possessively on your hip, the other threading into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he angles the kiss deeper.

A soft moan escapes your throat, and you feel him smile against your mouth. The sensation of his tongue in your mouth is an almost psychedelic experience. You can feel every texture, taste every note of him, the world narrowing down to the single, explosive point of contact between you, and it feels incredible.

His kisses trail from your mouth, hot and open mouthed, down the sensitive line of your jaw, to the frantic pulse fluttering at the base of your throat. You arch your back, granting him better access, your head tipping back against the cushions. His lips find the soft spot just above your collarbone, the same one he bit on the balcony, and he sucks gently, creating a pleasant pressure that sends a jolt of pure arousal straight to your core.

“Hansol,” you whine, your hips instinctively bucking up against him. The friction of his sweatpants against the thin fabric of your shorts is maddening.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and damp. He doesn’t stop his assault, his mouth moving lower, pressing kisses against the thin cotton of your shirt, right over your heart. You can feel the damp heat of his mouth through the fabric, while his tongue circles your nipple.

“I need…” You trail off at the feeling, not even sure what you’re asking for, just knowing you need more.

He seems to understand perfectly, pushing himself up slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. His gaze is dark and intense, his pupils blown wide. Add in the messy hair and swollen lips, and it’s the most insane, delightful sight you’ve ever seen in your life.

“I know what you need, Bambi.”

Without another word, he moves down your body. His hands find the waistband of your shorts, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He pauses for a beat, his eyes asking a silent question. You give a single, shaky nod, and that’s all he needs. Your shorts and underwear are gone in one smooth, efficient motion, tossed onto the floor beside the couch.

The cool air of the room hits your bare skin, and you shiver, a mixture of cold and raw, unadulterated anticipation. He stays there for a moment, kneeling between your legs, his gaze slowly, reverently, taking in the sight of you. The look in his eyes isn’t lecherous; it’s one of pure, unadulterated appreciation, and it makes a fresh wave of heat pool low in your belly.

You like to think getting high has stripped away your usual inhibitions, leaving you feeling bold and open beneath his stare. You part your legs for him, exposing your folds entirely, a silent, shameless invitation. His answering smile is devastating. He leans forward, his hands coming to rest on your inner thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there in slow, hypnotic circles.

“So beautiful,” he whispers, and you can just make out the slow smile forming on his lips. “Perfect fucking pussy.”

Hansol lowers his head, and his hot breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, making you gasp and buck against his hands. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the top of your mound before his tongue finally sweeps down.

The first touch is electric. It’s a broad, wet slide from bottom to top that makes your entire body jerk. A strangled cry escapes your lips, and your hands fly up, fisting in the fabric of the couch cushions beside your head. He chuckles against you, before he settles in, and you realize with a jolt that his earlier patience and precision have returned, now focused entirely on your pleasure.

If he wasn’t your plug, you’d swear Hansol was a cartographer, mapping every fold and crevice with his mouth. His tongue is relentless, sometimes teasing with light, feathery licks around the edges, other times pressing down with a firm, insistent pressure that makes you see stars and the world dissolves into pure sensations.

You can feel the rough texture of his faint stubble against your inner thighs, the slick heat of his mouth, the gentle pull of his suction. Your hands leave the cushions, searching blindly for purchase. They find his head, your fingers tangling desperately in his hair. You grip him tight, your body starting to writhe as he finds your clit and circles it slowly, deliberately, driving you mad.

“Hansol,” you moan, tugging gently on the hair your fingers are tangled in. He pauses, his mouth still pressed against you, and look up, eyes wide with a mixture of lust and confusion. “Want your hand, too.”

If there’s one thing the night has left you with, it’s the thought of his hands, especially the way it looked while he rolled the joint.

He chuckles, a low, breathy sound that vibrates against your thigh. He pushes himself up, moving from between your legs to hover over you on the couch. The sudden loss of his mouth makes you let out a small, complaining whimper.

“My hand?” he asks, voice not even trying to hide the amusement. He held up his right hand, palm open, presenting it to you like a sacred offering.

And you take it, your own hands trembling slightly as you hold his. You bring it to your lips, pressing a soft kiss to the center of his palm before turning it over and kissing each of his long fingers one by one. You study his long deft fingers with a devotee’s focus, your gaze tracing the road map of pretty blue veins beneath his pale skin.

Every detail of it turns you on enough so you take the pad of his thumb into your mouth, sucking on it gently, your eyes fluttering shut as your hips rolled up against his thigh in a slow, needy grind. The solid muscle against your bare pussy pulls an even needier moan from your throat.

A deep groan rumbles in his chest, pupils going wider. He leans over you, free hand bracing on the couch cushion beside your head.

“Jesus, Bambi,” he gasp, lips now brushing against the skin of your stomach, sending a fresh wave of shivers through you. “Then let me fuck you with it.”

You release his thumb with a wet pop and let his hand go. He reclaims it, eyes burning into yours, before he moves back between your legs. He doesn’t waste a second, leaning down, his mouth finding your folds again, his tongue lapping at your pussy with a renewed vigor that makes you cry out. At the same time, he slips one of his long fingers inside you.

The sudden fullness combined with the merciless work of his mouth is too much. Your senses overload, a wave of pleasure building higher and higher until you’re certain you’re going to shatter. You writhe against the couch, back arching, hips lifting off the cushions to meet the pressure of his mouth and hand.

“Please.” The word tears itself from your throat before you can think. “Hansol, please.”

He hums in response, adding a second finger and giving a harsh suck to your clit. His fingers curl inside you, hitting a spot deep within that sent a lightning bolt of pure ecstasy tearing straight through your body, while his tongue works faster and harder against your clit.

You grip his hair like an anchor against the raging sea of pleasure he’s created, pulling him closer, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp as the wave crests. “Oh, god, I’m—I’m gonna—”

He seems to take that as a challenge, tongue flicking even faster, fingers curling inside you with precision until they find the spot that undoes everything. The wave doesn’t crest so much as collapse, and then you break completely.

Your orgasm crashes over you, a blinding, white-hot supernova of pleasure that rips a scream from your lungs, no room for thinking of anything as trivial as your neighbors. Your body convulses, your inner muscles clenching tightly around his head. You grip his hair tighter, hips bucking wildly as the waves of pleasure roll through you, one after another, leaving you utterly breathless and spent.

Hansol doesn’t stop, though, continuing to lick and soothe you through the aftershocks until your trembling subsides and you melt into the couch, a boneless, quivering mess.

He finally pulls away, and you let out a weak whimper at the loss of contact. He moves up your body, his face slick, lips swollen. He looks impossibly pleased with himself, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. He leans down and captures your lips in a wet kiss, and you can taste yourself on him, the flavor musky and sweet and incredibly erotic.

When he pulls back, you’re panting, your mind a blissful, hazy fog. “Wow,” is all you can manage to say.

He giggles, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re very welcome, Bambi.”

You lie there for a moment, letting the last delicious tremors of your orgasm fade, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. The need to reciprocate, to give him even a fraction of the pleasure he just gave you, is practically a primal urge. You reach out, your hand landing on the front of his sweatpants. You can feel the thick, hard length of him through the soft fabric, and a fresh wave of desire cuts through your post-orgasmic haze.

“My turn,” you whisper, your voice husky.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, then swing your legs over the side of the couch. You sit up and look at him, at the hunger in his eyes. Without a word, you slide off the couch and onto your knees on the rug in front of him. Hansol’s breath hitches audibly while you reach for the drawstring of his sweatpants, fingers fumbling slightly.

He covers your hands with his. “You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

You just look up at him through your lashes, meeting his intense gaze, and give a slow nod. He removes his hands and leans back against the couch, giving you complete control. You pull the string, loosening the waistband, and then slowly peel the gray fabric down his hips, revealing the taut line of his stomach and the trail of thin hair that disappears below. You push the sweatpants down past his knees, along with his black boxer briefs, freeing him.

He is beautiful. Long, thick, and perfectly straight. A single, clear bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and your mouth waters. You reach out a tentative hand, fingers wrapping around his velvety length. Hansol groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through the floor, his hips twitching involuntarily.

You lean forward, your hair falling around your face like a curtain, and take him into your mouth. You start slowly, your tongue tracing the prominent vein that runs along the underside of his cock, following it all the way to the head. He tastes like an incredible mix of salt and musk, and you take him deeper, lips creating a wet, tight seal around him.

Hansol hisses through his teeth, hands coming up to fist in your hair, but his grip is gentle, reverent, nothing like the desperate way you clung to him moments ago.

“Shit, that’s it,” he breathes, the words barely holding together when you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.

You soon find a rhythm, bobbing your head up and down, one hand stroking the base of his cock in time with the movements of your mouth. You love the feeling of him filling your mouth, the way he pulses and hardens even further against your tongue. You love even more the sounds he makes, the low, broken groans and sharp intakes of breath that tell you exactly how good you’re making him feel.

He starts to move his hips, a slow, rocking motion that pushes him deeper into your throat with each thrust. You gag slightly, but it’s a good feeling, a feeling of being completely taken, completely used for his pleasure. You take him as deep as you can, your throat muscles contracting around him.

“Fuck, Bambi,” he grits out, his head thrown back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut. And you take a moment to appreciate this stunning view of Hansol. “You’re so good at this.”

His praise sends a thrill through you. You pick up the pace, your hand and mouth working faster, more desperately. You can feel the tension building in him, the way his whole body has gone rigid, his hips bucking more insistently against your mouth. You can feel the tell-tale pulse at the base of his cock that signals he’s close.

Just as you think he’s about to let go, he pulls back, his hands gripping your shoulders. “Wait, Bambi,” he gasps, his chest heaving. “Stop. I wanna be inside you.”

Hansol pulls you up from the floor, his movements urgent. You’re on your feet, swaying slightly, his hands firm on your hips. He doesn’t let you go. Instead, he hooks his thumbs into the hem of his own shirt and rips it over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the floor.

Before you can fully process the view of his bare chest, his hands are at the hem of your shirt. His fingers are scorching hot against the skin of your stomach as he pulls the fabric up and over your head, eyes never leaving yours as he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his.

The air is cool on your bare skin, but his gaze is molten hot. It drops from your eyes to your chest, and his breath hitches. His pupils dilate, swallowing the brown of his irises until they’re almost black. He looks at you with a kind of raw reverence that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, the word a prayer. “Bambi, you’re… incredible.”

He closes the small distance between you, and his hands, those beautiful hands you were just worshipping, come up to cup your breasts. The feeling of his palms against your skin makes you gasp. He holds you with a surprising gentleness, his thumbs stroking over your nipples, coaxing them into tight, aching points. You moan, your head falling back as you arch into his touch, a silent plea for more.

That sound seems to break whatever restraint he had left. He pushes you back gently, your legs hitting the edge of the couch, and you tumble backward onto the cushions. He follows you down immediately, settling between your parted thighs, his bare chest pressing against yours.

“You’re still so wet for me,” he growls against your lips, his hand sliding down between your legs to confirm his words. Your slickness coats his fingers instantly, and he circles your clit with his thumb, making you whimper.

“Please, Hansol,” you beg, your nails digging into his broad back. “I need you inside me. Now.”

He positions himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against you, teasing you. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a possessive glint. “Look at me, Bambi.”

You obey, your eyes locking with his. The connection is intense, electric.

And then Hansol pushes forward.

The feeling of him entering you is breathtaking. He moves slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by glorious inch. It’s a perfect, snug fit, a feeling of completion. You let out a long, shuddering sigh as Hansol sinks into you all the way to the hilt. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, letting you adjust to the size of him. He rests his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You feel… perfect.”

The sensation of being filled by him is almost overwhelming. You can feel every ridge, every vein, the incredible heat of him deep inside you. It’s as if your bodies were made for this.

He kisses the tip of your nose before saying, “So polite.”

He begins to move, in a rhythm that has your head spinning. He pulls back almost all the way, the sensation of his withdrawal a sweet torture, before thrusting back in, burying himself deep inside you again. Each thrust is a wave of pleasure, building on the last. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your face as he fucks you.

Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper. Your moans mix with his grunts, creating a pornographic symphony in your living room. The pace quickens, his slow thrusts turning faster, harder, more frantic. He’s no longer the patient, gentle Hansol you know; he’s a man driven by pure need, and you meet his energy with your own, arching your hips to meet his every powerful thrust.

The friction is building, the pleasure coiling tight and hot in your lower belly. The couch creaks in protest beneath you, the only sound apart from your panting breaths and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies colliding. He leans down, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking a new bruise into your skin as he thrusts into you relentlessly.

“You’re so tight,” he groans into your ear, his voice strained. “So fucking good, Bambi.”

You’re close again, so close. The world is nothing but a blur of sensations: the feeling of him filling you, the heat of his skin, the scent of his sweat, the sound of his voice calling your name.

“Hansol, I’m—I’m close!” you cry out, your voice breaking.

“Me too, baby,” he pants, his thrusts becoming deeper, even more frantic, slamming into you with a desperate intensity. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart around me.”

That’s all it takes. His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his cock deep inside you, push you over the edge. Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, even more intense than the first. Your vision whites out, a scream tears from your throat, and your inner muscles clench around him in a powerful, milking release.

You can feel that your climax triggers his, but instead of driving deeper, he rips himself out of you with a wet, slick sound that echoes in the quiet room. The sudden feeling of emptiness makes you gasp. In a single, fluid motion, he positions himself over you, his hips hovering above your stomach.His eyes are squeezed shut, face a mask of pure pleasure as his body goes rigid. You watch, mesmerized, as thick, hot ropes of his cum splash across your belly.

Hansol collapses beside you on the couch, his chest heaving as he shudders through the last aftershocks of his own release. He pulls you into his side, one arm wrapping securely around you. You both lie there for a moment, catching your breath, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

You look down at the pearly mess cooling on your stomach. Slowly, you lift a hand and dip your index finger into the thickest part of it. The texture is sticky and still warm. You lift your finger, your eyes finding his in the dim light, only to discover Hansol already watching you, his own gaze heavy-lidded and curious. You hold his gaze as you slowly bring your finger to your mouth, sucking the tip clean.

A groan escapes his throat, a sound of pure, astonished pleasure. His arm tightens around you, pulling you impossibly closer until your bodies are flush against each other. “You’re going to be the death of me, Bambi,” he rasps, his voice with a mixture of exhaustion and renewed desire.

He buries his face in your hair, and you melt into him, tangled together in a heap of sweaty limbs. The hazy, blissful fog of the weed settles over you like a warm blanket, cocooning you in the aftermath of pure, unadulterated bliss. His body is heavy and grounding next to yours, and you’ve never felt more safe, more sated, in your entire life.

The night was nothing like you expected, and everything you never knew you wanted.

But just then, an afterthought—one that doesn’t belong in this moment at all—surfaces and slips out before you can stop it. “Was that just because we were high?”

The light in Hansol’s eyes instantly softens, replaced by a profound, heavy sincerity that pins you to the spot. He reaches up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his touch incredibly gentle.

“Absolutely not,” he says, his voice steady and absolute. “At least not for me. I wanted you the first time I saw you. I just didn’t wanna mess up what we had, but being around you is kinda messing me up anyway. In a good way.”

Your heart skips a beat, a massive wave of warmth blooming in your chest. The butterflies have completely escaped their cage by now, flying far, far away.

“So what are you saying?” you ask softly. “You like me?”

“A lot more than I could describe probably.” Hansol nods, his brown eyes shining. “But yeah, I do like you. You’re stuck in my head all the time, Bambi.”

You look at him, a wide smile breaking across your face, completely erasing any residual trace of executive dysfunction or anxiety. “What if I like you back?” you tease, tilting your head and resting your chin on his chest.

Hansol’s smile turns incredibly bright, a boyish expression of pure relief taking over his features as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, holding you closer.

“Then I’m the luckiest plug in this city.”

# NAVIGATION | MASTERLIST | PERMANENT TAGLIST

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[noniesgummysmile]

no i'm not listening to christmas music rn, why do you ask?

[quinnhypen]

fine line. - (k.sy)

Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi)  x f!Reader

When you and Soonyoung have a long complicated history of hooking up and being all over each other, he ends up deciding to pull the “let’s just be friends” card. Though you try to get over him, see new people, it just isn’t the same. They aren’t Soonyoung. What doesn’t help is that he gets jealous every single time you show interest in anyone but him. A long period of time full of misunderstanding leads to complicated feelings between the both of you.  Word Count: 12.3k Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung (Hoshi)  x f!Reader  Genre: it’s always been you, yearning hoshi, YEAAARRRNING HOSHI, jealousy, right person wrong time, right person right time, misunderstanding, happy ending :D, hoshi wants you sooooo bad its actually ridiculous, roommate seokmin :P Warnings/Things to make note of!: a little bit of angst at the end, mentions of hooking up/sex no smut!!!! Heavy making out :P i thinkkk thats it? A/N: hiiiiii! I had so much fun writing the last vernon one and i love the idea of that “it’s always been you” type of writing so i needed to write one about lover boy yearning boy hoshi! I really hope you love this, i really love how it turned out and please enjoy :D

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Fifteen times…”

The number hangs awkwardly in the air.

Seokmin stares at you for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m sorry, let me get this straight. You hooked up with Soonyoung fifteen times last year?”

Heat immediately rushes to your face. You focus on your hands instead, picking at the skin beside your fingernail as if it might somehow save you from this conversation.

“Yes.”

“Fifteen times,” he repeats, sounding more horrified than impressed.

You groan. “Can you stop saying it like that?”

“How else am I supposed to say it?” Seokmin asks. “You told me you and Soonyoung were just friends.”

“We are friends.”

“Friends don't sleep together fifteen separate times.”

“It wasn't that serious.”

“That's somehow making it worse.”

You finally look up and find him staring at you like you've just confessed to committing tax fraud.

“It happened over the course of a year,” you argue weakly.

“That doesn't help your case.”

You sink further into the couch cushions.

Seokmin studies your expression before narrowing his eyes. “Was the sex even that good?”

You shrug. “It was fine, I guess.”

The lie leaves your mouth effortlessly.

Unfortunately, Seokmin knows you too well.

“That's a lie.”

“No, it isn't.”

“It absolutely is.”

You look away. Because the truth was that it had been great. Every single time.

Soonyoung had a way of making everything feel easy. What started as a one-time mistake somehow became late-night texts, movie nights that ended with you staying over, and mornings spent lingering in bed longer than either of you should have.

You'd told yourself it was casual. Convenient. Nothing more.

But casual wasn't supposed to leave you thinking about someone long after they walked out of a room. Casual wasn't supposed to make your stomach flip whenever their name appeared on your phone. And casual definitely wasn't supposed to hurt.

Eventually, there had been a conversation. One you'd seen coming and still weren't prepared for.

You remembered sitting across from Soonyoung at his kitchen table while he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

“Maybe we should just be friends,” he'd said.

Just friends. Such a simple phrase for something that felt strangely devastating. You remembered forcing a smile and agreeing immediately, pretending it didn't bother you.

“Yeah,” you'd replied. “Friends sounds good.”

And that had been the end of it.

Your mind, however, had never fully accepted the arrangement.

You still remembered how his hand felt in yours. You still caught yourself comparing everyone else to him. You still found yourself wondering, on your weakest days, whether he ever thought about those nights the same way you did.

“Wait,” Seokmin suddenly says.

You blink. “What?”

His eyes widen as realization dawns on him.

“Oh no.”

Your stomach immediately drops.

“What?”

“You still like him.”

You let out a short laugh. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“I'm serious.”

“Seokmin—”

“You still like Soonyoung.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first time you slept with Soonyoung was definitely not the way you expected your night to go. 

“Come out with us, please,” Seokmin begged from where he was sprawled across your couch. “You've been working all week.”

Joshua sat beside him, laughing at the dramatic expression on Seokmin's face. “I don't think I've ever seen someone this desperate.”

You glanced down at your laptop. Multiple tabs were open, unfinished work staring back at you accusingly. You had planned on spending the entire night catching up on everything you'd fallen behind on, and going out was the last thing on your mind.

“I have work to do,” you argued weakly.

“You'll still have work to do tomorrow,” Joshua replied.

“That's not helping your argument.”

“It's not supposed to.”

Seokmin sat up immediately. “Come on. It's just a small get-together at Seungkwan's place. A few people from college are going to be there. We'll stay for a couple hours and bring you home.”

The fact that he had already planned out your transportation home told you he wasn't going to let this go.

With a long sigh, you closed your laptop.

“Fine.”

Seokmin practically cheered.

An hour later, the three of you arrived at Seungkwan's house. Music drifted through the rooms while groups of old friends occupied every available couch, kitchen stool, and corner. It wasn't a huge party—just enough people to fill the house comfortably.

You immediately recognized several faces from college and exchanged hugs and quick conversations as you made your way inside. It felt strange seeing everyone again after so long. Familiar, but distant at the same time.

The second you stepped into the living room, however, Seokmin grabbed Joshua's arm.

“Kitchen.”

“For drinks?” Joshua asked.

“For drinks.”

Before you could protest, they disappeared into the crowd.

“Wow,” you muttered. “Abandoned immediately.”

“Rough.”

The familiar voice made you turn.

Soonyoung stood beside you holding a drink, a lazy smile already on his face.

You recognized him instantly.

You and Soonyoung had shared the same major in college and ended up in several classes together over the years. You'd worked on projects together once or twice, exchanged notes before exams, and occasionally chatted before lectures started. Beyond that, you weren't particularly close.

Still, you'd always noticed him.

It had been hard not to.

Even now, years later, he was still annoyingly attractive.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey.”

“How've you been?”

The conversation started easily after that. Easier than you expected, actually. You learned he'd already had a couple drinks, just enough to loosen him up. He also now lives with Seungkwan which wasn’t shocking since they were roommates from the start of college to the end. Within minutes the two of you were talking as though you'd known each other far better than you ever had in college.

At one point you found yourself looking in the kitchen trying to spot Seokmin and Joshua. You locked eyes with Joshua who gave you a light smile and immediately started looking back at Seokmin who was downing probably his third shot of the night.

Soonyoung laughed. “You want one?”

“I want several.”

“That's the spirit.”

A few minutes later, the two of you were taking shots together at the kitchen island. 

One shot became two.

Two became three.

By the time you found yourselves sitting together on the back patio, your cheeks felt warm and everything seemed significantly funnier than usual.

“Honestly,” Soonyoung said, shaking his head, “I feel like we should've been friends in college.”

“Right?”

“We had the same major.”

“We literally had, like, four classes together.”

“Five.”

“Five?” You stared at him.

“I counted.”

You laughed.

“That's weird.”

“Maybe a little.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly. Stories from college turned into stories about work, mutual friends, and embarrassing memories neither of you had thought about in years. The longer you talked, the more natural it felt. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like reconnecting with an old classmate and started feeling like catching up with an old friend.

Which was probably why the alcohol loosened your tongue enough for you to make a terrible decision.

“You know,” you said, pointing at him with your drink, “I always thought you were cute in college.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze.

Soonyoung blinked.

You blinked.

“Oh my God.”

You immediately covered your face.

“Did I say that out loud?”

His laugh was instant. “You did.”

“No, I didn't.”

“You absolutely did.”

“Pretend I didn't.”

Unfortunately, his grin only widened.

“You thought I was cute?”

“This conversation is over.”

“No, I like this conversation.”

You groaned.

The look on his face was making everything worse.

For a moment, he simply stared at you before his smile softened.

“For what it's worth,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I thought you were really beautiful in college.”

Your stomach flipped.

“And honestly?”

His eyes met yours.

“I still do.”

The way he said it sent warmth rushing through your entire body. It wasn't casual. It wasn't friendly. It was undeniably flirtatious and you felt suddenly very aware of how close he was sitting.

“Soonyoung,” you laughed nervously.

“What?”

“You are laying it on very thick right now.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“I can't help it. You're beautiful.”

You immediately pointed at him.

“See? That's exactly what I'm talking about.”

He just smiled.

A dangerous smile.

The kind that made your heart beat faster.

You shook your head, laughing as you looked away.

“Oh my God,” you muttered sarcastically. “Just kiss me already.” You joked, though you knew you meant it.

Soonyoung's eyebrows lifted. Silence settled between you for a split second. Then he smiled.

“Okay.”

To your complete surprise, he leaned forward, one hand brushing lightly against your arm before he closed the distance between you.

Then he kissed you.

And it was far from perfect.

There was the unmistakable influence of vodka lingering between the two of you, making it a little clumsy and a little rushed. But neither of you seemed to care.

What made it memorable wasn't the technique. It was the feeling behind it.

It felt like months—maybe years—of missed opportunities crashing together at once. Every passing glance in college. Every conversation that never happened. Every moment you'd thought he was cute and immediately talked yourself out of doing anything about it.

Now he was standing right in front of you, kissing you like he'd been waiting for an excuse.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were laughing.

"Wow," you said breathlessly.

"Yeah."

Neither of you moved very far away.

You glanced through the patio door toward the crowded house. Suddenly remembering reality, you pulled out your phone.

"What are you doing?" Soonyoung asked.

"Preventing Seokmin from interrogating me."

His laugh was immediate.

You quickly opened your messages.

You: Found Jun! Haven't seen him in forever. We're gonna catch up tonight, so I'm probably sleeping over at his place.

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Seokmin: Jun???

Seokmin: Since when are you and Jun close?

You: Since literally college.

Seokmin: Hm.

You: Don't start.

You shoved your phone back into your pocket before he could ask any more questions.

The grin on Soonyoung's face told you he'd already figured out exactly what you'd done.

"You lied so easily."

"I had to."

"You could've just told him the truth."

"Absolutely not."

The two of you exchanged a look before immediately dissolving into laughter.

A few moments later, Soonyoung held out his hand.

"Come on."

Your eyes dropped to it.

Then back to him.

"Where are we going?"

His smile widened.

"Away from everyone."

You took his hand.

The second your fingers intertwined, a nervous excitement settled into your chest.

Together, you slipped back inside. The house felt louder than before. Music echoed through the rooms while conversations overlapped from every direction. Somehow, despite the crowd, it felt like you and Soonyoung existed in your own little bubble.

You followed him through clusters of old friends and familiar faces, trying—and failing—not to smile. At the staircase, he glanced back at you. Still holding your hand. Still smiling. The sight made your stomach flip.

The upper floor was significantly quieter. Most of the guests had stayed downstairs, leaving the hallway dimly lit and peaceful compared to the chaos below.

You barely made it to the top of the stairs before he stopped.

"What?" you asked. You laughed nervously. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because this is kind of insane."

"What is?"

"You."

You groaned. "Oh, here we go."

"I'm serious."

"Soonyoung."

"No, think about it." He shook his head dramatically. "I spend years thinking you're ridiculously pretty, then somehow tonight you're sitting next to me telling me you thought I was cute too?"

You covered your face.

"This conversation is embarrassing."

"It's my favorite conversation I've had all year."

You rolled your eyes, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Before you could even finish rolling your eyes, Soonyoung had your back pressed against the wall moving his hands up and down your sides, kissing your neck. 

You let out a slight chuckle. "Can we please just go to your room before someone comes upstairs and witnesses whatever this is?"

"So eager." He says in a low tone, hot breath against your neck.

You laughed and lightly shoved his shoulder.

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

And with one last teasing smile, he led you farther down the hallway as the noise of the party faded into the background. Before you knew it, you were underneath Soonyoung on his navy bedsheets and waking up, both fully undressed to bright sunlight peeking through his windows. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After that night, the two of you fell into a rhythm neither of you ever bothered to define.

You told Seokmin that you had reconnected with Soonyoung, but you conveniently left out the part where nearly every visit to his apartment ended the same way. At first, it was just hookups—late nights tangled in navy bedsheets and mornings spent pretending neither of you had plans for the day.

But somewhere along the way, things became more complicated.

The hookups turned into coffee runs and movie nights. Not every hookup ended with a date, but every date somehow ended with the two of you back in his bed. It was almost impossible to keep your hands off each other.

Being close to him became second nature.

You'd curl against his chest while some random movie played in the background, his fingers absentmindedly combing through your hair as he asked question after question about your life. He wanted to know everything—your favorite childhood memory, your dream vacation, the songs you played on repeat when you couldn't sleep.

And every time he discovered something you had in common, his entire face would light up. Sometimes his excitement would get the better of him. The moment he realized there was another piece of you that matched with him, he'd pull you closer, kissing you with a kind of enthusiasm that made it seem impossible for him to go more than a few minutes without touching you.

It became normal.

The good morning texts. The lazy afternoons spent doing absolutely nothing. The way he'd instinctively reach for your hand when the two of you walked somewhere. The way he'd save space for you on the couch without even thinking about it.

Neither of you talked about what it meant.

You didn't ask. And he never explained.

So the days kept passing, and the line between whatever this was and whatever it wasn't became blurrier and blurrier until eventually it stopped feeling like a line at all. 

It simply became the way you and Soonyoung worked.

Until one morning, it didn't.

You had stayed over the night before. Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows while the two of you sat across from each other at his small table, eating cereal straight from oversized bowls. Soonyoung was making some ridiculous joke about one of the movies you'd watched the night before, and you nearly choked on your milk laughing.

Everything felt normal. Comfortable. Safe.

Then he set his spoon down. You noticed the shift immediately.

"What?" you asked, still smiling.

His eyes dropped to his bowl before lifting back to yours.

"I've been thinking about something."

Something in your stomach tightened.

"Okay..."

He scratched the back of his neck.

"I think..." He hesitated. "I think maybe we should just be friends."

The words hit you so hard you almost forgot how to breathe. For a second, all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

Friends. Just friends.

As if the last few months had been simple enough to fit into a single word. As if he hadn't spent countless nights wrapped around you. As if he hadn't memorized every little detail about your life. As if he hadn't looked at you like you were the most fascinating person he'd ever met.

Your chest ached. But you forced your face to stay neutral. Forced your hands not to shake around your spoon. Forced yourself to swallow the lump forming in your throat.

So instead, you shrugged.

"Oh."

Soonyoung watched you carefully as you managed a small smile.

"I thought that's what we always were."

The second the words left your mouth, they felt like glass. They scraped against your throat on the way out.

Because they were a lie.

And the worst part was that you wished they were true.

For a moment, Soonyoung just stared at you.

His expression flickered with something that looked almost like shock, like that wasn't the answer he'd expected.

"Oh," he said quietly.

You looked down at your cereal before he could see the hurt threatening to surface.

"Friends," you repeated lightly. "Yeah. That's fine."

The silence that followed felt heavier than anything that had ever passed between the two of you.

And for the first time since reconnecting with him, Soonyoung looked completely unsure of himself.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The month after that conversation shifted in a way neither of you acknowledged out loud. At first, it was subtle—missed texts here and there, plans that used to fall into place easily now taking more effort, more hesitation. You still saw Soonyoung, but not like before. Not the effortless rhythm you’d slipped into without thinking, the kind that made his apartment feel like an extension of your own life.

Coffee runs became occasional. Lunches happened sometimes, squeezed between schedules instead of stretching into long afternoons that ended with you back in his bed. And there were no more nights that blurred into mornings. No more waking up tangled in navy sheets like it was the most natural thing in the world. Just distance. Not cold, not angry—just carefully unspoken.

And somehow, that made it worse. Every time you sat across from him, you wondered if he missed it too—not just you, but that version of you two. The one that didn’t have labels or boundaries or clarity. You wondered if he was seeing someone, if he had already moved on in a way you were quietly afraid of, and you hated that you were still wondering at all.

You told yourself you were fine. Friends was fine. Friends was what he wanted, what you agreed to, so you acted like it was enough. Even when it wasn’t. Even when it felt like you were slowly adjusting to a version of him that had been stripped of everything that used to make your chest tighten in a different way.

Still, something settled eventually. A new normal formed—quiet, steady, uncomplicated on the surface. Just friends. And you kept telling yourself you were okay with it, even if deep down it felt like something inside you was wearing down piece by piece.

Then it hit you one night, quietly and without drama, that he wasn’t going to change his mind. Not later, not suddenly, not after realizing he missed you the way you missed him. You were tired of waiting for a moment that probably didn’t exist.

A few nights later, you went out with Soonyoung and Seokmin. The bar was loud and warm, full of overlapping conversations and dim lighting. You sat between them at first, listening more than talking, until you noticed a familiar face from college approaching. Minghao looked at you with easy recognition, like no time had passed, and greeted you casually before drifting into conversation with Seokmin.

A moment later, Seokmin came back to the table without him. “He wanted to ask about you,” he said offhandedly.

You frowned slightly. “Ask what?”

Seokmin hesitated. “If you were single.”

Your stomach dipped before you could stop it. “And?”

“I told him yeah… but he said he wanted to ask you out.”

The air around the table changed. You felt it before you even looked at Soonyoung. When you did, he was staring into his drink, jaw tight, completely still in a way that didn’t match the situation. Not relaxed, not indifferent—just off.

“Oh,” you said lightly, like it meant nothing. But Soonyoung’s grip on his glass tightened. Seokmin suddenly found the table very interesting.

You tilted your head slightly. “Why are you acting weird?”

“I’m not,” Soonyoung said immediately.

“You are.”

“I’m not,” he repeated, too fast to be convincing.

You nodded once, like you accepted that answer, then turned to Seokmin. “Can you give me Minghao’s number?”

Seokmin blinked. “Uh—yeah, sure.”

Soonyoung finally looked at you then, properly, like he hadn’t expected that to come out of your mouth. You didn’t flinch. You just pulled out your phone and, right there in front of him, opened it and started typing.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, Soonyoung was at your place like he’d been so many times before—like nothing had shifted at all. He was stretched out on your bed, one arm behind his head, the other holding his phone as he played some game with quiet focus. The room felt strangely normal again, like it had slipped back into an older version of itself where nothing had ever been complicated.

You stood in front of your mirror, holding up different outfits against your frame, half talking over your shoulder. “Okay, this one’s cute, right? Or is it too much for coffee?”

Soonyoung didn’t look up right away. “It’s coffee. Wear whatever.”

You huffed lightly and changed into another option. “That’s not helpful.”

“It’s not supposed to be,” he said, finally glancing up for half a second before going back to his phone. “It’s just coffee.”

You turned to him, narrowing your eyes a little. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m not,” he said immediately, too quick.

“You are,” you repeated, slipping on another top. “I think this one’s good though.”

“Sure,” he said, voice flat in a way that didn’t match how often he kept looking over at you when he thought you wouldn’t notice.

You ignored it, though something about his tone lingered in the back of your mind. Instead, you smoothed the fabric down and checked yourself in the mirror again, a small smile creeping onto your face. “I’m kind of excited.”

That finally got a reaction. Soonyoung’s fingers paused on his screen for a second. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, adjusting your sleeves. “He seems nice.”

“Mm,” he replied, going back to his game, though his attention didn’t fully return to it.

You turned slightly, doing a little spin like you were testing the outfit. “I mean, it’s just coffee, but still.”

“Right,” he said again, but it came out a little more clipped this time.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw tightened slightly, or the way his phone screen stayed lit longer than it needed to while he wasn’t really playing anymore.

Instead, you grabbed your bag and nodded decisively at your reflection. “Okay, this is the one.”

Soonyoung barely looked up. “Looks fine.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you walked past him. “Wow, supportive.”

He let out a quiet sound that might’ve been a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his face.

A few seconds later, you were halfway out the bedroom door. “Stay here until I get back later, or mingle with Seokmin. Do whatever. I’m gonna show Seokmin my outfit! ”

“Of course you are,” Soonyoung muttered under his breath, but you were already gone.

You hurried down the hall and found Seokmin in the living room. “Okay, rate this,” you said immediately, spinning once in front of him.

Seokmin looked up from his phone and grinned. “Oh, I love that. That’s perfect for a first coffee date. You look really good.”

Your face lit up a little. “Right? I thought so too.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “Minghao’s so lucky!.”

You laughed, smoothing your hands down the outfit one more time, feeling lighter for a moment—excited, easy, uncomplicated.

Behind you, down the hall, Soonyoung stayed in your room longer than he needed to, his phone still in his hand, screen dimming as he didn’t touch it at all.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The date with Minghao went better than you could’ve expected.

It wasn’t overwhelming or intense in the way first dates sometimes felt. It was easy. Coffee turned into a walk, which turned into more talking than you realized you were capable of doing with someone you’d barely reconnected with. He listened without interrupting, laughed at the right moments, and somehow made you feel like you didn’t have to perform anything at all.

By the time you made your way back home later that night, your cheeks still felt warm from smiling too much.

The house was quiet when you stepped inside, the kind of quiet that meant it was late enough for everything to be winding down. Seokmin was on the couch in the living room, baseball game playing softly on the TV, a blanket half draped over his legs.

He glanced over immediately. “You look like that went really well.”

You tried to hide your smile and failed. “Was it that obvious?”

He snorted. “You’re glowing. So yeah.”

You kicked your shoes off, still grinning. “It was good.”

Seokmin nodded, eyes already drifting back to the game. “I’m heading to bed soon, but I need full details tomorrow.”

“Deal,” you said, laughing softly.

Then you hesitated. “Is Soonyoung still here?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin said. “Think he’s asleep though. He hung out with me then went to your room earlier.”

“Oh,” you murmured, a little quieter now. “Okay.”

Seokmin gave you a small look, like he could sense something in your tone, but didn’t say anything. “Night.”

“Night,” you replied, already moving down the hallway.

Your steps were slow, careful, like you didn’t want to disturb the stillness of the house. When you pushed your bedroom door open, you found him exactly where Seokmin said he’d be.

Soonyoung was sprawled across your bed, fully asleep, one arm tucked under his head, the other resting loosely against the sheets. His breathing was even, face relaxed in a way you didn’t see often when he was awake and trying to keep everything contained.

For a moment, you just stood there.

Then you quietly closed the door behind you and started changing into comfortable clothes, moving as silently as possible. You grabbed a spare blanket and pillow from your closet, intending to just settle on the floor like it was nothing unusual.

You didn’t want to wake him. He looked too peaceful for that.

Within minutes, you were sitting on the floor beside your bed, arranging the blanket and pillow into something halfway comfortable. You glanced up at him once, just briefly.

And that was when it hit you.

Harder than you expected.

The date had been good—really good. You liked Minghao. You liked how simple it felt. How easy it was to talk, to laugh, to just exist without overthinking every moment.

But it reminded you of something you’d been trying not to think about.

How easy things used to be with Soonyoung, too.

Coffee that felt like dates even when you never called them that. Movie nights that ended with you both laughing too much, too close, until it stopped being about the movie at all. Nights that blurred into mornings without any effort, like the world had quietly agreed to leave the two of you alone.

Now you were here instead.

Going out with someone new.

Coming home excited.

And still ending the night in the same space as Soonyoung—but not in the same way at all.

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

You looked away quickly, blinking hard, but it didn’t help much. Tears still gathered anyway, quiet and unwelcome, slipping in without asking permission.

You pressed your lips together and turned onto your side on the floor, facing away from the bed.

Eventually, exhaustion pulled at you. You didn’t even notice yourself falling asleep.

A few hours later, you stirred at the faint sound of movement above you.

The room was dim, lit only by streetlight slipping through the curtains. You blinked slowly, disoriented, until you realized someone was leaning over the edge of the bed.

Soonyoung.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice rough with sleep. “You wanna get in the bed?”

You barely processed the question. “No,” you mumbled, shifting slightly under the blanket. “It’s fine. You can have it.”

He paused for a second, still half-draped over the mattress, then spoke again more softly. “The bed is big enough for both of us. It’s okay.”

You hesitated, eyes too heavy to argue, thoughts too slow to fully catch up. After a moment, you gave a small, tired nod.

“Okay,” you muttered.

Soonyoung moved back first, making space without another word.

You pushed yourself up slowly and climbed into the bed, careful to keep distance even in your half-asleep state. There was plenty of room between you when you settled in—too much, almost—but you didn’t have the energy to adjust it.

The mattress shifted slightly as he laid back down.

And then the room went quiet again.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, the house was still half-asleep.

Seokmin didn’t emerge from his room, which meant he had either stayed up too late or had decided the world could function without him for a few more hours. Either way, it left the kitchen quiet in a way you actually appreciated.

You stood at the counter making coffee for you and Soonyoung, the familiar routine feeling almost too normal after the night before. The sound of the machine filled the space while you moved around it on autopilot, still trying not to think too much about how you’d ended up falling asleep next to him in bed and how little distance there had been between you both when you woke up, one of his arms draped over you almost accidentally holding your hand as if it was second nature.

When you turned around, Soonyoung was already there.

Hair messy, eyes still a little heavy with sleep, leaning casually against the doorway like he’d been there longer than you realized. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched you for a second before stepping inside.

“Morning,” he muttered.

“Morning,” you replied easily.

You handed him a mug without thinking. He took it, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second before he leaned against the counter beside you.

“So,” he said after a beat, voice light, too controlled. “How was it?”

You glanced at him, then shrugged with a small smile that you hoped looked effortless. “Good. Really good actually.”

“Yeah?” he asked, like it didn’t matter, like he wasn’t listening a little too closely.

“Yeah,” you said again, stirring your coffee. “He’s easy to talk to. We just walked around for a while after coffee. It was nice.”

Soonyoung hummed softly, nodding once. “Sounds fun.”

You kept your tone light. “It was.”

A pause settled between you, comfortable on the surface but not quite all the way down.

Then he tilted his head slightly. “So he didn’t, like… bore you to death or anything?”

You let out a laugh before you could stop it. “No. Surprisingly not.”

“Wow,” he said dryly. “Impressive.”

You rolled your eyes, still smiling. “Don’t be rude.”

“I’m not being rude,” he said, sipping his coffee. “I’m being honest.”

That made you laugh again, softer this time, shaking your head as you leaned back against the counter. “You’re ridiculous.”

He shrugged, but there was something off in the way he looked at you—something he quickly masked with another sip of coffee.

A moment later, he added casually, “Finally, though. Someone’s taking you out besides me.”

You blinked, then laughed again automatically, assuming it was just one of his usual jokes. “Oh my god.”

But as the sound left you, something tightened in your chest.

Because it was funny.

It was.

And Seokmin said things like that all the time, teasing you about how often you and Soonyoung used to be together, how naturally you fit into each other’s space.

So you laughed. Of course you laughed.

“I know,” you said lightly, shaking your head. “Poor you.”

Soonyoung let out a quiet huff that might’ve been a laugh too, but it didn’t reach his eyes the way it should’ve.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Things with Minghao stayed casual after that—easy in a way that didn’t demand too much from you.

Lunch plans became frequent, usually during breaks in both your schedules. Sometimes coffee turned into longer afternoons where you walked without really deciding where you were going. He was consistent, steady in a way that made things feel uncomplicated. He didn’t push, didn’t rush, didn’t overthink the pauses in conversation the way you sometimes did.

At one point, he even came over to the house.

Seokmin had invited him without much ceremony, like it was the most natural thing in the world. You’d been in the kitchen when he arrived, laughing at something Seokmin said, when Soonyoung walked in a few seconds later and immediately stopped short.

It wasn’t obvious. Not to anyone who didn’t know him.

But you noticed.

Soonyoung was awkward around Minghao in a way that didn’t quite match his usual energy. A little quieter, a little slower to respond, like he wasn’t sure where to put himself in conversations that didn’t involve you directly. He still joked, still smiled, but it felt delayed, like he was catching up to the moment instead of existing in it.

Minghao didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t comment on it.

And you… you tried not to think about it too much.

Because the more time you spent with Minghao, the more Soonyoung started to change around you.

It wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t dramatic. It was made of small things that didn’t seem like anything on their own.

You were texting someone when Soonyoung would join you and Seokmin for dinner more often, your phone lighting up beside your plate.

You started dressing a little differently when you knew you were seeing Minghao—putting in slightly more effort without even consciously deciding to.

Plans with Soonyoung got postponed sometimes because you were “busy,” your voice light when you said it, like it didn’t matter.

And you smiled at your phone more than you used to.

It wasn’t intentional. None of it was.

But to Soonyoung, it started to stack.

Things that used to feel like they were his—at least emotionally, in the unspoken way they’d once existed between you—were suddenly being directed somewhere else. And that was when it started.

Not loudly. Not in any way that anyone else would pick up on.

But Soonyoung began noticing everything.

The way your attention shifted the second your phone buzzed. The way you’d pause mid-conversation, eyes softening slightly when you read a message. The way you’d laugh a little differently when talking about Minghao, like there was something lighter in it.

And he hated that he noticed. Because it didn’t feel like jealousy at first. It felt like irritation he couldn’t explain.

Like discomfort sitting somewhere under his ribs that he couldn’t shift no matter how many times he told himself it didn’t matter.

But it did.

It kept him awake longer than he meant it to.

Lying in bed after you’d text saying you were going to sleep, or after you’d left a room, or after another casual hangout where you’d mentioned Minghao again without realizing how much space he was starting to take up in your life.

Soonyoung would stare at the ceiling and replay things he didn’t want to think about.

Your smile at your phone. Your “I can’t, I have plans.”

The way you seemed… lighter. Happier.

Just not around him in the same way anymore.

And he told himself it was fine. He told himself this was what he wanted.

Just friends. That was what he’d said.

That was what you’d agreed to.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks passed like that—casual, carefully balanced, and never quite as simple as it looked from the outside.

You were still seeing Minghao, but nothing about it had deepened in the way people usually expected. It stayed light on purpose. You liked him—you really did—but you also kept a quiet distance you never fully explained, even to yourself.

Because no matter how easy he was to be around, there was still a part of you that didn’t fully let go.

A part that still belonged, inconveniently, to Soonyoung.

Soonyoung, meanwhile, stayed in your orbit like he always had. Comfortable, familiar, unavoidable. It had slipped back into something that looked almost normal again—him in your room, you on your bed, talking about nothing important while time passed around you instead of between you.

He was sitting at the edge of your bed while you were folded into your chair, scrolling through your phone between conversations. The air was relaxed in the way it always was when you were alone together—soft, unguarded, easy to mistake for something more stable than it actually was.

Then Soonyoung leaned back on his hands and said, completely out of nowhere, “Remember when we used to hook up? Isn’t that so funny?”

You froze.

Not dramatically, but enough that it was noticeable.

Your eyes flicked up to him immediately. “What?”

He shrugged like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just reached into something you had carefully avoided naming for weeks. “I mean, it’s kind of funny. We were so… whatever that was.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced your expression to stay even. “That’s a weird thing to bring up.”

“Why?” he said, smiling a little. “It’s true.”

You stared at him for a second longer than you meant to, then looked away, trying to recover your tone. “Yeah. Sure. Hilarious.”

Soonyoung watched you for a moment, like he was testing something, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You’re acting like it was a crime or something.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly.

But your voice was a little too fast. A little too defensive.

He noticed. Of course he did.

Then, like he always did when he got comfortable, he added with a small tilt of his head, “I mean… you weren’t exactly complaining back then.”

It was light. Teasing. Familiar.

But it hit you harder than it should’ve.

Your brain short-circuited for half a second, memories flashing too quickly to ignore—him laughing against your neck, the way he used to look at you when there was no space left between you, the way he used to say your name like it meant something more than it was allowed to.

You blinked, forcing yourself to stay still.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, rolling your eyes like it didn’t land anywhere inside you. “You’re unbelievable.”

Soonyoung grinned slightly, clearly pleased with himself. “What? I’m just saying.”

And then, softer, almost absentmindedly, he added, “You’ve been a lot more serious lately, though.”

That made you look at him again. “Serious?”

He nodded once. “With Minghao.” The name landed differently when he said it.

You straightened slightly, caught off guard. “What about it?”

Soonyoung shrugged. “Nothing. Just… you’re different when you’re talking about him.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, careful laugh. “That’s called liking someone.”

“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. Then, after a beat, he added, lighter again, “Weird.”

You scoffed. “You’re the one who brought up our past hookups out of nowhere.”

That earned another grin from him, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “Fair.”

He leaned back again, stretching out on your bed like he belonged there without thinking about it. “Still,” he said casually, “kind of funny how that was a whole thing.”

You didn’t answer immediately, because your thoughts had already started to scatter.

The ease in his voice. The way he was looking at you. The way he could say things like that without hesitation.

It made your brain do something dangerous—something that almost felt like hope before you forced it back down.

So you just smiled faintly. “Yeah. Funny.”

But Soonyoung was watching you more closely now.

Not in a teasing way. In a quieter, more observant one.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the next couple of weeks, you still saw Minghao. On paper, it was exactly what you were supposed to want. But nothing about it fully settled the way it should have.

Every time you were with him, there was a quiet sense of misalignment you couldn’t quite explain. Not discomfort, not boredom—just a subtle wrongness that sat underneath everything else like a low hum.

It wasn’t him.

It was you.

You noticed it in small moments you immediately regretted noticing at all. The way you compared how easy it was for Minghao to keep a conversation steady to how effortlessly Soonyoung used to derail one just by laughing too hard at something stupid you said. The way Minghao would politely wait for you to finish speaking, and your mind would, unfairly, flash to the way Soonyoung used to interrupt you just to argue for fun, like your words were something he couldn’t help but react to.

You hated that you did it.

Hated it even more that it was automatic.

Because Minghao didn’t deserve to be measured against someone who still lived in the background of your thoughts like a reflex you couldn’t break.

He was good. Genuinely good.

And that made it worse.

You were sitting across from someone who was offering you something steady and real, while your mind kept drifting back to something unresolved, unfinished, and impossible to fully replace.

You’d laugh with Minghao, enjoy the moment, even mean it when you said you had fun—but afterward, when you were alone again, the feeling never fully stayed. It slipped through your fingers like something you hadn’t managed to hold properly.

And you started to notice a pattern you didn’t like.

You were never fully present.

A part of you was always elsewhere.

And the worst part was that Minghao was starting to feel it too, even if he didn’t say it outright. There were pauses where he studied you a little more carefully, moments where his smiles softened like he was trying to figure out what version of you he was actually getting.

You didn’t blame him. You wouldn’t have wanted this version of you either. Because deep down, you knew what the problem was.

You weren’t confused. You weren’t torn between two people in any real sense. There was only one person who still occupied the space you couldn’t seem to clear. And every time you tried to step forward with someone new, it felt less like moving on… and more like stepping around something you were still standing too close to.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You started trying to do things differently after that.

Not by forcing yourself to feel something that wasn’t there, but by actively refusing to let your thoughts drift backward every time you were with Minghao.

It took effort at first—more than you wanted to admit. Your mind still tried to pull you toward familiar patterns, old comparisons, old habits of thought that circled back to Soonyoung without permission. But each time it happened, you gently redirected yourself.

Focus here. Not there. And slowly, things started to shift.

Minghao noticed it too.

You were more present now. You laughed more freely, responded without hesitation, let conversations stretch without overanalyzing every pause. The tension you hadn’t even realized you were carrying began to ease, and with it, the time you spent together felt smoother, lighter, more natural.

It didn’t feel forced anymore. It felt like something that could actually grow.

One evening, Soonyoung was over while you were getting ready for a date.

He had arrived earlier, like he often did, letting himself settle into your space without ceremony. He was on your bed again, scrolling on his phone, occasionally commenting on something Seokmin had said from the other room, acting like the world was normal and unchanged.

You were in the hallway putting the finishing touches on your outfit when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” you called automatically.

Soonyoung didn’t think much of it at first. He barely looked up.

Until he did. Until he heard your voice brighten slightly at the door. And until he saw Minghao standing there.

Minghao was smiling at you like he was happy to see you, and you were smiling back in a way that felt different now—less uncertain, more open. More sure.

Soonyoung stayed where he was, but his attention locked in without him meaning to.

Then Minghao did something simple.

He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to your forehead.

Soft. Casual. Sweet in the most effortless way possible.

Like it meant nothing to anyone except maybe you.

“Hey,” Minghao said quietly. “Ready?”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Give me a second.”

You stepped back inside briefly to grab your bag, talking lightly as you moved around the room.

Soonyoung didn’t say anything. He didn’t even realize how still he had gone until after the door closed behind you both.

The apartment was suddenly too quiet. Seokmin called something from the other room, but Soonyoung didn’t respond. Because all he could think about was how easy it had looked. How natural it had felt. How Minghao had touched you like it was allowed. Like it was deserved. And that was the part that stuck. Not jealousy in the obvious sense. Not anger. Something quieter. Heavier.

Because for the first time, it fully clicked into place in a way he couldn’t ignore anymore.

Someone else was treating you like you were something precious. Something worth being gentle with.

And Soonyoung—still sitting there, still in the space you had once shared in every possible way without ever naming it—realized with uncomfortable clarity that he didn’t just notice it.

He wanted it.

He wanted to be the one who got to look at you like that.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed in a way that felt quieter on the surface, but not necessarily easier underneath.

You and Minghao still weren’t official, but what you had settled into was steady in its own way—casual, exclusive, unspoken in the places that mattered most. There was no rush to define it, no pressure hanging over either of you, just a consistent presence that made your weeks feel anchored in something stable.

And for the first time in a while, you stopped bracing yourself every time your phone lit up with his name.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real enough to keep going.

Soonyoung noticed the shift in a different way.

He didn’t come over as often anymore before your dates. At first it was subtle—an excuse here, a delay there—but eventually it became consistent. If Minghao was picking you up, Soonyoung wasn’t around. If you were coming home late, he was already gone.

It wasn’t something anyone addressed directly. But it changed the rhythm anyway.

What didn’t change was that he still ended up hearing about things.

Because you still told him.

You didn’t do it to hurt him. You didn’t even fully think about it most of the time. It just… came up. Like talking about your day, like mentioning plans with Seokmin, like anything else that existed in your life.

One evening, you were sitting on your bed while Soonyoung scrolled through his phone at your desk chair, legs spread casually like he belonged there without question.

“I think we’re kind of past the ‘just coffee’ stage,” you said lightly, glancing at your screen. “It’s still not official, but it’s consistent.”

“Mm,” Soonyoung hummed, not looking up. “Exclusive-ish.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Basically.”

There was a pause.

Then you added, almost absentmindedly, “We hooked up last week.”

Soonyoung didn’t move at first.

Then his thumb stopped mid-scroll.

“Oh,” he said after a second, voice carefully neutral.

You didn’t notice the way his jaw tightened slightly, or the way he shifted in his seat like he was trying to adjust something uncomfortable that wasn’t physical.

You just kept talking. “It wasn’t weird or anything. Just… happened.”

“Right,” he said again, a little quieter this time.

For a second, neither of you said anything.

Then Soonyoung leaned back slightly in the chair, finally looking at you. “So that’s where we’re at now?”

You frowned a little. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged, forcing something casual into his tone. “Just keeping track of your romantic timeline. Seems like I’m falling behind.”

It was a joke. Light. Familiar.

But something about the way he said it made your brain catch slightly, like it always did when he turned something into teasing.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I try,” he said.

A small pause followed, then he added, like it was nothing, “So… what, is he good at it or should I be concerned for his reputation?”

That got a laugh out of you before you could stop it. “Oh my god, Soonyoung.”

“What?” he said, grinning now, leaning forward a little. “I’m just asking for research purposes.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Didn’t say I was worried,” he replied quickly.

You raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re literally interrogating me.”

“I’m not interrogating you,” he said, too fast again.

You paused for a second, then shrugged. “He’s fine… yes”

That should’ve been the end of it. But something about the word hung in the air for a moment longer than expected.

Soonyoung’s expression shifted slightly—not obvious, but enough that you noticed if you were looking.

“Fine,” he repeated quietly.

And then, like it was just another casual follow-up in a conversation that wasn’t doing anything to either of you, he asked, “Better than me?”

You blinked. Then laughed, a little caught off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

“I’m curious,” he said, leaning back again like he hadn’t just said something that subtly changed the temperature of the room. “Important data point.”

You shook your head, still smiling, still brushing it off like it meant nothing. “I’m not answering that.”

“Coward,” he said lightly.

You reached for your pillow and threw it at him.

He caught it easily, laughing under his breath.

The conversation moved on after that. It always did.

But later, when the room was quiet again, Soonyoung couldn’t stop thinking about the way you had said it so easily. Like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t even part of the comparison anymore. And that was the part that made his stomach twist. Not because he didn’t know what was happening between you and Minghao.

But because he did. And hearing it out loud—casual, unbothered, real—made it impossible to pretend it wasn’t something that had already fully moved forward without him.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Though weeks went by, it felt like it had been months. You and Minghao didn’t fall apart in a dramatic way. There was no argument, no big misunderstanding. It just… didn’t go anywhere. And eventually, you were the one who said it out loud first.

It was mutual in the end. Gentle, respectful, uncomplicated. He agreed easily, maybe even relieved in the same way you were. It didn’t hurt the way you feared it might. It lingered for a day, maybe two, then settled into something you could carry without thinking about it too much.

And then you didn’t tell anyone.

Not Seokmin. Not Soonyoung.

There didn’t seem to be a reason to. So in their minds, you were still seeing him.

That’s how you ended up on the living room floor one night with Soonyoung, a half-finished card game spread between you.

It felt almost normal again in the way things sometimes did when enough time passed without anyone naming the shifts.

You were laughing as Soonyoung dramatically lost another round.

“This game is rigged,” he complained, leaning back on his hands.

“You’re just bad at it,” you said, shuffling the cards again.

He scoffed. “I’m strategically challenged.”

“You cheated twice,” you pointed out.

“I was adapting,” he corrected immediately.

You rolled your eyes, smiling as you dealt the next hand. “Sure.”

There was a comfortable pause, the kind that used to feel effortless between you.

Then Soonyoung tilted his head slightly, watching you with that familiar glint in his eyes. “So how’s your boyfriend?”

Your fingers paused mid-deal.

It was subtle. Just a fraction of a second.

Then you recovered, letting out a small laugh. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“So you’re still in the ‘exclusive mysterious situationship phase,’” he said, like he was summarizing something extremely complicated for his own entertainment.

“Something like that,” you replied lightly.

He hummed, leaning forward again, resting his forearms on his knees. “Must be nice.”

You glanced up. “Must be nice what?”

He shrugged. “Having someone take you out all the time. Texting you. Kissing you on the forehead like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely, “—romantic main character.”

You snorted. “You’re being weird again.”

“I’m not,” he said, but there was something looser in his voice now. Less teasing, more… searching.

You raised an eyebrow. “You kind of are.”

Soonyoung leaned back again, eyes still on you. “Are you happy with him?”

The question landed differently.

Not playful this time. Not joking. Your hands stilled completely.

You looked at him properly now. “Why do you care?”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

Soonyoung opened his mouth, then closed it again like he was recalibrating something inside his head. For once, there was no quick deflection. No joke ready on standby.

Just him. Looking at you like he had been holding something in for too long.

“I shouldn’t,” he said finally, voice quieter.

Your brow furrowed slightly. “That’s not an answer.”

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”

Another pause.

Then, like something inside him finally gave up trying to stay vague, he said, “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “…What?”

Soonyoung let out a short, humorless breath, like he was annoyed at himself now more than anything. “This is going to sound stupid.”

“Then don’t say it,” you replied immediately, still trying to process.

He shook his head. “No. I need to.”

He looked at you again, fully now. No jokes left in his expression.

“You knowI have feelings for you, right?” he said simply.

The room went still.

You stared at him, searching his face like there had to be some angle you were missing. “Soonyoung…”

“I know,” he said quickly, like he was bracing for impact. “I know I messed it up. I know I shouldn’t have said we were just friends. I know I pushed you away when I didn’t want to.”

Your chest tightened, confusion rising before anything else could settle.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, voice sharper now. “You were the one who said that.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “And I regret it. Every part of it.”

Your expression hardened, something defensive snapping into place. “So what, you’re just saying this now because I’m seeing someone else?”

His eyes flickered at that.

Then, quieter, almost painfully honest, “No.”

A beat.

“I’m saying it because I thought I could handle you being with someone else,” he admitted. “And I can’t.”

Your breath caught slightly, but you didn’t let it show fully.

“You don’t get to do that,” you said, standing up now. “You don’t get to push me away, watch me try to move on, and then decide you’re not okay with it later.”

“I know,” he said again, and there was something breaking in his voice now, something he wasn’t trying to hide anymore.

But he stood up too, stepping closer without fully realizing it. Like distance had stopped mattering in the moment.

“I tried,” he said. “I tried so hard to be okay with it. With you being with him. With you not looking at me like that anymore.”

You shook your head. “So what am I supposed to do with that?”

His voice dropped. “I’m not asking you to fix it.”

But his eyes said something else entirely. Something quieter. Needier. Like he was standing too close to something he had already lost and only just realized it.

“I just needed you to know,” he said.

And for the first time, there was no joke left in him at all.

For a second after he finished speaking, everything just hung there—still, suspended, like the room itself didn’t know what to do with what had just been said.

Soonyoung was looking at you like he was waiting for impact. Like he knew he deserved it. And maybe that was what finally broke something open in you.

Because you had been holding it together in a way that wasn’t really holding together at all—just stacking quiet moments on top of quieter ones, pretending that if you didn’t look directly at it, it wouldn’t keep hurting.

But now he was standing in front of you saying your name like it meant something again.

Like it had always meant something.

And your chest just… collapsed.

“Stop,” you said, but your voice cracked halfway through.

Soonyoung froze. “Hey—”

“No,” you shook your head, breath catching hard now. “You don’t get to say that to me now.”

Your hands trembled slightly at your sides, and you hated that he could probably see it.

“You don’t get to just—” you let out a broken laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, “—show up and say you have feelings for me like I haven’t been—like I haven’t been losing my mind over you for months.”

His expression shifted instantly. “What?”

Your eyes stung before you could stop it, and suddenly you weren’t even trying to hold it in anymore.

“I ended things with Minghao,” you said, voice shaking now, “because I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Soonyoung went still. Completely still.

You wiped at your face quickly, frustrated with yourself more than anything. “I tried. I really tried to be normal about it. I went on dates, I laughed, I acted like I was fine, like I was moving on like a normal person—”

Your voice broke again.

“But I wasn’t,” you said, sharper now, tears slipping despite you trying to stop them. “I’d be sitting there with him and I’d just—think of you. Or I’d be with him and I’d get a text from you and it would ruin everything because suddenly I wasn’t even there anymore, I was just—”

You shook your head, breathing uneven. “And I hated it. I hated myself for it.”

Soonyoung’s mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out.

You kept going anyway, because stopping felt impossible now.

“I would go out with him,” you said, voice quieter but more wrecked, “and he would be nice and normal and good, and I would still come home and think about you. I would—” you swallowed hard, “I would hook up with him and then I’d just lie there afterwards thinking about you. Wishing it was you. Every time. Every single time.”

Your hands clenched at your sides.

“It was driving me crazy,” you admitted, voice cracking again. “I couldn’t do it anymore. So I ended it. Because it wasn’t fair to him. And it wasn’t fair to me either.”

Soonyoung looked like he’d been hit with something he didn’t know how to respond to. His voice came out low. “You never told me.”

You let out a shaky breath, laughing once through tears. “Why would I? You were the one who said we were just friends.”

That landed. Hard. His expression tightened, something painful flickering across his face.

“I didn’t know,” he said, quieter now.

You wiped your cheeks again, but it didn’t help much. “Of course you didn’t. Because I wasn’t going to sit here and beg you to want me after you already decided I was just—whatever I was to you.”

“That’s not—” he started, stepping forward slightly.

But you shook your head immediately. “Don’t.”

He stopped.

Your voice dropped, exhausted now more than angry. “I tried to move on. I really did. And I still couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Then softer, almost broken:

“And now you’re telling me you feel the same?”

Soonyoung looked at you like the answer was the easiest thing in the world and the hardest thing he’d ever had to say out loud.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

And the space between you didn’t feel empty anymore.

Soonyoung was still looking at you like he was afraid you might disappear if he blinked wrong.

And you were still crying, but it had shifted now—less like breaking, more like something finally spilling over after being held back too long.

“You’re serious?” you asked quietly, almost disbelieving.

He nodded immediately. “I’ve never been more serious about anything.”

A shaky breath left you, and you looked away for a second, trying to steady yourself. “So all this time…”

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he said, voice rougher now. “I thought stepping back would make it easier. For both of us. And then you started seeing him and I—” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t act like I didn’t care.”

You let out a small, broken laugh. “Yeah, I noticed.”

That earned the faintest, strained exhale from him—almost a laugh, but not quite.

Then he stepped closer again, slower this time, like he was giving you space to stop him if you wanted to. But he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. Just stayed there, close enough that you could feel him.

“I didn’t stop caring,” he said quietly. “I just didn’t know what to do with it.”

Your chest ached at that. Because that was the part that hurt the most—that neither of you had known what to do with anything.

You wiped your face again, but your hands were still shaking slightly. “So what now?” you asked.

Soonyoung didn’t answer immediately.

His eyes flickered over your face like he was memorizing it again, like he was trying to catch up on everything he’d missed while pretending not to look too closely.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” he said finally.

That did it. Something in your expression softened, even through everything still tangled inside you. You hesitated for only a second before speaking, voice quieter now.

“Can I kiss you?”

The question hung between you for half a heartbeat as if it was crossing a fine line you both had written a year ago.

Soonyoung’s expression shifted instantly—something raw and almost disbelieving breaking through the tension. Then he shook his head slightly, stepping forward just enough to close the last bit of space between you.

“You don’t even need to ask,” he said softly.

And that was all it took.

Soonyoung pulled you in, but it wasn’t forceful. It was urgent in a way that came from months of restraint, of almost-moments, of stopping himself from reaching for you when he wanted to. Your hands grabbed at his shirt instinctively, like your body had already decided before your mind could catch up, and the moment his mouth met yours, everything else disappeared.

It was passionate, not in a rushed or careless way, but in the way of something that had been denied for too long. There was frustration in it—years of misunderstanding, weeks of silence, months of pretending not to care—but underneath that, something softer broke through. Relief. Recognition. The overwhelming sense of finally.

Soonyoung’s hand stayed at your cheek at first, steadying you like he needed proof you were really there, while the other slid lightly to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left for hesitation. You felt yourself melt into him almost immediately, like your body remembered before your thoughts did. Like it had been waiting for this exact feeling without ever admitting it out loud.

And you could feel it in the way he kissed you back—less controlled now, more open, like something inside him had snapped loose. Every small movement carried everything neither of you had said: the jealousy, the regret, the longing that had been sitting between you both for months without anywhere to go.

Your breath hitched again, sharper this time, and that small sound between you seemed to change something in him.

Soonyoung responded immediately, like he’d been waiting for any excuse to stop holding back. The kiss deepened—not rushed, but undeniably more intense now, like the restraint between you had finally given way completely. His hand at your waist tightened slightly as he pulled you closer, and you felt the last bit of distance disappear until there was nothing left to question, nothing left to hesitate over.

Your fingers moved before you could overthink it, sliding up from his chest and under the hem of his shirt. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and the contact alone made something in your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with confusion anymore. 

Soonyoung let out a quiet breath against your mouth at the feeling, and it only made you braver.

He broke the kiss for half a second—barely enough space to breathe—foreheads almost brushing, eyes half-lidded like he was trying to stay grounded in the moment. But then he looked at you properly, and whatever restraint he had left slipped again.

His hand slid under your shirt too, warm palm meeting your side, fingers spreading slightly as if he needed to feel you fully to believe you were there. The touch was careful but certain, like he already knew the shape of you even after all this time, like muscle memory was doing what words never could.

And that did something to you.

Your breath caught again, uneven now, and you pulled him back in without thinking, kissing him deeper this time—less hesitant, more sure. His response was immediate, like he’d been waiting for you to choose him all over again.

There was no awkwardness in the way you fit together, no learning curve, no uncertainty. Just familiarity that had been sitting under everything for too long, finally allowed to surface.

Soonyoung’s hand stayed at your waist under your shirt, steady and grounding, while your fingers curled lightly against his side like you were reminding yourself he was real. The kiss slowed only slightly—not because it lost intensity, but because it started to feel less like urgency and more like something that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

And for the first time in a long time, neither of you pulled away first.

That was until,

“OH MY GOD.”

The voice cut through everything like a slap.

You both froze instantly, still too close, still mid-moment, turning your heads toward the sound in sync.

Seokmin was standing in the doorway to the living room, one hand half covering his face like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or walk back out. His eyes darted between you two before he let out a loud, incredulous sigh.

“You are doing it AGAIN,” he said, pointing vaguely at you both like he was personally exhausted by the pattern. “How do I keep finding out about this in real time??”

You pulled back slightly, still breathing unevenly, cheeks flushed as you blinked at him. Soonyoung didn’t move much either, but there was the faintest sheepish look crossing his face now.

Seokmin stepped further into the room, shaking his head. “You literally told me you were just friends like a week ago. A WEEK AGO.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still trying to process everything yourself. “It’s a long story.”

He stared at you both for another second, then threw his hands up. “Of course it is.”

You finally shifted away from Soonyoung just a little more, though his hand lingered at your waist like he wasn’t fully ready to let go yet.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” you added, still a little out of breath, trying to sound normal and failing slightly.

Seokmin narrowed his eyes. “You better. I want full details this time.”

Then he muttered under his breath as he turned away, “I cannot keep living like this,” before disappearing back down the hallway.

You barely waited for Seokmin’s footsteps to fade before you moved.

Your hand slipped into Soonyoung’s without thinking, fingers threading together like they’d always known how to fit. He looked down at it for a fraction of a second—like that alone still felt unreal—before you tugged gently, already leading him down the hallway.

You pushed your bedroom door open, stepping inside in a familiar rush of movement that felt too similar to a memory you both had been avoiding. The air in the room was warm, dim, private in a way that made everything outside of it feel irrelevant.

Soonyoung followed you in immediately.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, he reached back and locked it without hesitation.

When he turned back to you, there was a pause—small, loaded, almost like both of you were silently acknowledging how quickly everything had changed, how easily you’d fallen back into something that had never really left.

Then Soonyoung crossed the space between you in two steps.

And this time, there was no hesitation left to work through.

He guided you back toward the bed gently but without doubt, and you went willingly, the back of your knees meeting the mattress as he followed you down. The moment you were both there, he was on top of you again—not in a way that felt overwhelming, but in a way that felt inevitable, like gravity had finally stopped pretending.

His hand came up to your face almost immediately, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he looked at you properly for a second, like he still needed to confirm this wasn’t something he was going to wake up from.

“You’re really here,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You let out a soft breath, your hands finding his again without thinking, holding on like you were grounding yourself in him just as much. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I am.”

That was all it took.

He leaned in again, slower this time, and you met him halfway, the kiss deepening instantly but gradually losing its restraint in a way that made your breathing turn uneven against his mouth. It wasn’t rushed, but it was no longer careful either. Every pause between you was shorter now, every return to each other more instinctive, like neither of you wanted distance to exist at all.

Soonyoung’s breath broke against yours for a second, forehead brushing yours as he tried to steady himself, but it didn’t last long. The moment your fingers tightened slightly at his collar, he was kissing you again—slower at first, then deeper, like the feeling of you under his hands made it harder to think clearly.

Your breathing started to mix between you, uneven and close, the kind of closeness that made everything else feel far away. His hand at your waist shifted like he was grounding himself in you, and yours stayed in his hair, holding him there just as firmly.

There was a quiet pause where you both just looked at each other—too close, too real, too much history sitting in the space between your breaths.

Neither of you said anything.

You didn’t need to.

Soonyoung exhaled softly, something unreadable flickering across his face—relief, disbelief, something almost overwhelmed—but when he leaned in again, it was gentler this time. Slower. Like he was choosing to stay present in it instead of letting it spiral forward too fast.

Just like how you both were meant to be.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning felt softer in a way neither of you had fully adjusted to yet.

Not awkward—just different. Like the world had quietly rearranged itself overnight and was now waiting to see how you both would move through it. You woke up tangled in each other's arms just as you used to. It was familiar, comfortable.

You were in the kitchen first, making coffee out of habit, when Soonyoung came up behind you and rested his chin briefly on your shoulder then kissing your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just him, warm and real, like he belonged there.

Seokmin, unfortunately, was already awake.

And already suspicious.

He stood at the counter with his arms crossed, watching the two of you like he was trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t remember agreeing to participate in.

“So,” he said slowly, “I need to understand something.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder, stirring your coffee. “You do not.”

“You two were just ‘friends’—your words, by the way—like a week ago.” He says confused.

You exchanged a look with Soonyoung. A very tired, very knowing look. Then you both shrugged at the same time.

“It got complicated,” you said simply.

“Soonyoung stopped pretending,” Soonyoung added in the third person.

Seokmin stared at both of you in silence for a long moment.

Then: “I hate it here.”

That made you laugh properly this time.

Eventually, over coffee and half-eaten toast, the explanation came out in pieces—less like a formal story and more like something neither of you could stop smiling through. Minghao mentioned in passing, awkward pauses that turned into realizations, jealousy that didn’t make sense until it did, feelings that had been sitting there the whole time pretending not to exist.

Seokmin listened with growing disbelief, occasionally interrupting with “that’s insane” or “you both need help,” but there was no real judgment behind it. Just exhaustion at being the only one who had apparently not been emotionally spiraling in the background.

When it finally settled, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

“So,” he said slowly, “you’re together now.”

Soonyoung glanced at you.

You glanced back.

And there was no confusion in it anymore.

“Yeah,” you said.

Soonyoung nodded. “Yeah.”

Seokmin exhaled like he was accepting defeat. “Great. Love that for you. Horrible for my peace.”

Later, when Seokmin finally left you alone, the apartment quieted again—but it wasn’t the same quiet as before. It wasn’t distance or tension or unanswered questions anymore.

It was calm.

You stood by the counter while Soonyoung came up beside you again, this time taking your hand without thinking twice. Like it wasn’t something new. Like it had always been allowed.

You looked at him for a moment.

“Slow,” you reminded softly.

He nodded immediately, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Slow.”

Not because there was doubt.

Because there didn’t need to be urgency anymore.

You’d already crossed the hardest line there was.

[coupsiesss]

i hope he knows im always fighting the urge to talk about how much i need him in my bed over me under me inside me all over me

[magpie1817]

like how is he cute and hot at the same time it should be illegal 🥵

[seobmoji]

ft. y. keeho : Crush

─── 📁. Text messages between you and your sweet, but annoying classmate who only ever asks for your notes!

COLLEGE!AU once again bc i’m on a streak and i genuinely can’t be stopped. pls don’t stop me ok.. lowk blackcat!reader x goldenretriever!keeho SIGHHH + the pacing/timeline might be confusing let’s. Let’s not bring it up okay. ENJOY OKAY HAI! :p

A/N: me leaving my jongseob smau in the dust i’m crying hold on. anyway okay this was. OKAY THID WAS KINDA DRY IM HAVING A MOMENT JUST BEAR WITH ME

🏷️ @wonubug @endoll @chccnne @aesprn @wonwounds @kamxstar @cherryhazy @seonghwaswifeuuuu @hardbeingcasual @kamxstar @alienslostinworld @sullyswife @seraph1cfae @seomisaho (want tags for any and all things p1harmony? yoooooooo)

[pandebonon]

this keeho pic reminds me of this shakira pic everytime.

[fujoshi-latte]

Is it just me or do they have a similar vibe??

[chwerio]

OMFG GF G G G SKSJKSNS JACK FROST BERNON GUYS HE DUD IT FOR ME IMV RYUGNNDNNN

[pandebonon]

she's in front of me. I can see her. she's convulsing.

[hardbeingcasual]

❛ LOVE LANGUAGE ❜ ──── YOON KEEHO

Before working with him at the cafe on campus, you didn’t know what to think of Yoon Keeho due to an encounter at a party and how obnoxious he acted in classes. However, since you started working together, you got to see sides of him you’ve never seen before, making you feel conflicted on how you feel about him.

( ignore timestamps unless stated otherwise )

PROFILES ONE ──── PROFILES TWO

001. first shift / 002. hungover / 003. am i cute? / 004. companions (written) / 005. matcha monday / 006. my hero (written) / 007. bye friend / 008. rain check / 009. see you soon / 010. see you monday? (written) / 011. fake, right? / 012. beautiful face / 013. nicho’s birthday / 014. i’m listening. / 015. a movie, alone (written) / 016. friends, right? / 017. curious keeho / 018. movie part 2 / 019. hey girl / 20.

YOON KEEHO X FEM READER

SETTING. COLLEGE SMAU, ACQUAINTANCES TO LOVERS

OTHERS. p1harmony, nicholas &team, manon and lara katseye, maki &team replacing anton riize + others (not mains)

WARNINGS. suggestive/mentions of sex, kys/kms jokes, bad humour probably (i find myself hilarious), drinking, cheating (will update if theres more)

(OPEN) TAGLIST. @facepaleallday @treachdoc @chccnne @pxronbeat1 @kamxstar @leewayout @k-4ttiee @literaleftist @p1hvivianne @whitefang1919 @hxraiiii @meiisamotherbitch @peonyjoo @myfavoritedelusion @seonghwaswifeuuuu @luvkeiiii @seobmoji @stxrxyyz @lunaryoongie @aalyluvz @i-bitch-you-bitch @spicysainz @junep1eceky0o27 @ruidupoison @stealthyutopiaabyss @cherryyberry1 @sisakoekiee

[magpie1817]

ah yes …. my pinterest knows i’m ovulating rn 🤭🤭🤭

[simplyangelixa]

“keeho?”

keehoxinsecure!reader

implied fem reader

reader is also on her period

disclaimers: insecure reader downs herself a lot, cursing and the rest i forgot

not proofread and most mistakes i think are on purpose

[pandebonon]

LIKE PEPPA PIG LMAOOO 😭😭😭😭😭

[randomsvt]

[pandebonon]

group project, individual grading

[lunasapphirecelestia]

Colour tag game

Go on pinterest and type in the prompts down below. Whatever image pops up first is your image.

Prompts: Color, quote, any character, hobby, accessory, any song/lyrics, flower. Here's mine-

If you haven't guessed it yet, I love the stars.

[jungwonslover]

i promise im not making ts up but this is so me

tags @v3lv3t-th1rst @kissued @maewybakes

[v3lv3t-th1rst]

thank you for the tag, twin🤧🥹

wait a damn minute… literally me

tags: @archivojjong @jaehyp @arelyvn @minhosimthings @cherryw0n @hnsbxby

[hnsbxby]

no bc this is acc accurate, except for the character, idk who she is 🥹 i always have a bunch of jewelry on but heavy with bracelets, my phone may or may not have scratches from them

@kloversung @jektaev @minniebitesfr @stryscribbles @zosauce @hanjinology @binniebb @underseazwithme @b4echo @yawwni @channlust @ihateetoadmit

[b4echo]

ty for the tag @hnsbxby also the character is nana from the anime w the same name !!!

I LOVE LOVE LOVE THISS my fav artist, fav anime, painting, the bracelets ?? it’s all so me

@hyvnesangel @kirbray04 @koiiq @satorisoup @quokkaine @channlust @joyracha @yawwni @stryscribbles @hanjinology @ninisei @gyuzies @moch3rii @kloversung @sugarkiiss @jektaev @skzcodered @strrykais @binniebb @miunicornfluff @viisstrayy @grungeham

no pressureeee

[hyvnesangel]

ASH??? BILLY JOEL?? my angels this is perfect and thank u sm for the tag:)

no pressure ! @hnsbxby @chrispypineappleburger @kloversung @skteez101 @stryscribbles @strrykais @channlust

[kloversung]

thank you for the tags bbs @hnsbxby @b4echo @hyvnesangel @viisstrayy @satorisoup 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

aaaa it's definitely all me hehe love it (see that baby blue ?)

no pressure tags !! @binniebb @joyracha @stryscribbles @lovecase @hanjinology @channlust @strrykais @ninisei @yawwni @deadpanjisung @jektaev @sugarkiiss @moch3rii

[binniebb]

thank you— @kloversung @hnsbxby @b4echo @stryscribbles —for the tags bbs 🫶

honestly yes to everything but the earrings but that’s also bc i don’t wear any jewelry really 😵‍💫

np tags! trying not to repeat tags, but sorry if you already got this 😭— @luvismenu @daphnnie @jeekiis @milk-moonbunnies

[milk-moonbunnies]

thank you for tagging me @binniebb. I love playing tag games!

tagging: @woncheolisms @catiekayy @cherryberrycheol @joshujin @fromees and anyone else who comes across this and wants to join!

[cherryberrycheol]

yipeee!! games!!! @milk-moonbunnies thanks for tagging, Amani🩷

(I literally thought my colour pic wasn’t loading but it’s just white 😭, there’s also a celestial theme in here if you squint; it all has no colour coordination ffs 😩)

🌸 tagging: @pochaccoups @jaja-salute @selenophyyy @soyongdorigyu @coupsiesss @hemmofox13 and anyone else who feels like participating

[hemmofox13]

thanks for tagging me, @cherryberrycheol 🥹🥰

tagging: @slut4kwon @dk-is-dok-yumm @cheolliecherie

[pandebonon]

thanx for tagging me!!!! 🫶🏼

@chwerio cuz u da real one and idk who else to tag 😛

[hemmofox13]

feel free to add your fav pic of this scandalous booty

[cherryberrycheol]

I saved it just to make this reblog😌

[eiula]

⠀⠀⠀·̩̩̥͙🝮·̩̩̥͙⠀⠀♡⃕🍏✚🦷⠀⠀·̩̩̥͙🝮·̩̩̥͙⠀⠀ ♡ ⛨ ♡ ⠀⠀`* ☆🥯 ◌ ⋆