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der. she/her. 23.

[stllmnstr]

all that glitters — part two.

pairing: park jongseong x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, rich jay au, university au, angst, slow burn

part two word count: 18.1k

warnings: angst, depictions of terminal illness, scenes that occur in hospitals, use of the american (usa) health system (aka receiving medical care is expensive), swearing, slowwwww burn

playlist: this is me trying / cardigan / mirrorball- taylor swift / yellow - coldplay / BIRDS OF A FEATHER - billie eilish / safety net - ariana grande / garden (say it like dat) - sza

note: I AM SO SORRY PLEASE DO NOT HATE ME but part two was well on it's way to being 30k+ and I didn't like how uneven that would have made this story feel. This is part two, and part three will be the final. IT WILL BE, I SWEAR!!!!!!! part three is already mostly written, so rest assured that you will not have to wait nearly as long for it. Also, some of the spoilers I've been releasing are from what is now part three, so know that those moments have not been scrapped. they just haven't happened yet. For now, enjoy part two!

part one

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Park Jongseong is everything you hate. Spoiled, entitled, and the heir to a top conglomerate in the business world you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to break into. You can’t even begin to count how many sleepless nights, skipped meals, and personal desires you’ve sacrificed just for a seat at the table he was born sitting at.

But when a piece of news in your third year of university pulls your world out from under your feet, everything starts to change. Including your feelings towards the one person you thought you’d always loathe.

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

Light filters through your half-drawn curtains. It’s brighter now. You’re not sure exactly what time it is, but you’re guessing somewhere just before noon, if the long shadows across the linoleum are anything to go by. 

It would be quiet, peaceful even, if it weren’t for the pair of eyes staring at you from the foot of your bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Sunoo asks again. It must be nearing the hundredth time this morning alone. 

His voice is gentle, but it hits your ears like an accusation. 

 Put your guilt aside for a second, Jay told you that night in his car, and let people that love you take care of you when you need it.

Avoiding eye contact with your little brother now, it’s still easier said than done. All you can think about is how difficult this must be for him.

If your aversion to hospitals was enough to make your pulse spike at the thought of seeing a doctor, you can’t imagine what he must be feeling now. 

But Sunoo isn’t a child anymore. Even since you began university, he’s changed. The years have hollowed out his cheeks, sharpened his gaze. When he looks at you now, it’s with the discernment of an adult. 

And with age comes perception. It’s like he can see the gears turning in your mind. 

“You don’t have to worry about me, you know.”

“What?” You’re quick to mask the flicker of shock that crosses your features. 

It would seem that Sunoo has also become more direct as he’s gotten older. “I can tell that you’re thinking about me. Worrying about me. I don’t think I really need to point out how ridiculous that is.” 

He does his best not to let his gaze flicker to the array of IV bags currently attached to the vein in the crook of your elbow, but the implication is obvious enough. 

“I’m not worried about you,” you sigh. You are, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I just—”

“Care,” he finishes for you. “Yeah, I know.” 

At the end of your bed, Sunoo sighs. He arrived earlier this morning, along with your mother who’s currently speaking to Hana in the hallway outside your room. You’re not sure exactly what kind of conversation they’re having, but the tight, teary smile she offered on her way out five minutes ago wasn’t exactly reassuring. 

Since their arrival, it’s been a kaleidoscope of emotions. You kept your promise to Jay. Only two nights passed before yesterday evening, when you finally found the courage to press on your mother’s contact information in your phone’s list of favorites. Your fingers were shaking, but you didn’t back out. 

Partly because you knew it would only be worse the longer you put it off. And partly because Jay had been watching you the entire time, brow raised in a silent reminder of the deal you metaphorically signed your name to. At least he’d had the decency to leave the room once your mother picked up. 

With a voice that only trembled slightly, you told her everything. Well, most of it. 

Your diagnosis, your hospital information, every bit of news the doctor gave you, you divulged to her. 

A certain deal struck in a passenger seat, however, remains a secret between you and Jay.

It had taken a fair bit of convincing for your mother not to hop in her car immediately, but once Sunoo and your father had also been filled in, you persuaded them to wait until the morning. 

And now, here they are. A mirror image, a sickening sense of warped déjà vu from a scene ten years ago.

Only this time, you’re the one with ruin taking hold in your body and Sunoo’s the one putting on a brave face at the foot of your hospital bed. 

Again, your little brother traces the path between IV fluids and your veins with his eyes. You’re not sure if the pain you see reflected is born of memory or the reality in front of him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, but there’s no real command behind it. Partly because you know it’s an impossible request and partly because your energy levels are nearing non-existent. “I’m okay, really.”

For a moment, Sunoo just looks at you. His eyes are glassy. You avoid them, mostly because you’re afraid of finding your own reflection.

“What are you talking about?” he finally asks. “No one… we don’t expect you to be okay. I know you have this idea in your head that admitting you’re in pain or things are difficult will be a burden to us, but you’re my family. My sister. Watching you lie through your teeth because you think you’re sparing my feelings is worse than the truth could ever be.”

The weight of his words settles around you, heavy in the air. For a moment, you almost don’t recognize your little brother.

For the last ten years, it’s as if he’s been frozen in your mind. Warped by trauma and the pain of nearly losing someone so important to you, it’s like you’ve still seen that version of him, young and frail and sick, every time you look at him. 

But Sunoo is in front of you now. He sits tall. His skin is so radiant it’s nearly glowing. There are dark shadows under his eyes yes, but the hollowness, the emptiness, is gone. 

All at once, you wonder just how heavy a burden the weight of your lingering concern has been all these years. It always came from love, of course, but that never made it any less suffocating. 

Even if only subconsciously, you’ve treated Sunoo like glass all these years. As if the wind could blow right through him. As if your protection was the only thing keeping his feet tethered to the earth. 

But the Sunoo that looks back at you now isn’t in need of saving. His resilience has outlasted things far more severe than just heavy wind. Along with his baby features, he’s lost his fragility. 

He’ll always be your baby brother. That will never change. But when you look at him now, really look, you see the beginnings of a man.  

Someone with autonomy and agency and the ability to apply them as he sees fit. 

So, after a small, shaky breath, you admit to him quietly, “It hurts.”

Something in his gaze fractures, but it doesn’t break.

You continue, “It’s not a sharp pain, really, but it’s there. My body feels different. Wrong. Weaker. It’s like, I can still do things, I think, but they need more effort.”

You haven’t tested that theory. Haven’t really done anything but lay here for the last two days. Time is broken up by the nurses and doctors that visit. And on more than one occasion, Jay.

He’s not here now. He’s kept himself scarce since the arrival of your family, but until now, he’s been a near constant fixture in your hospital room. 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t always have much to say. The man you used to spend entire lectures arguing back and forth with is often uncharacteristically mute when he sits in the chair opposite your bed. 

Usually, he just asks how you’re doing, if there’s anything he can do for you, if you need him to tell Hana anything for you. 

You never do. You probably wouldn't tell him even if you did. But he comes anyway. 

After your standard exchange, Jay’s mouth will always part like he has something else to say. He doesn’t commit to it, though. Just sits quietly, a steady presence. 

Now, Sunoo is the one to receive your words, to take them in stride. 

“Yeah,” he nods. There’s sorrow in his eyes, but there’s strength there too. He can handle this. The truth isn’t too heavy for him. He won’t crumble under the weight of shared pain. “It’s like simple tasks are suddenly difficult. I know what you mean.”

He does. Of all the people in the world, Sunoo probably understands how you feel the most intimately. 

Deciding you’ve had enough doom and gloom, you shift the topic to the one shred of good news you’ve recently gotten. “They have to monitor me a bit longer before they decide for sure,” you tell him, “but I’ll probably still be able to attend some classes. A few times a week, maybe.” 

“You want to do that?” Sunoo asks. He’s not judging, not demanding. Just asking. 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I think… I think some normalcy will be good.” Will make it all a bit more bearable. 

Sunoo’s quiet for a moment. And then he says, “If there’s ever a time when it’s not… If you ever want to come home, you have to know there’s a place for you there. Always.”

The sudden sincerity, his earnestness, make the tears that threaten your lashline feel all the more imminent. 

“Yeah,” you nod. Even if it’s an offer you both know you’ll never take him up on. “I know.”

Your eyes flicker to the bouquet sitting on your bedside table, the flowers Sunoo brought you. They’re bright, colorful. 

Just like him, you think. 

Sunoo takes the lapse in conversation as an opportunity to ask you more questions you give him half-true answers to. He asks about your classes, your hobbies, your nonexistent friends. 

When he breaches the topic of romance, you roll your eyes. At least this time, you can be honest in your answer. 

“I don’t have time for a boyfriend,” you explain. It’s true. You don’t. 

Until now, you haven’t had time for anything that wasn’t studying or working or dedicating yourself to seeing his dreams comes true, but you can’t exactly tell him that now. 

Luckily, he seems satisfied enough with your answer, even if it does make him frown a bit. 

You’re saved from his line of questioning by your mother who reenters the room moments later. Her eyes are swollen and bloodshot, but all three of you do an excellent job of pretending they’re not. 

Here in your hospital room, it’s not exactly the family reunion you’d envision for yourself, but you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t something deeply comforting about having Sunoo and your mother close again. 

Something settles uncomfortably in your gut when you remember that the reason they’re here, the only reason any of this was possible, was because of Jay. 

Even now, smiling at your family feels a little bit too much like incurring an unpayable debt. 

Still, you do your best to shake the discomfort and to just appreciate the fact that they could be here at all. Your body might be broken, immune system attacking you from the inside out, but when your mother stands to hug you, when Sunoo takes your hand in his, something in you steels its resolve. 

You’re not sure where it comes from exactly — this sudden desire to fight, but it gets stronger with every passing second you spend with your family. 

Debts aside, you have something to focus on now. Here, with them at your side, it’s more undeniable than ever. 

You want to live. 

Whether it’s for you or for them or something else entirely, you can’t quite be sure. But your life suddenly feels like something worth fighting for. 

So you don’t complain when Hana brings you a meal that tastes more like mush than food. The flavor hardly matters. If you want to live, you need your strength. 

You don’t argue when Doctor Kim explains the next treatment phase, along with its extensive list of side effects. 

You just nod. You agree. You try. 

For you, for them, for whatever forces are on your side, you’ve made up your mind. You’ll do what it takes, one day at a time. You’ll do what it takes to live. 

…..

Between treatment cycles and the near constant vigil your family keeps at your beside, nearly a week passes before you see Jay again. 

He’s back to his usual ensemble when he steps through the door of your hospital room after three sharp, distinct knocks one Tuesday morning. 

Stepping into the light, you can’t help but give him a once-over. The jeans and sweater he wears aren’t anything flashy, but he manages to make them look good. Expensive. 

You sigh. It’s him, after all. Not for the first time, the unfailing unfairness of life seems to manifest in front of you and slap you straight across the face. Here you are, fighting for something as innate as your own life, and he has the gall to step through the door looking like he just wrapped a magazine photoshoot. 

Unaware of your inner turmoil, Jay lingers near the entrance. 

For a moment, he just looks at you. A barrage of emotions flickers over his features, but he shutters them all before you can put a name to any of them. 

“Hi,” he finally says, eyes still scrutinizing. 

“Hi,” you return, a bit guarded.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. A furrow passes through his brow, like he can’t quite decide how to start. 

You prepare yourself for the inevitable questions you’ve already grown weary of answering from just your family. How are you? How do you feel? How’s your energy? Does it hurt?

You know they’re all well-meaning, but something in you withers a little further every time you have to answer one of them. Mostly because guilt makes you feel like you’re expected to lie through your teeth. 

How are you? Terrible. You’re dying. Your own cells are ripping each other to shreds, tearing apart the remnant of your immune system from the inside out. 

How do you feel? Like shit. 

How’s your energy? So low it’s laughable. Whatever this disease hasn’t taken from you yet, the IV fluids being pumped into your arm day and night are more than happy to steal.

Does it hurt? That one’s probably the most ridiculous of all. Of course it fucking hurts. 

So you sigh, already avoiding eye contact as you prepare to answer whichever line of questioning Jay decides to start with. 

But he surprises you.

“I brought you something,” he finally says. It’s not a question. 

Slowly, like you’re a skittish kitten, he approaches your bed. Careful not to disturb the flowers, he pulls a sizable stack of papers out from his bag before setting them gently on the table next to you. 

“What’s that?” You frown. 

“Class notes,” he explains. “The ones from Professor Jung’s and all the other classes we share are from me.” He nods to the pile. “I didn’t know you were also taking statistics and marketing comm this semester. I got those from a couple of your classmates.”

“I…” you trail off, momentarily stunned. “You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs, as if the gesture is nothing. As if his effort is meaningless. “I knew you wouldn’t want to be behind when you do come back to class. Speaking of which, Hana told me that you’re doing well. She mentioned that you might be able to try coming to a couple of lectures next week.”

“Yeah,” you nod. The news had come much to your relief. The nurses, of course, haven’t been exactly pleased with your incessant pestering. You’ve made such a habit of asking when you can return to school that they hardly even admonish you anymore. Just answer with resigned sighs that they’re still monitoring your condition and they’ll know more soon.

Doctor Kim had been the one to finally break the news, actually. He was sure to emphasize that he strongly advised against it and would continue to encourage you to rest as much as possible, but if you really wanted to attend a few of your weekly lectures, he wouldn’t be the one to stop you.

You’ll have to adjust, of course. You’ve already reached out to several of your professors. Keeping the details as vague as possible, you’ve made arrangements to complete the majority of your assignments online. 

They all said nearly the same thing: because your grades and performance have been so impressive this semester, they’ll allow you to finish your work remotely, as long as you’re still willing to sit your final exams in person. 

The only professor who seemed a bit hesitant was Professor Jung. Of course, you know she’d make far more lenient concessions if you told her your true reasons for not coming to class so often anymore, but then she’d probably also give you the same treatment as Doctor Kim. As everyone else who knows your secret. 

She’d insist that you forget about your schoolwork and focus only on your recovery. Give up all the effort you’ve already put in and just concentrate on getting better. 

You can’t do that. You won’t. 

You’re staying true to your word, your promise sworn in the passenger seat of Jay’s car, but you refuse to sacrifice more than you have to. 

If there is some form of happy ending on the other side of all this, you still need your degree. You still have your goals, your one-sided promise to Sunoo. 

As long as you physically can, you’ll keep up with your studies to the best of your ability. 

Jay, to his credit, seems to understand all of this without you having to say a single word. It’s why you suspect he’s shown up in your hospital room with a stack of notes instead of a barrage of questions. 

Looking at him now, you consider your other promises forged with his hands on the steering wheel. 

If he’s bringing you his personal notes, he must really be convinced of your virtue. Your agreement to let him finish first in your class. Then again, you suppose he could have forged a couple of answers, skipped a couple of key points. 

You doubt it, though. Sabotage doesn’t seem to be his style.

Then, you think of the rest of your bargain. The list you made. The things you want to do before you die. 

With the charity gala behind you, only three things remain. 

Go on a beach vacation

Ride in a convertible 

Kiss a stranger

There are the northern lights, too, of course, but you gave up on that dream nearly within the same breath you wrote it with. It’s just too impossible. 

So you’re left with three things. Three tasks you promised him you’d see through. 

Now, though, you really have no idea how you’ll make it happen. 

A beach vacation? You’re already worried about mustering the strength to attend occasional lectures. Much less afford the necessary transportation costs. 

Sighing, you suppose it would be better to bring up your hesitation sooner rather than later. Explain to Jay that it just isn’t feasible for you to actively try checking off your bucket list with everything else going on. 

Besides, what’s he going to do? Retract his end of your deal? You don’t think he has it in him.

“Speaking of returning to classes,” you venture, “I wanted to talk to you about the whole bucket list thing. Look, Jay,” you sigh, “I know I agreed to complete it, but it really was just a random list of things I wrote right after I got the diagnosis. They’re not—it’s not a real bucket list. Besides, I’ve already done most of the things on it, so—”

“No.” In your hospital room, the word rings loud and clear. 

“What?”

“Nice try.” He shakes his head. Smiles privately to himself, like he expected this. “You’re not getting out of it. You think deals are broken that easily? I’d be more than happy to go find your brother and tell him what’s really going on. He was here earlier, wasn’t he? I bet if I just stick around long enough, then—”

Your eyes flash dangerously, narrowed into slits. “You wouldn't dare.”

“You want to test that?”

Your silence is answer enough. 

“That’s what I thought,” Jay nods. “And I’m glad you brought it up. We’re going somewhere this afternoon.”

“Excuse me,” you argue. “What happened to asking? Besides, I’m not allowed to leave right now.”

“You are, actually,” Jay counters. “I already cleared everything with Hana. As long as I keep a, and I quote, careful eye on you, we’re good to go. For a maximum of two hours, but I think you’ll find that’s plenty of time.”

“I don’t want to go.” You sound like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. You hardly care. 

“You don’t even know where we’re going.”

“I know it can’t be anywhere good.”

“It will probably beat a hospital room, though,” Jay points out. “I’d bet on those odds.”

“My family—” You try to protest. 

“Drove back home this morning,” he cuts you off. “They won’t be back until the weekend.”

You flounder for a moment, mouth opening. “If you knew that, then why did you threaten to tell Sunoo earlier?”

Jay shrugs. “I’m patient. I didn't mean I would tell him today. Although,” he considers, “I probably could. I bet I could get one of these nurses to pass along his phone number.”

“That’s confidential, you idiot.” 

“I don’t know,” he muses. “They’ve been pretty accommodating to my requests so far.”

You scowl. You bet they have. You’re sure he waltzes in here looking like that, and they’re falling over themselves to fulfill his requests. 

“Whatever,” you scoff. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“You don’t have a choice.” His smile is entirely too smug for your liking. “This is part of our deal.”

“I don’t remember ‘bending to your every beck and whim’ being part of our deal,” you point out. 

“It’s not,” he shakes his head, “but this is.”

“How could it be?” you ask. “It’s not like we could possibly go to the beach right now.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and your eyes widen in shock. 

“Jay,” you panic, “There’s no way we could—”

“Relax,” he interrupts. “We’re not going to the beach.” He pauses for a moment, then, as an afterthought, adds, “Yet.”

“Then what—”

“Just come,” he pleads, a bit of begging coloring his tone. “Please,” he adds for good measure. 

So you do, grumbling under your breath the entire way to his ridiculously sleek car that he insists on pulling around front so you don’t have to walk any further than necessary. 

Sliding into his passenger seat, you scramble to guess where he could possibly be taking you, options becoming more limited the longer he drives. 

By the time he pulls off the freeway, you half suspect that he was just trying to get you out of the hospital for a bit. 

What you don’t expect, however, is for him to expertly navigate his car into a parking spot in front of the local mall. 

“What the hell?” you ask when he slides the gear into park. “What, are you taking me for a pretzel dog at Auntie Anne’s or something? I think I’d prefer the hospital food, to be honest.”

Jay just rolls his eyes. 

You continue, “And why did you park so far away? You’re really gonna make a sick girl walk all the way to the entrance from here? The least you could do is drop me off at the front—”

Deciding he’s had enough of your assumptions, Jay cuts you off. “We’re not going to the mall.”

“We’re not?” Surprise crosses your features. “Then why are we here?”

“Because,” he intones, tilting his chin to cast a significant look somewhere behind your shoulders, “we’re going there.”

Turning back, you squint. It’s a bit difficult to see with how dark his tinted windows are, but you make out the outline of the luxury department store. Adjacent to the mall, every shop inside is far out of your price range. You’ve never stepped foot inside. Hell, you forgot it was even there.

“Don’t tell me you dragged me out of the hospital because you’re low on Chanel,” you groan. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do in there?”

For a moment, Jay just looks at you, an open mix of disbelief and mild exasperation spread across his features. 

“Oh, ___,” he sighs, entirely too patronizing for your liking. “Always so close to the point, and then it just…” he trails off, raising his hand up and drawing an arc over your head, “misses you entirely.”

“Yeah,” you goad, “I’m so dumb and oblivious you had to beg me to let you outrank me in our class.”

“I didn’t beg,” he argues, a sudden defensive edge in his tone. “Although, now that you point it out, it is kind of ridiculous. How are you so damn smart yet so incredibly—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

“Okay,” Jay surrenders, putting his hands up, palms splayed. “Okay,” he concedes, exhaling. “Let’s just go.”

You don’t budge. “Didn’t you hear me? I don’t want to help you pick out another Prada tie.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he argues back, voice an octave too high like he’s imitating you. “That’s not what we’re doing.”

You open your mouth to hurl another round of questions his way, but Jay won’t let you get one out sideways. 

“Just come,” he says, a bit of pleading coloring his voice as it falls back to its usual pitch. “I’ll beg if I have to.”

You’re silent for a moment longer. 

“Please,” he adds, and it has the last of your resolve withering in on itself. 

Pushing yourself up from your seat takes a fair deal of exertion. More than you care to admit. Wincing, you mask the expression as soon as it comes. The last thing you need is Jay picking up on your discomfort. Your weakness.

But he’s always been too perceptive for his own good. Especially where you’re concerned.

Rushing around from the driver’s side, he stops right in front of you, just slightly too close. 

“You alright?” His hands are half outstretched, like he can’t decide if he should reach for you or not. 

“I’m fine.” Your words are a thin, frayed thing. Stretched almost as thin as your patience. “Let’s just go.”

Jay still looks like he wants to protest. He checks your expression and thinks better of it. 

Still, once you fall into step next to him, he leaves his hands like that. Flexed, ready. Half outstretched like he’s prepared to catch you if you stumble. 

You can’t quite decide if his concern makes you want to roll your eyes or let the walls you’ve built with him fall just a fraction of an inch further. 

Jay leads you. Steadily, quietly into the entrance of the luxury department store. Immediately, you feel out of depth. 

For starters, even the air here seems to be different from your local mall. There are no screaming kids, middle-aged women deep into a gossip session, or twenty-something-year-old part timers trying to shove perfume samples under your nose in front of a Macy’s. 

The people here are too… refined for that. They carry themselves differently, like the price tag on their clothes is something worth respecting with good posture and perfect hair.

Even the employees seem in on it. There are no gaudy, ill fitted vests or neon polo shirts with questionable stains. No, the people behind the registers here are wearing suits.

And it’s not just the clothes. It’s their aura. They look expensive, important, worth knowing. 

They look like Jay. 

And you… well, you’ve seen better days. Your treatment regimen has at least allowed you to keep up with regular showers these past few days, but a hairbrush hasn’t exactly been at the top of your to-do list. 

Your jeans are fine, if not a bit faded. It’s not like your simple long-sleeved t-shirt has any stains, but the collar doesn’t lay quite as nicely as it did before the million rounds of laundry you’ve put it through since buying it. 

You feel out of place. Like an unwelcome guest. 

You think back to Jay’s earlier rebuttal — “It will probably beat a hospital room, though,” — and suddenly, you’re not sure if he was right. 

From your periphery, you see a woman take a second glance at you over the top of her wide framed sunglasses – indoors, really? –and begin to wish the spotlessly clean floor would just open you up and swallow you whole. 

Jay, at least, seems unbothered by all the sidelong looks. True to his word, he leads you straight past the doors to Prada and Chanel without even sparing them a second glance. 

Instead, he walks ahead, you in his wake, down a hallway leading out from the center of the building. It’s quieter, down here at least. Less stares.

Jay doesn’t stop until you’re stood in front of the store at the very end, although you don’t think you imagined the sidelong glances he was passing you the entire way here. 

Looking up at the sign, you frown. “How do you even pronounce that?” The brand name looks French, or maybe Italian. Languages were never your strong suit.

For Jay however, it rolls off the tongue easily.

“I’ve never heard of it.” You shake your head.

“It’s a small brand,” he explains. “It’s my friend’s, actually.”

You give him a flat look. “Your friend has a fashion brand.”

Jay shrugs. “He’s building it.”

Glancing in at the stock you can see, your confusion starts to shift. Begins to build deep in your gut with large, uneasy waves that make your footing feel unsteady. Until it looks a lot more like dread.

Because Jay’s friend apparently has quite the eye for evening gowns. 

You let the realization settle, understanding beginning to dawn. 

“Jay, what—”

“It’s our first step to checking off your bucket list,” he interrupts. “You said you wanted to buy a really expensive dress.”

“Yeah,” you nod, mouth still ajar, “and I did. That dress I wore to the charity gala—”

“Was lovely, so please don’t misunderstand,” Jay placates you with the calm, even tone of someone used to convincing difficult clients. “But I’m not sure it fits the criteria of really expensive.”

“Cost is relative,” you point out, even as some of your pride dies with the admission. 

“Naturally,” he agrees. “But this is a bucket list. Once-in-a-lifetime kind of things. Besides,” he nods to the store, “my friend is pretty good. Annoying as hell,” he adds after a moment of consideration, “but he has an eye for evening wear.”

“Jay,” your brows pinch together. “Look, I… appreciate the gesture, but even once-in-a-lifetime things have to be somewhat realistic. And it’s not like getting my card declined during check-out is exactly one of my biggest dreams.”

“Good thing your card won’t be involved during check-out, then.”

“Jay—”

“You promised me,” he cuts you off, gaze suddenly serious. You looked me in the eye that night in my car and you promised me you would try.”

“I am trying—”

“You’re making excuses. You’re coming up with all of these reasons to avoid letting people do things for you. You think I dragged you out of the hospital just for the hell of it? That I haven’t seen the way just walking from here to the car had you breathing heavier than usual? I had to stop myself from offering you a hand over a dozen times today alone, because I know how you’d react.”

“Then just take me back to the hospital, since I’m clearly such a burden to you.”

“You’re not. That’s exactly what I’m saying. You think that every gesture is some kind of transaction. Some kind of score you’ll be expected to settle.”

“Because it is. Shouldn’t you know that better than anyone? Look at what we study day in, day out. Supply and demand. Profit margins. Liabilities. Even this,” you gesture between the two of you, “whatever the hell it is, was a deal. I don’t want to owe you more than I have to.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” His frustration is apparent now, too. In the line of his shoulders, the flex in his jaw. It’s visible, even as he tries to keep his patience steady. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last three days.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t fucking Make-A-Wish either.” Your words are angrier now, chest heaving a bit with the effort. “I’m not some sick doll you can dress up because it eases your conscience and makes you feel good about helping the less fortunate. Go donate to an actual charity if you’re feeling so terribly generous.”

For a moment, Jay goes still. Lips pressed together, eyes trained directly on your face. A furrow appears between his brow. 

When he finally speaks again, his voice is low. “Is that how you think I see you?”

You sigh, fighting the urge to let an open palm splay across your forehead. Here, in the quiet corner of an ending hallway, your frustration feels a bit misplaced. “Jay, you dragged me out here to play dress up. How else am I supposed to—”

“For the last three years since I met you, I’ve watched you work yourself to death. Every class. Every assignment. Every test. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without a scowl on your face and tension in your shoulders. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take a break for so much as a fucking minute.”

“Don’t exaggerate.” You scowl. “It’s not like you actually remember me as anything besides an annoying voice that argues against your points.”

Jay doesn’t budge. “Intro to communication.”

“What?”

“Freshman year. Room 112. The lecture hall with the creaky seats and the lightbulb in the back corner that was always out.”

“Jay, what—”

“It was the first class we had together. And we’ve had at least two every semester since. I don’t know where you got this idea that no one ever paid any attention to you. That you got to look and scrutinize and judge and no one would ever glance back at you. People know who you are, ____. They recognize you. They respect you. I’m not deluded enough to think that we were ever friends. Mostly because you’ve always bitten my head off every time I’ve tried to talk to you. But you don’t get to stand there and resent me for things I never did. You don’t get to hate me for whatever kind of person you’ve decided I am all on your own.”

“Jay—”

“I know you’ve made up your mind that life is easier when you do everything all by yourself. I get that this is uncomfortable for you. That letting people help you and do things for you and take care of you fuels that sense of shame you’re always trying to bury beneath bravado. But we’re not here because I think you’re a charity case. And you don’t get to decide what I think about you.”

“And you think you know me? It’s a bit hypocritical, don’t you think? Standing there and telling me who I am and what I think. You don’t know the first thing about me, either.”

“Fine.” His eyes are alive now, sparking with something you don’t know what to do with. “You’re right. Then tell me.”

“What?” You shake your head. “That’s not—”

But he’s not done begging. “Let me get to know you.”

“What’s the point?” It’s so easy to think of rebuttals, to argue against his failed logic. “Even if this does pan out, we’ll be graduating soon.”

“Haven’t you heard? There’s nothing as valuable in the business world as connections. Besides, everyone needs a friend.”

For a moment, you just look at him. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, “You want to be my friend?”

Jay’s sigh comes from somewhere deep. “What do you think I’ve been trying to do this entire time?”

“Why?” You still don’t understand. “I’m not even nice to you.”

“Nice people are overrated,” he shrugs. “They usually just want something from you.”

“Jay,” you fight the urge to rub your temple. It’s terrible logic, given that your entire relationship is quite literally hinging on a deal. On wanting something from each other.  

“C’mon,” Jay urges, unwilling to back down because of your inner turmoil. “My friend is expecting us. And I told the nurse I’d have you back in a couple of hours.” He checks his watch. A Rolex because of course it is. “That leaves us just enough time,” he concludes.

Staring at the shop entrance, you remain motionless for a moment longer. It would be easy to keep arguing. Easier than anything else, probably. Besides, if you really refused, what could he do? It’s not like Jay would actually drag you in kicking and screaming. Well, not in front of witnesses.

But then you hear it again. That voice in your head. That version of you, younger, more naive, less hardened to the realities of the world.

She, of course, thinks it would be a fantastic idea to go try on dresses for the next hour. To twirl in front of the mirror like a teenager at prom. 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. Of course she does. 

Then, there’s another voice. It’s not hers. It’s not Jay’s. It’s just… yours. You, as you are now. And she, you begin to realize, even if only reluctantly, wants this too. 

You could still refuse, of course. You’ve had plenty of practice burying your desires. Shoving them beneath contempt and shame and the sham you call selflessness. Jay was right about several of the accusations he just hurled your way, but one sticks out to you now. 

It is uncomfortable to let people do things for you. Jay is much easier to handle when he’s at arm’s length. When he’s nothing but an amalgamation of how unfair the universe is when it doles out fortune and wealth and luck. 

But your family’s financial situation isn’t his fault. Your diagnosis and dedication to your degree have nothing to do with him. 

When he looks at you now, it’s not with expectation. No matter how long you search his open gaze, all you find is hope. Not that you’ll give him something he wants. Not that you’ll prove useful to him in some way. 

Just that, for once in your life, you’ll look at the offer he extends without refusing. Without bargaining. Without trying to flip it on its head so that you have the upper hand. 

And it’s hard. It tastes like lost pride and stings like guilt. But it also looks a lot like something you’ve been missing in your life for as long as you can remember. 

Friendship. 

Is this what it’s like? You wonder. Constantly toeing the boundary of what’s acceptable and what’s off limits? Trying, over and over, no matter how many walls you try to plant between you?

It sounds exhausting, you realize. No wonder you haven’t had time for any of it before.

But it also sounds… not comfortable, exactly. But reassuring, maybe. Steady in the way that summer nights are. Movies that you watch again even though you know how they end, because maybe this time, you’ll notice something you didn’t before. 

It was never just a dress, you realize. And Jay was never offering you just money. You can’t decide if that makes things easier or a million times harder. 

You’re still afraid to owe him things. And something as novel as friendship suddenly feels like a big debt to pay. 

Your internal struggle must play out plain as day across your features. Jay speaks before you have your mind made up. 

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “You can say no. You can always say no.” He pauses for a moment, sighing heavy on his exhale. “But I really hope you don’t.”

Hope. A flighty, fragile thing. It’s made so many of your losses more bitter than they had to be, so much of your effort feel more wasted than it had any right to. But hope has also gotten you here. Has led you through hell and back with a raised chin and shoulders squared.

So, you finally tell him, “Okay,” even if your voice is so low he nearly misses it.

“Okay?” Jay echoes, eyebrows raised.

You look up at him, something vulnerable in your gaze. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

It’s the only request all afternoon that hasn’t been shrouded in sarcasm and your biting attempts at a defense mechanism. 

Jay’s eyes widen for a moment. And then he nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Let’s go.”

…..

The inside of the store is even more impressive than the front display, and that was nothing to scoff at. 

You hate to admit it, but Jay was right. This blows the Macy’s sale rack you’d picked up your gala dress at right out of the water. 

Jay’s friend appears to have a flair for the subtly dramatic. Each gown has a quiet sense of luxury. The designs are beautiful. Feminine in a way that feels like they were made to flatter. But they’re not simple. Each one has something unique to it, an embellishment of beadwork, an unexpected silhouette, a subtle sheen that nearly glows when the light reflects just right. 

They feel like artwork, the kind that hangs in museums. Your instincts are practically begging you to look but not touch. You hardly know where to start. 

Beside you, Jay is quiet. He trails at a respectable distance, eyes flickering over your profile intermittently. 

“Let me know if you see something you like,” he instructs. “You can try on anything you want.” He must mistake your silence for disinterest, because he’s quick to add, “Or if there’s nothing you like here, we could try somewhere else. I think—”

“Jay,” you interrupt this time. “They’re beautiful. Stunning, actually. I don’t…” You glance around the store again, your overwhelm only growing. “I don’t know where to start.”

He hesitates for a moment, weighing his words on his tongue. Then, finally, “I could help, if you want. I saw a couple that I think would suit you well.”

It’s strangely intimate – the thought of Jay looking at dresses with you in mind. The idea of him imagining the way they’d sit against your skin tone, the way they’d curve around your body. 

“I – sure.” You look away, then, if only to hide the way heat starts to spread on your cheekbones. 

Jay takes his time. With the same careful attention you’ve assumed was reserved for lectures and particularly difficult economics problem sets, he takes a slow lap around the perimeter of the store. Breezes right past some gowns. Stops for long moments in front of others. 

Occasionally, he calls over a store attendant, exchanging opinions in hushed tones. 

You watch for a minute longer, content to play the role of the observer, before a voice startles you out of your reverie. 

“He might take a little while,” the stranger advises, a small smile in his voice and on his lips. “You’re welcome to sit.” He gestures towards the middle of the store, where a large, open area is bordered by several luxurious looking loveseats. 

“Thanks,” you nod. Heeding his advice, you take the few steps necessary to reach the closest one. Sliding down into it, you’re almost surprised to see him follow. Quietly, he sits down into the seat opposite yours. 

For a moment, the two of you just face each other silently. He’s handsome, in a classic sort of way. Has the same refined, elegant look that you’ve come to recognize so easily on Jay. Mixed with a distinct, boyish charm, you guess his age is similar to yours. Which begs the question—

“Are you Jay’s friend?”

He nods. “Sunghoon.” Extending a hand, he shakes yours with a firm grip. “It’s nice to meet you.”

You give him your name in return. 

Sunghoon just grins, eyebrow arching slightly. “Oh, I know.”

That gives you pause. You can’t imagine why Jay would be mentioning you to his friends. Mentally, you dismiss it. Maybe it was an offhand comment on a day your classroom rebuttals were particularly annoying to him. 

Pressing into other topics, you look around the store once again. 

And its owner. Sunghoon, much like Jay, looks like he’s been around money long enough to be comfortable with it, to get used to the way expensive things feel against his skin. If you had to guess, he’s around your age. 

The thought almost makes you want to scoff. A university-aged boy with a fashion brand. Jesus christ, the world really is unfair. 

 But his age makes the space around you more impressive, too. Even if you’d been born to wealth, you doubt you’d be able to replicate any of it.

Deciding you have nothing to lose, you venture into a conversation. 

“You…” you trail off, not sure what the most tactful way of asking would be. Deciding you don’t have enough time to be so concerned with mincing words, you ask, rather straightforwardly, “This is your store?”

Sunghoon nods. Honest from the get-go, he tells you, “You could say that. It’s not exactly a store, though. My mother is the chief merchandiser for a rather reputable fashion house. I grew up in the industry. Discovered I had a passion for the design side of things when I was in middle school. Everything here is just display, mostly. Some of it was made for runway and some are editorial pieces. I haven’t actually produced anything for mass distribution yet, but I’m hoping to start soon. Once I finish school. For now, this is mostly used as a show room. Somewhere to bring people who might be interested in capsule collections or model fittings.” He glances at you, considering, “But it’s always nice to see new faces, too.” He pauses, glances at you again. “And any friend of Jay is welcome here.”

You’re still not sure if the title fits or not, but you aren’t here to discuss the nature of your relationship. Instead, you ask about theirs. 

“And you two are friends?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon nods. “Have been since we were kids. Families run in the same circles and all that.”

You already suspected as much. Biting back any hint of sarcasm, you settle on the most neutral response you can muster. “That’s nice.”

“Most of the time,” Sunghoon agrees. “Although the kid drives me crazy sometimes. I suppose it’s only natural, though.” He smiles, as if reminiscing. “My sister and I never argue, so the universe had to give me someone else to fight with.”

That makes you grin, too. Leaning in like you’re sharing a secret, you whisper, “He can be a little ridiculous, can’t he?”

“Oh,” Sunghoon mimics your posture, “the absolute worst. And so goddamn stubborn.” 

“Right?” You incline your head, hands on your knees to support your weight. “You should see him in class. He’s always—”

“I can hear you two, you know.” 

Startled at the sudden voice, you turn to look over your shoulder. Jay stands directly behind you, eyes already trained on you, lips pulled into a thin line. 

He takes in your wide-eyed gaze for a moment. Some of the annoyance softens from his expression. In a tone decidedly less flat, he tells you, “They’re ready for you.”

A fresh bout of nerves flitters through your stomach. Still, when you remember your conversation outside, you’re sure the worst part of the day is behind you. You can do this. 

You’re up against death, after all. What are a few dresses in the grand scheme of things?

Leaving Jay and Sunghoon behind, you find the small fitting room tucked away in the opposite corner. The attendant from earlier smiles at you, tells you to let her know if you need anything. 

And then it’s just you, the four walls of the fitting room, and the three dresses Jay deemed most worthy of your attention. 

Despite yourself, the sudden lump in your throat is difficult to swallow. You’re not sure how he manages to do it every time, see you right down to your bones. 

The three dresses he chose, even amongst the endless options of silk and color and fabric, are really, truly perfect. 

They’re understated. Simple in a way that makes them feel tangible instead of out of reach. Even though you’ve never worn anything like them in your life, there are elements of your own style you see reflected. Colors you wear to class because you’ve been told they suit you. Silhouettes that you’ve always gravitated towards. 

The first one slips over your head easily, although the back proves more difficult to zip and fasten on your own. Even securing it with your hands pressed to your chest, you can tell it suits you even more than you hoped on the hanger. 

It’s beautiful. Truly. Makes even the sallow tinge to your skin and hair mussed from days in a hospital look intentional. Like things worth noticing instead of trying to hide behind.

Pushing the door open slowly, you catch the attendant’s eye. She’s quick to come, helps you fasten the back and dishes out compliments all the while. 

Even her attention makes you feel shy. But not in a way that makes you want to run and hide. It’s almost like that night at the charity gala. You feel noticed. Seen, but not in an uncomfortable way. Just… more visible than usual.

Once the last of the buttons are finished, she catches your eye in the mirror. “Shall we?”

You frown. “Shall we what?”

“Show them,” she adds, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

A sudden flare of heat builds deep in your chest, flies all the way to your cheeks. You imagine stepping out into that open space where Jay and Sunghoon are sitting, their attention, his attention on you. 

Even the thought is enough to have your knees feeling dangerously wobbly. 

“Oh,” you try to dismiss the idea, voice hushed as you work to evade detection. “That's okay. I don’t think—”

It’s as if he can read your thoughts. Your sudden hesitation. 

“____,” you hear him call your name. “Are you coming?”

It’s more than a little uncomfortable as you force your feet to move you from the safety of the dressing room to the central, open part of the store. The space that Jay and Sunghoon are waiting for you in. 

There’s no actual spotlight, but the overhead lights suddenly feel blinding, have you feeling a bit like a sample under a microscope. Something to poke and prod at. Something to scrutinize for any visible flaws. 

The dress is gorgeous. Sunghoon’s talent is undeniable. It wasn’t made for you, but the way fabric seems to flow with your body instead of just over it makes it feel like it was. 

The color is perfect, too. Does something for your complexion, even though it’s been made sallow from illness. Brings color back to your features in a way that makes you want to stare at your reflection a little longer instead of hiding from it. 

It’s a bit ridiculous. You feel silly for even thinking it, but you feel… pretty. 

This was the entire reason you included an expensive dress on your bucket list. For the simple pleasure you’ve been denying yourself ever since you decided that your money and your time and your decisions never fully belonged to you. 

You can count on one hand the amount of times you remember doing something for you. Putting something on your body just because you liked the way it made your reflection look. 

It feels personal, like a moment just for you. The thought of parading such an intimate part of your psyche in front of others, in front of Jay, is enough to have your mind spinning. 

But your feet are already moving and before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re there. Facing a fear in the middle of the room.

For a moment, it’s quiet.

Sunghoon is the one to speak first. He nods, smile small and genuine. “It suits you. I like it.”

Next to him, Jay remains mute. You watch as his throat works around a swallow, his eyes slightly wide as if he’s suddenly the one on display. 

“It’s…” he finally starts. “Yeah. It’s beautiful.” Meeting your eye then, his words are only somewhat strained when he adds, “You look beautiful.”

Cheeks warm, you look down, brushing away at invisible dust along the top of the skirt.

“Do you like it?” Jay thinks to ask after another beat. “Did you want to try on the others?”

You shake your head. He has good taste, and all three of the gowns he had sent to your dressing room are stunning, but something about this one is uniquely you. 

You feel like you already know, can already stand by your decision, without trying on the others. 

Jay nods like he understands too. He waits until you’re back in the dressing room to settle things with Sunghoon, as if you'll forget the depth of his generosity as long as you don’t have to watch it up close. 

Leaving the store with a matte black shopping bag with gold embossed branding hanging from Jay’s arm feels a bit like resignation. Like giving into everything you’ve been fighting against 

A million arguments still sit persistent in your throat. It was too much, too expensive. Money that could have been better spent elsewhere. You don’t even have a place to wear it to. 

But for the first time in a long time, you don’t really feel like arguing. 

Instead, you give Sunghoon one final reminder of your gratitude with a quiet, “Thank you.”

He brushes you off, insists that any time you need a break from the man at your side, you’re more than welcome back. 

Jay rolls his eyes at that, but there’s no real malice. And when he hears the way it makes you giggle, he can’t help but smile himself. 

It’s a small moment of happiness, a bubble inside the catastrophe your life has become. 

But, you think, looking out the window as you drive back to the hospital, soft rock filtering through Jay’s speaker as he hums along quietly, whether you have three weeks or three months or all the time in the world, an afternoon spent dress shopping with a friend will be one you remember with fondness. 

…..

Staring at your phone screen, the message thread materializing in front of you is almost too ridiculous for you to believe it’s anything more than a figment of your imagination. A side effect of all the medication you’re on, maybe.

But everything else about the hospital cafeteria, right down to the barely edible food, seems real enough. 

Jongseong: When does your family leave?

That was the message that interrupted your meal nearly five minutes ago. 

You: In three days

You: Why?

Between bites of barely identifiable mush, he responded. 

Jongseong: I’m booking a guesthouse.

You: ??

Jongseong: At the beach

At that, you nearly choke on what the menu claimed was supposed to be mashed potatoes. 

Luckily, you manage to keep them down, but it is enough to catch the attention of your younger brother. 

“Who are you texting?” Sunoo asks, a glimmer in his eyes that you know wasn’t there before. 

“No one.” Your response is too immediate. Too defensive. Shit. It only makes his eyebrows raise further. 

“You sure?” he presses. “You seem pretty… engrossed.”

“It’s just school,” you lie, forcing yourself to turn off the screen. 

But not before one more message comes through.

Jongseong: Booking confirmed. I’ll pick you up the afternoon after they leave. 

It’s like he somehow knows Sunoo has a watchful eye on you right now. Like he can sense that you’re unable to protest the way you usually would. 

But whatever. You’ll deal with Jay later. Right now, Sunoo’s curious expression spells a more immediate issue.

“Right,” Sunoo nods, but you can tell he doesn’t quite believe you. Deciding to let it rest for now, he asks instead, “How is school?” 

You frown. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing in particular,” he shrugs. “I just feel like every time I ask you about it, you brush it off or change the subject.”

He’s right. You do tend to get cagey whenever the topic of university is approached. Mostly because school is almost always a struggle. And your struggles are something you decided a long time ago not to share with your little brother. 

Suddenly, the topic feels a little heavy for the hospital cafeteria. Surrounded mostly by elderly patients, you can at least rest easy knowing that most of them don’t have hearing good enough to eavesdrop. It at least gives you the illusion of a bit of privacy. 

“It’s fine,” you shrug noncommittally. “Busy sometimes, but manageable.”

“Fine?” he echoes. “C’mon, there has to be something. No crazy professors or annoying classmates or embarrassing drunken mishaps?”

You shake your head. “It’s not like the movies. My professors are only crazy about citations and formatting, and I don’t really drink much.”

You don’t even bother to acknowledge the annoying classmates comment. Mostly because there’s no way you could breach it without mentioning someone you’re deliberately steering far clear of mentioning.

Hoping to pivot the conversation away from you, you ask, “What about the restaurant? How are things coming?”

“See,” he points out, eyebrows raised in accusation. “That’s what I mean. You’re always changing the subject.”

“I’m not trying to,” you lie. “I’m just curious.”

“Yeah,” Sunoo nods. “Just like I’m curious about you. We barely get any updates. You know, Mom had to find out that you made Dean’s list by checking the university website. She was so proud she printed it out and hung it next to the register in the restaurant. She still talks anyone’s ear off that will listen to hear about it.”

Your heart gives a sudden lurch. It’s true that you haven’t kept up as much as you should. That when you do, you always ask for updates more than you give them. 

It’s not like you meant to hide things like your honor roll achievement. It’s just that you always assumed your family was busy enough with their own lives. You didn’t want them to feel burdened by constant updates from you. 

But across from you now, Sunoo doesn’t look burdened. He just looks… hurt. Upset at the idea of not being kept in the loop of your life. 

“I’m sorry,” you tell him quietly. “I just knew that you were all so busy and I–”

Sunoo shakes his head, cutting you off. “We’re never too busy for you.” He looks at you a moment longer. “We miss you, you know. And it’s not just us. Everybody asks about how you’re doing, here in the big city. Our old teachers, people you graduated with, even Mr. Tim from that ice shop we used to go to as kids.”

“The one with the waffle cones?”

“Yeah,” his eyes soften. “His hip gave out last year, so he hasn’t been at the shop as much. But he comes to the restaurant sometimes, and he always asks about you. Remembers how you always used to order extra sprinkles.”

Something about it makes you emotional. The idea of taking up space in other people’s lives. Of being remembered, of being known. Of being seen and thought of and cherished. 

You think of Jay’s words from your last argument.  

“I don’t know where you got this idea that no one ever paid any attention to you. That you got to look and scrutinize and judge and no one would ever glance back at you.”

All at once, you wonder if his assessment might apply a bit more broadly than you thought. 

“I didn’t know he still remembered me,” is all you say.

“Of course he does.” Your brother’s words are eager, infused with a sincerity you want to shy away from. “Everyone does. We all do. You know,” he adds, more serious now, “That night you called us, I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified in my life.”

The admission sends a fresh stab of pain, a searing, agonizing, wave of guilt, careening right through you.

It’s everything you wanted to avoid, after all. Making your family worry. Causing them pain. Adding to their burden, to their grief. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice nearly breaking on the last syllable. 

“You’re sorry?” Sunoo balks. “Why would you ever be sorry? I’m sorry. All I could think about was that you were alone. How scared you must have been.”

“I…” You trail off, suddenly lost for words. It’s all too much, especially for your current setting. Your throat is beginning to feel dangerously clogged. “I’m fine–”

“You’re always fine.” Sunoo frowns. “You always say you’re fine, and then…” he stops himself, trying not to let his frustration, his sorrow, turn to anger.  Softer now, he continues, “And then you’re here. Very much not fine.”

For a moment, you’re quiet. Suddenly forced to see things from his perspective, any argument you could make dies on your lips. 

He’s right. If the roles were reversed, you’d feel that complicated mix of frustration and worry, too. If you had to beg and plead for fragments of the truth from someone you cared about, it wouldn’t feel like relief. It would make you worried sick. 

“Sometimes,” you admit, voice quiet, “it’s easier to just say I’m fine. To not admit that it’s hard or that I’m struggling. I wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”

“I know,” Sunoo says. When you look at him, you think he must be telling the truth. There’s no hint of surprise on his features. Just a sad sort of acceptance. “I’m glad you told us. That we could be here. I’m sorry we can’t be here more.”

You shake your head. “It’s already more than enough. I know how hard it is to be away from home and the restaurant.”

Sunoo opens his mouth like he wants to say more, but your mother interrupts, sliding down into the chair next to you. Wrapping an arm around you, she pulls you close into a hug, squeezing gently at your shoulder.  

The thought of her combing through your school’s Dean’s list, wondering why you hadn’t bothered to share the achievement with her yourself, sends a fresh wave of guilt tumbling through you.

“How are my babies doing?” she asks. Turning to you she adds, “Is your appetite okay? Do you want me to see if they can bring something else–”

“I’m okay, Mom,” you assure her. “Thanks.”

“Okay,” she concedes, even if she still looks a bit unsure. “If you’re sure. Doctor Kim wants to see in a few minutes. But if you’re not done, I can ask him–”

“I’m done,” you cut her off again, trying to settle her worries with a small smile. Even though the thought of sitting in his office makes you want to crawl out of your skin, you say, “Let’s go.”

The sooner you see him, the sooner it will be over with, after all. 

So you go, you and your small band of support, following your mother and Sunoo to the elevator and pressing the button for the sixth floor. 

Doctor Kim’s office is still sterile, still lifeless. His awards and accolades hang on the wall like trophies, like terrible, bruising reminders of everything that’s wrong with you. But this time, with the chairs on either side of you occupied by your family, it feels a bit more bearable. 

Especially when your mother reaches over to envelop one of your hands in hers. When Sunoo notices the action and mirrors it.

Doctor Kim doesn’t waste your time. 

After glancing down at his notes for a moment, he turns to you and says, “You’re responding well.”

A knot unfurls in your chest. You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Next to you, your mother’s grip slackens slightly on your fingers as some of her tension melts away too. 

Doctor Kim continues, “Of course, as we’ve discussed previously, treatment is comprehensive. We still have a journey ahead of us. I don’t want to give false hope or misconstrue the severity of your illness, but the preliminary signs are good. Your vitals are strong, and the cells are responding. Today will be your last day in this treatment round. You’ll recover for approximately one week before beginning the next.”

“And in that time?” you ask. 

“I advise rest,” he nods, like he expected the question. “As much as possible. I know we spoke previously about potentially resuming classes. It is my duty as your treatment provider to tell you that I must advise against this.”

“But why?” you ask, panic suddenly clawing at your throat. You feel like you’ve been duped, had false hope dangled right in front of your nose only to be snatched away at the last minute. “You said I’m responding well.”

“You are,” he agrees. “Remarkably well. But that doesn’t mean you should be placing your body or mind under any more stress than strictly necessary. After the first round is completed today, it’s likely that you’ll experience severe fatigue during your rest period. This is a natural and expected response, but it will make attending classes far too strenuous for an ideal recovery.” He looks at you, sympathy in his eyes. “I’m more than happy to provide a statement of medical leave for your university. I know it’s not easy, but these are, of course, extenuating circumstances.”

You shake your head, a bit more vigorously than necessary. “I don’t want—”

“We’ll take that statement, doctor,” your mother cuts you off. “Thank you.”

“Mom,” you turn to her, eyes wide. “I can’t just—”

“Of course you can.” She shakes her head. “School will still be there when you’re ready.”

You know it will be. But will your scholarship still stand? Will you still be able to find a tolerable roommate with rent you can afford? Can you live with the guilt of Sunoo needing to wait that much longer to finally see his dream come true?

It’s not just school you’re worried about. It’s everything else, the weight of everything you’ve been pouring your effort into for the last ten years. The culmination of the promise you made to yourself when yours and Sunoo’s roles were reversed. 

Letting those things go, even if only temporarily, is more difficult that you can put words to. 

Your mom, however, seems to possess the same talent that all mothers do. She silences you with a look. 

Fine, you think inwardly, already starting to think of ways you’ll be able to evade her wishes later. For now, at least, you’ll let it rest. 

Doctor Kim nods. “I’ll write it immediately.” Looking at your mother, he adds, “If you pass along the Dean of Students contact information, I’ll send it before the end of the day.”

You bristle in your seat but remain silent. As if he can sense your inner turmoil, Sunoo gives your hand a gentle squeeze. When you turn to him, he offers you a reassuring smile. There’s sympathy in his eyes, like he understands how much this means to you, how hard it is for you to let go. 

“I know Hana and I have been checking in regularly,” Doctor Kim turns to you now. “But is there anything that’s developed since the first treatment round? Any new pain? Symptoms? Discomfort?”

With Sunoo’s hand still on yours, you shake your head. You tell him you have nothing new to report. 

You don’t mention the migraine that’s been beating at your brain since last night, the way it seems to come and go with every new IV bag that’s attached to your vein. 

You tell yourself it’s because you don’t want to worry your mother. You don’t want to watch Sunoo’s expression fall in concern.

You don’t want to lose what little ground you’ve gained. 

If it gets worse, you promise yourself, even if you know you’re lying, if it doesn’t go away soon, then you’ll tell him. 

For now, you figure no one needs to know. 

…..

Jay’s car looks even sleeker today. You have half a mind to ask him if he just had it run through the car wash before coming. But then again, the shininess of the paint job isn’t really the most pressing of your concerns. 

As you draw closer, your brow furrows. It’s not just the shine that looks different. 

“Did you get your car painted or something?” you ask.

“What?” is all Jay says.  

“Your car,” you jerk your chin towards it. “It looks different.”

Jay’s feet falter. He turns to stare at you like you’ve just said something asinine. And it turns out you have. Because the next thing he says is, “It’s a different car.”

“It is?” You frown in consideration. 

Jay’s mouth goes a little slack. “How did you not— It’s an entirely different brand.”

“Sorry,” you shrug. “I don’t know a lot about cars.”

“Clearly.” He still looks affronted. “I mean, seriously.” More to himself than you, he mutters, “This is a 1962 Ferrari 250 GT California Spyder and you can’t even tell the difference.”

Your stare is blank. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Jay sighs. “No,” he resigns. “You can just worry about looking pretty in the passenger seat.”

At that, you feel the beginning of a flush rising on your cheeks. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Park Jongseong was flirting. 

Suddenly desperate to steer the conversation back to neutral territory, you ask, “Why are we taking a different car? Did you just want to rent one for the drive?”

You really don’t know anything about cars. Maybe he has some aversion to putting more mileage on his own car. 

Jay shakes his head again. “This one’s mine, too.”

You shouldn’t be surprised at this point, but your brows raise slightly anyway. “It is?”

“Mhm,” he hums. “I just save it, usually.” A bit quieter, he adds, “For special occasions.”

“This is a special occasion?”

He nods. “Of course it is. Besides, I chose this car in particular for a specific reason.” He’s grinning at you now. “You’ll see.”

“This particular car?” you echo. “What? You have an entire fleet at home or something?”

Jay shrugs, but the smirk that tugs at his lips is unmistakable. “I have my hobbies.”

“And they include car collecting? You know what I used to collect when I was a kid? Rocks.”

“And I’m sure you found some very pretty ones.” Jay opens the passenger door for you before sliding your overnight bag — the one he didn’t let you carry for more than five feet before sliding it wordlessly off your shoulder onto his — into the back seat. 

He joins you in the car a moment later, sliding into the driver’s seat. Immediately, he leans over, reaching right into your space as his face comes dangerous close to yours. 

The heat on your cheeks is unmistakable this time. Shocked, you nearly trip over your words. “What are you—”

“Glove box,” he explains as his fingers undo the latch. Hands hovering just above your lap, he reaches into it for a dark, sleek case. Opening it, he pulls out a pair of sunglasses. He slides them onto his face, concealing his eyes before putting the case back where it belongs. 

He doesn’t close the compartment, though. Instead, he turns his concealed gaze to you. It feels awfully unfair to have his face so close to yours, able to read every single expression that flickers across your features when his own are hidden from sight. 

Ignoring the way you fidget under his stare, he tells you, “There’s another pair, if you want them.” He nods towards the glove box. “The sun visors in here aren’t great.”

“Okay.” It’s more of a mumble than an affirmation. Needing to break the intensity of his attention, you turn towards the glove box and pull out the second pair of sunglasses. Only pausing briefly at the embossed Prada logo, you slide them over your eyes. 

You try to ignore the fact that these are probably the most expensive thing you’ve ever put on your body. Remembering your recent dress shopping, you amend, well, second most expensive. 

Immediately, you’re grateful for them. For starters, you’re on more even footing now. He can’t read you so easily either. 

And they do serve their intended purpose well. Despite the chill in the air, it’s one of those rare late fall days where the sun seems to shine with extra ferocity. 

As he pulls out of the parking lot, reversing with one hand against the back of your seat, you ask, “How long is the drive?”

“About five hours. A little more if we hit traffic.”

“Mm,” you consider. “That’s long.”

“Don’t worry,” Jay says in a tone that immediately makes you do the opposite. “I have things for us to do.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” you try to dissuade him. “You can just put on some music or something and—”

“Nice try,” he interrupts. “No music this time. I’m asking you questions.”

It’s a nightmare come to life. A confined space you can’t escape as you're subjected to something as horribly incessant as his curiosity.

Your lips pull flat, heartbeat picking up in panic. “You’re not spending five hours asking me questions.” 

“It’s fair,” he insists. “Every time I ask you a question, you get to ask me one, too.”

“What is this, a drinking game?” You roll your eyes. “Are we at a dorm party?”

Jay just sighs. “I wish I could give you a glass of wine.”

You balk. “You want me drunk?”

“I want you honest,” he corrects. Glancing at you, he adds, “Something you’ve proven very reluctant to be.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to spill my guts to you.”

“I told you,” he says, suddenly serious. “I want to get to know you.”

“So you waited until you had me in a place I can’t escape.”

He smiles at that. “You’re catching on.”

“Fine,” you sigh. He can’t give you wine, after all. If you don’t like a question, you can always lie. Or just refuse to answer. Besides, there are things he’s said over the course of your strange agreement that pull at your curiosity, too. Things about him that you wonder. Maybe this will be a chance to finally have some answers of your own. “Do your worst.”

Entering the highway, the road stretches out long ahead of you. 

Jay starts off easy. Or at least, he tries to. “Why did you choose business as your major?”

For most people, it would be an easy question with a simple answer. For you, it lands right on a subject you’ve been avoiding at all costs. 

“It seemed interesting.” You shrug. 

“That’s bullshit,” he immediately returns. 

“What?”

“You’re the most organized, meticulous, goal-oriented person I’ve ever met. I don’t believe for even a second that you chose your major because it seemed interesting.” His eyes are still on the road. He picks apart your lies with as much effort as it takes to swat at a fly. He tells you, “Give me a real answer.”

Wheels spinning in your mind, you scramble to decide which parts of the truth to give him. Finally, you say, “My family has a restaurant. It hasn’t…. It hasn’t always done so well. I thought that if I learned more about the management and logistical side of things, I could help it get back on its feet.”

“That’s what you want to do?” There’s no judgement in his voice, but his tone is colored heavy by surprise. “Help run your family’s restaurant?”

You shake your head. “Isn’t it my turn?”

He nods, but you can tell he hasn’t let it go. “Alright. Go ahead.”

Suddenly, you’re not sure where to start. There are things you want to ask about his family, about his motives, but they feel too heavy. Too direct. 

Instead, you turn his question back to him. “Why did you choose business?"

Jay sighs, and you wonder if the question eats at him somewhere deeper, too. “Family expectation,” he tells you, voice tighter than it was before. “It wasn’t really a choice I made as much as a path I was expected to take. I have grown a genuine appreciation for the field, or at least a deep respect for it. But I wouldn’t say it was my choices that brought me here.”

Right from the get go, he’s more forthcoming that you expected. He’s already divulged more than you thought he might. Either Jay is keeping good on his promise to let you ask just as much as you answer, or he doesn’t keep his secrets quite as close to the chest as you thought. 

You don’t respond, just nod in acknowledgment. 

Besides, it’s his turn now. 

He asks exactly what you expected him to. “Why did you choose to help run your family’s restaurant?”

You bite at the inside of your lip. Something about the road ahead of you has you feeling more honest than wine ever could. 

And suddenly, something aches in your chest at the thought of sharing your true feelings. The innermost parts of you that you’ve never told anyone. 

“My family’s been through hell and back,” you tell him. “The restaurant did really well, actually, when I was young. But…” you trail off, taking a deep, steadying breath. You have the feeling that if you divulge this particular bit of information to him, there really will be no going back. 

Jay sits quietly in the driver’s seat. Waits patiently for your answer. 

“But,” you continue, “my brother Sunoo got sick when we were kids.”

“Sick,” Jay repeats, the word heavy with insinuation. “Do you mean—“

It’s not his turn, technically, but you'll excuse it. 

“Yeah,” you nod, a rueful smile on your lips. “Ironic, isn't it? Doctor Kim told me when I was diagnosed. It’s genetic, apparently.”

The truth still makes you feel a bit helpless. Jay’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

You continue, “My family put everything they had into making him better. Of course they did. We’d do it again, if we had to, no question about it. But it made finances tough. And the restaurant never really went back to normal, even after everything.”

Next to you, Jay is quiet. Anxiety stirs in your stomach as you imagine the gears in his brain turning. As he puts more pieces of your puzzles together, begins to understand even more of the truths you were so determined to keep hidden. 

After another long moment of silence, his throat works around a swallow. “I think it’s your turn.”

You breathe. Deciding that this is no time to pull punches, you ask, “You mentioned that your father has certain… conditions for initiating you as a shareholder in the company. Is he always like that?”

“An unsentimental hardass?” Jay clarifies with a scoff.

“That’s one way to put it.” 

“Yeah,” Jay nods. “That’s pretty much what he’s like. You know that connections are what keep the business world spinning, and it’s not like he has some moral opposition to nepotism. But it’s been made very clear since day one that I am expected to prove myself. To fulfill any expectations and rise to whatever standards he decides are… necessary.”

“You’d never know. You’re a menace in the classroom.”

The corner of his lips tugs upward. Combined with the sunglasses still sitting on his nose, the sight is devastating.

“That almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you brush him off. “Don’t let it get to your head. Besides, you know you’re persuasive. I’m here, going to the beach with you right now, aren’t I?”

“I didn’t have to try that hard.”

“I will literally jump into traffic.”

“Fine. You’re so stubborn you make mules look agreeable. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Not exactly, but I’ll take it.” You‘re not sure when it happened, but suddenly you’re smiling too. 

After a moment, he asks, “What did you want to be when you were a kid?”

For the first time in a while, you imagine that younger version of yourself again. The one with big dreams and the determination to realize them all. This time, the thought makes you smile.

The nostalgia feels like fondness instead of regret.

“Too many things to count,” you tell him truthfully. 

Jay just smiles. “I have time.”

The two of you pass the time like that, his questions veering towards a different kind of invasive the more miles you cover.

When he asks if you’ve ever thought about getting married, you have half a mind to reach across the center console and smack him.

“Why?” You ask instead, infusing your voice with as much indignation as possible. “What is this, a blind date?”

Jay just shrugs. “I’m curious.” He hesitates for a moment. Then he bites. “Besides, if anything, this is our third date.”

Cheeks aflame, you don’t press the subject further. 

Thankfully, his questions leave you with less reasons to blush after that. 

He learns about your favorite color and you laugh when he tells you about how he fell into the pool fully clothed on his family’s second trip to Italy. 

He asks about your summers and you ask about his hobbies. Well, the ones other than sports car collecting. 

You’re surprised to learn that he plays the guitar, and rather well you suspect, if the way he gets slightly evasive when you ask if he’s any good is anything to go by.

Time sharpens and then blurs as the road ahead of you does the same.

There are traces of Jay that stay true to your preconceptions. Threads of him that you picked up long ago in lecture halls and still ring true in the passenger seat of his car. 

But then he tells you about volunteering at the young learner’s summer camp your university hosts every July. 

It makes you smile, thinking of him mustering all of his fraying patience as he explains supply and demand to a group of half interested seventh graders for the third time. 

And then it makes you frown, thinking of all the ways you got him wrong. 

Because he might be uncovering your secrets, but you're putting together pieces of him, too. 

And Jay… cares. 

Sometimes quietly, like when he slid your bag off your shoulder and carried it for you without ever saying a word.

Sometimes loudly, like when he scolded you for not pacing yourself on the champagne at the charity gala. When he all but begged you that night in his car to treat your life like something precious instead of disposable. 

Loudly, quietly. Whatever it is, it’s always sincere. 

Even when you mention a gelato shop you visited once as a kid and he launches into a three minute explanation of all the ways in which gelato differs from regular ice cream. He rambles on about genuine ingredients and slower melting with the same tone he uses to analyze spreadsheets. As if this deserves the same amount of rapt attention.

You just smile. Few things escape his notice. And as it would seem, even fewer escape his care. 

You can’t quite decide if being on the receiving end of that makes you feel lucky or indebted beyond reprieve. 

Either way, time passes easily.

For long minutes, it’s easy to forget about the diagnosis sitting heavy in your chest. 

Until you finally work up the courage to ask the question that’s been weighing heavy on your mind for days. 

“Jay?” You try, interrupting his latest rant, this one on the topic of the perfect temperature to sear steak at. 

He picks up on your change in tone, the sudden mix of nerves and seriousness. The words die on his lips.

“Yeah?” 

You take a deep breath, gathering the last of your bravery. “Why did you make that deal with me?”

For a long moment, he’s quiet. Long enough for your rapid heartbeat to pound a steady rhythm against your eardrums, inside your rib cage. 

You almost regret asking. You’re suddenly terrified of his answer. 

You brave a glance over at him. In your periphery, you watch his throat work around a swallow, the line of his jaw tighter than it was before.

There’s something raw in his voice when he finally tells you, “I didn’t—I don’t want you to die.”

His eyes are still on the road and yours are still tracing his side profile. You each hold a bit more of the other in your minds.

And Park Jongseong doesn’t want you to die. Whatever reasons he has, whatever lengths he’s willing to go to, the truth sits between you like a fragile thing. 

If it weren’t for your borrowed sunglasses, you’d have to squint. 

You turn your eyes back to the road, watching the way license plates blur and clouds streak overhead as you continue onwards. 

The car settles into silence for the first time since you left the hospital parking lot. Despite his earlier refusal, Jay reaches for the volume knob on his stereo now, lets the quiet, soft hum of his now familiar classic rock playlist fill the silence. 

Minutes stretch, and the silence starts to lose its weight. It settles around the both of you in a comfortable way, all the way until you get your first real glimpse of the ocean.

You can’t quite help yourself then. “Oh my god.” Your nose is practically pressed against his window, but decorum is the last thing on your mind. 

“It’s pretty, right?” Jay agrees. 

The next exit is yours, and soon the highway slows to a narrow, winding street. The trees that line it are dense at first until eventually they thin. 

Your glimpse from the highway pales in comparison. 

The ocean is… breathtaking. Even from a distance, the crashing waves are fascinating. The way they build and fall, flowing into each other in a perfect, messy, hypnotizing rhythm. 

“We’re close,” Jays says, double checking the map. He glances in the rearview mirror before adding, “This street isn’t too busy. Want to know what I meant when I said this car is for special occasions?”

Reluctantly, you peel your eyes from the ocean and look towards him. “Should I be scared? It’s not going to start flying is it?”

Jay tilts his chin, a small smile spreading on his lips like your ridiculous guess isn’t actually that far off. 

“You’ll see,” is all he says.

Then suddenly, the roof above you starts to open. Wind plays with your hair, rougher than you expect despite the slow speed. It washes over your face, a fresh, cool breeze with unmistakable traces of salt. 

You look up, the late afternoon sunlight nearly blinding despite your sunglasses. The wind is cold, almost bitingly so, as the rest of the roof falls aways. You hardly care. 

You laugh, a bright, airy sound that catches Jay so off guard he nearly swerves. 

But you can’t help it, the sudden, intense sense of elation. 

Jay brought you to the beach in a fucking convertible. 

“You like it?” he asks, grin stretching wider as he shouts to be heard over the wind.

You turn to him, eyes wide as you nod furiously. You don’t use words, but you don’t need them. He can see the way excitement lights up your entire face. 

He leaves the top down, stealing sidelong glances at you every so often for the rest of the drive. 

You lift your hand to the sky, spreading your fingers just to feel the way the wind weaves between them. A peal of laughter bursts from your throat again. 

For the first time in weeks, you’re not thinking about your headaches or your diagnosis or the fact that you could very well still be a ticking time bomb. 

Right now, it’s just you, Jay, and the wind. A combination of things that make you feel alive in the most riveting, pulse-pounding way. It’s like you’re drunk on it. The wind feels like freedom, like the promise of a future you never dared to dream of. 

All at once, you feel like crying. Not because you’re sad, but because you can’t remember the last time you felt this much life flowing through your veins.

You want a million more moments like this, a thousand more memories to look back on with fondness as you age. You aren’t ready to let it go. The thought of it feels like a dagger to the heart. Piercing, gutting, devastating. 

Jay is quiet next to you. His eyes still flicker between the road and you. He watches as emotions play out across your features. Hope, joy, and grief, all mixed into one. 

His jaw flexes, this time in determination. You wanted beach vacation, and he’s made up his mind that this will be the best fucking one anyone has ever had. 

Eventually, the rushing wind slows to a gentle breeze as Jay turns onto a private road, the speed limit decreasing sharply. 

Another minute passes before the beach house comes into view, but when it does…

“Wow.” You don’t mean to say it out loud, but the word falls through your parted lips anyway. 

Nestled between trees and a perfectly landscaped garden, the house blends right into the beachfront. Two stories tall and a sandy shade of beige, it looks like it was built to belong to the place where it stands. 

Looking past it, you see the endless stretch of sand, melting into quiet waves where it meet the ocean. It’s stunning.

Jay slows the car further before shifting into park. 

Without the wind from earlier and the hum of the engine, the air around you feels quiet. Still. 

And, you realize with a sudden flush, incredibly private. It strikes you, slaps you across the face really, that you’re about to spend two nights with Jay in a secluded beach house with what appears to be no neighbors for miles. 

Just you and Jay.

Alone. 

“I thought…” you trail off, suddenly desperate for something to fill the silence. “We’re not staying in a hotel?” Even that feels scandalous, but at least there would be other people around to ease the sudden tension. 

Jay shakes his head. “It’s off season,” he explains. “Most hotels are already closed for the winter. Besides,” he adds, “this will be more spacious. And the private beachfront is a bonus, too.”

You swallow. “Private?” you echo. “As in…”

“Just us,” he nods, either oblivious to your sudden spiraling or intentionally ignoring it. “If you go half a mile in either direction, the beach is public land, but this little spot right here,” he jerks his chin towards the stretch of beach you can see from the car, “that’s just for us.”

“Oh,” is all you can really manage. 

Jay picks up the slack. “C’mon,” he urges. “Let’s go check it out.”

Wordlessly, he takes both of your bags from the back seat. 

The walk from the car to the front door is short, but it’s enough to make your breath feel shallow in your chest. 

Doctor Kim had warned you that this week would be full of fatigue, but the effort it takes just to walk a few steps is nothing short of frustrating. 

The beauty of the beach house is almost enough to make you forget it, though. Almost. 

The garden is stunning, even as fall gives way to winter. Less lush than it surely is in the summer months, but the golden brown leaves and shrubbery are still arranged in a way that makes it enchanting.

And the house itself seems to have been given the same attention to detail. Trailing behind Jay through the front door, the space that opens before you is quaint. 

Not overly large, the decorations are sparse but intentional. As if the owner knew nothing would ever be able to overshadow the view. 

The far wall is hardly a wall at all. Nearly from floor to ceiling, its windows. With a crystal clear view of the beach that belongs to you for the next two days and the ocean it bleeds into. 

From here, it’s even more stunning. You feel like you could spend hours here, motionless, just watching as the waves fall into each other, over each other. Battering against the shoreline with an even, flowing rhythm. 

It’s captivating. So much so that the sound of Jay’s voice nearly startles you out of your skin when he says near the foot of the staircase, “The bedrooms are upstairs.”

You turn to him, and he motions for you to follow.

Bedrooms, he said. You exhale a sigh of relief. At least you can retain some of your privacy while you’re here. 

The second story has the same cozy, lived-in feel as the first. An open central area splits off into two bedrooms on opposite sides of the house. In the center of it all is a balcony.

“Which side?” Jay asks, capturing your attention again. “Garden or forest?”

“I’ll take the garden,” you nod toward the bedroom on the left.

Jay nods, leading the way. 

You enter the bedroom behind him, glancing around as he flips the light switch and sets your bag on the ground.

It’s a beautiful room. Simple, full of light, airy colors and textures that remind you of the ocean below. The last of the day’s natural light bleeds through the windows, both the ones on the opposite wall that overlook the garden and the far wall that provides a perfect view of the ocean. 

To your left, a door leads to an en-suite bathroom. 

And in the middle of the room, pressed close to the seaside window, is a full sized bed with too many pillows to count. White bedsheets are tucked in neatly at the corners, far fluffier than any duvet you’ve ever had.

“I hope it’s alright,” Jay says from behind you. You swear you hear a hint of trepidation in his voice. “Options can be a bit limited in the off season, but I thought—“

“Jay,” you interrupt, eyes still caught on the rolling waves outside the window. Your window. “It’s perfect.”

“Oh,” he returns, voice colored with pleasant surprise. “Good.”

You can still feel his presence behind you, hesitating like he’s not quite ready to leave. 

After a moment, Jay continues, “I’ll let you get settled in for a minute. I’ll start dinner soon.”

“Dinner?” You turn to him now, eyebrow arched. “What’s our menu for tonight? Ramen?”

Jay just smiles, a small thing. “Something like that.”

But in true Jay fashion, something like that turns out to be nowhere close to your expectations. 

The convenience store dinner you anticipated is all but forgotten by the time you make it back downstairs a handful of minutes later, only to find Jay already hard at work. 

Half bent over the stove top, an apron covers his torso as he hums quietly to himself. The smell that fills the kitchen is already divine. So much so that you can’t help but ask—

“What are you making?”

Jay grins at you over his shoulder. The sight is far more devastating than it has any right to be. Coy as ever, all he says is, “You’ll see.”

And you do. Thirty minutes later when he sets the most perfectly cooked meal you’ve ever seen down in front of you on the dining room table. 

He pours a can of sparkling water into a wine glass and slides it to you with a wink. “Not the real thing, but I thought it might add to the ambience.”

It’s a joke, more lighthearted than anything, but the consideration hits you somewhere deep.

In an effort to distract yourself, you take a bite of the meat Jay’s just finished grilling. Granted, you have been living off hospital food for the past two weeks but—

“Jay.” Your voice rings out across the table, tone laden with something serious.

He turns to you, eyes wide. “What? Is something wrong? Did I undercook—”

You shake your head. “This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

He flushes. A pretty shade that extends all the way from the tops of his cheekbones to the base of his neck. You have the sudden desire to see if it extends any further, beneath the collar of his well fitted shirt.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“I most certainly am not.” You take a second bite for good measure. It’s just as mouthwatering. “Seriously. How did you do that?”

He shrugs, shy under your praise. “My mom taught me.”

“Your mom,” you echo. It strikes you then that all of your conversations about his family have been quite limited. The sparse details you’ve gotten have only really been about the strained relationship he has with his father. “What’s she like?”

“She’s the best.” Jay’s smile is small but genuine. “Honestly, I think her relationship with my father was based more on family status than a real romantic connection, but she loves her family. She always wanted— wants,” he corrects, “me to be good. Not just good at school or business or running the company, but a good person in general.”

The thought makes you smile. There’s something adorable about imagining a tiny version of him, a ten-year-old Jay learning manners from his mother. It makes sense to you. The lessons seemed to stick. 

You suspect it’s why he always insists on opening doors for you and carrying your bags and letting you relax while he cooked dinner despite the fact that he just finished driving five hours. You reconsider your assumption that  his small kindnesses have been due solely to your illness. Maybe, you think, he really is just a gentleman in every sense of the word. 

Dinner is a rather quiet affair, at least outwardly. Both of you already laid out your most pressing questions on the drive over, and the meal really is delicious enough to keep you silent. 

But all the stillness gives your mind space to wander. And wander it does. 

Sat directly across from Jay, your eyes keep flickering towards him, falling quickly back to the table whenever he catches your stare. 

It’s not like you mean to gawk at him. But there are suddenly things about him that are very difficult to look away from. 

Has his jawline always been that sharp? Has his hair always fallen that perfectly over his forehead, just barely brushing the long eyelashes that frame his dark, intelligent eyes?

You’ve known what Jay looks like for years. But it’s always been the back of his head that you’ve stared at. You’ve always assumed you were one step behind him, a few rungs beneath him on the ladder of social standing. 

Here, across from the small dining room table, you feel more like equals. Everything about him that used to feel so painfully out of reach suddenly seems like it could fall right into your hands if you worked up the nerve to outstretch them. 

And that thought feels… dangerous. 

Jay is far safer as an enigma, you’re sure. Someone best kept at an arm’s distance. If you ever dared to let your fingers get too close to him, you’re terrified at just how solid he might feel beneath them. 

It’s best, you decide, to keep that space between you, even if it’s only an illusion. 

Once again, it strikes you just how alone the two of you are. You have an entire house, an entire beach to yourself. Suddenly, maintaining distance feels like a difficult task. 

The shadows outside the living room windows are beginning to extend once the two of you are done eating. Pastel tones paint the sky as the sun dips towards the horizon. 

Wordlessly, Jay takes both his plate and your to the kitchen sink. And then you hear his voice behind you. 

“Should we go for a walk? We’ll catch the sunset if we go now.”

Turning to him, your nod comes easily. You might still be warring with the proximity, but you didn’t put a beach trip on your bucket list with the intention to stay inside the whole time.

Quietly, you pull your jacket over your shoulders, brushing your hair out of the way. And then you follow him out of the front door. 

The sand is cool between your toes when he convinces you to remove your shoes. 

“It’s the best part of the beach,” he insisted, but his smile was what truly had you agreeing.

Ever attuned to your needs, Jay notices when your breath starts to become shallower, the repeated motion of stepping over sand becoming more difficult. Then, he suggests that the two of you sit. But not before laying out the blanket he carried down with him. 

Half of it rests beneath the two of you, a barrier between the sand and your bodies. The rest of it drapes over your shoulders, a makeshift shelter from the cool evening breeze. 

The sun falls closer to the sea with every passing breath. Out here, it’s even more stunning. The vibrant pink and orange hues that streak through the sky, the gentle rhythm of waves against the shore, the salt-filled breeze that plays with your hair even as you sit half-hidden beneath the blanket. 

There’s something so peaceful about it all, so beautifully serene. It’s a reminder of just how big, how vast, how endless the world is. And how, even still, it finds a way to distill itself into pockets of perfection just like this. 

There are no shooting stars to wish on, no magical genies that offer to grant your deepest desires, but it still feels a bit like a peace offering from the universe. Life was never going to be fair, and for you, maybe never even truly kind. But there is still beauty to be found, still contentment to be had. Moments like this that will eventually fade to memories that you’ll treasure forever. 

At your side, Jay looks at the horizon too. Watches as the bottom of the sun kisses the waves. You’re not touching, but you can feel the warmth from his body against your side. 

“You can lean on me,” he offers, “if you want.” His voice is quiet but sure. Not small enough to be swallowed by the sea.

“I’m okay,” you assure him. 

A moment passes. The sun dips a bit lower. Time seems to move faster now. 

“I know,” he returns. “But you can anyway.”

Your first instinct is to protest. To insist that you’re okay, that you don’t need his support. 

You sneak a glance at him out of your periphery. Watch as his jaw tightens, as his throat works through a swallow. 

He’s nervous, you realize. And he used a bit of his bravery to make his offer. 

So instead, you let your head fall gently against his shoulder. It’s a bit uncomfortable at first. The angle isn’t quite right. 

Your temple presses against bone and your head wants to loll back to a position that you’re sure will make your neck ache. 

It takes Jay only the span of a few heartbeats to adjust. He sinks a bit further into the sand, his hand coming to rest against the outside of your head as he adjusts your angle slightly.

He leaves it there, even as you settle into your new position. Tucked closer into his neck, it’s far more comfortable. You can smell faint hints of his cologne with every inhale.

After a few moments, the hand against your hair begins to move. Gently, Jay tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 

Your eyes are still on the sun. It’s almost entirely vanished now, light fading as it settles into the sea. Jay’s thumb begins to rub gentle strokes against your temple. 

The air is cool, but Jay is warm. So impossibly warm and you can’t help but lean a little further into him, into his touch. 

Jay sighs, and it scatters across the top of your head. 

The sun finally kisses the day goodbye, dipping entirely below the horizon. Neither of you move, eyes still turned towards the sea even as daylight begins to fade. 

Jay wraps the blanket a bit tighter around your shoulders before resuming his light touches against your temple. .

The two of you stay like that for a long time, neither of you willing to move, to break the careful peace that’s settled so comfortably around you. 

But time presses onwards and by the time a fourth, obnoxiously large yawn escapes you, Jay makes the executive decision to call it a night. You don’t protest as he stands, extending a hand to help you up to your feet. You don’t comment on the way he keeps your hand wrapped in his just a bit longer than necessary, as if he isn’t quite ready to let you go. 

The walk back to the house is quiet, nothing but the sound of your breath and the waves behind you to fill the silence. 

Jay offers you a hand again, this time for balance as you brush sand from your feet before putting your shoes back on. 

Once you reach the house, you trail behind him up to the second floor. At the top of the staircase, he pauses, then turns towards you. You’re halfway to your bedroom when he calls your name. 

At the sound, you turn to look at him. For a moment, he just stares at you, fingers clenching at his sides. Then, he makes his decision. You see it in the set of his jaw, the sudden determination in his eyes. 

He takes three deliberate strides forward, all the way until he’s close enough to touch. You take half a step back in surprise and he follows, crowding into your space. 

“Jay, wh—”

His fingers wrap around your wrist, effectively silencing you as he pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a tight embrace. 

For a brief moment, you’re too stunned to do anything. And then, regaining your senses, you bring your own hands tentatively to his shoulder blades, let your face fall a little closer into his chest until your lips are brushing over the fabric of his shirt. 

Eyes wide in the moonlight, you take a deep breath in, letting his warmth envelop you. 

Jay pulls back, just slightly. He still has his arms around you, but there’s a sliver of space now, just enough room for you to look up at him. 

You regret it almost immediately. He’s already looking down at you, something indecipherable in his gaze. 

It frightens you. It sends a deep, aching thrill shivering down the length of your spine. 

Jay leans closer, and your eyelids flutter shut. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. 

You feel his lips against your forehead instead. Gentle, unmoving, just there. 

A handful of seconds pass. Or maybe a minute. Wrapped in his arms, time feels like a malleable thing. It’s impossible to be sure.  

Whatever it is, it’s long enough for something to pass between the two of you, for something to shift. 

Jay pulls back, but he doesn't let you go. Not yet. 

“Goodnight,” he whispers, breath fanning over your skin. 

Your mind is spinning, suddenly full of desires and thoughts and possibilities that you never stopped to consider before. 

“Goodnight, Jay,” you manage to return, breathless and more than a little flustered.

At that, he does pull back. Reluctantly, you disentangle yourself from him, still caught somewhere between possibilities and reality. 

Jay doesn’t move, hardly dares to breathe, until you turn, until the door to your bedroom clicks shut. 

Once it does, you lean back against it, hand flying to your chest. Your heart pounds in your throat, and your breath is suddenly a rather difficult thing to catch. 

You go through the motions of preparing for bed mechanically.

Washing your face, changing into the pajamas you packed, climbing into the ridiculously cozy bed in the middle of the room.

All the while, you imagine it, replay it. Jay looking down at you with intention in his gaze. His arms around you, his lips on your forehead. 

You’re exhausted. It’s late. But the thought of Jay, just across the hall from you, so close it’s almost painful, keeps pulling you back to consciousness. Sleep takes a long while to find you.

Once it finally does, it’s deep and dreamless. 

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

TO BE CONTINUED...

[lac4ygal]

✦ ݁˖ ᴛᴀʟᴋɪɴ’ ᴄʜᴇᴀᴘ. sim jaeyun

You thought the worst thing that could happen after your breakup was running into your cheating ex. Then you got pregnant by JAKE SIM. Captain of the Caldwell Wolves, campus golden boy and the most notorious heartbreaker on campus. He’s the last person you’d ever trust. Unfortunately for you, he’s also the father of your baby.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 19.4k

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: college au, unexpected pregnancy, slow burn, enemies-to-lovers adjacent, angst, fluff, smut

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: fingering, oral sex, cum eating, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, praise kink, dom!jake, breast/nipple play, dirty talk, riding, bump worship, penetrative sex, accidental injury, unexpected pregnancy, morning sickness, cheating (backstory), past relationship trauma, physical altercation, toxic male behaviour, jealousy, emotional manipulation, brief mention of abortion, alcohol consumption

𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: Delicate - Taylor Swift // Kiss Me Right - keshi // Sugar Talking - Sabrina Carpenter // It Ain’t Over ‘Till It’s Over - Lenny Kravitz // Please - BTS // striptease - carwash

𝐋’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐞: i genuinely had the best time writing this fic and getting way too emotionally attached to these characters! please feel free to leave a comment, scream or simply stare into the void thinking about these idiots (i know i will be). your support means more than you know and every notification makes me kick my feet like a Victorian lady seeing an ankle. i hope this fic made you experience at least one completely unnecessary emotion. thank you for ready and PLEASE enjoy!

The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.

It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.

“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”

The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.

“You love George Eliot.”

“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.

The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.

You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.

Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.

Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.

You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.

“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.

“I know.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”

She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”

You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.

You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.

Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.

“You’re doing maths,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”

“I’m making a drink.”

“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”

“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”

“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.

“I’m Jake.”

“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.

“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”

“Also a person,” you say.

That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”

You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.

He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.

Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.

At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”

You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.

“Okay,” you say.

His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.

He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.

You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.

He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.

Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.

He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.

“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.

He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.

His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.

“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.

You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.

He does it again. Slower.

His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.

“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.

“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.

He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.

He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.

He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.

His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.

The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.

He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.

You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.

He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.

He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.

“Jake—”

“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.

The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.

He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”

“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”

“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.

His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.

The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.

That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.

Possibly both.

Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…

“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.

You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.

Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.

He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.

You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.

“Bye, then,” you say.

“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.

You close the door behind you.

The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.

I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—

You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.

You text Mina. still up?

The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?

You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.

Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”

“Okay—”

“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”

Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”

“He absolutely did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said bye then and closed the door.”

“Bye then?”

“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”

You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”

“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.

“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”

Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.

You’re fine. You’re completely fine.

The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.

You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.

You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.

Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.

This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.

Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.

You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.

He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.

He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.

You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.

The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re not fine by Thursday morning.

The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.

“You’re not drinking your coffee.”

“I’m not feeling it today.”

Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.

By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.

Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.

You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“What kind of something.”

“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”

She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.

“Since Wednesday morning.”

“And it’s worst in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t drink coffee.”

“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.

“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”

The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.

“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.

“No.”

“Stressed about something?”

“When am I not stressed about something.”

“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”

“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”

Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.

“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”

“You used a condom?”

“Obviously.”

“They’re not a hundred percent.”

“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”

Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”

By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.

You text Mina. can you come over

She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.

The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.

The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.

The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.

Two minutes.

“It’s probably negative,” you say.

“Probably,” Mina says.

“The condom—”

“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”

“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”

“Stop,” you say.

One minute.

You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.

The timer goes off.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.

Two lines.

You look at it for a long time.

“Okay,” you say, finally.

“Yeah,” Mina says.

The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.

“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.

—

You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.

You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell him today either.”

“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”

You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.

“Don’t come with me,” you say.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”

The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.

Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.

And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.

You wait.

You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.

He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.

“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.

“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.

The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.

You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you repeat.

“That’s — okay. How far—”

“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”

He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.

“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.

The corridor goes even quieter somehow.

You look at him. “What did you just say.”

“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”

“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.

“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”

“Look, I just—”

You slap him.

You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.

“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”

He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.

“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.

You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.

You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”

You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.

“How did you—“

“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.

He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”

“No,” you say.

“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.

“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.

He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”

“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”

You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”

Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”

“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.

You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.

“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”

You look at him. “Which part.”

“All of it.”

He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”

Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.

Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”

You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”

“How stupid.”

“Significantly.”

A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”

So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.

“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”

“Yes.”

“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”

“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”

“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”

She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”

You look at the money on your nightstand.

You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.

The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.

“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”

“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”

You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”

“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”

“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”

You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”

“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”

You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.

“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”

You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.

You tell Jake two days later.

You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.

“I’m keeping it,” you say.

He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.

“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”

“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”

“Money isn’t the same as involved.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”

You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”

You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”

“To what.”

He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.

Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”

“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.

“Are you—” Jungwon starts.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Then what.”

Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”

“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.

“I don’t know her,” Jake says.

“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.

“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.

Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”

“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.

“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”

“Should she?”

Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”

Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.

—

The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.

He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.

It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.

The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.

Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.

You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.

Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.

He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Five minutes.”

You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”

Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.

“I know. You texted me.”

“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”

There it is.

You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”

“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”

“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”

His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”

“Then why are you here?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.

“I miss you,” he says.

You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.

You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.

But you also know what he did.

You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”

He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.

“I look what.”

“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.

You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.

There’s no reason to.

You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.

He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling

You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.

that’s good

A pause. Then: do you need anything?

You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.

I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.

He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.

You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.

You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.

It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.

You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”

“We’re not together, Mina.”

“I know.”

“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”

“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.

The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.

You are allowed to have feelings about it.

You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.

You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.

You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.

“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.

“Okay,” she says.

—

Jake texts you on Sunday.

heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good

You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.

A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?

You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.

The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.

It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.

okay, he says. no pressure.

You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.

Later, you think. All of it later.

He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.

Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

“Fine,” you say. “You?”

“Fine,” he says.

The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.

Beside you Jake goes very still.

You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.

“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.

You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”

“Yeah,” you say.

He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.

You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.

“Okay,” you say.

He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“What,” you say.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.

“You too,” you say, and go inside.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.

Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.

You don’t reply.

He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?

You stare at it for a long time.

You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not going to,” you say.

He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.

You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.

“Sunghoon.”

“I just want to walk with you.”

“I didn’t say you could.”

“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”

You glance at him. “Fine.”

“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”

“Thanks,” you say, flatly.

He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.

“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”

He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”

“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”

He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.

“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”

And he lets you go.

But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.

The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.

You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.

You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.

He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.

You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.

You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.

The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”

His voice.

You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.

“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.

“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.

The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.

You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”

You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.

He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.

“I needed air,” you say.

“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”

“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”

The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.

“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.

“Then walk away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”

He doesn’t go inside.

He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.

“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.

“That’s not your business,” Jake says.

“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.

His eyes find yours. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” you say.

“Are you pregnant?”

The step goes very quiet.

Jake goes very still.

You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.

“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”

“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”

“Sunghoon—”

“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”

“You stay out of it—”

“She told you it’s none of your business—”

“I’m talking to her—”

“Then talk to her with some respect—”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”

“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”

“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”

A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”

“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.

“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth.

And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.

It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.

But you make a sound and stumble back.

Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.

“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”

“Are you okay? The baby—”

“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”

Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”

“No.”

You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”

You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.

Behind you, you don’t look back.

Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay

You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.

He sends: I’m sorry again

Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.

You don’t text him back.

He tries on Sunday.

A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.

Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.

Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.

You text back: stop.

He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.

You put the phone in your drawer.

He doesn’t stop.

Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.

You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.

You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.

On Tuesday he’s outside your building.

Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.

You stop on the steps. “Jake.”

“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.

Good, says a part of you.

The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”

You look at him. “It was an accident.”

“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same difference.”

“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”

The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.

“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”

He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.

“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”

“Then be consistent.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.

“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”

“Done.”

“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”

“Jake.”

“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”

You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.

“The grapes were good,” you say finally.

Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.

You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.

“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”

You go.

He tells his father that evening.

He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.

Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:

“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.

Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.

“How far along,” he says.

“About eight weeks.”

His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.

“Tell me about her,” he says.

Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”

“The woman. Tell me about her.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.

“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”

“How.”

Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.

His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.

“Do you like her?” he asks.

Jake looks up.

“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.

“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”

“That’s not what I asked, son.”

Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.

“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”

His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.

“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.

Jake looks at him.

“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”

Jake absorbs this.

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”

Jake looks at the menu.

“Dad,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”

His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”

Jake picks up his menu.

He end up ordering the carbonara.

—

The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.

It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.

Jake shows up.

That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.

He remembers things.

This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.

He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.

And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.

Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.

Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.

Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.

“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.

“A little,” you say.

“How do you feel about that?”

You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”

Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”

“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”

Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.

He notices on Saturday.

You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.

Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You have a face.”

“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”

“I know.”

“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”

You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”

“I meant it.”

“Jake.”

“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”

The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.

You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.

He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.

For now that’s okay.

The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.

He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.

You do not examine why you listen to it twice.

Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.

You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.

I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.

He sends a single: you too.

And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.

You feel lighter, after.

Jake finds out about the dissertation.

Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”

“Like what.”

“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”

You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”

“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”

You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.

“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.

“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”

“You said that.”

“Because I mean it.”

You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.

There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.

The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.

“I should go in,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

Neither of you moves.

You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.

“Jake,” you say.

“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.

“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”

He looks at you. “Is it not?”

You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.

Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”

“Okay.”

“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”

The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.

At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.

You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.

You change it to Jake.

Just Jake. Nothing else.

You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.

—

He asks you out on a Tuesday.

Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”

You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“Did you want me to make it complicated?”

You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”

“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”

“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”

“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”

You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.

“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”

He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.

The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.

You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.

“What,” he says, catching you looking.

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”

“From what?” He laughs.

“From who you were in September.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”

He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”

You look back at your pasta.

Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.

Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.

You let him.

You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.

“Come up,” you say.

His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”

“I just asked, didn’t I?”

He follows you up.

Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.

It’s different from September.

September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.

This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.

“Hi,” you say back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

“Jake—”

“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.

He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.

He goes to his knees.

You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.

Your throat tightens.

He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.

“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.

“More than okay,” you manage.

He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.

He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.

He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.

His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.

“If you don’t—” you start.

He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.

He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.

Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.

He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.

He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.

You start laughing.

He looks at you confused. “What.”

“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.

He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.

“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.

“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.

He flips you over.

Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.

“You good?” he asks.

“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”

“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.

His head drops back.

You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.

“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”

The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.

You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.

Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.

“Come to my game next week,” he says.

You turn your head to look at him. “What?”

“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”

You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.

He turns his head. “Actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”

The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.

—

The following week is small moments.

Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.

Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.

Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.

You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.

Friday morning he’s at your door.

In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.

He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”

You take it from him.

You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.

You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.

When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.

“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.

“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.

Someone sits down on your other side.

You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.

“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.

“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”

He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”

You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.

“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.

“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.

“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”

You watch Jake on the ice.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

The Wolves win.

Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.

After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.

And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.

You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?

The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.

“Oh my god,” Mina says.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Are you — are you going to—”

And then he’s there.

Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.

“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.

You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.

“You’re insane,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.

When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.

“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”

He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.

“Good,” you say back.

Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.

—

Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.

The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.

Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.

“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.

“Hey,” you say.

“You good?”

You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.

You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.

Good, you think. I’m more than good.

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @kristynaaah @yuudaiinhs @urlocalengene @woninlove @n4n4files @jimineepaboya @grdientlips @hooniluhv @afanok @seungiesdoll @rinforu @isa942572 @ride-a-nishimura @florarua @baedreamverse @softblaqn @rikisloverrr @kittyvalr @ellushic @dimples264493 @kimmm02 @kiwicup @jakebitez @mystgene @baek-some-cake @betagalactose @kookiesnkim @honeyvelvetinez @violetteaismyfavourite @meowza1 @imminentcodexcore @mlink64 @k4y-sh @rubadubdubinthetub @jungwno @k3nza @simjakeyjake @heeseungdada @bbrianawhatt @onlyifusayyesxx @mintchocoddeonut @sillycactus143 @heexyzy @wonkiipiilled @sugarcwtie @alleiraa @firstclassjaylee

[jaylaxies]

WIKIHOW: TO FLIRT (WITH PICTURES)

PAIRING: sunghoon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: fluff, smut, angst, porn with plot, dom!sunghoon, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (fem receiving), fingering, marking, dry humping, slight choking, making out, squirting, multiple orgasms, mentions of jealousy, possessiveness. hoon is clumsy and unnaturally strong, mentions of nicknames, mentions of jake, jay, hee, won, karina, lmk if i missed anything!

WORD COUNT: 29.8k words

SYNOPSIS: when the university’s untouchable campus god accidentally walks into a doorframe the literal second he lays eyes on you, you realize the rumors about park sunghoon being a smooth player are completely fabricated. now, you get a front-row seat to him desperately trying to follow a ten-step wikiHow guide on how to flirt, except you start to think that his clumsy, pathetic devotion is the most attractive thing you have ever seen.

A/N: hihi loves <3 i know it has been a rough few days for us all, i hope this lewser (affectionate) hoon makes you all feel a lil better, take care angels <3

STEP ONE: Introductions by identity theft   

Park Sunghoon prides himself on being calm and composed. 

At least that’s what he tells himself, if you generously take out the part where he’s clumsy, socially catastrophic, and possesses the spatial awareness of a newborn puppy on ice. To the Uni at large, he’s—well, a concept? The campus god, as wattpad core as it sounds, he simply makes it seem that way. The guy who sits in the back of lecture halls looking bored and devastatingly handsome, presumably thinking about complex philosophical theories or his next modeling gig (he doesn’t have any). 

In reality, he’s usually just thinking about whether it is going to rain or stressing over the fact that he held the door open for someone slightly too early, forcing them to do that awkward little run-walk, they were grateful regardless. It’s a fragile ecosystem, really. A reputation built entirely on the fact that he doesn’t talk enough for people to realize he’s actually a massive loser.

Only Sim Jaeyun knew the truth, along with Jay and Heeseung but yeah. Jake knew that Sunghoon isn’t brooding, rather, he’s buffering (as sad as that is). He knows that his oh so cold, mysterious silence is just Sunghoon’s brain playing elevator music (Wii party soundtrack preferably) while he tries to figure out how to function like a human being. 

But tonight, Sunghoon feels good, he feels capable somehow. He’s wearing his favorite gray sweatpants, Jay is making pasta and garlic bread, and the dorm smells like home in the best way possible. He has one job—bring the cups to the living room. Jake had been going on about inviting a chaotic duo he came across at a gaming cafe, who absolutely destroyed him during gaming but that eventually led to him aggressively adopting them into his life out of sheer respect for the carry later.

Sunghoon peels the plastic sleeve off the stack of red Solo cups with a satisfying crinkle, feeling that same surge of confidence, headphones playing his favourite EsDeeKid song (Palaces), letting him vibe, completely blocking out the chatter and laughter outside. He steps out of the kitchenette, the bass in his ears vibrating through his skull, making him feel momentarily infinite. He is the main character in a very low-stakes indie movie, he is cool, he is ready to perceive and be perceived, or so he thinks.

And then his eyes land on the center of the living room, and the soundtrack in his head comes to a screeching, violent-ish halt. He expects noise—he can see Jake’s mouth moving rapidly, gesturing with a ladle like a weapon—but he doesn’t expect you.

You are already there, claiming the space in a way that makes the cramped dorm room feel suddenly, terrifically bright. You’re standing near the beat-up sofa, one sneaker kicked off and overturned on the rug, looking comfortably disheveled in a way that art directors spend hours trying to replicate. You’re in the middle of laughing at something another one of your friends said, and he doesn’t know his name yet—a full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh that Sunghoon can’t hear over his music but can feel in his chest anyway.

You look effortless, like you didn’t even try, yet somehow succeeded more than anyone else in the room. You’re wearing a simple white tank top tucked into vintage denim that fits perfectly, with a leather jacket slipping casually off one shoulder. Your hair is loose, framing a face that is currently lit up with pure, unadulterated joy, and your eyes are crinkled shut with mirth.

Sunghoon’s brain, usually a well-oiled machine of anxiety, simply—stops. The music fades into static, and his calm and composed narrative dissolves. Oh, he thinks, his grip on the plastic stack tightening until it crunches. Wow.

He is so busy processing the sudden, violent realization that you might be the prettiest thing he has ever seen that he forgets a fundamental rule of Newtonian physics, Pauli Exclusion Principle: two solid objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

One of those objects is his broad, unsuspecting shoulder, the other is the wooden doorframe, and there’s a loud sound of collision—a bone-jarring impact that cuts right through his noise-canceling headphones and jolts his entire skeleton from the teeth down. The shockwave travels instantly to his hands, and the stack of red cups, liberated by the violence of the collision, explodes outward like plastic fireworks. They rain down onto the carpet in a chaotic, clattering cacophony that seems to echo for ten years, at least for Sunghoon.

Sunghoon freezes, vibrating with pain, staring blankly at a single red cup spinning sadly near his big toe. Slowly and painfully, he slides his headphones down to his neck. The room has gone dead silent.

The friend you were laughing with—the one with the cat-like eyes, stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. Jake blinks slowly from the couch, profound confusion etched into his features. And you—you turn slowly, eyes wide, the laughter still lingering on your face as you take in the tragedy of the cups and the man currently trying to merge with the drywall.

“Holy shit,” the friend breaks the silence, abandoning his game to lean over the back of the couch, “you good, dude?”

Sunghoon stays very still, he is waiting for one of two things to happen—either for the floorboards to mercifully open up and swallow him whole, or for his body to spontaneously combust from the sheer, blinding force of his own humiliation. Neither happens, instead, the throbbing ache in his shoulder radiates down his arm, a dull, pulsing reminder that he is not, in fact, the protagonist of a cool indie film, he is a hazard.

Say something, his brain screams, make a joke, be charming. Recover for fucks sake. 

“I’m good,” Sunghoon manages, though his voice comes out about three octaves higher than usual. He clears his throat, “I’m—yeah. Totally fine. Just—slipped.”

“You slipped?” The friend—Jungwon, he remembers Jake calling him—asks, eyebrows shooting up, “into the doorframe? Vertically?”

“The carpet,” Sunghoon says, pointing an accusing finger at the perfectly standard rug, “it’s deceptive man.”

From the floor, a soft snort erupts, It’s you. You aren’t looking at him with pity, which is what he expects. You’re grinning—a wide, genuine expression that scrunches your nose—and before Sunghoon can process the movement, you’ve dropped to a crouch in front of him to help with the plastic disaster zone.

“Deceptive carpet,” you repeat, the corner of your mouth twitching as you reach for a cup that rolled near his ankle. 

Sunghoon’s ears are burning. He can feel the heat spreading down his neck, violent and undeniable. He drops to his knees out of a desperate need to avoid looking at Jake, who is currently burying his face in a cushion.

“I mean—,” Sunghoon mumbles, grabbing cups with frantic, uncoordinated hands, “It’s physics. Momentum, y’know?”

“Right, physics,” you drawl, and your voice is warm, teasing in a way that makes his stomach do a weird flip. You hand him a stack of cups you’ve gathered, “well, try not to fight any more inanimate objects tonight, okay? The dorm deposit is expensive.”

Your fingers brush against his knuckles as you pass the stack. His skin practically zaps where you touched him. Sunghoon flinches like he’s been electrocuted, nearly dropping the cups all over again. He looks up, terrified, and finds your face inches from his. Up close, you’re even intimidatingly prettier. You smell like vanilla and leather, and your eyes are dancing.

“I’m Y/N, by the way,” you say easily, sitting back on your heels. 

Sunghoon stares at you. He knows he needs to respond. The social contract dictates that he provides his own name in return, it is a simple exchange. Input: Name. Output: Name. But his brain is currently running on a backup generator powered by a single, terrified hamster, and gosh the hamster is tired.

“Uh,” Sunghoon starts, his voice cracking a little, then he clears his throat, “Y/N.”

He nods, “Right, you’re Y/N.”

You look at him, waiting.

“I’m—” Sunghoon trails off, looking at your eyes, they are very pretty. He looks at your mouth, you’re smiling, “I’m—Y/N?” He stops, eyes widening. No, that is incorrect.

“I mean—” He waves a hand frantically, nearly knocking over the stack of cups he just rescued, “You’re Y/N! I’m Sunghoon. Yeah. Yeah—you’re Sunghoon and I’m Y/N—wait.”

He freezes. The sentence hangs in the air between you, defying all logic, space, and time. Did I just steal her identity? The silence that follows is loud. Behind him, he hears Jungwon choke on a laugh, disguising it as a cough. Jake just sighs, a long, mournful sound of a man who has given up on his roommate entirely, and Heeseung doesn’t bother hiding his jolly laugh. 

You blink at him. Then, slowly, that grin widens until it takes up your whole face.

“We’re swapping?” You ask, delighted, “okay—I’ve always wanted to be tall.”

Sunghoon feels his soul attempting to leave his body through his ears, he stands up, he stands up way too fast. His knees pop, adding a nice, crunchy soundtrack to his humiliation.

“I have to wash these,” he announces to the room at large, voice dangerously monotone.

“They were in a plastic sleeve,” Jake points out from the couch, finally turning around to witness the wreckage, “they’re clean bro.”

“Dust!” Sunghoon yells. He doesn’t look back, he can’t, “you can’t see it, but it’s there. It’s everywhere!”

He turns on his heel and flees. There is no other word for it, he practically speed-walks back into the safety of the kitchenette, shoulders hunched up to his ears, clutching the red cups to his chest, leaving the echo of his dignity—and his name—behind on the living room rug. He rounds the corner, out of sight, and immediately presses his forehead against the cool stainless steel of the fridge. He squeezes his eyes shut, his chest heaving like he just ran a marathon.

“He’s usually—uh—he’s usually not like this,” he hears Jake say in the other room, sounding apologetic.

“He’s funny,” you reply, and Sunghoon can hear the smile in your voice, “I like him.”

Sunghoon slides down the front of the fridge until he hits the floor, all while he buries his burning face in his hands. He is absolutely, irrevocably doomed.

“You good down there?”

Sunghoon peels one eye open, Jay is standing above him, holding a pair of tongs, staring at him with the blank, unimpressed expression of a man who has seen too much.

“I live here,” Sunghoon says to the ceiling, his voice hollow, “I pay rent, I have a 3.8 GPA. Why can’t I say my own name?”

“Nerves,” Jay says, flipping a piece of garlic bread, “also, you told her she was you. That was fucking insane.”

“Shut up, Jay.”

Sunghoon groans and scrambles up. He looks at the stack of cups in his hand, they are perfectly clean, but he washes them anyway. He turns on the tap and aggressively scrubs the brand-new plastic with the intensity of a surgeon scrubbing in for a heart transplant, just to buy himself thirty more seconds of isolation. Get it together, he coaches himself, staring at his reflection in the dark window above the sink. 

You are Park Sunghoon, you have a twelve-step skincare routine, you know how to parallel park, you are a functional member of society who definitely knows who he is.

He dries his hands, he fixes his hair in the reflection of the microwave, he takes a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to lower his heart rate, and marches back out. The vibe in the living room has shifted. In the three minutes he was gone, you have seamlessly integrated into the environment of the dorm. You’re sitting cross-legged on the rug now, stealing garlic bread from Jake’s plate. 

You look comfortable, annoyingly so, considering Sunghoon currently feels like his skin is made of itchy wool and his bones are made of glass. He walks over, moving stiffly, trying to be as aerodynamic as possible to avoid hitting any other stationary objects. He sets the slightly-damp cups down on the coffee table with a thud.

“All clean now,” he announces. 

You look up, and you don’t laugh this time, but the corner of your mouth twitches, scooting over slightly on the rug, patting the empty space next to you, wondering what was going in the head of this pretty boy.

“Saved you a spot,” you say easily.

Sunghoon’s brain does that static thing again, he walks over stiffly, like a toy soldier, and lowers himself onto the rug. He sits carefully, hyper aware of everything, of you. 

“Thanks,” he manages and it comes out deeper than he intended, almost gruff. Great. Now he sounds like a grumpy toddler.

You tear a piece off the garlic bread in your hand—the one you definitely stole, and offer it to him, “here, eat something, you’re practically vibrating.”

Sunghoon stares at the bread, then at you, “I’m not vibrating.”

“You are,” you insist, pressing the bread into his hand, “eat a lil’.”

Sunghoon takes it. He has to, really, because your fingers are brushing his palm and his brain has decided that obeying you is the only way to survive, and your fingers are soft, very soft. 

“I’m calm,” he lies, taking a bite. It’s cold, but he chews it with interest. 

“Uh-huh,” you grin, leaning back on your hands, your leather jacket creaking softly, “so, Park Sunghoon, besides forgetting your own identity, what do you do?” 

Sunghoon swallows, he wipes a crumb from his lip, trying to regain some semblance of the mysterious aura he allegedly has, “I exist,” he says, trying for deadpan humor, “I listen to music. I tolerate Jake.”

“A noble calling,” you laugh, “I’ve only known him for a week and I’m already exhausted.”

“Jungwon, remove her from the group chat,” Jake deadpans, looking at him straight in the eye. 

Jungwon looks his way, then your way before nodding, “let’s remove Jake.” 

You both chuckled as Jake let out a gasp, launching a throw pillow that hits Jungwon square in the chest while Heeseung groans, “so no one added me to the chat, huh?” 

Sunghoon doesn’t care, he’s zoned out as Jay joins the group with his freshly made mac and cheese truffle, and the room immediately devolves into a clamor of grabbing hands, Jungwon and Jake temporarily calling a truce to eat, and add a now very jolly Hee to the group chat. Sunghoon, however, has his undivided attention on you, he watches through his peripheral vision, as you lean forward to inspect the pot, the movement causes your leather jacket to slip further down your arm, he gulps at the sight. 

A nudge almost sends him into orbit, head snapping at your face with mouth wide open, and you’re looking at him with your brow raised, a bowl in your hand, “you okay?” You asked, and he nodded mindlessly, and you were genuinely confused now. 

You hand him the bowl, fingers brushing and he’s pretty sure his ears have turned red by now, but you’re not teasing him, and he likes how you simply just fit in here, “eat up, hm?”

“Thanks, yeah,” he mutters, looking down at the pasta, and it makes you smile at him fondly, before Jake’s groan interrupts you as he practically cries watching the cricket match on TV.

Jay sits behind you on the couch, starts talking about the history of this game—which only Jungwon pays attention to somehow, and then he stops to observe the room. His gaze drifts from the television screen to the floor, he watches you settle back against the couch cushions, then, his eyes slide to the person sitting next to you.

Sunghoon isn’t watching the match really. Jay watches as Sunghoon stares at the side of your profile for a beat too long. Then, Sunghoon looks down at the bowl in his lap. A small, shy smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, it’s something soft and entirely unguarded. And then, as if his brain has just caught up with what his face is doing, Sunghoon freezes. He just stops moving completely, his smile vanishing into a look of sheer, silent panic.

Jay pauses, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. He looks at you, completely unbothered, he looks back at Sunghoon, who is currently staring at a piece of macaroni. Jay closes his eyes, he sighs, a long, heavy exhale.

“Oh no.”

STEP TWO: Prolonged realization

It had been four days since you had dinner at Jake’s place, four days since you met Sunghoon, four days since you took Jay’s tupperware as he packed some pasta for you, Jungwon, and your friend Karina. 

To be honest, you hadn't expected to see Park Sunghoon again so soon, mostly because Jungwon had reported that he was currently in hibernation to recover from the sheer embarrassment of introducing himself as you. You’d caught glimpses of him on campus, but he was always in a rush somehow with his long strides. 

“If you don’t return these,” Jungwon had told you ten minutes ago, dumping the heavy glass tower into your arms, “Jay is going to skin me, like—it’s just tupperware.”

So, here you were, standing in the hallway of the boys’ dorm, smelling faintly of rain and balancing a stack of glass containers, knocking on the door, expecting Jay to open the door, only to find a very cozy looking Sunghoon. 

He looked completely different from the guy you’d seen walking around campus. He was wearing a massive gray hoodie and wire-rimmed glasses that were sliding down his nose, and he was holding a piece of peanut butter toast in one hand. He looked soft, sleepy, and very much at home. He blinked at you, clearly surprised, with his cheeks still puffed out from a bite of toast.

“Oh,” he mumbled, swallowing hard, “hi!”

“Hi,” you smiled, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms, “just here to return these, Jay was getting impatient you see. I also made cookies cause it’s not nice to give back empty containers,” you mumbled, eyes on Sunghoon’s moles—they looked pretty. 

He stepped forward to help, reaching out with both hands, clearly forgetting the peanut butter toast in his right hand, which slipped and fell on the ground with a wet thwap. Sunghoon stared down at the rug, his shoulders slumping in instant, silent defeat.

“I literally just made that,” he whispered, looking genuinely pained.

“RIP,” you murmured, biting back a laugh at how tragic he looked over a slice of bread, “the five-second rule is a little risky with carpet, though.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, crouching down immediately to peel the sticky mess off the floor, “Jay just vacuumed, too. I’m dead.”

“Here.” You shifted the stack to one hip, crouching down to hand him a tissue from your pocket.

He took the tissue, “thanks,” he mumbled, ears turning red yet again. He stood up, tossing the ruined toast in the bin by the door, then finally turned back to take the heavy stack of containers from you properly. He carefully set the stack on the narrow entryway table. He stared at the top container for a second, seemingly processing the fact that there were actual baked goods inside.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Figured you’d like something other than pasta,” you smiled, cause apparently that’s all what they ate. 

“I swear,” Hoon laughed, and it was cute, “it’s usually good but he uses so much basil, and it’s always penne.”

“What’s wrong with penne?”

“I just like fusilli better,” he mumbled, now aware of how he’s making you stand, “wait—do you wanna—like, come in?” 

“I would love to, but I have a lecture in—” you checked your phone, “twenty one minutes.”

He frowned for a second before nodding in understanding, “oh yeah, sorry. You should go, we can hang out some other time.” He looked so crestfallen, standing there in his oversized hoodie with his hands tucked into the sleeves, that you couldn’t help yourself. You took a step closer instead of backing away.

“Hey, Sunghoon?”

“Yeah?” He blinked, straightening up, looking at you with those wide, attentive eyes.

“Hold still.”

Before he could ask why, you reached out. His hair was a mess—probably from the hoodie, or maybe he’d been napping before you knocked—and there was a piece sticking straight up in the back like an antenna. Sunghoon froze, he almost stopped breathing as your fingers brushed against his hair, smoothing down the lock. His hair was soft, softer than it looked. You let your hand linger for a split second longer than necessary, your knuckles grazing the shell of his ear.

“Bedhead,” you murmured, pulling your hand back, scrunching your nose with how adorable he looked. Sunghoon didn’t move, simply staring at you as he gulped, his ears turning red (again) that clashed horribly with his gray hoodie. 

It was hard for him to keep his mind elsewhere even when you had taken your leave, especially when he tasted those double chocolate chip cookies—moaning with how perfect they were, crispy on the edges and softer in the middle. He was embarrassed, acting like a schoolboy with a crush, but he told himself it wasn’t that, he simply liked you as a person. 

So, when he met you again when the group decided to go out for dinner near the campus, he swore he’d be normal around you, maintaining some distance to not embarrass himself any further. 

When they arrived at the barbecue spot, the air thick with smoke and chatter, Sunghoon spotted you immediately. You were standing by the entrance with Jungwon and your other friend, laughing at something he said, wearing a simple dress that shouldn’t have looked nearly as good as it did. Don’t stare, he told himself, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. Say hi. Be cool.

“Hey guys,” you beamed as they approached, your eyes landing on him.

“Hey,” Sunghoon managed, keeping his voice painfully neutral. He offered a stiff nod, barely making eye contact before pivoting toward the empty table. 

He made a beeline for the corner seat, the one furthest from where he assumed you’d sit. He was halfway there when Jungwon threw his backpack down.

“I’m taking the wall!” Jungwon announced, diving into the booth and dragging Jake with him.

“I need the aisle to grill,” Jay declared, blocking the other side.

Sunghoon froze cause the geometry of the table was rapidly collapsing against him. Karina (your other friend slash roomie) slid in next to Jay. That left one spot—the middle, right next to the aisle. Right next to—

“Can I sit here?” You asked, appearing at his elbow with a grin.

He stiffened, his brain short-circuiting. He hurriedly shimmied into the booth, pressing his thigh against Jake’s so hard that Jake grunted, “dude, personal space.”

“Sorry,” Sunghoon muttered, staring straight ahead at the metal grill.

You slid in beside him, arm brushing against his, the friction sending a jolt straight up his spine. You smelled like vanilla and the rain from earlier, a scent that was quickly becoming his favorite thing to panic over.

“Did you like the cookies?” You asked, eyes shining in hope. 

And gosh—he did. He almost forgot about the protein diet he was planning and ate four of your cookies in a go, saving some for later as well. Not to mention how he fought Jake for the last cookie—who was running away teasing Hoon about his newly developed crush, which resulted in Jake being in his chokehold. 

“They were really good,” he managed to say sincerely. 

“He snatched the cookies from me,” Jake added helpfully, which surprised you pleasantly, much to Hoon’s dismay who didn’t want Jake to open his damn mouth. 

You liked it, liked seeing him panic, it made him look like a lost puppy. It was clear how he was trying to avoid more conversations about you, especially since he shoved a piece of meat in Jake’s mouth each time he tried to talk to you, so you focused back on Heeseung and Karina, who were debating about the new albums and rating them. 

Even while doing so, your attention kept diverting to Sunghoon and Jay discussing Maillard’s reaction for the perfect cooking of meat. He was so comfortable talking to others, not stuttering once, and he had nice hands, such nice and big and veiny hands—a kick from under the table made you wince, and you looked up to see Karina winking at you, eyes drifting to Sunghoon, which made you roll your eyes, cause sure—he was cute, but he didn’t even wish to talk to you (he just wanted to survive dinner). And somehow, that distracted you more than you’d like to admit. By the time the bill was paid, the night air had cooled down, and Jay insisted on driving you back home, granted you all lived in the dorms. 

Sunghoon could see where this was going, especially the way Karina and Jungwon headed to the backseat, Jay took the driver’s seat, Jake naturally opting for the shotgun, which left you, Heeseung, and Sughoon in the middle seating area. Heeseung didn’t bother waiting, sliding in and putting his headphones on. That left the middle seat and the seat closest to the door.

“After you,” Sunghoon said, his voice a little tight. He held the door open, gesturing for you to climb in.

You slid into the middle seat, settling against the upholstery. Sunghoon hesitated for a fraction of a second, staring at the empty space beside you before he finally climbed in and pulled the door shut. With Heeseung passed out against the far window and Jake shouting at the radio in the front, the back seat felt like a private, terrifyingly intimate bubble, more so when Jake decided they should take a detour and take a longer ride. 

Jay pulled out of the parking lot, and the car merged into the evening traffic, and by traffic, it was practically a congestion, which made you groan considering how sleepy you felt, “I hate this intersection, it’s always a mess I swear.” 

Sunghoon cleared his throat, “the civil engineers set the green light duration for the turn lane too short relative to the main avenue’s volume honestly. It creates a bottleneck every time the cycle resets. If they just added four seconds to the north-bound signal, this entire congestion would clear in no time.”

You looked at him, his skin shining under the dim lights, “you figured that out by just looking at it?” 

He just shrugged, wondering if he should have let his mouth shut, cause you probably think he’s even more of a nerd now. 

“You know,” you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “you’re actually really smart, Sunghoon.”

That actually hit him hard, he expected you to call him a nerd, instead, you were looking at him with genuine admiration, your eyes reflecting the passing city lights. He opened his mouth to respond, but his brain stalled. He settled for a strangled nod, quickly turning his face toward the window to hide the fact that his neck was rapidly heating up. The rest of the ride was a blur of brake lights and the rhythmic thump-thump of the windshield wipers. The warmth of the car, combined with the heavy meal, eventually pulled you under. As Jay navigated the final turn toward the dorms, your head lulled to the side, landing softly on Sunghoon’s shoulder.

He went rigid instantly, he stopped breathing actually. He didn’t move a single muscle, not even to adjust his arm which was starting to go numb from the angle. If he didn't like you, he would have politely nudged you awake or shifted away. Instead, he sat there, a statue in a damp hoodie, terrified that even a single exhale would disturb you, staring at how pretty you looked even as you slept, so comfortable around him.

He wanted to kiss you, he wished to kiss your forehead, and that should have been the sign, but he didn’t, opting to stare like a lovesick puppy who couldn’t admit he was catching feelings. It wasn’t really convenient how he wondered if you’d be just as perfect under him, would you curl up? Pull him closer? Would you want him to touch you?

And he kept on acting like an invisible man after, simply because you woke up and thanked him with that pretty smile of yours, and if it were to get any further Sunghoon swore he would not be able to survive it, not when all his friends were whistling at the fact that Sunghoon could pull someone even with his endearing loser ways.

The invisible act stayed for long, leading to the mid semester exams, which meant that Sunghoon had successfully managed to keep it together for nearly two months since that night, which made him feel proud for handling it so well, or so he thought, until the night before the final major midterm.

The library doors swung open, revealing a torrential downpour, making the group groan in unison—except for Sunghoon, who had checked three different weather apps and was clutching a sturdy black umbrella.

Logic dictated he open it. Logic dictated he offer to walk you to your dorm, sharing the small space under the canopy. But Sunghoon looked at you, shivering in your oversized sweater, and his brain supplied a vivid image of your shoulders brushing for ten whole minutes, so well, panic overrode survival instincts.

“Here,” he blurted out, shoving the umbrella handle into your chest, “cover Jungwon and Karina, It’s big enough for the group.”

“What? Sunghoon, wait—”

“I have to run!” He announced, his voice cracking.

Before you could argue, he turned and sprinted into the deluge, instantly soaking his hoodie as he splashed through the puddles while Jay and Jake watched with absolute disbelief on their faces, staring at each other and sighing, agreeing that Hoon was indeed down bad, and even worse at pretending to be normal about it. 

Behind you, Jungwon watched Sunghoon’s retreating figure, then looked at you as you immediately popped the umbrella open and bolted after him, leaving the rest of the group dry but abandoned.

“Idiots in denial,” Jungwon muttered, shaking his head as he pulled his jacket over his head, “I hate it here.”

Sunghoon made it halfway across the quad before the rain stopped hitting him. He skid to a halt, chest heaving, and looked up to see the black umbrella hovering over his head. He turned slowly to find you standing there, slightly out of breath and holding the umbrella over him, your own shoulder getting wet in the process.

“You are ridiculous, Park Sunghoon,” you laughed, though your eyes were soft, “who runs in the rain to avoid sharing an umbrella?”

Sunghoon stared at you, and god you were close, you were wet. You were smiling at him like he was the only person in the world. He was absolutely, irrevocably doomed as you walked him to the dorms, when he insisted on dropping you first, which he did. 

What he didn’t expect was the hug you gave him, “thanks Hoon,” you’d mumbled into his ear, god you smelled so good, you were so warm, and fit perfectly into his hug, smiling brightly before heading inside without any care of Jungwon and Karina. 

The hug, the smile, the way you used his nickname—yeah, Sunghoon wasn’t sure how he was still breathing, and it was comical how he stood there for five minutes even after you’d gone inside, poor man was broken, and now there wasn’t any room for denial. 

Later that night, shivering in his dorm room and wrapped in three blankets, Sunghoon stared at his ceiling with wide, terrified eyes. He fished his laptop out of his bag and typed with trembling fingers:

WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures). 

STEP THREE: Establish eye contact (like a normal person)

Sunghoon thought he was safe, that closing his laptop’s lid was enough when he went out to get some water before taking a shower, but boy he couldn’t have been more wrong. He walked into the living room with a towel still around his waist after the shower, only to find Heeseung staring at a MacBook with intense focus, but wait—was that his MacBook? Of fucking course, Jay and Jake were there as well, shoulders shaking with silent, violent laughter. Sunghoon froze in the doorway, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet, witnessing the exact moment his social life turned into a tragedy.

“Is that—is that a step-by-step guide?” Jake wheezed, tears streaming down his face as he pointed a trembling finger at the screen.

Heeseung cleared his throat, reading from the screen like a news anchor, “WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl. With pictures. It says here: Smile to show you are approachable.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Sunghoon yelled, his voice cracking two octaves. He lunged across the room, nearly losing his towel, but Jay blocked his path with a shit-eating grin.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Jay sighed, shaking his head with mock sympathy, “Jungwon will kill you.”

Sunghoon froze, the color draining from his face, “wait, why?”

“Cause he likes Y/N,” Heeseung said, keeping his face perfectly straight.

“He what now?” Sunghoon whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Yeah,” Jake added, nodding solemnly, “they’re in love. Haven’t you noticed? The bickering? It’s their thing.”

Sunghoon looked like he had just been shot in the chest. His shoulders slumped, his lips parted in shock, and he stared at the floor with such profound, soul-shattering devastation that the room went silent for a full second. He looked small, wet, and utterly defeated, all while being in his towel, abs out and everything.

“Oh my god,” Jay burst out laughing, hitting Heeseung’s arm, “we’re kidding! You can’t even be jealous without looking like a kicked puppy.”

Sunghoon scoffed, eyes teary, his soul slowly returning to his body as the realization hit, “I hate you, all of you,” he hissed, snatching his laptop and fleeing to the safety of his locked room.

He didn’t know if it would work, but he wished to try anyway, no more running away, which is why he opened the MacBook yet again to go over the steps, preparing himself for the first one, sighing and smiling over the fact that you and Jungwon weren’t actually dating, but that didn’t mean you’d be single for too long, hence, he needs to start step one right after the exams are done. Just like that, Hoon was more focused on the plan rather than the exam, but he was pretty sure he aced it anyway, what he lacked was practical skills, not theory.

The exams came and went, leaving everyone with varying degrees of sleep deprivation, and a desperate need for greasy food. Which is how, mere hours after the final paper was submitted, you all found yourselves crammed into a sticky booth at the campus pub for the weekly Tuesday Trivia Night. You were sitting directly across from Sunghoon, stealing fries from Jungwon’s plate while arguing about the best Mario Kart track (toad harbour). Sunghoon, however, wasn’t listening. He was mentally rehearsing. He had spent the last three days memorizing Step 1: Make Eye Contact.

The article said: Lock eyes with her for a few seconds to show you’re interested. Don’t look away first. Be bold.

He took a deep breath, gripped his pint glass until his knuckles turned white, and initiated the sequence. He looked at you while you were laughing at something Jake said, your head thrown back, looking effortless and bright against the dim pub lighting. Sunghoon locked on, staring with intense focus. You paused, a fry hovering halfway to your mouth, sensing the weight of his gaze. You blinked, confused, but Sunghoon didn’t look away. Hold the gaze, his brain screamed, assert dominance.

“Hoon?” You asked, using the nickname again.

Sunghoon didn’t answer, he couldn’t, he was too busy counting the seconds. Then, you did the one thing WikiHow hadn’t really prepared him for, you didn’t look away shyly, rather, you leaned in.

You placed your elbows on the sticky table and leaned forward, bringing your face alarmingly close to his, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

“You’re staring, Park,” you lowered your voice, teasing him, “and here I thought you were ignoring me.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” he blurted, maintaining that eye contact, “it’s kind of hard—to ignore you.”

The playful smirk dropped from your face as you blinked, caught off guard by the sudden honesty in his tone, which was needed especially when you did spend a gracious amount of time complaining to Karina about how you shouldn’t have hugged Sunghoon cause he had started ignoring you. He wasn’t stuttering now, wasn’t looking elsewhere, just into your eyes—which he finds really pretty.

“Oh,” you breathed, the teasing edge now vanished, leaning back as you felt the faint heat creeping up your neck, matching his own.

“Okay, question one!” The host bellowed, successfully helping Sunghoon escape the situation.

Sunghoon exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He had survived Step 1, but he was pretty sure he’d lost a few years of his life in the process. Then the game started, and Sunghoon forgot about the steps entirely, he just watched you. You were a force of nature, especially when the category switched to 2000s Pop Culture, you were unstoppable.

“Shrek 2!” You yelled before the host finished the quote.

“Correct!”

You high-fived Jake so hard the table shook, and Sunghoon wished he was there instead of Jake. You were competitive, loud, and brilliant. Sunghoon didn’t answer a single question, he just sat there, nursing his drink, tracking your every movement. He watched the way you bit your lip when you were thinking, and the way your eyes crinkled shut when you laughed at Jake’s wrong answers, who was way too competitive for his own good.

“Ouagadougou!” You shouted for the geography round, slamming your hand on the table.

“How do you know everything?” Jungwon asked, looking at you with mild horror.

“I have a brain, Won,” you winked, shooting a glance across the table at Sunghoon, “see? We won.”

Sunghoon felt his heart do a traitorous little flip. He didn’t look away this time. He just smiled, a small, unguarded thing.

“You’re drooling,” Jungwon whispered, nudging Sunghoon’s ribs.

“Am not! Don’t kill me,” he gasped.

Jungwon furrowed his brows, “why the fuck would I kill you?”

“Uh, so you don’t like her, right?” He asked hopefully even though his friends had told him, his poor heart needed some actual confirmation.

“Bro please, you’re fighting ghosts here, absolutely not,” Jungwon said, looking at Sunghoon with—pity? 

Sunghoon processed this as you all started hugging each other, victory being too sweet not to, and he waited patiently, not sure if you would even hug him, but he did stand up with flushed cheeks when you appeared in front of him, the height difference painfully apparent now, he had to look down, his dark hair falling over his eyes, while you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Without overthinking it, you reached out and pulled him into a hug.

He turned into a literal pillar for a microsecond before the realization hit. Then, slowly, his arms wound around you, hesitant at first, then firm, pulling you into the warmth of his chest, and you could hear how fast his heart was beating as you leaned in, your chin resting on his shoulder. The noise of the pub—the clinking glasses, Jake’s loud laughter, the trivia host’s drone—all felt miles away.

You let your hand slide up from his shoulder, your fingers grazing the soft hair at the nape of his neck. His breath hitched, a sharp, audible sound that told you exactly how much effect you were having, and you didn’t mind, simply saying, “don’t be a stranger anymore, Hoonie.”

The nickname did it for him, and he practically shuddered under your touch, his knees actually buckling for a split second. He buried his face in the crook of your neck to hide the fact that his entire face was burning, inhaling sharply. He smelled like mango for some reason, and expensive cologne, but he was more focused on your scent.

“I won’t,” he rasped against your skin, “I promise.”

He held on for a second longer than intended, his fingers digging into the fabric of your sweater as if he were afraid you’d disappear if he let go. When you finally pulled back, stepping out of his personal space with a lingering smile, the loss of warmth hit him as he frowned. You waved at the group and walked out the door with Karina, who was more than ready to gossip about what had just happened, leaving the bell chiming in your wake.

Sunghoon stood frozen in the middle of the pub, his hand instinctively coming up to touch the back of his neck exactly where your fingers had been. He stared at the closed door for a full minute, unable to move, unable to think, his brain reduced to white noise and the echo of Hoonie.

“He’s broken,” Jake announced, waving a hand in front of Sunghoon’s unblinking eyes, “which is fair though, he got called Hoonie.”

“Did you hear that voice crack?” Jay snickered.

Sunghoon didn’t even hear them, just letting out a long, shaky exhale, his legs finally giving out as he collapsed back into the booth, burying his face in his hands.

“You really are like Nobita, just smarter when it comes to studies,” Jake let out as Sunghoon glared at him.

“And Jungwon can be Doremon,” Heeseung laughed, “round head and all, y’know?”

“Shouldn’t WikiHow be his Doremon though?” Jay asked looking at Jungwon who found the comment highly offensive.

“WikiHow?” He asked, and Jay told him the backstory, which had this man laughing like crazy, “Oh, I’m so telling this to Y/N.”

Now, that grabbed Hoon’s attention, who simply grabbed Jungwon and picked him up effortlessly despite him thrashing around—it was a funny sight, Hoon holding him up like a cat, “you wont tell her anything,” he warned, and for the first time he realised the strength of this man. 

“Yeah, forgot to tell you he’s strong behind his loser persona,” Heeseung added.

Either way, Sunghoon was in trouble, because he couldn’t sleep that night, and neither could Jungwon, who was contemplating joining gym now.

Hoon spent all night trying to plan his next step, and now he was prepared, he just had to find you.

STEP FOUR: Love is an open door—open it wider.

You were sitting with Karina at the campus coffee shop, finally resting after the exams were over, and right then your brows furrowed as you overheard two girls talking. Now, you weren’t one to eavesdrop, however, they were talking about Sunghoon—granting someone the best pleasure of their life? But he was with the whole group last night, so what’s that even about? Karina was listening as well, genuinely concerned at the very obvious made up story.

“What is going on?” You asked Karina, and she shrugged.

“He has this reputation of being this mysterious fuckboy, and people believe it cause no one really is close to him, she’s faking it all,” she replied, sipping her iced coffee.

“Woah, what the fuck?” You scoffed, “have they even seen how he looks like a puppy who’s always confused?”

“Yeah, they obviously don’t know that—but hey, he could be wild in the sheets, we don’t know that.”

You thought for a second, wondering if it could be true, because to you, Sunghoon seemed so sweet, almost like he’d be the softest, most loving man ever. But—you do wish to know what he was behind those oversized hoodies and shy smiles.

One of the girls smirked, going on about it, “no literally, he was wild last night, he’s got a big cock, and boy he knows exactly how to use it.”

You choked on your doughnut, Karina was amused seeing you like this, even more when the shop bell chimed, “damn, speak of the devil—and is he wearing Prada?” 

You turned around, wiping sugar off your lip, and sure enough, there he was. Sunghoon stood in the doorway, clad in a long, structured trench coat over a sleek turtleneck, looking like he’d stepped straight off a runway (yeah, you wanted him in your bed now). The entire coffee shop seemed to dim in his presence. The two girls behind you gasped, clutching each other’s arms.

“He’s looking,” one whispered frantically, “act natural.”

Sunghoon, however, wasn’t looking at them, scanning the room to find you, and he paused when he did. If Jake was there, he would practically see the WikiHow page loading in his brain—Step 2: Smile and be approachable. He tried to soften his face, but the nerves got the better of him. Instead of a gentle, welcoming smile, he pulled his lips back in a stiff, terrifyingly symmetrical grimace that made him look like he was bracing for an impact. He held the expression as he walked toward the counter to order his coffee as you sat there, confused. 

“Is he okay?” You asked.

“Don’t know, he’s always like that around you,” she said, and that made you smile—getting a weird glance from Karina. 

Sunghoon grabbed his iced Americano, took a deep breath to reset his expression, and walked over. He stopped in front of you, looking slightly thrown off by Karina’s presence, but he played it cool.

“Oh,” he said, his voice dropping to a smooth, feigned nonchalance, “fancy seeing you here.”

He absolutely did not mention that he had asked Jungwon for your location, and Jungwon absolutely didn’t mention that you weren’t alone.

He looked like he was about to retreat to a corner to brood over his failed smile, but you weren’t about to let that happen. Not with the rumor mill churning behind you.

“Hoon, wait,” you said, reaching out to snag the belt of his coat, tugging him closer.

Sunghoon froze, stumbling a step forward, looking down at you with wide, confused eyes, “y—yeah?”

“You look absolutely exhausted,” you said, pitching your voice just loud enough for the table behind you to hear. You reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead, letting your fingers linger against his skin, and he wasn’t functioning anymore, that touch sending a shiver down his body and stopping right on his cock. 

He fucking loved it when you touched him, your fingers were so gentle, so soft on his skin, and maybe you did like him—that’s why you pulled him closer, right? He looked at you with wide eyes, dropping down to your lipgloss painted lips, which looked too inviting. 

“Tired from last night?” You asked, granting him a smile. 

He almost fainted, cause it sounded as if you knew he was up all night staring at your photos from instagram, rolling around on his bed with a genuine smile. But how could you know that? So he simply nodded, thinking (hoping) you were referring to Trivia night. 

“Yeah, I mean—it did go on for a while, and you were amazing,” he nodded, leaning into your touch instinctively, praying his best to sound normal. 

Behind him, the girls inhaled sharply, their imaginations clearly running wild. You smirked, knowing they were picturing a scandalous night while you were actually thinking about him being zoned out for most of the night, paying attention to the winning part only. 

“You kept up yknow? That’s impressive too,” you added helpfully even though he had not said a word during the trivia, patting his chest, not knowing how the poor man was suffering—in a good way, “you should rest, we were up really late.”

“I—yeah, it was worth it,” he said, looking down on the floor. 

Karina was shaking her head with the biggest smile on her face, turning back to see the girls talking in hushed voices. 

You chuckled, “okay, you should go rest now, bye Hoonie!”

He nodded, trying to give you another smile that looked very—uh, scary? But he left, not having it in him to actually stay and talk when there was an audience (Karina), he kicked the random stones on the path as he walked and sat in the Uni park, unsure what had even happened. 

“You are a menace,” Karina whispered when he was gone.

“I’m just clarifying things,” you winked, taking a bite of your doughnut as the girls behind you sat in stunned, jealous silence as you both gathered your things and started walking towards the dorms.

It was then when you spotted Sunghoon sitting alone, and you stopped, “I’ll catch you later,” you told her, and she followed your gaze, smirking at how obviously dumb the both of you were.

“Try not to break him this time, hm? Go get him, tiger,” she patted your back and you rolled your eyes, heading towards him, watching him tap his foot to some rhythm, staring ahead blankly.

You slid onto the bench next to him, nudging his knee with yours. Sunghoon jumped, his head snapping toward you. When he registered it was you, he immediately smiled, he had dressed up as well, granted WikiHow did say to dress up nicely and smell good, for which he ended up going to Jay for his perfume collection. He tried to smile, he really did, but he looked so endearingly awkward, you couldn’t help but laugh at him.

“Hoon, please,” you wheezed, reaching up to pull one side of his earpods away from his ear, “what are you doing?”

Sunghoon’s face crumbled instantly, the smile dropping into a pout of genuine despair. He slumped back against the bench, looking miserable.

“I’m trying to be approachable,” he groaned, his voice low and defeated. “I heard that I look mean when I’m thinking. I didn’t want you to think I was—I don’t know, unapproachable.”

“You are unapproachable,” you pointed out, stealing the headphone cup you’d pulled off his ear and holding it to your own, “but that’s because you are handsome.”

“Huh—what—”

You didn’t let him think much as you paused, grinning slightly, “wait. Are you listening to—is this Disney?"

Sunghoon froze. He snatched the EarPod back, his cheeks flushing, “no,” he lied immediately, “It’s—hard rock. Heavy metal, yeah.”

“Sunghoon,” you grinned, leaning into his space, “that was definitely love is an open door from Frozen.”

You didn’t give him a chance to come up with another lie. You just smiled, leaned back against the bench as you grabbed the airpod yet again, wearing it, and you started singing early knowing he’d malfunction. 

“I mean it’s crazy—”

Sunghoon froze, he stared at you, his mouth slightly agape. He looked around the park to see if anyone was watching, then looked back at you. You raised an eyebrow, challenging him. You knew he couldn’t leave a verse unfinished. It was against his nature, even if he had to sing the female verse of it.

“What?” he whispered, the word slipping out involuntarily. 

You grinned, leaning closer, your shoulder pressing against his, “we finish each other’s—”

Sunghoon’s eyes darted between your lips and your eyes, he fought it. You could see the physical struggle on his face as he tried to maintain his cool, but the music was swelling, and you were looking at him with that expectant, teasing light in your eyes.

“Sandwiches!” He blurted out, perfectly on beat.

You gasped, delighted, placing a hand over your heart. “That’s what I was gonna say!”

Sunghoon let out a defeated, incredulous laugh, but he didn’t stop—he couldn’t. The two of you sat on the park bench, huddled together over a pair of earpods, quietly harmonizing the chorus while a squirrel watched judgmentally from a nearby tree.

“Our mental synchronization,” he sang, looking at you with a gaze that was too obvious, but you didn’t catch it, “can have but one explanation.”

“You,” you sang, pointing a finger at him.

“And I,” he sang, pointing back, a small, genuine smile breaking through his embarrassment.

“Were just meant to be,” you both finished in unison.

Sunghoon let the final note hang in the air before he slumped forward, burying his face in his hands again. His ears were burning a bright crimson, “I can’t believe I just did that,” he groaned into his palms, “I’m wearing a trench coat. I’m supposed to be cool.”

“You’re cool,” you said as he smiled, which made you stop, “hey, you have fangs,” you pointed it out and he got conscious, “don’t hide, your smile is pretty,” you mumbled, and he breathed out, smiling just for you, not thinking this time, as you leaned against his arm.

If Hoon thought yesterday was the best day of his life, he was wrong, cause with how carefree he felt with you in the moment, he swears this is the best day of his life.

Step: Smile at her—successful.

STEP FIVE: Be a hero (by using your crush as a human shield).

You had been smiling way too much lately, and it irritated Jungwon, who was having a shitty day with how his favourite hoodie went missing, how his headphones stopped working, and how he dropped his cupcake on the floor. He glared at you through it all, “stop smiling for fucks sake,” he mumbled.

“Oh shut up, Doremon,” you teased, as Jake had told you about the whole Nobita-Doremon conversation, minus the WikiHow part, while gaming with you. You were disappointed to see the absence of Hoon that day as he had lectures, but that didn’t compare to his disappointment. 

He fell down on the floor (it really happened, no exaggeration) when he learned that you had left just ten minutes before he arrived back at the dorm, it was as if he was facing withdrawals of your absence, not having seen you since that day in the park. And of course, he was not confident enough to actually text you. Yes, he had your number from the groupchat, but that was about it. Now, he couldn’t wait much longer as he sat down to actually plan the next step, which was breaking the touch barrier. He actively ignored Jake teasing him about how you were wearing a skirt (which you definitely wore in hopes of seeing him, but oh well), and how you looked so pretty.

Sunghoon rolled into his stomach, pulling his phone out to garner more ideas, and he settled on one which seemed to be the most natural—use a scary movie night as an excuse, hold her when she gets scared, be her protector. He wasn’t fond of it (horror movies), but he believed it was the only way to go on about it, which is why he opened the group chat and started typing, swallowing hard.

He hated horror movies, the last time he watched The Conjuring, he slept with Jay and Jake, who couldn’t really complain, being equally scared, but then, he imagined you—scared and pretty, leaning into him for protection, and he was sold.

Sunghoon: movie night, ill buy pizzas Jay: ? Jake: you hate paying bro?? Hee: free pizza i’m in Jungwon: oh you’re down to this now Karina: dw ill bring Y/N along You: sounds like fun, can’t wait :3

Sunghoon threw his phone across the bed, giggling into the pillow, and Jay stared at him from the half opened door, unimpressed at the view of his friend giggling like a schoolgirl, “please control yourself,” he mumbled. 

Sunghoon screamed, throwing the pillow his way, “personal space i swear, knock before you come in!”

“You’re cleaning that up,” Jay deadpanned, watching the pillow slide sadly down the wall, “and fix your face. You look insane.”

Three hours later, the dorm living room had been curated better as Sunghoon had dimmed the lights and gathered the pizza boxes. 

He was wearing a grey fitted tshirt because WikiHow said grey was a soft, inviting color. He was ready. When the door opened, it was chaos. Jake and Heeseung were already on the sofa, arguing about pineapple on pizza, Jungwon was complaining about the stairs, and Karina was dragging you inside.

“Hi, Hoon!” You beamed, spotting him instantly, you were wearing an oversized graphic tee and the skirt, oh that skirt, looking comfortable and devastatingly pretty.

Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited, “pizza,” he blurted out, pointing at the table, “I mean, hi. There’s pizza.”

“Smooth,” Heeseung whispered as he walked past, patting Sunghoon’s shoulder.

The seating arrangement was a battlefield, but Sunghoon had strategized. He maneuvered Heeseung to the armchair, shoved Jungwon and Karina to the beanbags, and left the sofa for the core trio: Jake on the far end, you in the middle, and himself rightfully claiming the spot on your right.

“So,” Jake asked, grabbing a slice of pepperoni. unimpressed at how Hoon was behaving, “what are we watching?”

Sunghoon took a deep breath. This was it—the ultimate sacrifice.

“The Grudge,” he announced, trying to keep his voice an octave lower than usual.

Jake froze mid-chew, looking at Sunghoon, then at the TV, then back at Sunghoon with wide, betrayed eyes, “bro, are you serious? You slept with the hallway light on for a week after we watched the trailer.”

“I did not! That was you,” Sunghoon lied through his teeth, grabbing the remote to stop Jake from exposing him further, “I crave the thrill now.”

You looked at him, impressed, leaning back into the cushions so your shoulder brushed against his, “woah, really? I love horror movies. I didn’t know you were brave like that, Hoon.”

Sunghoon preened under your praise, ignoring the way his heart was doing gymnastics, “I’m full of surprises.”

He pressed play, and the room plunged into heavy silence that only horror movies can manufacture, Sunghoon sat rigid, his spine glued to the cushions, his eyes locked on the screen, but his entire awareness was tunneled on you—tracking the way you absentmindedly chewed on the crust of your pizza, the way you leaned back, looking frustratingly calm, while his own heart was doing gymnastics against his ribs. Ten minutes in, the tension was unbearable, the protagonist walking down a dark, rotting hallway while the violins shrieked in that nausea-inducing crescendo, and Sunghoon’s palms were slick with sweat, his brain screaming at him to look away, but he couldn't, not when he had a mission.

Wait for the scare, wait for the flinch, be the fucking rock. Suddenly, the ghost appeared, a pale, contorted face filling the screen with a deafening, wet shriek.

“Ahhhhhh!”

A scream tore through the room, high and terrified—but it wasn’t you? It was Jake, who launched himself sideways, burying his face directly into your shoulder and clutching your arm like it was the last life raft on the Titanic.

“Turn it off! Turn it the fuck off! She’s gonna get me!” Jake wailed, vibrating with fear, effectively using you as a human shield against the fictional spirit.

You laughed, startled but amused, patting Jake’s head with fondness, “It’s just a jump scare, Jakey, breathe.”

Sunghoon sat frozen, his arm halfway raised in a pathetic imitation of a yawn, staring at the scene in absolute horror, because that was his shoulder, that was his moment, that was his Step 3 crumbling to dust before his eyes because his best friend had zero dignity. He glared at the top of Jake’s head, jealousy flaring hot and bright in his chest, a burning indignation that momentarily eclipsed his fear of the vengeful ghost.

“Get off her,” Sunghoon gritted out, voice laced with venom.

Jake lifted his head, eyes wide and teary, looking like a puppy, “shut up.”

“You’re crushing her,” Sunghoon lied through his teeth, reaching over to peel Jake’s fingers off your arm with surprising strength, his jaw tight, “sit up, Jake, have some self-respect, be a man.”

“You’re just jealous I got the safe spot,” Jake sniffled, retreating to the corner of the couch but keeping a hand on your sleeve just in case, pouting, and you chuckled, hiding your smile from Sunghoon.

Sunghoon bristled, turning back to the screen, determined to reclaim the moment, because the movie was building up to the next scare, the ghost crawling down the stairs with wet, cracking sounds that made his skin crawl. He lifted his arm yet again, fingers trembling slightly because he needed to be smooth, but he was scared. 

And on the screen, the ghost lunched right at the camera, and well, Sunghoon didn’t just scream, he fucking broke. Instead of casually putting an arm around you, he let out a strangled yelp and instinctively yanked you toward him, burying his face into the crook of your neck and wrapping both arms around you in a crushing embrace.

Silence filled the room, heavy and awkward, broken only by the screaming on the TV and Sunghoon’s heavy, erratic breathing against your collarbone.

You sat there, stunned, your face pressed against the soft cotton of Sunghoon’s t-shirt. You could smell his detergent—clean linen and something distinctly him—and feel the way his heart was hammering against your chest, the rhythm so fast it made your own pulse skip a beat. Butterflies erupted in your stomach, not from the fear of the movie, but from the sudden, overwhelming warmth of him surrounding you, his arms holding you like he never planned to let go—and of course, he had well defined muscles, you could feel it.

Jake paused his panic to look at Sunghoon, Jungwon stopped eating mid-chew, and Karina raised a judgmental eyebrow from the beanbag.

“Hoonie?” You whispered, your voice muffled against his chest, trying to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks.

Sunghoon froze as the realization crashed down on him—he was hugging you. He was practically hiding in your neck and everyone was watching. He had failed Step 3 in the most spectacular way possible, yet—you felt so warm. You fit so perfectly against him—and it made him want to bite you? Abort, abort, abort. He slowly pulled his face away from your neck, but he didn’t let go of the hug, he looked down at you with wide, panicked eyes, his ears burning (again), searching your face for rejection.

“I—I got you,” he stammered, his voice cracking, trying to look heroic while his hands still trembled on your back, “I thought—I thought you were going to jump, so I—uh held you.” 

Everyone was baffled, and wondering how you even entertained Sunghoon through his outbursts, but they found fun in it, watching it unfold like some sitcom.

“Held me?” You repeated, eyebrows shooting up, though the amusement dancing in your eyes was soft, not mocking, “by trying to merge our ribcages?”

“It was a reflex,” he insisted, though the thought seemed wildly nice, before looking around the room, refusing to make eye contact with Jake, who was now grinning wickedly, “don’t overthink it.”

“I think he’s using you as a teddy bear,” Jungwon deadpanned from the floor, throwing a piece of popcorn at Sunghoon’s leg.

“Shut up,” Sunghoon hissed, but he tightened his arms around you just a fraction, pulling you back down so your head rested on his chest, “i’m protecting her. Look away.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you shifted closer until you were comfortably tucked against his side, listening to the rapid thumping of his heart slowing down to a steady, comforting rhythm. You wrapped an arm around his waist, grounding him, feeling the tension slowly leave his frame.

“It’s okay, my brave protector,” you whispered, looking up so your breath tickled his chin, “keep me safe.”

Sunghoon swallowed hard, resting his chin on top of your head, his face still burning. He stared straight ahead at the terrifying screen, absolutely petrified of the ghost, but thinking that maybe, just maybe, failing step 3 was better than succeeding. 

Because for the rest of the movie, he didn’t let go of you once, and every time you shifted, his hold only grew gentler, more possessive, and infinitely more real.

STEP SIX: Texting builds character

“You know—I don’t get it, it feels like mixed signals,” you sighed and Karina was baffled.

“What mixed signals? You’re as blind as him I swear,” she mumbles, shaking her head, “you both get such good grades but can’t navigate life, even if you’re a bit better at hiding your dumbass thoughts.”

“Aw thanks for the support,” you gasped in fake sweetness before sitting down next to her and sighing, “one second we are hugging and the other—radio silence, what even is going on?”

Karina sighed, finally glancing at you with a pitying look, “he’s just a guy. And guys are stupid. You look like a sad Victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from war.”

“Shut up,” you groaned. 

“Make him jealous, maybe he’ll act up again and confess for real,” she shrugged.

“Confess? Girl I don’t think he sees me that way, definitely just a friend.”

Karina couldn’t believe her ears, but she couldn’t be mean when you looked like a puppy now, just like Sunghoon. It was crazy how similar you both were, yet so different, but yes, you shared that same dumbness of not acknowledging the basic emotions you harboured. 

So when you got a text from Sunghoon, you were surprised, rushing into your room before Jungwon could comment on the odd look on your face. 

Meanwhile, Sunghoon sat in the library with his textbooks wide open, but he hadn’t read a word in twenty minutes. Instead, he was staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the delete text button. On his laptop, hidden behind a PDF of organic chemistry notes (his elective), was the tab:

WikiHow: How to Flirt Over Text

Step 1: Be playful. Send a meme that relates to a shared interest or a current mood. Humor lowers defenses.

He had agonized over the image for ten minutes. Was it too weird? Too try-hard? He needed something that said I’m thinking about you without actually admitting that he was, indeed, obsessively thinking about you. He swallowed hard, his heart doing a nervous rhythm against his ribs. Just calm down, Park. It’s a meme, not a marriage proposal (might as well have been a marriage proposal for him).

On the other hand, you had thrown yourself onto your bed, buried yourself under the duvet to block out the world (and Jungwon, who was loudly gaming in the next room), and opened the chat to find a blurry, low-res picture of Psyduck clutching its head, eyes wide in some sort of existential horror. 

Hoonie: me looking at this chem assignment rn

A laugh bubbled up in your chest. It was so stupid, so random, and so him.

You: pleaseee You: that is literally you You: drama queen Hoonie: wow Hoonie: im suffering and this is the support i get? Hoonie: fake friend

It physically pained him to even type the word, however, the guide did say to start off slow, so here he was, biting his lip as he saw you typing, wondering if you’ll play along or be offended.

You: i’m a great friend btw You: i’m manifesting good grades for u from my bed

Three dots appeared for you, bubbling, then stopping, then bubbling again.

Hoonie: must be nice to be resting Hoonie: im starving actually

You stared at the screen, wondering if this conversation was going where you thought it was going cause he was starving, and well, you were starving (always).

You: same tbh You: i would kill for boba rn

The typing bubble appeared for a long time, then it disappeared. A moment later, an audio file appeared.

Hoonie: [Voice Message 0:08]

You fumbled to hit play, holding the phone pressed tight against your ear.

The background noise of the library was faint—the rustle of pages, a distant cough—but his voice was right there, as if he was whispering directly into the mic so the others wouldn’t hear. The intimacy of it sent a shiver down your spine.

“I’m practically dead here. I was gonna sneak out to that boba place near the campus—the one that’s still open? You should come. Save me from this chemistry nightmare.”

There was a pause, a small intake of breath, and then a softer, rather shy admission, “I’ll pay.”

Your heart slammed against your ribcage, because he wasn’t just texting, he was asking you out, at 11 PM, to get bubble tea. This was it, maybe he was trying to signal directly for the first time. You bit your lip to stop the grin spreading across your face and started typing furiously.

You: deal. give me 10 mins i’m com—

Ping.

Another text popped up before you could hit send.

Hoonie: jake and jay are coming too Hoonie: so yeah group thing, you can invite won and rina  Hoonie: ill be waiting

Your thumbs froze over the keyboard. The cursor blinked at the end of your unfinished sentence, of fucking course, it was a group thing. The excitement drained out of you like water from a cracked cup. It went from a date to a hangout in the span of three seconds.

Sunghoon stared at his phone, horror dawning on his face. He dropped his forehead onto the library table with a dull thud.

“You idiot,” he whispered to the wood grain, talking to himself, “why did you invite Jake? Jake hates tapioca pearls.”

He had panicked. The voice note had felt too intimate, way too real. The WikiHow guide had a warning in bold red text—don’t come on too strong or you’ll scare her off. In a split second of terror that you might say no, he had used Jake and Jay as some human shields. Now, staring at the chat, he realized he had ruined it.

Beside him, Jake looked up from his laptop, looking at the groupchat where Jungwon had confirmed that he’ll be joining (you had asked him and Rina in a grumpy tone), your supposed date now turning into the usual hangout.

“Bro, did you just invite us to get boba? I thought we were grinding until midnight?”

Sunghoon didn’t reply, simply standing up and grabbing Jake by the hoodie, as he dragged him into a—headlock.

“Ow! What the hell?” Jake yelped.

Meanwhile, you were staring at the text, contemplating throwing your phone across the room, when another notification popped up.

Jay 🦅 sent an image.

You frowned and opened it. It was a blurry, candid photo taken in the library. In the foreground, Sunghoon had Jake in a chokehold. Sunghoon’s face was buried in his arm, his ears bright red, looking equal parts frustrated and miserable. Jake looked like a flailing hostage.

Jay 🦅: hoon is having a breakdown idk  Rina: do i even ask if he’s okay anymore Hee: click more pics, ill need those Jun-gone: ,, why? Hee: science

You stared at the photo, at Sunghoon’s red ears and frustrated posture. The disappointment in your chest loosened, replaced by a sudden, warm laugh. So he had panicked. You grabbed your hoodie, the smile back on your face. 

Sunghoon groaned, because this step had failed, miserably so.

STEP SEVEN: Turn your failures into wins. 

The universe probably hated you, or maybe you were just dumb enough not to check in with Jake about Sunghoon’s availability in their dorms, cause somehow you found yourself there with a plan to game with the boys, Karina and Jungwon had joined in as well, which means everyone was there—everyone but Sunghoon.

“He’s at the library,” Jake had said, waving a controller dismissively as he selected a track on Mario Kart, “something about his thermodynamics assignment or whatever. I think he just forgot we were hanging out.”

So, you gamed. You played round after round, fueling yourself with soda and the competitive rage of losing to Jungwon three times in a row. But as the hours ticked by and the adrenaline crashed, the exhaustion of the week finally caught up to you. The shouting and the flashing lights of the TV became a blur as your eyes felt heavy, which is how you managed to fall asleep on the couch in this awkward position. No one bothered to wake you up.

“Leaving this to Sunghoon now,,” Jungwon muttered and Karina agreed once the session was over.

When Sunghoon finally unlocked the dorm door, the silence was jarring. He had spent the last five hours battling Carnot’s theorem, and his brain felt like mush. He expected to find a room full of pizza boxes and screaming friends. Instead, he found a dim room lit only by the standby light of the TV and Jake, who was scrolling on his phone in the armchair.

And then, he saw the couch. Sunghoon froze in the entryway, his keys still clutched in his hand. You were curled up in the corner of the beat-up sofa, cheek smushed against a throw pillow, looking comfortably disheveled, hair spilling over your face, and your soft, rhythmic breathing was the only sound in the room.  

Sunghoon felt his chest tighten, a warm feeling spreading through his ribcage. He stood there, staring, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be cool and composed. He just looked like a guy whose heart had decided to do gymnastics because a girl was sleeping on his furniture.  

“You’re late,” Jake whispered, not looking up from his phone, “we finished like an hour ago.”

Sunghoon blinked, the spell breaking slightly. He toed off his shoes, trying to be quiet, “I was studying.”

“Sure,” Jake snorted. He gestured with his chin toward the couch, “your turn to be the hero. Everyone else bailed.”

Sunghoon took a few steps closer, looking down at you—you looked so small, so peaceful. He wanted to reach out and fix the hair falling into your eyes, but his hands felt too big, too clumsy.  

“She’s asleep,” Sunghoon stated the obvious, his voice hushed.

“Comatose, actually,” Jake corrected, finally standing up and stretching his back, “Jungwon destroyed her in Smash Bros, seemed like she was distracted,” Jake looked at Sunghoon, then at you, and rolled his eyes, “don’t just stare at her, dude, you look like a creep.”

“I’m not staring,” Sunghoon whispered defensively, though his ears were already turning red.  

“Take her to your room,” Jake said, stifling a yawn.

Sunghoon choked on air, “my—what?”

“Your room,” Jake repeated slowly, as if talking to a toddler, “the couch is lumpy, and my room is not clean right now. Unless you want her waking up with me by her side.”

“That’s not happening,” Sunghoon muttered, a sudden wave of possessiveness washing over him at the thought of you waking up next to Jake, and truly, Sunghoon was a jealous man, something he did, “fine. I’ve got her.”  

“Don’t drop her,” Jake yawned, disappearing into his room without another glance.  

Sunghoon stood alone in the dim living room, staring at you. Okay, he just had to carry you, just hold you in his arms, simple—right? He crouched down, sliding one arm under your knees and the other behind your back. He expected it to be awkward, expected to trip over the rug, but as he lifted you, he realized you fit surprisingly well in his arms, mentally patting himself on the back for acting normal.

You shifted instinctively, your head lulling to rest against his chest, nose burying into the fabric of his shirt. Sunghoon’s breath hitched, cause god, he was doing it again, trying to get a whiff of your scent, and he was terrified you’d wake up and hear his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He walked carefully down the hall, navigating the darkness and kicked his bedroom door open with his foot. The room was cool, smelling of his detergent and books. He lowered you onto his bed and you sank into the mattress immediately. Sunghoon pulled away, his arms suddenly feeling empty and cold. He stood by the bed, watching you, his hand hovering uncertainly, caressing your cheek gently before he shook his head.

He retreated to the corner, sitting down on the desk chair as he tried to distract himself with physics yet again, but he stared at you for most of the time. Now, it was a big thing for Sunghoon who was pondering deeply—would things be like this if you were to date him? Would you sleep on his bed? Would you let him stay? He was preparing himself without even knowing much. He knew your favourites by heart now—coffee order, the type of pasta you preferred, the bands you’d been listening to. He had found your Spotify account, and he blushed when he saw you actually listening to EsDeeKid when he’d mentioned he liked it. 

It was the next step—be caring and attentive, but as much as he was following it, you were doing it too, without a guide, but yeah. There was no doubt he was down bad, he wanted you—needed you. But he was willing to wait, as for now, he was more than content watching you sleep on his bed (he’s not being creepy he swears—although he has done some questionable stuff before). He didn’t register much, especially the time, or the way you were shifting in your sleep.

“Hoon?” You whispered, your voice a small, happy to see him before you gathered your surroundings—it was Hoon’s room, he carried you inside.

Sunghoon jumped so violently his chair creaked, spinning around with wide eyes behind his lenses. He immediately tried to fix his posture, reaching for that composed shield, but he looked too drained to maintain it.  

“Hey,” he breathed, his voice deep and rough from disuse.  

He stood up and walked over to the bed, his strides careful as if he were afraid to startle you. He reached out, his hand hovering near your shoulder for a heartbeat before he gently grasped the corner of the duvet that had slipped. He tucked it back into place, his fingers lingering agonizingly close to your skin. You saw his knuckles twitch, the silent battle to touch your cheek written in the tension of his jaw, but he clenched his hand into a fist and pulled back.  

“You okay? Wanna go back to sleep? It’s late,” he said softly, his eyes reflecting the dim lamp light, “It’s late.”  

“You should sleep too,” you murmured mindlessly, reaching out from under the covers to catch his wrist.  

Sunghoon froze, his breath hitching as he stared down at your hand against his skin. The heat of the touch was instant, and he stood rooted to the spot, trapped by the gentle pressure of your fingers.  

“I will,” he lied, his voice barely a whisper, not moving an inch until you finally let go, his pulse still hammering where your fingers had been.  

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes as you realized the time, and even if yo didn’t want to, you said it, “I should probably go back to my dorm. I didn’t mean to take over your bed.”

Sunghoon looked at his desk, then back at you, a conflict of interest clear in his eyes, “It’s raining really hard,” he noted, his voice dropping to a low murmur.  

“So—” you teased softly, the remnants of sleep making you bolder, “should I stay?”

He looked at you, his brain likely running through a twelve-step response plan, but he settled for a slow shake of his head, “I—I’ll walk you back,” he managed, his ears turning a bright crimson because he doesn’t trust himself alone with you, especially at night—especially when you say things like that, “I have an umbrella.”

You chuckled, watching him move around—you always felt so helpless especially when he looked so soft. He was so incredibly caring, and you couldn’t even deny that you wanted more, as selfish as it might sound.

The walk back was quiet, the black canopy creating a tiny, private world for the two of you as you splashed through the puddles. He walked close, his shoulder brushing yours, his hand steady on the handle to make sure you stayed dry while he took the brunt of the mist. When you reached your door, you didn’t just wave, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him into a firm, warm hug, your emotions taking over. Sunghoon went rigid for a microsecond before his arms wound around you, pulling you into the warmth of his chest naturally now. He rested his chin on the top of your head, inhaling sharply, wishing the night didn’t have to end.

“Goodnight, Hoonie,” you whispered against his heart.  

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he rasped back, watching you head inside with a gaze that was far from neutral.

It was hard to let go, he pulled you to him harder, sighing as his hands caressed your sides, and you almost whined when he put just the slightest amount of pressure before he actually let go—eyes darker than ever, as if he was having just as hard time as you if not more.  

He walked back feeling emptier than ever, wondering what could have happened if he had asked you to stay. Would you have wrapped your arms around him the same way? Would you let him cuddle you to sleep—to kiss you goodnight or more? 

“God,” he mumbled, finally reaching his room again and getting on his bed.

His phone chimed just then, and he frowned because who would text him this late? Mouth opening wide when he saw your notification, a picture attachment. He was scared to open it, and rightfully so. He threw his phone away with a gasp, cause no way—no fucking way you sent him your picture, on your bed, in your tank top that did nothing to hide your cleavage. He’d been doing so well, holding on so well, only to shatter at the sight of you, smiling that easy smile of yours. 

Y/N-nie: thanks for tonight hoonie, sleep well 💗

Sleep? No. He grabbed the phone and managed to type a response, saving your picture as he stared deeply at the slight dimple on your face, that one mole which was barely visible—but he wanted to kiss it. The way your clavicle looked so inviting wasn’t helping his case. Was he actually getting turned on at the mere sight of what you could offer him? Yes, he was. 

“No—no I can’t do this to her—no,” he mumbled, grabbing his hardening cock through the sweatpants, “pathetic,” he breathed out.

He sat back against the headboard, the air in the room feeling thick and heavy. His breath was coming in short, uneven hitches, and he couldn’t stop the frustrated sound that caught in his throat as he looked back down at the screen. The blue light washed over his face, highlighting the sheer desperation in his eyes as he took in every detail of the photo again. His hand tightened, the fabric of his sweatpants offering little relief against the insistent, pulsing ache. He felt like he was losing a war with himself. Every time he tried to blink you away, the image of that tank top and your soft, teasing smile felt like it was burned into his retinas.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he choked out, his voice a low, wrecked rasp, “you have to be.”

He shifted, his body reacting to the mental image of being there with you, of seeing that smile in person instead of through a cold glass screen. The tension was coiled so tight in his gut it was almost painful. He palmed himself again, a desperate, clumsy movement born out of a total lack of control, his head falling back against the wall with a dull thud as he freed himself, wrapping his big hand around his leaking cock, groaning louder by the second. Just the image of you, the scent of you on his bed drove him into madness as he pumped himself, praying that his flatmates wouldn’t hear him. 

Thrusting his hips up, he chased that feeling, delving deeper into the thoughts of you no matter how embarrassed he was at the situation, he couldn’t help but imagine your soft fingers wrapped around his cock, your pretty eyes looking up at him, calling him hoonie.

“Fuck—need you.”

He would kiss you so deeply, be so close to you so you’d breathe the same air, he’d touch you even softly—god you’d look so pretty arching into him. He gripped himself harder, wondering if you’d like him being so soft with you, wondering if you’d let him taste you, wondering if you’d want him as bad as he wants you.

Would he be soft with you? He’s pretty sure he’d lose control and come off too strong, and maybe you’d like seeing him take control. The image of you moaning his name, pulling him closer and into your pretty pussy—yeah, that had him stroking himself harder, groaning out your name, each sound rougher than the last.

Yes, it was embarrassing how fast his body gave in, thick ropes of cum staining his bed sheet and sweats as he focused on his breathing with his eyes closed, “so fucking pathetic,” he mumbled.

He isn’t sure his step worked out, but he knew one thing—he had never felt such an insane surge of pleasure before.

STEP EIGHT: Mission abort

Guilty.

That was all what Sunghoon felt after waking up—because how did he even manage to get hard at an innocent picture of you? It didn’t matter now, he had fucked up, and now he stood in front of the mirror, brushing his teeth, contemplating his choices. First—he can go out and continue acting as if nothing happened, or second—he can hide in his room and stay locked away forever and ever. The latter seemed very tempting, but that also meant he’d never see you again—the absolute love of his life.

The idea itself was so haunting, that he had no option but to jump in his room, hyping himself for the next meeting—which he was orchestrating by asking Jungwon about your schedule (again), and he was relieved to hear that you were in the library, alone. Maybe he would feel better if he gets to talk to you one on one, since that opportunity has been rare (happened twice and he was struggling). So, he wore a nice button up, parted his hair to the side, sprayed a decent amount of cologne—all while Jake stared at him, amused.

“Are you gonna ask her out?”

Hoon flinched, “Gosh—why don’t you guys ever knock?” He mumbled, pouting a little.

“I’m just going to the library,” Sunghoon deflected, turning back to the mirror to fix a strand of hair that was already perfect, “to study. Alone.”

“Right,” Jake snorted, not looking up from his phone, “just don’t trip on your way to Y/N.”

Sunghoon ignored him, grabbed his wallet, and marched out the door with the grim determination of a soldier going into battle—albeit one armed with a debit card and a crippling fear of rejection. He made a strategic detour to the campus café, the one you swore had the best blueberry cheesecake in the city. He ordered a slice to go and your favorite iced vanilla latte, his brain reciting the text he had highlighted on his laptop screen earlier.

Step 9: Surprise them with small gestures.

Bringing them their favorite snack or drink shows that you listen and that you care about their comfort. It creates a positive association with your presence.

“I listen,” Sunghoon whispered to himself as he carefully balanced the cardboard carrier and the pastry box against the biting wind, “I am a great listener, I am thoughtful, I can do it.”

He felt good, today, he was the guy in the button-up bringing coffee. He had upgraded himself to the romantic lead of a rom-com, from the previous indie movie actor. He reached the library, navigating the quiet rows of books with a newfound confidence. He knew exactly where to find the Biology section—the corner table by the window, he rounded the corner, a rehearsed casual greeting on his lips—Oh, hey, just happened to be in the neighborhood with pastries—but the words died in his throat.

You were there, just like Jungwon said, however, the composition of the scene was wrong. Sitting beside you, occupying the space Sunghoon had mentally reserved for himself, was a guy. Sunghoon didn’t know him, but he immediately felt a surge of irrational hostility. The guy wasn’t wearing a stiff button-up or drowning in expensive cologne. He was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie, leaning back in his chair with a maddening, effortless slouch that made Sunghoon nervous.

Sunghoon froze behind a stack of anatomy encyclopedias, clutching the cheesecake box so hard the cardboard buckled under his thumb.

“If you skew the standard deviation any further, this becomes a guessing game, not a lab report,” the guy said, tapping his pen against your screen.

You laughed and it wasn’t the polite, reserved chuckle you gave strangers, It was the unguarded, head-thrown-back laugh that you provided Hoon with. You nudged the guy’s shoulder playfully.

“We gotta optimize the data, Jaemin,” you teased, “look at that bell curve. It’s beautiful.”

Jaemin grinned, looking at you with a familiarity that made Sunghoon’s stomach drop, “so what? You can’t just gaslight E. Coli into fitting your hypothesis.”

Sunghoon looked down at himself. He saw the carefully ironed shirt, the polished shoes, the thoughtful surprise that suddenly felt like a desperate bribe. He felt like a caricature—a man masquerading as a romantic lead while the actual protagonist was sitting right there in a beat-up hoodie, speaking your language, making you laugh about bacteria without even trying.

The WikiHow guide hadn’t prepared him for this. It had steps for flirting, steps for eye contact, steps for mirroring body language, it didn’t have a step for watching the girl you like shine brightly at someone else, unaware that he was even in the room. He turned on his heel, the movement sharp and painful. He walked back toward the exit, his pace quickening until he was practically fleeing the scene, the cheerful chime of the library door mocking him as he stepped out into the biting wind. Sunghoon had never been good with jealousy, and right now, he wanted nothing more than to pull you away from the guy and kiss you right there, god he’d do so much just to prove a point, but no—he had to stay calm, for now at least, and leaving was the only option.

The chime of the door made you look up from your laptop. The smile that had been on your face while joking with Jaemin faded instantly as you checked your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. The screen still displayed the last text from Jungwon—he’s on his way, said he has a surprise. You frowned, your brows knitting together as you scanned the entrance, but there was no one there. The library was quiet, devoid of the tall, clumsy boy you had been hoping to see.

“Everything okay?” Jaemin asked, noticing your shift in mood.

“Yeah,” you sighed, dropping your phone face-down on the table with a dull thud of disappointment, “I just thought—never mind. Back to the assignment.”

Outside, Sunghoon sat on a secluded concrete bench, oblivious to the fact that you had been looking for him. He placed the cooling coffee on the ground and opened the pastry box.

“I hate blueberry,” he muttered, picking up the plastic fork with shaking fingers.

He ate the cheesecake aggressively, he felt ridiculous, he was a grown man sitting in the cold eating a cake meant for a girl who was currently laughing about standard deviations with someone else, all because he needed an internet article to tell him how to be a human being.  

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, the tab was still open:

WikiHow: How to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures).

He stared at the cheerful illustrations, the bullet points that promised success if he just followed the formula, it all looked so hollow now, so sterile. 

“Stupid,” he hissed. He closed the tab, closing the browser next before he cleared his history, as if scrubbing the evidence of his own incompetence.

He was done. He was done treating you like a puzzle to be solved with cheat codes. Watching you with Jaemin had triggered something visceral in him—not just jealousy, but a terrifying clarity. He didn’t want to be the guy who surprised you with coffee because a website told him to, he wanted to be the guy who could make you laugh like that naturally

“Tomorrow,” he said to the empty bench, tossing the empty cake box into the trash with a decisive thud. 

The end-of-semester party was tomorrow night, everyone would be there. There would be no scripts, no steps, no hiding behind Jake or a stack of books.

“I’m just going to tell her,” he decided, the wind ruffling his carefully parted hair, “I’m going to walk up to her, and I’m going to tell her. No more steps.”

He stood up, wiping a crumb from his lip. He felt terrified, he also felt nauseous, but for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like a project—he felt like Sunghoon.

And Sunghoon was going to confess to you.

STEP NINE: Be yourself (or not)

“Why am I wearing this again?” You asked as Karina stood behind you, zipping up your dress—which was beautiful, however, Karina wasn’t the one to instruct you on your dressing choices.

“Cause I’m fed up of you and Hoon being dumb, maybe this will make him realize what he’s been missing,” she muttered, making you roll your eyes.

“He didn’t even show up at the library, Rin. I think the message is pretty clear—and just when I thought we were actually going somewhere, especially with how sweet he was when I slept at his dorm,” you mumbled, smoothing down the fabric, “he’s not interested.”

“Or,” Karina countered, spinning you around to face the mirror, “he’s an idiot who got lost in his own head. Look at you girl—If Park Sunghoon doesn’t lose his mind tonight, he’s officially clinically dead.”

You stared at your reflection, and you felt nervous, thinking of backing out now, but Karina was already shoving a purse into your hands and dragging you out the door before you could overthink it. The frat house was vibrating before you even stepped inside. The bass rattled your teeth, and the air was thick with the scent of cheap beer and humidity. It was the kind of scene Sunghoon usually avoided, or endured by standing in the back looking bored and devastatingly handsome.

You scanned the room instinctively, your eyes darting over the sea of bobbing heads and red Solo cups, but the familiar silhouette of broad shoulders and perfectly styled dark hair was nowhere to be found. You told yourself you weren’t looking for him, that you were here to dance and forget about the odds, but your subconscious was a traitor. Every time the door opened, letting in a blast of cold air and fresh bodies, your heart did a hopeful little stutter in your chest, only to sink when it wasn’t him.

“He’s not here,” Karina shouted over the thumping bass, reading your mind with terrifying accuracy. She handed you a drink that smelled like fruit punch, “stop looking. If he shows up, he shows up. If he doesn’t, it’s his loss. Now come on, they’re playing that song you like.”

You let her drag you onto the makeshift dance floor, the sticky residue of spilled beer gripping the soles of your shoes. You tried to lose yourself in the rhythm, to let the vibrations of the music rattle the anxiety out of your bones, but the knot in your stomach remained tight. Thirty minutes later, you started feeling odd. It was subtle at first—a ripple of whispers, heads turning toward the entryway. You were by the kitchen island, trying to cool down with a cup of water, when you saw him.

Park Sunghoon had arrived.

And he wasn’t alone; Jake was flanking him like a bodyguard, but Sunghoon didn’t look like he needed protection. He looked—different, gone were the oversized, comforting hoodies. Tonight, he was wearing all black—a fitted shirt that somehow emphasized the sharp line of his jaw and dark jeans that made his legs look miles long. He wasn’t checking his phone, he didn’t even bother scanning the room with that panicked, deer-in-headlights look he usually wore, he looked focused, determined even.  

He stood near the entrance, declining a drink offered by a hopeful sophomore, his eyes now cutting through the haze of the party as if he was looking for someone.

“Target acquired,” Jake muttered into Sunghoon’s ear, nudging him hard enough that Sunghoon stumbled a step forward, breaking his cool facade for a second.

Sunghoon followed Jake’s gaze and locked onto you instantly. The noise of the party seemed to fade into white noise for him. You were standing under the harsh kitchen light, the dress Karina picked hugging your frame, looking absolutely breathtaking and terrifyingly out of his league. He took a deep breath, steeling himself as he started to move toward you, his strides long and purposeful.

But before he could reach the kitchen island, you turned abruptly, intercepted by a group of girls who grabbed your arm and pulled you and Karina towards the back hallway—the one usually reserved for coats and couples looking for privacy. You looked confused, casting one last glance over your shoulder, but the crowd swallowed Sunghoon’s view of you.

“Where is she going?” Sunghoon frowned, the panic starting to creep back in.

“Looks like interrogation,” Jake said, squinting, “uh-oh—that’s the gossip squad. Come on.”

Sunghoon didn’t need to be told twice. He followed you, weaving through the sweaty bodies, Jake trailing close behind. They reached the entrance of the narrow, dimly lit hallway just as the voices drifted out. Sunghoon raised a hand to stop Jake, pressing his back against the wall just outside the hallway entrance. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the sound of his own name froze him in place.

“So, be honest,” a voice purred, that made the hair on the back of Sunghoon's neck stand up, “are you his next target?”

Sunghoon froze. He looked at Jake, whose eyes had gone wide, his hand hovering over Sunghoon’s shoulder as if to restrain him. He knew the bullshit the girls used to spew about them, but actually cornering you was concerning.

“Target?” your voice rang out, incredulous, “what are you even talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” the girl laughed, “we know the type. He puts on that whole innocent act, standing in the corner looking all bored and mysterious, but it’s just a trap, right? I heard he’s actually wild. That he has a whole rotation of girls and he just plays the quiet card to lure you in.”  

“Yeah,” another voice chimed in, “he looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A total player, my friend says he’s dangerous, he had a go at her.”

Sunghoon felt a strange, conflicting tightness in his chest. Part of him—the part that had spent hours reading WikiHow articles on how to be cool—held his breath. He didn’t wish to be perceived as a player, obviously, but he desperately wanted to be seen as a man, someone capable. He waited, heart hammering against his ribs, hoping you would defend him by saying he was respectful, or intense, or maybe even just—cool.

Instead, he heard you scoff, as if you were offended, “dangerous?” You repeated, the word sounding ridiculous in your mouth, “Park Sunghoon? Are you guys blind?”

“Excuse me?” the girl sounded taken aback.

“He isn’t a fuckboy,” you snapped, your voice rising in defense of him, fueled by the protective anger of someone who knew the truth, and you’d been on edge all day, which made Karina look at you with concern, wondering where this is going, “he’s barely even a guy in the way you’re thinking. He’s—he’s so innocent, you’re just tainting his image.”

The word hung in the dank hallway air. Innocent. Sunghoon felt the color drain from his face.

“Innocent?” the girl challenged, “with that face? Please.”

“I’m serious,” you insisted, stepping closer to them, your voice softening into a tone that sounded painfully, devastatingly like pity to Sunghoon’s ears, “he’s not mysterious, he’s just shy, he doesn’t have a roster, he has a skincare routine that has twelve steps. He drinks banana milk because he thinks coffee makes him too jittery sometimes.”  

Sunghoon squeezed his eyes shut. Stop, he begged silently. Please, just stop. But you were on a roll, determined to clear his name of these vile accusations, unaware that you were simultaneously dismantling his entire romantic potential, making him feel as if you never saw him as something beyond someone who was just clumsy and cute, as if you didnt see him as a guy after all, as if he couldn’t what—fuck you? 

“He’s not like that, okay? He’s like—a puppy,” you said, and fondness in your voice went unnoticed by Hoon, “a newborn puppy on ice. He trips over his own feet when he gets excited. He’s clumsy and sweet and completely harmless.”  

Harmless. The word echoed in Sunghoon’s skull, drowning out the thumping bass of the party. Harmless, safe, a puppy. Yes, you were defending him but—he couldn’t even thank you for that, simply wondering what would have happened if he actually confessed. Would you have laughed in his face and called him just a friend?

Jake slowly turned to look at Sunghoon. The amusement was gone from his face, replaced by a cringe of profound sympathy. He looked at Sunghoon’s white knuckles, at the devastation etched into the sharp lines of his jaw.

“Dude,” Jake whispered, reaching out to touch his arm.

Sunghoon felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had wanted to be the protagonist. He had wanted to be the protector, the one who held you during horror movies. He wanted you to see him as a man who could sweep you off your feet. And all this time, you didn’t see him as a man at all. You saw him as a loser, you didn’t look at him with desire—you looked at him with the same fondness one might have for a particularly incompetent golden retriever.

“Let’s go,” Sunghoon whispered, his voice hollow and scraping against his throat.

“But—you were gonna tell her—”

“I said let’s go.”

Sunghoon didn’t wait for Jake. He pushed off the wall, turning his back on the hallway where you were passionately defending his lack of masculinity. He moved through the crowd blindly, shoving past sweaty bodies, the bass pounding in his ears mocking the frantic, broken rhythm of his heart. He felt small and stupid. He felt like the massive loser he feared he was.  

He burst out of the front door into the cold night air, gasping as if he had been drowning. He didn’t look back, he couldn’t. He just walked, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the girl who thought he was a loser.

STEP TEN: Accepting defeat

Radio silence. 

You had never felt this agitated in your life, never missed someone so much in your life. It had been over a week and you hadn’t seen Sunghoon, and the worst part? You didn’t even know what was wrong, was he just ignoring you or was it the same for others as well? You could have sworn he was at the party, and as soon as you were done with the girls, you had come out to search for him, only to feel his absence even further.

You checked your phone again, hoping to see a reply but no.

You: are you okay hoonie? You: jake said you are sick

Those were the texts you had sent five days back, but you didn’t stop there.

You: is everything okay? You: hoon? You: did i do something wrong

He hadn’t even read it, simply left you on delivered. The lack of response resulted in a physical ache in your chest. You lay on your bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last week in your head. Had you been too clingy? Had the hug outside the dorm been too much? Or maybe, just maybe, those girls were right, and he had simply decided he was bored of his current toy.

No, you thought, rolling over and burying your face in your pillow. He’s not like that—he’s Sunghoon. He’s the guy who covers you with umbrellas and brings you coffee. He’s the guy who looked at you like you were the only person in the room. But if he was that guy, then where was he? The uncertainty was gnawing at you, turning your usual confidence into a frayed mess of nerves. You missed his awkwardness. You missed his sudden bursts of confidence followed by immediate regret. You missed the way he made you feel like you were safe.

Across campus, inside the dorm that smelled of despair, Park Sunghoon was currently lying face-down on the living room rug. He hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. Inside his head, it was a funeral. He was eulogizing his manhood, his romantic prospects, and his dignity. The word echoed in the cavern of his skull—harmless, harmless, harmless.

“Are you going to rot there all day?” A voice asked from above.

Sunghoon groaned, refusing to look up, “leave me alone, Jay. I’m decomposing.”

“You’re blocking the path to the kitchen,” Jay said, nudging Sunghoon’s ribs with his foot, “and you’ve been listening to sad bollywood playlists for three days straight when you don’t even understand the lyrics.”

“Let him rot,” Jake’s voice drifted in from the couch, though it lacked his usual biting sarcasm, “he’s mourning the death of his ego.”

Sunghoon shot up, sitting cross-legged on the rug with a sudden, frantic energy. His hair was a mess, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week.

“I’m not mourning my ego,” Sunghoon snapped, though his voice cracked, betraying him instantly, “I’m facing the fucking reality. She called me innocent, Jake. She told them I wasn’t shit.”

“She did not say that dude, she was defending you, you idiot,” Jay interjected, leaning against the doorframe with a dish towel in hand, “I wasn’t even there, and even I know that. Jake told me the whole story.”

“She defended me by neutering me!” Sunghoon argued, the humiliation burning fresh in his chest, “She told them I am clumsy—which is true but—she sees me as a child, Jay. You don’t date children, you babysit them."  

“She literally meant she’s comfy with you,” Jake tried to reason, sitting up. 

“I don’t want to be comfortable,” Sunghoon hissed, standing up and pacing the small room, “I wanted to be—I don’t know, someone she actually desires.”

He felt foolish for even trying. The button-up shirts, the cologne, the WikiHow articles—it was all just dressing up a golden retriever in a tuxedo. At the end of the day, you saw right through it. You saw the clumsy, anxious mess underneath and decided he was something to be coddled.  

“Okay, enough,” Jay decided, tossing the dish towel onto the counter, “you're spiraling. Put on shoes, we’re going to get food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Nobody asked,” Jay said, grabbing his keys, “Jake, grab his other arm.”

Despite his protests, Sunghoon was manhandled into a jacket and dragged out of the dorm. He walked with his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets, reverting to his resting bitch face now, not because he wanted to look cool, but because he wanted to disappear. They made it to the campus plaza, the wind biting at Sunghoon’s cheeks. He was busy staring at a crack in the pavement, plotting his transfer to a university on a different continent, when Jake elbowed him.

“Hoon—look.”

Sunghoon looked up to find you walking out of the convenience store, laughing at something Karina was saying. You looked tired, your eyes a little puffy as if you’d cried, but the moment you spotted the trio, your face transformed and his heart hurt—it actually hurt. The worry on your face vanished, replaced by a radiant, relieved smile. You took a step toward him, your eyes locking onto his with that familiar warmth. You looked so happy to see him. And that broke him.

Because to Sunghoon, that smile didn’t look like love. It looked like relief of finding a close friend or something similar (he truly had been blind—an overthinker self sabotaging himself). He couldn’t take it, he couldn’t stand there and be the recipient of your pity.

“Hoon?” You called out from a distance, your voice hopeful.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened and he didn’t wave, didn’t smile back, he didn’t even acknowledge the greeting. He turned his head sharply, breaking eye contact, and walked right back towards his dorm.

“Sunghoon?” Jake hissed, grabbing at his sleeve, “what the fuck are you doing? She’s right there.”

Sunghoon ripped his arm away from Jake’s grip, “I’m going back,” he muttered, his voice cold and flat.

He walked away, leaving you standing on the pavement with your hand half-raised, the smile sliding off your face. You watched his retreating back, the way his shoulders were hunched against the wind. Confusion washed over you first—had he not seen you? But no, he had looked you dead in the eye. He had seen your relief, your joy at seeing him alive, and he had looked at you with something that looked disturbingly like resentment. He just—walked away.

The confusion hardened into something sharper. You had spent a week worrying, heck, you had been crying over him. You had defended him to those girls, you had sent texts that went unanswered, you had lost sleep wondering if he was okay. And he just walked away without even doing as much as acknowledging you.

“Okay,” you whispered to the empty air, lowering your hand, “okay, Park Sunghoon, be that way.”

If he wanted to act like you didn’t exist after everything, fine. You turned back to Karina, your eyes dry and your expression steely, “let’s go,” you said, your voice devoid of the warmth you had reserved for him, “I’m done.”

You started walking as Karina looked back, glaring at Jay as if he could’ve done something—anything, but he was just as frozen, standing with Jake who could feel a headache forming in his head.

“The fuck just happened?” Jake asked, and Jay shook his head.

“Two of the nicest people I’ve met are acting like emotionless mannequins,” Jay mumbled, “I’ve never seen him like this.”

“He doesn’t realize that Y/N meant well—even if the way she worded it hit him hard, can he stop being so difficult? Did he not see how happy she was to see him?”

“Well—now what?”

Jake shook his head with a sigh, “we suffer—all of us.”

And suffer you did.

The days that followed didn’t feel like time passing; they felt like a slow, suffocating slide into permafrost. The end-of-semester exams descended upon the campus providing the perfect, miserable backdrop for two people who were determined to freeze each other out.

The party was a distant, feverish memory, replaced by the stark reality of the library and 24-hour study halls. But if anyone thought the pressure of finals would distract you from the hollow ache in your chest, they were wrong. If anything, the silence of the study rooms only made the noise in your head louder.

You became efficient, terrifyingly so. You attended every lecture, submitted every lab report early, and sat in the front row with a posture so rigid it looked painful. You didn’t laugh with Jaemin anymore, in fact, you barely spoke to anyone outside of necessary academic exchanges. You were over it, you told yourself, you were busy. You had a GPA to maintain and a future to build, and neither of those things required a boy who treated your concern like an insult.

But Karina knew better. She saw the way your eyes lingered on the back of a black hoodie in the cafeteria before snapping away. She saw the way you checked your phone every time it vibrated, only to toss it aside with a scowl when it wasn’t him.

Across the quad, Sunghoon was disintegrating in his own way. He moved through the campus like a ghost, his headphones permanently glued to his ears—though half the time, nothing was playing. He just didn’t want to hear the world asking him if he was okay. He studied, or at least, he tried, staring at thermodynamics equations until the Greek letters started to look like your initials. He sat in the library—not at your table, never at your table—but in the far back corner, hidden behind the stacks. He told himself he was proving a point (he didnt even know what anymore). 

But every time he drank black coffee (which he still hated) instead of banana milk, he felt a little piece of himself wither. He missed the warmth, he missed the way you used to look at him before he ruined it. Now, when you passed each other in the corridor, the air temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. There were no shy glances, no blushing ears. Just two strangers walking past each other with aggressive apathy, while their mutual friends trailed behind, looking like they wanted to scream.

“It’s like watching a car crash,” Jake whispered to Jungwon one afternoon in the library. They were watching Sunghoon stare blankly at a blank Word document.

“Worse,” Jungwon muttered, eyeing you across the room where you were aggressively highlighting a textbook without actually reading it, “It’s like watching two cars almost crashing but never quite reaching there, being stubborn and all.”

The tension came to a head on Tuesday night. The library was packed, the air thick with the smell of stress and stale caffeine. You were printing a paper, waiting for the machine to finish, when Sunghoon walked up to the adjacent printer. You didn’t look at him and he didn’t look at you (he did, and he swore under his breath seeing how pretty you looked wearing that skirt he loved).

The silence between you was louder than the whirring of the machines. You could smell him—that damn cologne and clean laundry, and it made your eyes sting. You wanted to scream, you wanted to ask him why he was being such a coward, you wanted to hug him—kiss him. 

Sunghoon stood rigid, his knuckles white as he gripped his folder. He could see you in his peripheral vision. You looked tired, he wanted to ask if you were sleeping. He wanted to offer you his jacket because the library was freezing, but the word harmless flashed in his mind like a warning sign. She doesn’t want you, his brain supplied unhelpfully. She pities you.

Your printer beeped and you snatched your papers.

“Excuse me,” you said, your voice polite, as you stepped around him.

“Sure,” he replied, his voice equally flat.

You walked away without looking back. Sunghoon watched you go, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs that had absolutely nothing to do with physics and everything to do with the fact that he was miserably, hopelessly in love with the girl he was currently pretending to hate.

“I hate it here,” Jake groaned from a nearby table, dropping his head onto his open textbook, “I really, really hate it here.”

STEP ELEVEN: Let jealousy take the wheel 

“Oh she looks beautiful!”

Jake and Jay kept on cooing, staring at the pictures Jungwon was showing them—pictures of you. Well, since the end sems were over, Karina had decided to do a mini photo shoot with you and Jungwon, and since it wasn’t really a request, you had to comply.

Sunghoon was on the couch, heart hammering at the praises, but he didn’t (couldn’t) ask Jungwon to show him the pictures, which only made Jake compliment you harder. Jungwon shook his head, absolutely done with whatever was going on, he started screen sharing so the pictures would appear on the TV, and Sunghoon tried his best not to look up, but he did. For the first time in a while, his friends could see his eyes shining. You looked beautiful—you always did, and good lord, Sunghoon missed you—cursing himself for behaving exactly how a child would.

He stared more, it was a pretty picture of you sitting on the grass and smiling—however, it didn’t reach your eyes. Sunghoon wondered who were you smiling at, granted Karina was sitting on the other side of you. He saw a hand, a hand that did not look like Jungwon’s hand, and he felt even more nauseous at the image of some other man being there and making you smile.

You had been so detached from reality, you didn’t understand it—you hadn’t processed just how attached you’d felt to Sunghoon, only for him to switch up midway, and you wondered how he was taking it.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up abruptly, muttering something about needing water, and retreated to the sanctuary of his room.

“The kitchen is that way, Hoon,” Jay pointed out helpfully, gesturing in the opposite direction.

“My room,” Sunghoon corrected, not breaking stride, “I have—water in my room.”

He sat on the edge of his bed, taking his MacBook out as he opened the one site that had guided him (poorly) through this entire semester—WikiHow.

He started typing, what to do when you’ve ruined everything with the girl you love and she thinks you’re a child.

No results.

He didn’t give up, trying to find variants, how to fix a relationship when you ghosted her out of insecurity.

The algorithm struggled. Finally, he clicked the same one he’d been following all along—how to flirt with a pretty girl (with pictures). He scrolled past the ads to the last step which said—If it doesn’t work out: accept that it’s over. If she says no or seems distant, respect her space and move onto a new girl.

Sunghoon stared at the screen. Move on to a new girl.

He slammed the laptop shut, he couldn’t do that. The mere thought of looking at someone else, of trying to memorize someone else’s coffee order or the way they laughed, made him feel physically ill. He didn’t want new, he wanted you. He wanted the girl who called him Hoonie and defended him, even if her defense had shattered his ego into a million pieces, and he hid instead of proving her wrong. 

He buried his face in his hands, he couldn’t move on, but he didn’t know how to move back.

Back in the living room, the atmosphere had shifted from admiration to, well, tactical planning.

“He’s hopeless,” Jake said, staring at the closed door of Sunghoon’s room, “did you see his face? He looked like a kicked puppy again.”

“We can’t keep doing this,” Jay agreed, leaning back and crossing his arms, “the atmosphere in this dorm is insane. Sunghoon is miserable, Y/N is miserable, and I’m tired of hearing sad playlists through the wall I swear—they need to fuck it out.”

Jungwon disconnected his phone from the TV, a determined look on his face (before he gave Jay an odd look, of course), “we need to force them into the same room.”

“How?” Jake asked, “Hoon won’t leave his room unless the building is on fire.”

“A party,” Jungwon said simply, “Beomgyu texted. They’re throwing a massive end of Exams bash in the Grand Suite downstairs like two days later, it’s the biggest dorm and everyone is going.”

“Sunghoon hates parties,” Jay pointed out.

“Exactly,” Jungwon smirked, “which is why we aren’t asking him—we’re dragging him.”

“And Y/N?”

“Karina is already on it,” Jungwon said, holding up his phone to show a text confirmation, “she’s bringing Y/N. The plan is simple honestly, just get them in the room. If they see each other, they’ll have to interact—if Y/N doesn’t break, Hoon sure will.”

“Sounds risky but okay,” Jake muttered. 

“Well, do we have any other options?” Jay asked, only to be met with silence, “great, then operation—get them to fuck is a go.”

“I don’t really like the operation name—”

“—Leave the styling to me,” Jay said, spinning the keys around his finger as he headed for the door, his mission clear, “I’m going to the mall. He needs an edge. I’m getting him a leather jacket—”

Jake and Jungwon shook their head, hoping it will work out for the better. 

STEP TWELVE: Grand romantic (?) gesture 

“I’m not going,” you mumbled, staring at La La Land playing on your MacBook (again), and you knew well you were torturing yourself, calling it your coping mechanism. 

Karina sighed, “you need to let loose, it’s not the end of the world,” she muttered, snapping the laptop shut, “and watching Emma Stone get her heart broken for the fifth time this week isn’t going to fix yours.”

“It’s not broken,” you lied, rolling over and burying your face into the pillow to muffle the waver in your voice, “It’s just—bruised. Badly.”

It felt like more than a bruise, though. It felt like a phantom limb ache—a nagging, persistent sensation of something missing that should have been there. It had been days of absolute radio silence from Sunghoon. No awkward texts or Pokémon memes, no shy glances across the campus quad, no memes sent at 2 AM. Just a sudden, inexplicable void where his presence used to be. You had replayed the last week in your mind until the memories were frayed at the edges, trying to pinpoint the exact moment the shift happened. 

The thought gnawed at you. You remembered defending him with such ferocity, calling him innocent and harmless, painting a picture of a boy who was sweet and misunderstood. Now, lying in the dark, you felt like a fool. Maybe he wasn’t misunderstood. Maybe he was just a guy who got bored and moved on, leaving you to dissect the silence he left behind.

“Get up,” Karina commanded, pulling the duvet off you, “Beomgyu’s party is starting, and I am not walking into that sweatbox alone. Besides, if he’s there, don’t you want him to see what he’s missing? Do you really want him to think you’re rotting in bed over him?”

That struck a nerve, the indignation flared up, burning through the lethargy. You didn’t want his pity, and you certainly didn’t want him to think he had the power to dismantle your entire life with a week of silence (he did and you missed him). You sat up, pushing hair out of your face with a grim determination. It was amusing to the others—watching you and Hoon having this insane personality shift, but garnering feelings would do that to anyone, so they couldn’t really question it.

“Fine,” you snapped, though there was no real bite in it, “but if I see him and he ignores me, I’m gonna kiss the first guy i see after him.”

You were lying (obviously), you couldn’t even imagine kissing anyone but him. At first it used to be sweet, you wanted to know if he’d smile into the kiss—but now? Now you wanted him to actually break and prove a point, which seemed a distant thought granted he wasn’t even willing to look your way. 

Sunghoon was undergoing the same thought process in his room where Jay had shoved a very expensive leather jacket his way with a simple command to dress up for the party which made no sense because Sunghoon hated parties, and somehow, he thought that you would not be there—would you? Then his mind drifted to the guy from the library and he realized that maybe you would be there—there with him. 

“He’s buffering again,” Heeseung noted from the doorway, watching Sunghoon stare at the leather jacket as if it were a sentient threat, “Hoon, if you don’t go, you’re just proving you’re a coward. You’re going to let some other guy take your spot because you’re too busy sulking?”  

Sunghoon’s head snapped up. The thought of Jaemin at the party, standing in the space he should be occupying, made his stomach do a violent flip. He realized that yes, you would be there—and the thought of you being there with him was a catalyst that finally burned through his lethargy.  

“Fine,” Sunghoon gritted out, grabbing the jacket. He stood up, his height and the sharp lines of the leather making him look like a stranger even to his roommates.

“Great,” Jay muttered, though he gave Sunghoon a lingering, skeptical look, “I’m not letting you leave that party until you open your mouth and say something that isn’t an apology for existing.”

The walk down to Beomgyu’s suite was a blur of neon lights and thumping bass. The Grand dorm was the largest in the building, and tonight it was a humid, vibrating mass of people. Sunghoon felt like a passenger in his own body, his social anxiety acting like a lead weight, yet the leather jacket served as a suit of armor. He ended up leaning against the kitchenette counter, a red cup held in a white-knuckled grip, completely zoned out as the other boys left to find Jungwon to discuss the situation. 

Despite his internal collapse, he looked devastating. A group of girls had already drifted toward him, laughing and brushing against his sleeves which he was not comfortable with, but he didn’t hear a word they said. He was staring at the door, his heart hammering against his ribs in a frantic, desperate rhythm, not paying attention to the girl who clearly wanted a night with him, cause he had reserved that for someone else tonight (and forever if things worked out right).

He closed his eyes for a while, just standing there collecting his thoughts as the group watched from a distance, muttering about how they weren’t even sure what to expect anymore, but gladly, Karina had informed them about their arrival, which Hoon missed—but you did not miss the way he was there, as if put on display right there for you to feel even worse.

You turned away, your eyes stinging, desperate to find an exit, a drink, anything to numb the sudden spike of pain.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

The voice was smooth, familiar, and right in your ear. You turned to see Jaemin standing there, a lazy, charming grin plastered on his face. He looked effortless, holding a drink in one hand, his posture relaxed and open—the antithesis of the tension radiating from the kitchenette.

“Hey, Jaemin,” you managed, though your voice sounded thin to your own ears.

“You look incredible,” Jaemin said, stepping into your personal space with a confidence that felt practiced yet sincere. He tilted his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “though you look like you’re plotting a murder, do you need an alibi?”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh, grateful for the distraction, “just overwhelmed. It’s loud in here.”

“It is,” Jaemin agreed, leaning closer so you could hear him over the pounding bass, “I’m just feeling lucky to catch you without your usual entourage.”

Across the room, Sunghoon had opened his eyes again, now trying to find Jake, to inform him that he wishes to leave, especially when he couldn’t find you—but oh he did, and the static in Sunghoon’s brain cleared with a violent snap. He had been zoning out, letting the chatter of the girls around him fade into white noise, his mind a continuous loop of misery. But the moment his eyes landed on you, everything sharpened. He saw the way you looked—beautiful and somehow sad, and then he saw Jaemin.

He watched Jaemin lean in. He watched the easy familiarity, the way Jaemin smiled at you, the way you offered a small, reluctant smile in return. It was a smile Sunghoon hadn’t earned in days. And then Jaemin reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of hair away from your face, his touch lingering near your cheek.

The innocent boy within him died right there. The harmless label incinerated in a flash of pure, blinding jealousy. Sunghoon didn’t think about this, just felt a rush of adrenaline—which is why he felt so confident now, so sure of what he had to do, and it was interesting how one hormone could manage to switch up someone to such lengths. 

He moved through the crowd with a purpose now, his eyes locked on Jaemin like a predator sighting a threat. He was like a storm front moving across the room. You were just about to answer Jaemin’s question when the air shifted. A shadow fell over you, and before you could turn, a heavy arm clamped around your waist, pulling you backward until you were flush against a hard, solid chest. The scent of expensive cologne and leather enveloped you instantly, drowning out the stale beer smell of the party.

Sunghoon stood behind you, his body a wall of heat, his grip on your waist possessive and unyielding. He wasn’t looking at you. His dark, furious eyes were bored into Jaemin, his jaw set so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek.

“You should leave now,” Sunghoon said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that vibrated against your back, completely devoid of any stutter or hesitation, and for a minute, you just tried to process the situation, heart hammering in your chest.

Jaemin blinked, his smile faltering as he looked from the white-knuckled grip on your waist to Sunghoon’s icy glare, “I’m just catching up, Sunghoon. Relax.”

“Conversation’s over,” Sunghoon snapped, his fingers digging into the silk of your dress, staking a claim that required no interpretation, “leave.”

And he did, knowing when to turn back and sent a wink towards Jungwon, who had put Jaemin up to this—and it seemed as if their plan had worked, though, it was a hilarious sight to see the boys hiding at the back with their jaws hung wide open, Heeseung laughing freely.

“What the fuck—let go of me, Sunghoon,” you almost screamed, trying to pry his hands off of you. 

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he spun you around, his eyes dark and burning with this volatile mix of desperation and the remains of that blinding jealousy. He didn’t look at the group of boys huddled near the drinks, whose jaws were indeed still dropped at the sudden, predatory shift in the guy they usually described as buffering, he only looked at you, his jaw set in that same tight line that suggested he was one second away from either shattering or exploding. Without a word, he grabbed your hand—his palm hot and slightly damp against yours—and began weaving through the crowd, hauling you toward the exit.

“The fuck are you doing?” You asked, stunned at his new behaviour. 

“We’re not doing this here,” he said, jaw clenched. 

“Oh—now you wanna talk, huh?” You seethed—because god, you were so angry, so confused and yet your heartbeat betrayed you because you were looking forward to what he had to say, what excuse he wished to use.

The walk up the stairs to the boys’ floor was a blur of cold concrete and the echoing sound of your heels. He didn’t stop until he had reached his door, swinging it open and pulling you inside before slamming it shut with a finality that made the air in the small room feel suddenly very thin. The silence of the dorm was jarring after the chaos downstairs, but it wasn’t a peaceful quiet, it was heavy and pregnant with everything that had been left unsaid since before the exams began.  

“You don’t get to do that,” you snapped the moment he let go of your hand, the anger finally breaking through the shock, “you do not get to treat me like I’m invisible for weeks, ignoring my texts and walking past me in the library like I’m a fucking ghost, only to act jealous because you saw me talking to someone else.”

Sunghoon paced the small space of his room, his hands shaking as he pushed them through his hair, successfully ruining the perfect styling Jay had insisted on, “I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose,” he shot back, his voice cracking with a jagged edge you had never heard before, “I was stopping you from looking at him the way you used to look at me before you decided I was someone you couldn’t even consider a man.”

“A man? What are you even talking about?” You yelled, stepping into his space, refusing to let him retreat into the mysterious silence he used as a shield, “I have spent weeks wondering what I did wrong! I was crying over you, Sunghoon. I defended you when everyone was asking why you were acting like this, only for you to ignore me right when I was there in front of you!”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Sunghoon roared, finally stopping his pacing and turning to face you, his eyes glassy, “I heard you, Y/N. At the party before finals, I was right there in the hallway when you were telling those girls exactly what you think of me.”

You froze, the memory of the gossip squad cornering you flashing through your mind, “yeah? And what’s wrong about it? I was defending you! They were calling you a fuckboy.”

“By basically calling me what—a loser?” He hissed, stepping closer until he was looming over you, the scent of his cologne and the leather jacket enveloping you, “I heard the words you used. You told them I was like a puppy, someone who trips over his own feet. You told them I drink banana milk because I can’t handle coffee and that I have a twelve-step skincare routine. You made me sound like an incompetent child, Y/N.”

You could not believe it—all this crying, the heartbreak stemmed from you defending him? And he took it in the worst way possible, as if his mind could not admit you would love him the way he is, and formed a thought process that did irrevocable damage to both you and him.

“I said those things in a good light,” you screamed back, your own heart hammering against your ribs, “I called you sweet because I thought you were! I didn’t know your ego was so fragile that you’d rather be seen as a villain than a person who actually cares about things!”

This conversation was not going the way you both had intended—anger taking over and ruling all the other feelings out, yet none of you were ready to back down.

“It’s not about ego!” Sunghoon grabbed your wrists, pinning them against his chest so you could feel the violent, erratic rhythm of his heart, “It’s about the fact that I’ve been sitting in this room for days trying to be a man you’d actually desire, only to find out that you look at me with pity, you made me feel like I wasn’t even an option for you—just a clumsy loser you had fun to be around.”

“So you decided to punish me instead of talking to me normally?”

“Yeah, just like you forgot all about me the second Jaemin came into your life.”

“Are you fucking hearing yourself right now?” Your throat hurt with all the yelling, and you couldn’t even back down, not when he was so close to you, “fine, if you don’t want that to happen then stop acting like a coward and actually do something, fight for me, not against me!”

His hand shot out, not to grab your wrist this time, but to grip your chin, forcing your head up so you couldn’t look away—and god he looked so different, but his eyes were the same, sweet and gentle despite the anger, “I dragged you out of there because I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having your attention. I’m standing here, wrecking everything, screaming my lungs out because I am fighting, Y/N. I’m fighting the urge to completely lose my mind.”

“Then show me,” you breathed, challenging him, your heart pounding so hard as the tip of his nose brushed against yours, “prove it to me you’re not the harmless boy I defended. Prove to me that you want me.”

He didn’t need to be told twice—he’d waited too long, and he couldn’t say no when you stood there with watery eyes, chest heaving up and down, bottom lip bitten, and Sunghoon swears you look the prettiest you had ever looked. He had gone through myriad scenarios of this happening, none of them involved Sunghoon surging forward with his mouth crashing against yours—which is exactly what happened. 

It did not happen with the tentative sweetness of the boy you had defended in the hallway, but with a searing, desperate hunger that tasted of frustration and a few week’s worth of repressed longing. He groaned into the kiss—it felt good, too good as he let his lips convey what he couldn’t, and it wasn’t sweet, it was rather messy and uncoordinated, a collision that felt less like affection and more like a necessity—as if he were trying to breathe you in to keep from suffocating.

You stumbled back, your spine hitting the wood of the door with a dull thud, but he didn’t let up. His hands were everywhere—one tangled tightly in the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back to deepen the angle, the other gripping your waist with a bruising possession, anchoring you to him. He was heavy against you, a solid wall of heat and leather, and for a moment, the sheer shock of his intensity froze you, a shiver going down your spine, feeling the frustration radiating off him.

But then the indignation flared—the audacity of him to think he could solve this with physical force had you fighting back. You kissed him back with the same jagged intensity, your hands balling into fists against the lapels of that ridiculous jacket, pushing and pulling all at once. The kiss was an argument in itself, sharp and biting, stripped of any pretense of politeness.

He broke the contact with a ragged gasp, but he didn’t really pull away. He buried his face in the sensitive crook of your neck, his breathing harsh and uneven against your skin, his lips grazing your pulse point, breath warming you up further, especially when he nibbled on your skin. You could feel him trembling—fine tremors running through his frame that betrayed the facade he was trying so hard to maintain.

“I missed you,” he mumbled into your skin, the words thick and slurred, vibrating against your clavicle, “god, I missed you so much it physically hurt.”

It was the vulnerability in his voice—the way it cracked on the confession, stripping away the anger to reveal the desperation underneath—that finally undid you. You could feel the dampness of his eyelashes against your neck, a stark contrast to the aggression of moments before.

“You have a terrible way of showing it, Sunghoon,” you whispered, your voice shaking, your hands slowly uncurling from his jacket, moving up to grip his shoulders to keep yourself upright.

“I’ll show you, fuck—i’ll show you everything,” he mumbled, pressing opened mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, making you gasp his name, to which he groaned, “‘m not Sunghoon, call me Hoonie.”

“Fuck—”

“Tell me you missed me—tell me you’re feeling this too,” he hissed, which almost seemed like a plea against your lips—especially with the way he was holding your nape, looking right into your eyes.

“I—I did, Hoonie,” you mumbled against his lips, and he shook his head.

It’s filthy how he leans in to bite your bottom lip, pulling you flush against him with ease, his right thigh settling in between your legs as he did so, making you whine, and he loves the sound, he loves it too fucking much to not pull you into another kiss to absorb each sound you’re giving him so lovingly (at least he thinks so). 

“C’mon—say it,” he urged, pulling your lower lip before letting go, a string of saliva connecting you both regardless.  

“What happened to you?” You breathed out, knees threatening to give out as you held on to Sunghoon’s shoulder, who only chuckled.

“Did you really think I was a virgin? That I’m someone who can’t make you feel good, hm? As if I hadn’t thought about having you close before,” he leaned in again, and this time, you could see how calm he was, “I’m still the same man—just this time, I’m desperate to please you.”

Your eyes widened, pressing your thighs together only to cage Hoon’s leg harder, shoulders curling in, “Hoonie, you don’t have to—” 

“Shh—just be good for me tonight, I really really want to kiss you again.” He couldn’t help but express his feelings, “you look so pretty, so pretty I swear,”  he grunts, and he swears it’s intoxicating the way you taste, how he can feel your pulse as he sucks on skin. His lips linger on your neck, sucking gently at the tender skin, drawing out the heat that blooms under his touch. The pull of his mouth is unhurried, deliberate, each drag of his tongue sending a fresh wave of warmth spreading through your veins. You feel the rapid thump of your own pulse against his lips, matching the erratic beat of your heart, and it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Say it, baby,” he murmurs.

“I missed you—was waiting for you,” you whined, and he swore, the way you said it sent this insane feeling down his cock—which twitched with need.

One of his hands stays firm at the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a possessive grip that grounds you, while the other slides slowly down your side. His palm flattens against your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your shirt, tracing the curve with feather-light pressure. The fabric bunches slightly under his exploration, and you arch into the contact without thinking, a soft whimper escaping as the sensation teases your nipple into a tight peak.

“God, your body responds to me like it’s been waiting,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and rough, laced with that raw need that's starting to unravel you both. His breath fans hot over the damp spot he’s left on your neck, making you shiver, and he presses closer, his chest rising and falling against yours in sync with your quickening breaths, “thought about this so much—thought about you all the time, fuck! Pretty, yeah just keep your eyes on me.”

You can feel the hard line of his cock straining against the front of his jeans, pressing insistently into your hip as he shifts his weight. It’s a solid reminder of his arousal, thick and unyielding, and the knowledge sends a flush of heat straight to your core, your pussy clenching with empty want—mind still trying to process the situation. Your hands, still clutching his shoulders, slide down tentatively, fingers splaying over the firm planes of his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath the leather jacket. The material is cool and smooth under your palms, juxtaposing the feverish warmth of his body seeping through.

“Thought you got bored of me,” you gasped out.

“Could never—I thought about you each fucking day, each second.”

He groans softly at your touch, the sound vibrating through him and into you, and his hand at your side dips lower, cupping your hip with a squeeze that borders on bruising. His fingers dig into the soft flesh there, kneading slowly, pulling you tighter against him so that his thigh remains wedged firmly between your legs. The pressure against your clothed pussy is maddening—subtle friction that builds with every tiny shift, making your clit ache for more direct contact.

“Hoonie,” you whisper, your voice trembling with the mix of lingering frustration and surging desire, your nails scraping lightly over his jacket as you grip him harder. The vulnerability in his earlier confession lingers in the air, softening the edges of your indignation, and now it’s just the two of you, bodies communicating what words can’t quite capture.

He lifts his head from your neck, eyes dark and intense as they meet yours, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper—longing perhaps, or the fear of losing this again. His free hand moves up, cupping your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone before trailing down to trace your jaw, then your throat. The touch is reverent, almost tender, but there’s an undercurrent of hunger in the way his fingers linger, pressing just enough to feel your swallow.

“I need to touch you everywhere,” he confesses, his voice cracking slightly on the words, and before you can respond, his mouth claims yours again. This kiss is slower than the last, exploratory—his tongue sliding against yours in languid strokes, tasting and teasing without the frantic edge. You melt into it, your body going pliant as his hand on your hip ventures bolder, slipping under the hem of your dress to caress the bare skin of your waist.

His palm is soft, and the texture against your smooth skin makes you gasp into the kiss. He takes the opportunity to deepen it, tongue curling around yours as his fingers spread wide, exploring the dip of your waist, the slight curve of your lower back. Each inch he claims feels electric, igniting nerves you didn’t know were so sensitive, and you press your thighs together around his leg, seeking relief from the growing wetness soaking your panties. The friction only heightens the ache, your pussy throbbing with each subtle grind, and he notices—god, he notices everything. A low hum of approval rumbles from his chest, and his hand under your dress inches higher, thumb grazing the edge of your bra. He doesn’t push further yet, just circles the underwire with agonizing slowness, feeling the way your breath stutters, the way your nipple strains against the lace.

“Tell me what you feel,” he pulls back just enough to whisper, forehead resting against yours, his eyes searching your face. His other hand leaves your face to join the first, both now under your dress, palms sliding up your sides in tandem, thumbs brushing the sides of your tits, all while he tries to memorize every inch of you, the most perfect girl for him.

“You—everywhere,” you manage, voice breathy, your hands moving to his waist, tugging at the hem of his shirt to feel the heat of his skin, “your hands—it’s too much and not enough, i need you, baby.” The confession spills out, raw and honest, mirroring his earlier vulnerability, and it seems to spur him on.

He chuckles softly once he’s done groaning cause—fuck, he’s been waiting to hear that, to have you to him. And finally, his big, veiny hands cup your breasts fully, squeezing with a firm pressure that has you moaning into his mouth as he kisses you again. His thumbs flick over your nipples through the bra, back and forth, hardening them further until they're aching points of need. The groping is thorough, unhurried—he kneads the soft flesh, feeling their weight in his palms, rolling them gently as if memorizing every curve.

“So the girls were right—ah,” you whine.

“No,” he breathed out, “I’m like this just for you, just because of you.”

Your hips rock against his thigh instinctively, the seam of your panties rubbing against your clit, and the spark of pleasure makes you clench around nothing, arousal trickling down your thighs. He feels the movement, presses his leg harder to encourage it, his own cock twitching against you in response. The air between you thickens with the scent of your combined arousal, heavy and intoxicating, and his kisses trail back to your neck, nipping lightly as his hands continue their worship.

“So responsive,” he breathes, one hand slipping around to your back, fingers working at the clasp of your bra with practiced ease. It gives with a soft snap, and he wastes no time pushing the straps down your shoulders, exposing your tits to the cool air. Goosebumps prickle your skin, but his mouth is there immediately, hot and wet, latching onto one nipple while his hand covers the other, “fucking pretty—all fucking mine.”

He sucks gently at first, tongue swirling around the peak, teeth grazing just enough to send jolts straight to your core. Your pussy pulses with each pull of his mouth, wetness seeping further, and you thread your fingers into his hair, holding him close. The feelings crash over you—the possessiveness in his grip, the desperation in his touches, the way his body trembles slightly against yours, betraying how much he needs this reconnection as much as you do.

“Seems like you have a lot of experience,” you mumbled, looking elsewhere. 

He smirked against you, “is my baby jealous?”

“No—fuck,” you whined as he let his free hand roams lower again, palming your ass through your panties, squeezing the cheek hard enough to make you gasp. He kneads it slowly, pulling you tighter against his thigh, guiding your movements as you grind, the friction building that sweet, torturous pressure, “that’s it, feel how much I want you, only you,” he murmurs against your breast, voice muffled, before switching sides, giving the other nipple the same devoted attention, and fucking hell—he was in love with you, absolutely there to hear each sound you make and every movement of your body in response to him. 

Every touch, every grope, layers the intimacy, stripping away the walls between you, leaving only the raw, aching need to be closer, to feel more.

He pulls back from your breast with a wet pop, his eyes dark and feral as they lock onto yours, “get on the bed, baby. Now,” he growls, voice thick with command, and you stumble back with him, legs shaky from the grinding, your soaked panties clinging to your pussy lips as he shoves you toward the mattress. You hit the soft sheets on your back, bra discarded somewhere on the floor, tits bouncing free.

His body follows, crashing over yours, knees pinning your thighs apart. Those veiny hands dive straight for your naked tits (which he seemed to love, especially wanting to mark them), squeezing hard—fingers digging into the soft flesh, thumbs crushing your nipples until you arch and cry out, “fuck, these tits are so perfect,” he mutters, leaning down to bite one peak sharp enough to sting, his fangs sinking in while his tongue flicks the tip. Pain mixes with heat, shooting straight to your clit, and you buck under him, pussy clenching empty and desperate, repeating his name as you find yourself wetter than ever, and he had barely touched you—you really fucking needed him.

His fingers press deep into your skin, bruising your waist as he kneads them like he owns every inch—because he does, tonight, tomorrow, always, all him to ravage, “you love this, don’t you? Watching me go crazy over you, fuck,” he rasps against your skin, breath hot, his free hand sliding down to grip your hip, nails scraping.

Your hips jerk up anyway, grinding your drenched panties against his thigh, the fabric sodden now, rubbing your swollen clit with every desperate roll. Wetness seeps through, coating his jeans, and you feel his cock twitch hard against your side, “yeah, keep going, doing so fucking well for me, c’mon, rub yourself before I lose it and fuck you dumb,” he taunts, pressing his thigh firmer into your pussy, forcing the friction deeper. You moan loud, fingers clawing at his shoulders, the ache building fast, your core pulsing with slick heat.

“Please—Hoonie, you’re insane,” you mumbled, biting his shoulder to conceal your moans, “want you, I’ve always wanted you.”

He chuckles dark despite the way he felt butterflies in his abdomen, cause god, he literally fell for you at first sight, only to truly fall for you with each passing interaction. And now? He wanted to show you exactly how good he can make you feel—leaning in low, shoving your legs wider with his knee, “enough teasing. I want that dripping cunt bare and pretty for me.” His hands hook into your panties, yanking them down rough, the elastic snapping against your thighs before he rips them off completely, tossing them aside. Cool air hits your exposed pussy, lips puffy and glistening, arousal dripping down to the bed sheet. He spreads you wide, knees hooking under yours, thumbs parting your folds to stare at your slick hole, eyes shining, “fuck—look at this messy pussy, begging for my tongue, all fucking mine, yeah?”

Before you can gasp, his head dives between your legs, mouth latching onto your cunt like a starving man, licking a stripe from your hole up to your clit before going down again. His tongue thrusts deep inside, fucking your hole with wet, urgent strokes, lapping up your juices as they flood out. You scream, back bowing off the bed, hands fisting the sheets while he devours you—sucking your clit hard, then plunging back in, tongue curling against your walls, “taste so fucking good, all wet and ready for me,” he groans into your pussy, vibrations humming through you, his stubble scraping your inner thighs raw.

“God—”

“No god, just me,” he groaned against you.

He eats you out relentlessly, nose bumping your clit as his tongue spears deeper, slurping noisily at your folds. Fingers join in, two thick ones shoving into your pussy alongside his tongue, stretching you, pumping hard while he bites your labia lightly, tugging. Your hips buck wild, grinding into his face, soaking his chin with your cum, “that’s it, fuck my mouth—come all over it,” he demands, voice muffled but commanding, free hand reaching up to pinch your nipple again, twisting until tears prick your eyes.

“God—feels so good, ah—slow down—”

Pleasure coils tight in your gut, his dominance flooding you—the way he holds you open, owns your body with every rough lick and thrust. He pulls back just enough to spit on your clit, rubbing it in with his thumb before diving back, tongue flicking fast, fingers curling to hit that spot inside that makes you see stars, “stop? Oh baby—you’re mine to fuck, mine to eat, gonna make this pussy squirt before I ram my cock in, yeah? Gonna claim you, make you forget about anyone else who had you before me,” his words hit like slaps, so very dirty and possessive, pushing you closer to the edge.

You bit your lip, trying to rile him up even further, “you sure you can—ah!” 

He slapped your cunt, making you arch off the mattress, making you cry, moans turning to pleas, his mouth working you harder, rougher—sucking your clit like he’s trying to bruise it, tongue fucking your hole until your thighs quake around his head. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t ease up, just dominates your pleasure, drawing out every drop of slick, every shudder. The room reverberates with the wet sounds of his feast, your cries echoing, bodies slick with sweat and need. But he’s not done—far from it, his cock grinding against the mattress now, hungry for more than just your taste.

“Sure I can, and I will.” Sunghoon doesn’t remember the last time he felt so feral, perhaps never before, perhaps this was just for you, and he didn’t mind especially when you were spread out so pretty for him, reacting to every bit of him, he fucking loved it—he loved you. He grabs your hips suddenly, dragging you back down the bed with a rough yank, your ass sliding over the sheets as he positions you right where he wants—legs splayed wide, pussy exposed and dripping onto the mattress. His big, veiny hands clamp onto your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh to spread your soaking slit wide open, folds parting with a wet schlick, your clit throbbing in the cool air

“Stay fucking still, baby,” he snarls, eyes locked on your glistening hole, arousal leaking out in thick strings. Before you can catch your breath, his head drops again, mouth crashing against your cunt like he’s starving for it.

His tongue buries deep inside you in one brutal thrust, spearing into your walls, lapping up the fresh flood of juices with savage hunger. He sucks hard on your inner folds, pulling them into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to sting while his tongue flicks wildly against your entrance. The suction pulls at your core, making your pussy clench around nothing, and you cry out, hips jerking up to grind against his face. Slurping sounds fill the room, obscene and wet, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin raw as he devours you deeper, nose pressing into your clit with every forceful lick. 

“This cunt’s mine, hm? Gonna eat it till you can’t walk, gonna show you how sorry I am,” he mutters right into your slit, the vibration rumbling through your nerves, sending shocks up your spine, “sorry, baby. Sorry my pretty girl—hm, so fucking sorry. You’re mine and I’m not fucking sorry about that.”

You arch off the bed, fingers twisting in his silky hair, pulling him closer even as the intensity borders on too much. His tongue thrusts in and out, curling to scoop out more of your slick, swallowing it down with greedy gulps, sucking your clit between his lips and biting down lightly, making you scream. Pleasure-pain explodes, your thighs trembling around his head, but he pins you harder, dominance radiating from every rough movement—owning your body, forcing ecstasy on you whether you can take it or not.

Without warning, he shoves two thick fingers inside you, knuckles deep in one brutal push, stretching your walls wide around the intrusion. Your pussy grips them tight, sucking him in as he starts pumping fast—curling and twisting, slamming against that spot inside that makes your vision go blur. 

“Fuck, so tight and wet—good fucking girl, stay this way, hm?” He rasps, mouth still latched on your clit, sucking hard while his fingers piston in and out, the wet squelch echoing with every thrust. Juices coat his hand, dripping down to soak the sheets, and you buck wildly, the stretch burning sweet as he adds a third finger, scissoring them to open you up more.

“Fucking crazy, what happened to clumsy Hoon?” You breathed. 

“Gone for now.”

His cock throbs hard against your thigh now, the thick length straining through his pants, hot and leaking pre-cum that smears sticky on your skin. He grinds it there deliberately, humping your leg like an animal in heat while he finger-bangs you relentlessly, thumb circling your clit in rough swirls. 

“Feel that? My dick’s aching to split you open, but first I’m gonna make this pussy gush all over my face, need to taste you,” he keeps on mumbling against you, voice muffled against your folds, breath hot and ragged. 

You drown in the raw lust, moans spilling loud and broken from your lips, every nerve firing as he devours you deeper. The pressure builds unbearable, your hips rolling desperately into his mouth, chasing the edge as waves of heat crash through you. Sweat slicks both your bodies, the air thick with the musk of sex—your arousal, his sweat. You claw at the sheets, thighs shaking, the dominance in his grip holding you down as pleasure rips you apart. 

“Can’t anymore, please—”

“Come on, pretty girl, cum on my tongue, let me taste you,” he demands, voice gravelly, tongue flicking your clit one last time before sealing his lips around it, humming low to vibrate through your core.

The orgasm hits you like crazy, your walls clenching hard around his fingers, gushing slick that he laps up hungrily, not missing a drop. You thrash and sob, body convulsing under his relentless ministrations, but even as the aftershocks ripple, he keeps pumping slow now, drawing it out, his cock still grinding insistently against your thigh, and you wondered what happened to the clumsy boy you knew, and why was he a fucking beast in bed for real—not knowing how he wasn’t really sure himself, just drunk in your essence probably? Or too fucking adamant to make you feel good, prove something even though you wanted him regardless. 

“That’s one—now I’m gonna fuck you raw till you beg for me to stop.”

Well—fuck. He was too good at this, cause you were left speechless, staring at how spent he looked, pulling back just enough to meet your dazed eyes, lips shiny with your juices, hunger far from sated, and eyes darker than ever—he looked insanely hot. 

Sunghoon’s gaze holds yours captive, that predatory glint in his eyes sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. His lips curve into a smirk, wicked and knowing, as he wipes a stray bead of your essence from his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. The air between you crackles, thick with the scent of sex and sweat, your breaths mingling in the charged space. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers inside you, the way they curled just right, coaxing every last tremor from your core. But he’s not done—not by a long shot. That insistent press of his cock against your thigh grows bolder, the heat of it branding your skin, a silent vow of what’s to come.

“Speechless already?” He teases, his voice a husky rumble that vibrates through your chest. He leans in closer, his nose brushing yours in an almost tender gesture, a stark contrast to the feral hunger etched on his face, “I thought you wanted me to show you exactly how much I want you, hm? Will you be satisfied when I’m buried in deep?” His words drip with challenge, laced with that raw affection you’ve always known from him—the clumsy stumbles, the shy smiles—but twisted now into something intoxicatingly dominant.

You swallow hard, your throat dry despite the slick mess between your legs. The room spins a little, your body still humming from the high, but his proximity grounds you, pulls you back into the moment, “Hoonie—” you manage, your voice a breathy whisper, fingers twitching at your sides as if unsure whether to push him away or pull him in. The old him flickers in your mind—the boy who tripped over his own feet during movie nights, who blushed when your hands brushed accidentally. How had he transformed? It was like unleashing a storm you’d never seen brewing.

He chuckles low, the sound vibrating against your collarbone as he trails open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, savoring the salt of your skin, “yeah? Say my name like that again when I’m fucking you senseless.” 

His hand slides up your thigh, possessive and unhurried, fingers digging in just enough to leave faint marks—reminders that you’ll feel tomorrow, a secret map of this night. He stopped just for a minute, and you watched him take off his pants and boxers in a go, your eyes widening in process as you watched him undress, the dim lights accentuating every inch of him—even the ones you wondered whether you’ll be able to handle or not.

He hooks your leg over his hip, opening you up further, the tip of his cock now teasing your entrance, slick with your arousal and his own pre-cum. The anticipation builds like a slow fuse, every shallow nudge sending sparks skittering through your nerves.

“Please,” you murmur, the word escaping before you can stop it, your hips arching instinctively toward him. It’s not begging—not yet—but it’s close, the vulnerability cracking through your haze. You want to unravel him too, to see that beast roar, but god, the way he looks at you, like you’re the only thing anchoring him—it makes your heart clench alongside the ache low in your belly.

Sunghoon pauses, his breath hitching, eyes softening for a fraction of a second as he searches your face. There’s that tenderness again, peeking through the cracks of his intensity—a silent question, a check-in amid the storm, “you okay, baby?” He asks, voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, his thumb stroking soothing circles on your hip. It’s so him, this blend of fire and care, and it only makes you want him more.

“More than good,” you reply, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his damp hair, tugging lightly to bring his mouth back to yours. The kiss starts soft, exploratory, lips brushing like a shared secret, but it ignites quickly, tongues tangling with renewed urgency. You taste yourself on him, musky and intimate, and it fuels the fire, your free hand roaming down his chest, nails scraping over the ridges of his abs.

He groans into your mouth, the sound raw and needy, breaking the kiss to nip at your lower lip, “fuck, Y/N—you drive me crazy. Always have.” With that admission hanging between you, he shifts his hips, the head of his cock pressing insistently now, parting your folds with deliberate slowness. Inch by torturous inch, he sinks into you and it takes a while, leaving the room with reverberations of your moans and groans as you accommodate to his size, the stretch burning sweetly, your walls yielding to his thickness. You gasp against his shoulder, biting down to muffle the sound, but he doesn’t let you hide—his hand cups the back of your neck, forcing your eyes to meet his as he bottoms out, fully sheathed.

“Look at me,” he demands, though his voice wavers with the effort of holding still, letting you adjust, “feel how perfect you are? Made for this—for me.”His forehead rests against yours, breaths syncing in the intimate cocoon of your bodies. The fullness is overwhelming, every pulse of him echoing through you, but it’s the emotion in his stare that hits hardest—the need of wanting you. Lovers entangled in a way that feels inevitable.

You nod, words failing as you clench around him experimentally, drawing a hiss from his lips, “Sunghoon—move. Please, I need—”

“I know what you need, baby,” he cuts in, voice strained, and then he’s moving—slow at first, a languid roll of his hips that grinds against that spot inside you, building the tension like embers catching flame. Each thrust is measured, deep, his cock dragging along your sensitive walls, the friction sparking pleasure that coils tighter with every pass. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling in time with his rhythm.

“Like that?” He murmurs, lips ghosting your ear, his free arm wrapping around your waist to hold you flush against him. The position is intimate, chest to chest, hearts pounding in tandem, but there’s nothing gentle about the way he picks up speed, hips snapping forward with increasing force. The wet sounds of your joining fill the room, obscene and arousing, mingling with your shared moans.

“Yes—god, yes,” you cry out, head falling back as the pleasure mounts, your nails digging into his shoulders for purchase.

“No baby, say my name,” he chuckles when you do so on repeat, and he’s relentless now, the beast fully unleashed, pounding into you with a ferocity that borders on punishing, yet every so often he slows, grinding deep, whispering praises that melt your bones, “so tight—so wet for me. You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you, love? Milk my cock until I can’t hold back.”

The words push you higher, your body responding with a flood of heat, slick coating him as you chase the edge. You can feel him everywhere—his sweat-slicked skin sliding against yours, the musky scent of him overwhelming your senses, the way his breath stutters when you squeeze around him. It’s raw, but threaded with that emotional undercurrent, the clumsy boy proving himself not through words, but through this worship of your body.

“Sunghoon, I’m—fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, your voice breaking as the coil snaps taut. He senses it, angles his hips just right, thumb pressing harder on your clit, and the world fractures. Your orgasm crashes over you, fiercer than the last, walls fluttering wildly around him as you sob his name, body arching in ecstasy. Stars burst behind your eyelids, pleasure radiating from your core in endless waves.

He doesn’t stop, riding it out with you, his thrusts erratic now as your release triggers his own, “that’s it, baby—cum on me. Fuck, you feel so good—”

With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep one final time, spilling hot inside you, his cock pulsing with each spurt. His body shudders against yours, arms tightening like a vice, as if afraid you’ll slip away in the haze, in awe of how you clenched harder, squirting all over his cock and abdomen, which is something you had never really done before.

For a long moment, you stay locked together, breaths ragged, the afterglow wrapping around you like a warm blanket. He presses soft kisses to your temple, your cheek, murmuring nonsense words of adoration, “you’re incredible,” he breathes.

He watches you staring at him with your pretty eyes, and now, he feels shy, yet not ready enough to part ways, so he settles with hiding his pretty face in your neck, trying to be impossibly close to you, licking the spots he’d marked earlier, making you giggle slightly, his own smile blooming when he hears that, and somehow, everything feels right again. With you playing with his hair, he giggles, and the switch up in his demeanour amuses you, because the fiercely jealous guy who dragged you out of the party had entirely melted back into the sweet boy you’d been missing for weeks.

“You’re like two different people, Hoonie,” you whisper, your fingers gently detangling the dark strands at the nape of his neck.

He hums a low, contended sound that vibrates against your skin. He shifts his weight, wrapping his arms even more securely around your waist to pull you flush against him, as if he’s terrified you might still disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I’m just me,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your skin. Slowly, he lifts his head. His cheeks are dusted with a pretty, shy pink flush, and his dark eyes are incredibly soft, completely devoid of the panic or anger that had clouded them earlier. He looks at you with a vulnerability that makes your breath hitch.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, Y/N,” he confesses, his thumbs gently stroking the sides of your waist. He swallows hard, “I was so desperate for you to see me as a man you could desire, not just some harmless puppy you felt sorry for. I—I actually looked up a guide.”

You blink, your hands stilling in his hair, “a guide?”

Sunghoon groans, dropping his forehead against your shoulder as if trying to hide from his own embarrassment, “WikiHow,” he mumbles, “how to flirt with a pretty girl, uh—with pictures.”

The room goes completely silent for a second. You stare down at the top of his dark head, your brain struggling to process the information.

“Wait,” you breathe out, the pieces suddenly snapping together in your mind, “the staring contest at the pub during trivia night?”

“Step one: Make eye contact,” he grumbles miserably.

“The voice note asking me to get boba, and then immediately inviting Jake and Jay?”

“I panicked because the guide said not to come on too strong. I used them as human shields.”

A massive, overwhelming swarm of butterflies suddenly erupts in your stomach. The guy who looks like he belongs on a runway, was secretly reading step-by-step internet articles because he was so nervous around you. It is the most endearingly pathetic, incredibly sweet thing you have ever heard in your entire life. You can’t help it—a laugh bubbles up in your chest, bright and genuine.

Sunghoon flinches slightly, his grip tightening, “don’t laugh at me,” he whines, sounding exactly like a babie, “Jake and Heeseung already found it on my laptop and roasted me for it. It was humiliating.”

“Hoonie,” you laugh softly, cupping his face and forcing him to look up at you. His eyes are wide and entirely unguarded, “you didn’t need any of that. The steps didn’t make me like you—you made me like you.”

He searches your face, clearly searching for any trace of pity, but only finding absolute adoration, “really?”

“Really,” you promise, your thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones, “I didn’t fall for the guy trying to be a smooth, mysterious flirt. I fell for the guy who fought the doorframe and lost, the guy who shared his umbrella in the rain, and the guy who sang Disney songs with me in the park. You never needed a guide, Sunghoon, I wanted you.”

A beautiful, relieved smile breaks across his face, the one that reaches his eyes and shows off his cute fangs. He leans into your touch, completely melting into your space, “I like you so much it makes my brain short-circuit,” he breathes out, his forehead resting against yours, “I’m entirely, hopelessly down bad for you, Y/N.”

“I really really like you too, you puppy,” you whisper, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to his lips as he whined, making your eyes wide, “oh you’re into that—”

“Uh—i’ll get you some water,” he panicked, getting up, cock slipping out of you, and entirely forgetting about the clothes sprawled all over the floor, which made him yelp as he fell down. 

You laughed freely, cause gosh, you really were falling for this man. Grabbing his leather jacket, you wore it as he tried to hide himself with embarrassment. It was a stupid choice to get up when your legs were not stable, because it resulted in you wobbling and falling right over hoon, the jacket doing nothing to hide your body, pressed against his so perfectly. Now, it was his turn to chuckle as he grabbed a strand of your hair, kissing it sweetly.

“Damn, was i that good?” He smirked, clearly loving the way you were hiding your face in his neck now.

“Oh shut up, puppy,” you mumbled, and he held on to you tighter.

“Well—this puppy isn’t done with you. C’mon baby, let me help you shower.”

Safe to say, you did much more than just showering, and even though exhaustion took over, sleep wasn’t something you entertained, pecking each other sweetly all night, acting clingier than ever, and honestly?

You wouldn’t have it any other way.

MEANWHILE:

Jay rattled the handle one more time, putting his shoulder into it just to be absolutely sure. He slowly turned his head to look at Jake and Heeseung in the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway.

“He locked it,” Jay said, his voice completely flat. 

Jake pressed his forehead against the heavy wood door, looking genuinely heartbroken, “you’ve got to be kidding me—tell me you’re kidding. My bed is in there, Jay, my toothbrush, my entire life.”

“I don’t care about your toothbrush, Jake,” Jay snapped, rubbing his temples, “I care about the fact that we are currently homeless because Sunghoon final-fucking-ly figured out how to flirt.”

Heeseung didn’t even argue, he had already accepted his fate, sliding down the wall until he hit the floor. He lay flat on his back, staring blankly at the sky, “I planned this,” I muttered, “I planned the whole party with Beomgyu, and my reward is the floor.”

Down the hall, Jungwon and Karina stepped out, stopping dead in their tracks as they took in the tragic scene. Jungwon let out a loud snort, crossing his arms, “wow, look at this sad display. You guys look pathetic.”

Heeseung immediately sat up, he scrambled over to Karina, looking up at her with giant, desperate eyes, “Karina please, have mercy.”

Karina took a step back, “what are you doing?”

“Y/N’s bed is empty,” Heeseung pleaded, “i’m a great houseguest. I will literally buy your coffee for a week—do not leave me out here in the hallway with them.”

Karina looked down at Heeseung, then over at Jay and Jake, who were staring at her like abandoned stray dogs. She let out a long, suffering sigh, “fine, get up. Heeseung, you can take Y/N’s bed. But just you.”

“Bless you,” Heeseung whispered, jumping up and sprinting before she could change her mind.

Jungwon shook his head as they all made your way towards their dorm, looking entirely too amused as he walked over to unlock his own bedroom door down the hall, “well, good luck on the carpet, you two. Build a fort or something.”

He turned the key and pushed his door open. But the second the lock clicked, Jay and Jake exchanged a single, desperate look. Pure survival instincts kicked in, and no words were needed. Before Jungwon could even step inside, Jay and Jake shoved past him, rushing into the room like they were escaping a burning building.

“Hey! What the—” Jungwon yelled, spinning around.

It was too late. Jake was already laid across Jungwon’s mattress like a starfish, pulling the duvet up to his chin, while Jay wedged himself against the wall side of the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and breathing heavily to fake being asleep.

“You can’t kick us out!” Jake screamed, hair disheveled. 

“I’m asleep!” Jay announced loudly, “so deep in sleep.”

Jungwon stood in the doorway of his own bedroom, staring at the two fully grown men currently occupying his mattress. He looked at Jake’s death grip on the blanket. He looked at Jay, who was very clearly peeking with one eye. The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds.

Jungwon just let out a long, deeply exhausted sigh, slowly reaching over and grabbing a single throw pillow off his desk chair, and turned on his heel.

“I hate all of you,” Jungwon muttered flatly, dragging his feet out into the living room to sleep on the couch.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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[hoonguin]

⠀ CONTRACTUALLY YOURS ❤︎ 박종성

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎written for the heart’s mailroom event ! ༊

‎‎ ‎‎‎​       ‎‎ ‎‎‎​           𝓦𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐈𝐍⠀‎ ✶ ⠀‎ when park jongseong, campus heartthrob, resident rich kid, and future arranged marriage victim, offers you an absurd amount of money to be his fake girlfriend, saying yes should be easy. all you have to do is hold his hand, smile for his parents, survive the rumors, and pretend none of it is real. fake dating was never supposed to be difficult — so why does following the one rule feel impossible? don’t fall in love. simple enough, right?

𝟑𝟏𝟐𝟏𝟕  🗯️ ✽  ───  ⏾  𝘂𝗻𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 park jongseong⠀‎x ⠀‎ 𝓯 ! rea        ´ ꒳ `        𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 :        fake dating ˒ university au ˒ slow burn ˒ mutual pining ˒ class differences ˒ friends-to-lovers ˒ emotional hurt and comfort ˒ a dash of angst somewhere ˒ 

𝔀𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 :         explicit sexual content ⋮ 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝘂𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀, 𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗱𝗼 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁    ✿   strong language ˒ emotional distress ˒ classism ˒ family conflict ˒ socioeconomic inequality ˒ mentions of financial struggles ˒ unprotected p in v ˒ first time sex ˒ dry humping ˒ fingering ˒ dirty talk ˒ creampie ˒ 

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬⠀‎ ✶ ⠀‎ 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

🗝️ 。 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞  ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ one of my favorite event works so far !!! yes, i do pour my heart out whenever it comes to a jay fic <//3 a month later and here we are ˙𐃷˙ clearly got lazy in a bunch of parts so oops, let’s ignore that 

"Me? You? Us? Date? What the fuck are you on about?!"

Your voice rang out through the private library study space, bouncing off the cream-colored walls and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that lined them.

The sound was sharp enough to make Jay flinch, just barely, a subtle jerk of his shoulders, but he didn't step back. He stood right where he was, planted across from you on the other side of the narrow study table, both his palms pressed flat against the polished wood surface, fingers splayed wide like he was bracing himself. Beside his right hand, just brushing against his pinky, sat a brown envelope, ordinary, unremarkable, the kind you'd use to mail documents or store receipts. Except it wasn't ordinary at all, and you both knew it.

You had already opened it. A few moments ago, when Jay had first slid it across the table toward you with a quiet, "Just look inside first," you'd given him a skeptical look, the same look you gave people who tried to cut the line at the campus café, and undone the metal clasp with one finger. The moment you peeled back the flap, your brain short-circuited. The envelope was filled with money. Not a few folded bills, not some chump-change twenties — filled, stuffed to the point where the paper bulged outward like it was struggling to contain what was inside. Bill after bill after bill, crisp and pressed together so tightly you could barely pry them apart with your fingertips. Your mouth had gone dry. You couldn't even count it properly mentally, not when your eyes were still trying to process the sheer volume of it. Four hundred dollars? Nine hundred? Maybe even a thousand? Every time you tried to land on a rough estimate, the number climbed higher, your mind fumbling with digits the way your hands fumbled with the bills. It was the first time in your life you'd seen so much money in one sitting, let alone held it, let alone had it sitting in front of you on a scratched-up library table like it was nothing.

"Please, Y/N—I swear it'll just be a quick one-time thing. You have to help me out," Jay said, and the desperation in his tone was so raw, so unguarded, that it almost caught you off guard. His voice dropped on the last sentence, going low and almost brittle, like the words themselves were fragile and he was afraid of crushing them. His eyes, dark brown, normally so composed and easy, were wide and searching, locked on yours with an intensity that made the air between you feel heavier.

You already knew it was absolute bullshit. The whole setup, the way he'd walked over to your usual study spot in the library's east wing where you always sat, third floor, back corner, the table beside the window that overlooked the quad, and hovered awkwardly by the empty chair across from you until you looked up from your notes. The way he'd said he had an important question to ask about a subject both of you shared, some elective you'd both wound up in because it fit your schedules. You'd told him to just ask right then and there, leaning back in your chair with your arms crossed because something about the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot told you this wasn't about academics at all. He insisted on taking you to one of the private study rooms, the kind that required cash to book, the kind with a door you could lock and walls thick enough that sound didn't travel. You said no. Flat out, no, you had studying to do, you didn't have time for whatever cryptic thing he needed to say. He insisted again, his voice dropping lower, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that restless way people do when they're wound tight. You said no a second time. He insisted a third, and by then a few passersby had slowed their pace, eyes sliding over to the two of you with that particular brand of campus curiosity, the kind that would be a rumor by dinner. You noticed the girl with the ponytail lingering near the shelf a few feet away, pretending to browse a book she was holding upside down. You noticed the guy at the next table suddenly very interested in his phone, which was facedown on the desk. You exhaled through your nose, muttered a curse under your breath, grabbed your bag, and followed Jay down the hall because the last thing you needed was an audience.

Yup, Jay — as in the Park Jongseong. People referred to him as Jay, and you never really knew the full reason as to why, but apparently it was his English name, one he'd had since childhood, and he preferred to be called that around university. He'd introduced himself that way on the first day of freshman orientation, and obviously, the student body didn't hesitate to comply. Jay was and still is the sheer epitome of the typical picture-perfect guy, the kind that seemed like he was drafted in a lab by someone trying to engineer the ideal male specimen. He was intelligent, effortlessly so, the kind of smart that didn't need to announce itself because it showed in the way he spoke, the way he could break down a complex concept in class without breaking a sweat, the way professors seemed to light up whenever he raised his hand. He came from an incredibly wealthy background — old money, the kind that didn't need to be flashy because it simply was, the kind that came with family estates and business empires and the quiet assurance that you'd never have to worry about a single thing in your life. He was the president of the music club, the lead guitarist of the university's band, and as if all of that wasn't enough, the campus heartthrob, a title he hadn't asked for but couldn't seem to shake off.

Every single girl was head over heels for him. That wasn't an exaggeration, it was a documented, observable, almost scientific phenomenon. You could swear you'd overheard your block mate laugh about how during one Valentine's Day, he was hiding in the music room for a whole day because people wouldn't stop chasing after him, shoving gifts and confessions and handwritten letters through the door crack until the floor looked like a paper avalanche. Another girl in your dorm had a Pinterest board dedicated to him, screenshots from his Instagram, candid photos people had taken during his performances, even a blurry shot of him eating at the cafeteria that she treated like some kind of holy relic. It was unhinged. It was also, admittedly, understandable.

Which is why it came to you as a surprise — no, not a surprise, a shock, a full-body, brain-stalling, what-the-fuck-is-happening shock — that he'd dragged your ass to a secluded, cash-only private study room on one breezy Tuesday afternoon with an envelope filled to the brim with cash, set it on the table between you, and asked if you could fake-date him.

You? Jay? Date? It had never crossed your mind. Not once. Not even in some passing, idle thought, the kind your brain produces at two in the morning when you're half-asleep and thinking about nothing in particular. Sure, he's attractive, anyone with functioning eyes could see that, the sharp jawline, the dark hair that always looked effortlessly styled even when he'd just woken up, the way his whole face seemed to carry this natural, easy confidence like he'd never had to second-guess a single thing about himself. But he was way out of your league, and more than that, you both never really batted an eye at each other. You existed in the same spaces, the same lecture halls, the same campus walkways, the same cafeteria, but you moved in entirely different orbits. Just so happened that both of you had taken up the same course, and even then, your interactions had been limited to the occasional "can I borrow a pen" or "did you catch what the professor said about the deadline." Nothing more. Nothing less. Two people who happened to share a lecture room and nothing else.

"Come on, cut me some slack. The girl your parents are arranging for you to marry can't be that bad," you had said, leaning back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to sound casual even though your heart was still doing something strange and irregular from the sheer absurdity of this conversation.

"She is!"

"Show me a picture."

Jay let out an exhale, long, heavy, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of several sleepless nights, before fishing his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He unlocked it, his thumb moving quickly across the screen, scrolling through what looked like his mom's messages, then his DMs, his brow furrowed in concentration as he searched for a specific photo. You watched his face as he scrolled, the tightness in his jaw, the slight downward pull of his lips, and for a moment, the campus heartthrob facade fell away entirely, and he just looked like a guy who was stressed out of his mind. Then he found it, turned the phone toward you, and held it there.

You looked. You leaned in. Your eyes traveled across the screen, the girl in the photo was striking, genuinely stunning, the kind of beautiful that made you do a double-take. She had this effortless elegance about her, dressed in something that probably cost more than your entire semester's textbook budget, standing in what appeared to be the foyer of a home that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. Flawless. Immaculate. The type of person who looked like she'd never had a bad day in her life.

"Ooooh, she's bad as hell," you smiled — and you meant it, because damn, she really was, and you weren't about to pretend otherwise just to make Jay feel better about his predicament.

A beat. Jay looked at you dead in the eyes, his expression utterly flat, a picture of pure, unamused disbelief. And you just smiled back at him, wide, toothy, completely genuine, the kind of smile that said I know this isn't helping but I'm being honest here.

"Alright, that's enough! That's not the point, my point is I don't want to get married—"

"Then just tell your parents you're not yet ready, as simple as that." You cut him off, waving your hand like you were swatting away a fly. "Sit them down, look them in the eye, say 'hey, I'm twenty-something, I'm not doing this right now,' and call it a day."

"Fuck, I've tried and tried and tried, but they won't budge on their decision." Jay's voice cracked on the last word, just barely, a hairline fracture in his composure that he quickly sealed shut by pressing his lips together and looking away for a second. When he looked back, his eyes were harder, more urgent. "I'm way too young to be marrying at this age. Sure, some people our age are married, but I'm not them and they're not me! I have things I want to do, things I actually want, and being tied down to someone I didn't even choose isn't one of them." His hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles going pale. "Please, Y/N, just—this one big favor. This and nothing more, I'm begging."

He was begging. Park Jongseong, the guy who had the entire campus at his feet, was standing across from you in a dimly lit study room practically pleading with you like his life depended on it. And the worst part, the part that made your chest tighten slightly, the part that made your arms uncross and fall to your sides, was that it was real. You could see it in every line of his body, hear it in every syllable he pushed out. He wasn't being dramatic. He wasn't putting on a show. He was genuinely, desperately, sincerely asking you for help, and the vulnerability of it was staggering.

You had to admit, with his level of desperation, you were starting to feel real bad. You'd never seen someone be this desperate — not around you, not in your presence, not directed at you. Even your ex hadn't been this desperate for you, and they'd had actual reasons to be. This was the campus heartthrob, a guy who could snap his fingers and have a line of volunteers stretching from the library to the campus gates, and here he was, choosing you, asking you, practically on his knees in front of you. It didn't make sense. None of this made sense.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this, but no is no. That's final on my end." You said it as firmly as you could, chin lifted, voice steady. You meant it, or at least, you wanted to mean it, you were trying to mean it, because the logical part of your brain was screaming at you that this was insane, that fake-dating Jay was a terrible idea, that nothing good could come from entangling yourself in the mess of someone else's life, no matter how much money was in that envelope.

"Oh my god, please, I'll do anything, I'll even add more money to the—"

Money? Money.

Yup, as in the brown envelope filled with money. The envelope that was still sitting on the table between you, its mouth open, its contents spilling slightly outward, bills catching the overhead light. The first time you'd seen it, when Jay had first pushed it toward you, you thought he was going to bribe his way through you to get a yes, just straight-up purchase your agreement like you were a transaction, like your consent was a commodity he could afford. The thought had made your stomach turn. But then he'd clarified, hastily, almost tripping over his own words in his rush to explain, he'd just taken some money out of his card, he said, and to see it as a thank-you if ever. A gesture. No strings. No pressure. Just — here, this is what I can offer, if you're willing.

What an arrogant bitch, using daddy's money to get what he wanted. The thought surfaced sharp and bitter, and you let it sit there for a second, let yourself feel the sting of it, the unfairness, the casual way he could just produce this kind of cash like it was pocket change, like it was nothing, like it was the equivalent of buying someone a coffee. Though, you knew, and this was the part that made the thought dissolve as quickly as it had come — you knew you couldn't resist that much money. You couldn't. You were physically, financially, realistically incapable of turning away from what that envelope represented.

Truth is, in this prestigious university filled with students who spent their weekends drinking on yachts and flying home for holidays like commuting was a personality trait, you're the elephant in the room. The odd one out. The one who didn't belong, not because you weren't smart enough, not because you hadn't earned your place, but because you existed in a world that operated on an entirely different currency than the one everyone else was spending. You came from a less fortunate background compared to everyone here, and that was putting it gently. Your hometown was the kind of place people drove through without stopping, the kind of place where the biggest employer was the gas station on the highway and the most exciting thing that happened all year was the county fair. For your whole life, all you could do was study. That was it. That was the one lane you had, the one road available to you, and you ran it like your life depended on it — because it did. Get amazing marks, get recognized enough to be able to get somewhere nice in life, somewhere better, somewhere that didn't feel like a dead end with a nice view of nothing. All that effort paid off in the end, because here you were — admitted to this prestigious university, the kind with the manicured lawns, the stone buildings, and the reputation that opened doors before you even knocked, far from home, with a full 100% scholarship. Every penny covered. Tuition, housing, the works.

You didn't even know this was possible. When the acceptance letter came, when you'd read the words “full scholarship” and felt the ground tilt beneath you, you'd sat on the floor of your bedroom for ten minutes just breathing, because your brain couldn't process anything beyond the fact that something had finally, finally gone right. You were beyond thankful. You still were. Every single day you woke up in that dorm room, you felt it, the gratitude, the disbelief, the quiet, stubborn resolve to not waste a single second of this opportunity.

But gratitude didn't pay for groceries. And a full scholarship didn't cover the things that fell through the cracks, the meals you skipped because the dining hall was closed and the nearest affordable option was a twenty-minute walk off campus, the school supplies that weren't included in the textbook package, the toiletries and the laundry detergent and the occasional cup of coffee that kept you awake during exam week. So now, with Jay offering you an insane amount of money, more than your parents could scrape up for months of careful, pinching saving, more than you'd earn in an entire semester of your part-time job, just to be his fake girlfriend? You couldn't possibly resist. You were already somewhat struggling to keep up, the kind of struggling that was invisible to everyone around you because you'd gotten so good at making it look effortless. You worked part-time as a lab instructor in another department of the university — setting up equipment, walking students through procedures, cleaning up after sessions — and while the pay was something, it wasn't enough to breathe easy. You saved up quite frequently, hoarding every extra cent like a dragon guarding its treasure, to the point where you'd forget to eat at times because the cafeteria line was long and the off-campus options cost money and you'd already convinced yourself that skipping one meal wasn't that big of a deal. You were literally living in the damn trenches, grinding yourself down to the bone in an environment where the person sitting next to you in lecture was complaining about their dad's yacht needing repairs.

He was still yapping about whatever, something about how his parents were persistent, how the arrangement had been in the works for months, how he'd tried every angle he could think of and this was the only option left, when you'd finally snapped back to reality, the sound of his voice dissolving into white noise as your brain latched onto the single, crystalline truth sitting in front of you: that envelope, that money, that lifeline.

"Deal." You said it with your face blank. No smile, no hesitation, no dramatic pause. Just the word, clean and final, dropped onto the table between you like a card laid face-up.

You saw Jay's face change instantly — like a switch had been flipped, like sunlight breaking through clouds. His eyes went wide, his mouth fell open, and then the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on another human being spread across his face, so bright and so unguarded that it almost looked out of place on someone you'd only ever seen looking composed and cool and collected.

"Oh my god really? Thank you, thank you so much, oh my god—" The words tumbled out of him in a rush, his voice climbing higher with each one, his hands coming off the table to gesture wildly in the air like he didn't know what to do with them. He looked, for a moment, like a kid who'd just been told he could have dessert before dinner, pure, unfiltered relief flooding every feature, softening every sharp edge you'd ever associated with him.

"Yeah, yeah, calm down before I change my mind." You retorted, but you were clearly amused at his enthusiasm, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best effort to keep your expression neutral. There was something almost endearing about watching Jay, the campus heartthrob, the cool guy, the one everyone wanted, practically vibrate with gratitude right in front of you. It was humanizing in a way you hadn't expected.

"Yes, ma'am." He said it with a nod, still grinning, and there was something in the way he said it, the slight dip of his head, the warmth in his voice, that made your chest do that strange, irregular thing again.

So then there you and Jay were, officially "boyfriend and girlfriend." Just like that, in a dimly lit private study room that smelled like old paper and lemon-scented wood cleaner, with a brown envelope full of cash sitting between you and the campus heartthrob beaming at you like you'd just handed him the world. You never knew up until when the act would last, though — just be convincing for as long as possible, up to the point when Jay says it's over, he's free, and both of you could just go back to the way things were. Two people who happened to share a classroom and nothing else, the way it was always meant to be.

At least, that was the plan.

The first week of "dating" was surprisingly easy.

Though, at that point of the week, nothing significant had happened yet. You guys were still somewhat awkward about the whole ordeal, like two people who'd signed a contract to perform in a play but hadn't yet rehearsed their scenes. No crazy public interactions, no dramatic cafeteria entrances, no hand-holding across the courtyard for all to see. You guys never even texted, not really, not in the way actual couples texted, with that constant low hum of conversation that never really stopped. Maybe you'd send Jay a horrendous reel about some funny skit, the kind that made you snort quietly to yourself in your dorm room at midnight, and caption it with something like "this is how i saw you in that study space" and he'd either just react with a haha emoji or reply with a laugh or be sassy in return, firing back with a reel of his own that somehow managed to be even more unhinged than yours. Sometimes he'd message you about an assignment assigned to a shared class, dry, practical stuff, "did prof say apa or mla" or "is the thing due friday or saturday,” the kind of texts that could've been sent to anyone, that carried no weight, that left no residue once they were answered. Just that, nothing more. Simple day-to-day interactions, the bare minimum of communication required to maintain the illusion that two people were in any kind of relationship at all. Honestly, you guys only interacted when you'd remember, perhaps like once every two days, maybe even less, the rhythm of it irregular and loose, like a heartbeat that kept skipping. Ya'll didn't even acknowledge each other in public. Not a wave, not a nod, not so much as a glance across a lecture hall. You'd walk past each other between classes with the same neutral, unseeing expression you'd give a stranger on the sidewalk, and it was fine, it was easier that way, simpler, less to explain, less to perform. The fake in fake-dating had never felt so appropriate.

The second week was when things had gotten a bit strange.

It was a regular Thursday afternoon, the kind of Thursday that felt like it had been stretching on for about six business days already, the kind where the week's exhaustion had settled into your bones like damp cold and you could practically feel your brain running on fumes. You were in the lab, packing up your things because your shift had finally finished — the last student had left twenty minutes ago, the equipment was wiped down and stored, the logbook was updated, and the only thing left to do was zip your bag and drag yourself back to the dorm for whatever sad dinner awaited. You were slipping your charger into the front pocket of your bag when your phone lit up on the counter, the screen glowing with a message notification.

Jongseong [6:13 PM]: hi! :) are you free right now?

Yeah, your contact name for him was Jongseong. Not Jay. Not "bf 💕" or whatever the hell a real girlfriend would save her boyfriend's name as. Jongseong. His Korean name, the one he didn't go by, the one most people on campus didn't even know. He didn't know you'd saved him that way, and he definitely didn't need to know. It just served as a little reminder, a quiet, private, almost superstitious reminder, that this whole thing was meant to be some stupid thing, some arrangement, some transaction dressed up in the costume of a relationship. You didn't know how exactly it'd help, calling him by a name he didn't use, keeping that tiny sliver of distance preserved in your phone's contacts list, but that's what you told yourself, and that was enough.

You stared at the message for a bit, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the hell could he possibly want now? You thought, your brow furrowing slightly. It had been days since your last actual exchange, a reel about a cat falling off a counter, three days ago, to which he'd responded with a skull emoji. And now, out of nowhere, on a random Thursday evening, a cheerful "hi! :)" and a question about your availability like you were being summoned for a meeting. You typed back a while later, after you'd zipped your bag and slung it onto your shoulder.

You [6:15 PM]: why? i'm at the lab rn

He saw the text almost immediately, the read receipt appeared within seconds, which told you he'd been staring at his phone waiting for your reply, which was somehow both endearing and mildly concerning.

Jongseong [6:15 PM]: oooh okay

Jongseong [6:15 PM]: do you wanna head out to this

Jongseong [6:15 PM]: new retro themed diner that opened up? 😅 it's a bit far from the university though, but i can drive you back and forth

Diner? Eat out? Goodness, you couldn't even afford to buy dinner on some days, and he was asking you to go to some trendy new spot that probably charged eighteen dollars for a milkshake and had a waitlist longer than the financial aid office. The thought alone made your wallet ache in sympathy.

I mean, you did have money, the one Jay had given you in that envelope, the one that was currently tucked inside the zippered pocket of your bag, still as full as the day he'd handed it to you. But you couldn't bring yourself to spend it yet. Not even for something this small, not even for a meal that your growling stomach was practically begging for. You had more priorities, bigger ones, heavier ones, the kind that didn't go away just because you were hungry. Sending some money back to your parents, for one, you'd already calculated how much you could afford to send without destabilizing your own fragile ecosystem, and the number was pitifully small but it was something, it was the least you could do when your mom and dad were back home stretching every paycheck until it tore. Your needs, too, the things that kept you functional, the toothpaste and the laundry soap and the replacement headphones because your current pair was held together with electrical tape and prayer. All the works. Every dollar in that envelope was already earmarked for something, already spoken for in the mental ledger you maintained with the obsessive precision of an accountant during tax season.

You [6:16 PM]: dude

You [6:16 PM]: i'd love to but i have no money

Jongseong [6:16 PM]: the envelope?

You [6:17 PM]: can't bring myself to spend it yet jay 🥲 i have lots of things i need to prioritize rather than some dinner

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: i understand

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: dinner's on me ☺️ i'll pick you up from the lab in a bit

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: just gonna grab my keys

Oh my god, this guy. You stared at your phone screen, your mouth slightly open, that familiar mixture of disbelief and reluctant warmth spreading through your chest. He'd just — announced it. Like it was obvious, like it was already decided, like your financial situation was a minor obstacle he could simply breeze past with the casual ease of someone who'd never had to think about the price of anything in his entire life. And the smiley face. The little ☺️ at the end of the message, so completely without guile, like he genuinely didn't see the big deal about paying for your dinner. You didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed, so you settled for a weird combination of both that manifested as you pressing your palm against your forehead and exhaling slowly.

You [6:17 PM]: wait wait ok but what are we even gonna do at the diner

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: eat?

You [6:17 PM]: yeah what else 🫠 no way you're just doing this without some explanation

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: i'm just being a nice boyfriend, no?

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: but yes lol i have something i want to talk to you about

Something he wanted to talk about. That was vaguely ominous, or maybe it wasn't, maybe it was exactly what he said it was, a conversation, a discussion, something practical and straightforward. But the phrase "something I want to talk to you about" had a certain weight to it, the way phrases that start with "we need to talk" or "can I tell you something" always carried more gravity than their individual words suggested.

You [6:17 PM]: can't we just… do this over the phone?

He didn't answer. You stood there for a minute, your phone held loosely in your hand, waiting for the three dots to appear, waiting for the typing indicator, waiting for anything. None. The screen stayed still, the conversation hanging on your last message like an unanswered question mark. So you just continued on with your business, packing the rest of your things, double-checking that nothing was still plugged into the electrical sockets, a habit you'd developed after nearly starting a small fire during your first week on the job, closing the lights off in some areas. Then your phone vibrated in your hand, a sharp little pulse against your palm.

Jongseong [6:23 PM]: look at the door

You did. And there he was.

The lab doors were those awkward ones, the ones with a rectangular window set into the middle of the door, like a porthole, the glass slightly frosted but not enough to obscure whoever was standing on the other side. And Jay was right there, visible through that window, his face backlit by the hallway's amber light. He was tapping on the glass with his knuckles, waving at you with his other hand, and wearing this boyish smile, this wide, slightly crooked, utterly disarming smile, that made him look about five years younger and infinitely less like the campus heartthrob and more like some eager puppy that had shown up at your door expecting a walk.

You let out an exhausted exhale, the one that came from deep in your lungs and carried with it every ounce of resistance you'd been trying to maintain. And you flipped him off, just raised your middle finger casually, without heat, the way you'd flip off a friend who was being annoying but not annoying enough to actually be mad at. He just smiled wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly unfazed, then reached for the door handle, pushed it open, and walked in.

"Still busy?" he asked, his voice easy, light, like he hadn't just driven across campus to show up unannounced at your workplace like some kind of determined golden retriever.

"No, I'm done with everything already. Just—checking up on some things." You said, gesturing vaguely around the lab, your tone carrying that tired-but-not-unfriendly edge that had become your default around him.

"I'll help you," he muttered, already moving past you into the lab, his eyes scanning the room with a quick efficiency that surprised you. "It's getting dark already. We should get going before some ghost clings onto my girlfriend."

The word "girlfriend" hit you like a small, unexpected electric shock, a quick jolt that started in your stomach and radiated outward, making your fingers tingle and your breath catch for just a fraction of a second. A knot twisted in your stomach, tight and warm and deeply confusing, the kind of physical reaction you had zero authority over and absolutely no interest in analyzing. It was the first time he'd said it out loud, at least to your face, in a context that wasn't part of some rehearsed pitch, just dropped it into conversation like it was natural. You didn't even have the time to argue with him, to protest, to say don't call me that, it's weird, because he'd already started venturing through the lab, checking the sinks, unplugging a device you'd missed, verifying that the gas valves were shut off, his movements quick and competent and entirely too helpful for someone who'd probably never set foot in a science lab before today. You had just watched him, watched the way he moved through the space with an easy confidence, the way his sleeves were pushed up to his forearms revealing the subtle curve of muscle and the glint of a watch that probably cost more than your entire semester's living expenses, the way he double-checked things without being asked, the way he just helped, simply and without fanfare. When he was finally done, he walked back over to you, reached out, and pulled you gently by your wrist — not grabbing, not yanking, just a warm, steady pressure around your wrist that guided you forward, his fingers fitting loosely around the bone like a bracelet. With his other hand, he scooped your shoulder bag off the table where it had been sitting, slinging it over his own shoulder without a word, and then he looked at you.

"Ready? Didn't leave anything?" he asked gently, and the softness in his voice. the genuine, unhurried concern in it, made something in your chest shift, a tiny tectonic movement, barely perceptible but undeniable.

You looked at the table, then around you at the dim lab, then at him — at his face, at the way the hallway light caught the slope of his nose and the dark of his eyes, at the way he was standing there with your bag on his shoulder. "Nope, didn't leave anything." You said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended.

A smile tugged at his lips, small, warm, barely there but unmistakable, before he walked you out of the lab, his hand dropping from your wrist but the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin like a fading warmth you couldn't quite shake.

The diner was incredibly cute, wait, cute wouldn't even be able to do it justice. It was charming in the way that places only existed in movies or in the carefully curated feeds of lifestyle influencers, the kind of spot that seemed almost aggressively aesthetic, like it had been designed in a boardroom by someone with a Pinterest board titled "i miss being a kid" and an unlimited budget. Red vinyl booths with chrome trim, black-and-white checkered floors, vintage neon signs spelling out words like "EATS" and "SHAKES" in glowing pink cursive along the walls, a jukebox in the corner that actually played real records, its arm moving mechanically from song to song while a warm, crackling version of some fifties doo-wop track drifted through the speakers. There were framed posters of old films, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Rebel Without a Cause, Grease, and the air smelled like frying batter, vanilla, and that particular, indescribable scent of a place that took its desserts seriously. It looked exactly like how those influencers would post about, all warm lighting and curated messiness, exactly like how the social media pages would market it, except somehow better.

He chose to sit beside you. Which was — okay, crazy, genuinely unhinged behavior, because you guys were seated at a dining booth. The classic kind, the one with two seats facing each other, a table in the middle, the configuration designed so that two people could sit across from each other and have a face-to-face conversation like normal human beings. But no. Jay wanted to sit beside you. On the same side of the booth. Like an actual couple. Like people who wanted to share the same view, the same space, the same pocket of air. You didn't argue, you couldn't, actually, because by the time your brain had processed the audacity of his choice, he'd already slid into the seat next to yours, settling in with an easy sigh and draping one arm along the back of the booth behind you, not quite touching your shoulders but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his arm like a space heater you hadn't asked for. The proximity was ridiculous. Your knees were inches from his. You could smell his cologne, something clean and faintly expensive, the kind of scent that probably had a French name and a price tag with too many zeros. You stared straight ahead at the empty seat across from you, hyperaware of every inch of space between your body and his, which wasn't very many inches at all.

He had told you, repeatedly on the drive over, in between navigating the streets and fiddling with the radio and making small talk about the weird billboard they'd passed, that he'd be the one paying, so don't hesitate to order anything you wanted to eat. He'd said it casually, like he was reminding you about the weather, like dropping forty or fifty or a hundred dollars on dinner was the equivalent of swiping a metro card. But that was hard on its own, wasn't it? You were used to the idea that whenever someone chipped in some of their money to buy you stuff, a meal, a drink, a ticket, you'd purposely pick one of the cheapest options so it wouldn't break a hole in their wallet. It was instinct, deeply ingrained, the kind of reflex you'd developed over years of being the person who couldn't afford to be treated and didn't want to be a burden. You'd scan the menu from the bottom up, looking for the lowest number, and you'd convince yourself that the cheapest thing was the thing you wanted anyway. But Jay wasn't having it. He insisted you get something that you actually wanted to try and eat, anything, desserts and drinks too, and he clearly wasn't in the mood to tolerate your bullshit.

"Jay, wait, I'm deadass. This one is pretty okay for me already—" You pointed at one of the cheaper items on the menu, a simple chicken sandwich that was reasonably priced and wouldn't make you feel like you were eating someone's weekly grocery budget.

"Pretty okay? Not the one that's 'I'd love this?' Come on, don't worry about the money please, don't worry about my money, just pick something you want to eat—" His voice was earnest, almost pleading, and he leaned slightly closer, his shoulder brushing yours, the contact light and brief but enough to make your breath hiccup.

"That is okay!"

"Okay doesn't necessarily mean that's what you want!" He shot back, and there was a frustrated edge to his tone — not anger, not even close, but something softer, something that sounded like he genuinely cared about whether you were settling for something instead of choosing something, as if the distinction between okay and I want this mattered to him more than the money it cost.

You both had spent about five minutes going back and forth over the menu, a delicate, ridiculous tug-of-war that probably looked insane from the outside. The waiter sitting by the table even seemed amused, their pen hovering over their notepad, watching the two of you bicker like an old married couple over whether you were allowed to order the thing you actually wanted. You eventually just gave up, the exhaustion of arguing with someone who had infinite money and infinite stubbornness was too much for your tired, post-shift brain, and settled for this incredibly gigantic cheeseburger with wedges on the side and a vanilla milkshake because Jay had insisted, pointing at it on the menu and telling the waiter before you could protest one last time. You couldn't even catch wind of what he'd ordered for himself, he'd rattled it off so quickly and smoothly that by the time you registered he'd stopped talking, the waiter was already walking away with a knowing smile.

When all you guys had to do was wait for your order, you leaned back in the booth, as much as the vinyl seat would allow, which wasn't much, not when Jay's arm was still draped along the back of it behind you, and started to speak.

"So, what thing did you want to talk to me about?" You said, turning your head toward him, and the motion brought your face closer to his than you'd anticipated, close enough that you could see the faint freckle below his left eye, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you were the kind of person who counted things like that, which you absolutely were not.

"Oh my god, right. So, I kind of—I wanted to talk about the boundaries we should establish for this whole fake relationship thing." He said, and his tone shifted, still casual, still easy, but there was a note of seriousness underneath it.

Boundaries? For this fake relationship? You thought it was pretty self-explanatory already — the basic don't-fall-in-love type shit, the obvious don't-catch-feelings clause that went without saying, the unspoken agreement that this was a transaction and not a romance. But he wanted more depth, more clarity, more than the envelope and the unspoken assumptions that had carried you through the first week.

You both then spent a long time talking about the do's and don'ts. Even after your food had arrived, the cheeseburger towering on the plate like a small architectural marvel, the wedges golden and steaming, the milkshake thick and cold in its metal cup with the extra in the mixing tin beside it, both of you were still at it, the conversation flowing around bites and sips and the occasional pause to chew.

"No weird couple shit." You insisted, pointing a wedge at him for emphasis, a golden spear of potato that served as your gavel.

"What do you mean no weird couple shit? It has to be convincing!" He argued, leaning forward, his eyebrows raised in that way that said he thought you were being ridiculous, and the motion brought his shoulder pressing lightly against yours again, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of your jacket.

"Yeah—but there are certain things we can do to make it convincing that doesn't involve doing weird stuff!" You shot back, and you could hear how unconvincing your own argument sounded, the vagueness of "weird stuff" hanging in the air between you like a question mark.

He raised his brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in that particular way that meant he was about to challenge you and he was already enjoying it. "Define weird for me then."

You did. No matching anything, no matching outfits, no matching phone cases, no matching profile pictures like those couples who treated their social media accounts as a joint enterprise. No pet names — absolutely no "babe" or "baby" or "honey" or any of those saccharine, tooth-rotting terms of endearment that real couples used like breathing. No holding hands unnecessarily, no leaning into each other for photos, no excessive physical contact beyond what was strictly required to sell the illusion. The works. You laid it all out like a lawyer presenting terms, and that only earned you another argument from Jay, who countered every single point with the kind of rhetorical precision that made you suspect he'd been on the debate team in high school. No matching? Then how would people know we're together? No pet names? What do you want me to call you in public, "my esteemed colleague"? No hand-holding? Then what do we do when someone's watching, stand six feet apart like we're at a COVID checkpoint?

You must admit, arguing with Jay was funny. Not frustrating-funny, not the kind of funny that makes you want to throw something. Actually, genuinely funny, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt from trying not to smile. He simply wouldn't back down on his argument, even if you'd already found five different loopholes in his logic, he'd manage to find another loophole to swing past through, pivoting and redirecting with the nimbleness of someone who was used to getting his way but was having too much fun trying to get it to just give up. His eyes would light up when he thought he'd cornered you, and then they'd narrow playfully when you'd slip out of his trap, and the whole thing felt less like a negotiation and more like a game, a game where nobody was keeping score and the point wasn't winning but just the pleasure of playing. You don't even remember where the debate had ended, it just started with you taking a potato wedge, he took a bite from his eggs and bacon, and eventually you both just started eating, the arguments dissolving into the rhythm of the meal, forks and voices rising and falling in alternating turns until the conversation had drifted so far from its original shore that you couldn't even see the starting point anymore. It strayed off somewhere, from favorite childhood memories (his involved a summer in his grandparents' countryside home, catching dragonflies by the creek; yours involved the single year your town had a carnival and you'd won a goldfish that lived for three miraculous days) to a professor Jay absolutely despised (a man whose grading system seemed to operate on spite and a coin flip) to a weird urban legend that had been circulating in the university since its foundation (something about a ghost in the old humanities building who only appeared during finals week, which, honestly, made sense because who wouldn't be haunted by the ghost of failed exams). And through all of it, you were aware, vaguely, persistently, like a low hum in the background, of how close he was. The heat of his arm behind you. The way his knee would occasionally brush against yours under the table and neither of you moved away. The way he'd turn toward you when he laughed and his shoulder would press into yours and it felt like something you didn't have a name for, something you weren't supposed to be cataloguing.

You thought you were done. Both of you were done, your plates were empty, the milkshake was nothing but residue and melting ice, the conversation had reached that natural lull that signaled it was time to go, time to head back to the dorms, time to put this strange, unexpectedly pleasant evening to bed. You were reaching for your bag when an unusually large banana split arrived at the table, a towering monument of ice cream and fruit and whipped cream and chocolate sauce, served in one of those long, boat-shaped glass dishes that seemed designed to be shared. It came with two spoons, placed neatly on either side, a quiet invitation. Jay took one spoon for himself, offered the other one to you, handle-first, and told you to eat.

You opened your mouth to talk more, to say you were full, to say you couldn't possibly, to deploy any of the dozen polite refusals you kept on standby for moments like this. He said he couldn't finish it alone, which was probably true, the thing was obscene, a three-scoop sundae with enough toppings to feed a small party, and you argued you were full, which was also true, your stomach was at capacity and your cheeseburger was sitting like a contented stone in your abdomen. And he just — shut you up. Reached over, took the spoon right out of your hand, your fingers stuttering on the cold metal as he plucked it away, took a scoop of the vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles, and shoved it in your mouth. Just like that. No warning, no ceremony, just the cold press of metal against your lips and then the sweetness flooding your tongue, vanilla and chocolate and the crunch of sprinkles, so sudden and so unexpected that you made a small sound of surprise, something between a yelp and a laugh, and your eyes went wide and Jay was grinning at you, grinning like he'd just won a prize, grinning like this was the most fun he'd had all week, and you couldn't be mad, you couldn't even pretend to be mad, because the ice cream was good and his smile was ridiculous and somehow, impossibly, this was your life now.

You both bickered even more after that, but this time, laughing and giggling, the kind of laughing that's hard to do with a mouth full of ice cream, the kind that makes you snort and almost choke and reach for a napkin while the other person just laughs harder at your suffering. The banana split was a mess within minutes, the neat architecture of scoops and toppings collapsing into a delicious, chaotic swirl as you both dug in from opposite ends, occasionally fighting over the same cherry, occasionally stealing the best bite from the other's side of the dish with zero remorse. The head chef, all the way from the kitchen, poked his head through the service window and was smiling at you both, this warm, knowing smile, the kind that said he'd seen a thousand couples share a banana split and knew exactly what he was looking at, even if you didn't.

Yet.

By the sixth week, that's when things got absolutely insane.

For the third week, you'd walk with Jay from one class to the other, not deliberately, not in some rehearsed couple-y way, just naturally, the way two people do when their schedules happen to overlap and the route to the next building is the same. Except it wasn't just the same route, because you'd find yourself slightly altering your path to match his, and he'd slow his pace without mentioning it, and somewhere between the science building and the humanities wing, your strides had synchronized without either of you acknowledging it. Totally not disappearing from your friends and the next time they'd see you was with Jay, walking beside him, your shoulder almost level with his, laughing at something he'd said about the professor's tie, while your friends stared from across the courtyard like you'd grown a second head.

Of course, some people caught wind of it and you'd heard some allegations being thrown at the both of you, whispers in the hallways, the kind that traveled fast and loose through a campus where everyone's business was everyone's entertainment. But since walking with someone from the opposite gender is completely normal, a lot of people brushed it off as the two of you being friends. Study buddies. Classmates who happened to share the same route. Nothing to write home about.

For the fourth week, a group of guys from the basketball team saw you and Jay studying together in the library. Of course, Jay wanted to get to know you more — more to the point he'd at least have something to say about you if someone asked, something beyond "she's in my class" or "we share a course," something that sounded like what a real boyfriend would know. Your favorite coffee order. The class you hated most. The way you tapped your pen against your notebook when you were thinking. He'd ask questions casually, sprinkled between textbook chapters, and you'd answer just as casually, and somewhere in the middle of explaining why you couldn't stand the smell of peppermint, you'd realize you'd been talking for an hour and neither of you had turned a page. You let him in, gradually, and he let you in too, small facts at first, then bigger ones, the kind of disclosures that built a portrait of a person stroke by stroke. Occasionally, he'd drag you back into the secluded study spaces if you mentioned, in passing, that the library was too noisy, "come on, I know a spot," he'd say, and you'd follow him down the familiar hallway to the same cash-only rooms where this whole thing started, except now the door stayed unlocked, the envelope nowhere in sight, and it just felt like two people who wanted to hear each other without the static of the world layered on top. The basketball guys obviously didn't care — one of them nodded at Jay on the way out, that was the extent of it. But the people at the tables nearby did, their heads turning as you disappeared behind a closed door. Both of you didn't really care.

For the fifth week, a professor that absolutely adored you both for being incredibly attentive in her class, she'd called you two her "favorite students" more than once, half-joking and half-completely serious, passed by the both of you when she was going to another professor's office to leave something, and both of you were heading back to the main space. As always, Jay picked you up from the lab, he was carrying your bag slung over one shoulder and a couple binders you'd also brought to the lab because you didn't have the time to run back to the dorms and leave them since your class from before had ended a little bit later. So you'd shown up to the lab with your bag, your binders, and your slightly breathless "I'm here, sorry," and Jay had shown up at 6:15 like clockwork and taken all of it from you without asking, the bag and the binders tucked against him like they weighed nothing, leaving you empty-handed and oddly weightless as you walked beside him through the corridor.

She saw you both, both of you saw her, both of you joyfully greeted her, a warm, simultaneous "hi, Professor!" that came out so in unison it was almost comedic, and she greeted you both back, her eyes flicking from you to Jay to your bag on his shoulder to the easy, close way you were walking, and she plastered a knowing smile on her lips, deliberate and impossibly smug, and said "both of you look good together" then walked off, her heels clicking down the hallway like a punctuation mark.

You laughed afterwards, short and bright and slightly too quick, because what else could you do? The knot in your stomach had pulled tighter and you didn't know what to do with that either.

By the sixth week, you were just eating lunch with your friends at the cafeteria. Yes, the public cafeteria filled with a bunch of people from different courses and different years, all mushed into one sprawling, echoing space — the kind of scene that felt like it belonged in a movie's wide shot, hundreds of bodies and trays and conversations layered into a wall of ambient noise. It wasn't cramped, it was huge even, but it was awkward with the amount of people present in the room, every table occupied, every seat filled, the kind of crowded that made you feel visible whether you wanted to be or not.

You were eating with your friends, mid-bite into your rice, explaining to them for the ninth time the step-by-step procedure for this one assignment, "no, you add the reagent after, not before, I swear I've said this eight times already,” when a hand just lightly tapped your shoulder. Just a tap, brief and warm, the kind of touch that was gentle enough to be a question rather than a demand.

You looked back, and oh my god, it was Jay. He was standing behind you with a bouquet of flowers, your favorite flowers rather — yellow and white lilies, the ones you'd mentioned once, just once, in passing, during one of those library study sessions weeks ago, a throwaway line about how your grandmother used to grow them in her garden and you'd always thought they were the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. And he'd actually remembered, because here they were — yellow and white lilies, absolutely gorgeous, wrapped in craft paper and tied with a simple twine bow, the petals soft and slightly open. The whole function stopped what they were doing. You heard a fork drop in the distance, the clatter of metal on tile sharp and cartoonish. You heard a camera click from somewhere to your left. You heard the hushed murmurs of those nearby, a wave of whispers rippling outward from your table like the surface of a pond after a stone.

"What the hell is this?" you asked, but your voice came out steadier than your heart, which was doing backflips, literal backflips, acrobatics you didn't know it was capable of. This was the first time you'd ever received a bouquet of flowers from anyone, not from your ex, not from a friend, not from no one, let alone from the campus heartthrob himself, standing behind you in a crowded cafeteria on a regular weekday like this was something people just did.

"Who else would it be for aside from my absolutely lovely and gorgeous girlfriend?" he said, smiling, not smirking, not performing, just smiling, warm and bright and so unreasonably genuine that it made something behind your ribs stutter.

Fuck, even about a month later and the word "girlfriend" still made a knot in your stomach tighten, still sent that same small electric pulse through your system, still made you feel like the ground had shifted a fraction of an inch under your feet. He said it loud enough for everybody to hear it, loud enough for the tables nearby, for the camera that had clicked, for every pair of ears in this room that had been waiting for confirmation of whatever rumor they'd been spinning for weeks.

You accepted the bouquet, your fingers closing around the craft paper, the stems cool and slightly damp against your palm, and said thank you, and your voice was softer than you meant it to be, softer than the moment called for, because the lilies smelled like your grandmother's garden and you weren't prepared for that particular wave of nostalgia to crash into you in the middle of the cafeteria. He crouched down to meet you at eye-level, his face close to yours, close enough that you could see the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, and he whispered something to you, "you're doing great, by the way,” so quiet that only you could hear it, his breath warm against your ear, and then he pressed a feather-light kiss to your cheek. Just a brush, just a ghost of contact, his lips landing somewhere below your cheekbone and above your jaw, barely a second of touch, but it burned, a warm bloom spreading from the point of contact across your face, down your neck, and into your chest like a drop of red food coloring in a glass of water. You could feel yourself getting red, could feel the heat climbing your skin. After the whole ordeal, he just simply walked away — straightened up, gave you one last look, that same easy smile, and walked back toward the exit like he hadn't just detonated a small bomb in the middle of the lunch rush. You turned back to your friends like it was nothing, setting the bouquet down beside you on the bench, the lilies resting against your thigh.

Your friends were in absolute disbelief.

"Girl, what the fuck?! You have to fill us in! How did you pull the Park Jongseong?!" a friend asked, leaning across the table, her eyes wide, her voice climbing into a register that was part shriek and part interrogation.

"Even better, how did he pull you," another squealed in excitement, grabbing your arm, bouncing in her seat, the kind of giddy that was infectious even when you were trying very hard to be stoic.

None of them knew you were getting paid to do this though.

That same evening, in your dorm, the lights off except for the small lamp on your desk, you snapped a photo of the flowers, you'd found a cup large enough to hold them, filled it with water from the hallway fountain, and set them on your desk like a tiny, temporary garden. The photo came out warm, the lamplight catching the curve of the white petals, the yellow centers glowing like small suns. You sent it to Jay.

You [10:04 PM]: one image attached

You [10:04 PM]: thank you so much for the flowers wtf 🥹 i've never received a bouquet from anyone before

You [10:04 PM]: lilies are my absolute favorite oh my goodness

He replied almost instantly — the read receipt and the response arriving so close together it was like he'd been waiting.

Jongseong [10:04 PM]: you're always welcome ☺️

Jongseong [10:04 PM]: no thank you for the kiss?

Right, the kiss. The feather-light, cheek-grazing, face-reddening, cafeteria-witnessed kiss. The most physical you'd both agreed to was holding hands, or at least around that point, the boundary lines drawn during that diner conversation, the ones you'd insisted on, the ones he'd argued about, the ones you'd both silently been adjusting week by week without ever formally revising the contract. The kiss was uncalled for. The kiss was not part of the agreement.

You [10:04 PM]: dude hell no, we did not agree to that point 😹

Three dots. Appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was typing and deleting and typing and deleting, wrestling with the response like it was a decision that mattered.

Jongseong [10:05 PM]: mmmm

Jongseong [10:05 PM]: sure, but it did make us look convincing, right?

It definitely did. The whispers after he left, the stares, the camera click — convincing didn't even begin to cover it. The whole cafeteria had swallowed it whole, no questions asked.

Damn you, Park Jongseong.

The cafeteria occurrence didn't need a whole day for the entire university to figure it out.

By that evening, it was everywhere, the campus confessions page, the group chats, the study group threads, the comment sections of Jay's Instagram posts from three months ago that had nothing to do with you but suddenly had people tagging your handle underneath them. Literally everybody figured it out, and a lot of people were enthusiastic about the whole thing, the kind of enthusiastic that manifested as heart emojis in your DMs, strangers smiling at you in the hallway, and your lab students suddenly treating you with a reverence that had nothing to do with your teaching ability and everything to do with who you were allegedly sleeping with.

But of course, there were some who were incredibly salty about it. A few bad words directed to you here and there, muttered under breaths as you passed, the kind of venom that was just quiet enough to be deniable if you confronted it. Salty social media notes that were so painfully directed to you that it was almost comedic, the kind of anonymous posts that said things like "some people will do anything for attention" and "weird how the most popular guy on campus suddenly has a girlfriend nobody's ever heard of,” vague enough to maintain plausible deniability, specific enough that you could feel the crosshairs on your back. The whole package. But you couldn't care less. Imagine going crazy over a man who's "taken" but he's technically single? The irony wasn't lost on you. You were being paid to hold his hand, and people were tearing themselves apart over it. The absurdity of it was almost enough to make you laugh out loud in the middle of the hallway, but you didn't, because you had a reputation to maintain — however fabricated it was.

The word spread like wildfire, until it eventually reached Jay's parents. Yeah, he told you that personally, called you on a Wednesday night, his voice tense but not panicked, more like someone bracing for impact rather than already in the crash. Jay's parents were powerful people, powerful as in they had every single kind of connection to the school — administrators, board members, donors whose names were etched into the marble plaques on the walls of the newest buildings. The kind of people who could make a phone call and change a curriculum, who could lean on a dean's decision with nothing more than a raised eyebrow at a dinner function.

His mom had heard through the wife of a trustee, who'd heard through her daughter, who'd heard through the campus grapevine, which meant the news had traveled from students to parents in less than forty-eight hours. Jay had told them it was true, that he was seeing someone, that it was you, that it was serious. And they'd wanted to meet you. He'd managed to delay it somehow, told you not to worry about it yet, that he'd figure out the timing. You'd nodded, said okay, and pushed it to the back of your mind where it sat like a box you didn't want to open.

Those seconds turned into minutes, then minutes into days, then days to weeks, then weeks into months.

Then somewhere in the blur of all that time, somewhere between the walking, the studying, the cafeteria lunches, the quiet drives, and the late-night texts, you fell in love with him. Shit, you didn't even notice it happening. That was the thing. It wasn't a moment, wasn't a lightning strike, wasn't a cinematic realization set to swelling strings. It was slow, quiet, and insidious, the way morning light creeps across a room until you suddenly realize you can see everything clearly. It happened in the margins. In the spaces between the fake and the real, in the moments that weren't part of the performance, in the details that no contract could account for. By the time you recognized it for what it was, by the time you could put a name to the warmth that had taken up permanent residence in your chest, it was already too late, and you'd been living with it for so long that it felt less like a revelation and more like an admission of something you'd always known.

It was in the polaroid. The one in Jay's car. You'd noticed it one evening when he was driving you back from the diner, the second time you'd gone, or maybe the third, the visits had started blurring together into a single, warm continuum. The car had stopped at a red light, and you'd glanced at the dashboard, and there it was, tucked into the corner of the visor, held in place by the clip, a small polaroid photo of the two of you. You and Jay. In the photo, you were laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled, mid-sentence or mid-laugh, caught in that unguarded space between expressions where you looked the most like yourself. And Jay was looking at you. Not at the camera, not smiling for the lens — looking at you, his head slightly tilted, a soft, almost wondering expression on his face, the kind of look that made your breath catch even through the distortion of polaroid film and faded light. When the hell did he even take this? No, when has someone taken this? You didn't remember a camera, didn't remember posing, didn't remember anything except the warmth of whatever moment it had captured.

"Is that us?" you'd asked, reaching for it.

Jay's hand had come up quickly, not roughly, but quickly, and gently guided your hand away, his fingers wrapping loosely around your wrist for just a second. "Don't touch, the lighting's perfect right there."

"You have a photo of us in your car," you said, and you were teasing but your voice came out strange, softer than you intended, with a wobble you couldn't quite control.

"Of course I do. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't?" He'd said it lightly, easily, his eyes on the road, eventually the light turned green, and he drove off, the polaroid stayed where it was, and you spent the rest of the ride staring at it from the corner of your eye, this small, square proof that somewhere along the way, a moment between you had been important enough to preserve.

It was in the condominium. The first time Jay had suggested you study at his place instead of the library, you'd hesitated. His place, as in the off-campus condominium his parents had bought for him, the one you'd heard about in passing from people who talked about Jay's lifestyle the way people talked about celebrity real estate. But the dorms were unbearable that week — to your right, the person in the next room wouldn't stop watching anime at full volume, the theme songs bleeding through the wall in an endless, tinny loop of Japanese pop that drilled into your skull every time you tried to focus on a paragraph. To your left, someone was constantly jamming — guitar riffs, the same four chords over and over, the kind of repetitive, enthusiastic mediocrity that made you want to open your window and throw your textbook into the quad. You'd mentioned it to Jay offhandedly, just venting, the way you'd mention bad weather, "I can't focus, my neighbors are insane,” and he'd said, simply, "Come to mine. It's quiet." You'd said no, that's too much, and he'd said, "It's literally just a place to study, Y/N, I'm not inviting you to a masquerade ball," you'd laughed despite yourself, and an hour later you were standing in the lobby of his condominium complex, looking around like you'd walked into the wrong building.

Because it looked and felt exactly like a hotel. The lobby had high ceilings and polished marble floors and a front desk with someone who actually greeted you by name. The elevator had more buttons than your dorm had floors, and the hallway to his unit was lined with expensive wood paneling and soft ambient lighting and the kind of silence that felt like a luxury. His unit itself was definitely something. It was everything you weren't used to. Hardwood floors that gleamed. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city skyline. A kitchen with marble countertops and appliances that looked like they'd never been touched. Bookshelves made of dark, rich wood, actual wood, the kind that smelled like forests and money, stocked with novels, vinyl records, and a small collection of framed photos you didn't let yourself look at too closely. It was warm though, not sterile, not showroom-perfect, but lived-in in a way that surprised you. A throw blanket draped over the couch. A mug left on the counter from that morning's coffee. Sheet music scattered across the dining table, handwritten, his handwriting, notes and chords in pencil and pen. It smelled exactly like him, that same woody, clean cologne from the diner, but also coffee, detergent, and something underneath that was just so him, a scent you'd started associating with safety without realizing when.

You studied at his dining table. He studied on the couch. For the first hour, you worked in comfortable silence, the only sound was the scratch of your pen and the soft turn of his pages. Then he'd get up to refill his water, pause by your chair, lean down to read over your shoulder, and make some comment about your handwriting, "is that an 'a' or a tiny drawing of a fish?" and you'd swat at him and he'd dodge, grinning, and retreat back to the couch. This became the routine. You'd show up with your bag and your binders, he'd already have a drink waiting for you on the table, iced tea, the way you liked it, no sugar, extra ice, a detail he'd clocked without being told, and you'd study, and you'd bicker, and sometimes you'd order food and eat cross-legged on his living room floor with the TV on low, and sometimes he'd play something on his guitar. You'd listen from the table with your chin in your hand, your pen still, and your heart doing that thing it did whenever music came out of his hands, like the sound was traveling directly from the strings to your chest without bothering to go through your ears first.

It was in the jacket. During Jay's shows with his band, the university events, the seasonal showcases, the occasional gig at a bar off-campus that served overpriced drinks and undercooked nachos, you started showing up. Not every time, not at first, but enough that the people in the crowd began to recognize you as that girl, the one standing near the side of the stage with her hands in her pockets, watching the lead guitarist with an expression she couldn't quite control. And you wore his jacket. It started because the venue was cold, that was the practical reason, the one you told yourself, the bar had aggressive air conditioning and you'd worn a thin shirt and Jay had shrugged off his jacket without asking and draped it over your shoulders mid-conversation, the leather still warm from his body, the lining soft against the back of your neck. But then you kept wearing it. To every show. It was oversized on you, the sleeves falling past your wrists, the collar swallowing your shoulders, and it smelled like him. When you wrapped yourself in it, standing in the crowd with the bass vibrating through your ribs and the stage lights washing everything in amber and blue, you felt like you were wearing an embrace. Every single time he'd find you in the crowd mid-song, his eyes scanning the faces until they landed on yours, and he'd smile. Not the performance smile, not the heartthrob smile, not the smile he used for the audience. A different one, just for you.

It was in the food. Jay showing up to your dorm with takeout bags in his hands became so regular that your roommate stopped asking questions and started just setting an extra place at the desk. He'd knock, two quick taps, your rhythm, and you'd open the door, and he'd hold up the bag like a trophy and say something like "you skipped lunch again, didn't you" or "don't argue, I already bought it" or, once, memorably, "I got the spicy one because you lied last time about being able to handle mild." He'd sit on your bed, your narrow, creaky dorm bed that was approximately one-third the size of his king at the condo, and you'd sit cross-legged across from him, and you'd eat and talk and laugh. He'd tell you about band practice or something his mom texted or a song he was trying to learn, and you'd tell him about your shift or a grade you were stressed about or the weird noise the pipes in the hallway were making at 2 AM, then the food would get cold because you'd forget to eat while you were talking, and then he'd notice and say "eat your food" and you'd say "you eat your food" and he'd pick up a piece of whatever and hold it in front of your mouth until you took it, you'd both laugh, then the knot in your stomach would tighten, and you'd think: this isn't fake. This can't be fake. Nothing about this feels fake.

And it was in the words. Those two damn words. Whenever you were in public, walking across campus, leaving a building, saying goodbye at the car, parting ways at the cafeteria, Jay would look at you with that easy, warm expression and say, "Love you." Not "I love you." Just "love you." Two words, dropped casually, breezily, like they weighed nothing. But there was never an "I." Never the subject, never the declaration, never the full sentence that would turn it from a fragment into a statement. Just "love you,” light, effortless, and always accompanied by a smile or a wave or the brush of his hand against yours, and every time he said it, you felt the words land somewhere deep in your chest and settle there — warm, confusing, and impossible to parse. You told yourself it was part of the act. Convincing. Consistent. A boyfriend thing to say. But the absence of the "I" nagged at you, not because you needed it, but because its absence felt deliberate, like he was holding something back. "Love you" was a door he could walk through and close behind him and "I love you" was a door that didn't have a handle on the other side. You didn't ask about it. You were afraid of the answer. You were more afraid that there was no answer at all, that it was just habit, just performance, just two words that meant exactly as much as the envelope of cash they were attached to.

Months. Eleven months. You'd been fake-dating Jay for almost a year, and somewhere along the way, the fake had started flaking off like old paint, and what was underneath was something you didn't have the courage to name, something that felt too big for the arrangement you'd made, something that made you lie awake at night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars your roommate had stuck on the ceiling freshman year and thinking fuck, fuck, fuck in a quiet, desperate loop. Because you knew that this had an expiration date, that one day Jay would sit you down and say it's over, he was free, his parents had backed off, and both of you could go back to the way things were. Two people who happened to share a classroom and nothing else. And you'd say yes, of course, sure, sounds good, and you'd smile.

You'd take whatever was left of the envelope money and you'd go back to your life and he'd go back to his. The polaroid would stay in his car, the jacket would go back in his closet, the lilies would wilt on your desk, the word "girlfriend" would stop making your stomach twist, and you'd be fine. You'd be fine. You'd absolutely, definitely, completely be fine.

You were at the convenience store near campus — the one that stayed open past midnight, sold rice balls and instant ramen, and the kind of cheap coffee that tasted a lot like regret but kept you awake during exam week. It was a Thursday, or maybe a Friday, the days had started running together, your brain fuzzy from a long shift at the lab and a longer afternoon of studying and the kind of bone-deep tiredness that made the lights of the store feel both too bright and strangely soothing. You were standing in the snack aisle, holding two different brands of shrimp chips and trying to decide which one was less of a mistake, when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out. The screen glowed.

Jongseong [11:47 PM]: come home with me next weekend

Jongseong [11:47 PM]: i'll introduce you to my parents :)

You stared at the screen. The shrimp chips hung limp in your other hand. The words on your phone sat there, stark and undeniable, and the knot in your stomach, the one that had been tightening for eleven months, the one you'd been pretending wasn't there, the one that felt exactly like love, pulled so tight you thought it might snap.

Jongseong [11:47 PM]: sound good?

You didn't type back. Not yet.

Shit, you were so, so damn screwed.

The drive was forty-five minutes of your heart attempting to exit your body through your throat. Jay's car hummed along the highway, city lights smearing past the windows, and you sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded in your lap and your pulse visible in your wrists.

You'd spent the entire morning getting ready, not for them, you told yourself, for you, because if you were going to walk into the Park family estate, you were going to walk in looking the part. Black kitten heels that clicked when you walked. A black satin maxi skirt that moved like water around your ankles. A white turtleneck top, it was baggy, the sleeves wide and draped, ending just below the elbow, the kind of silhouette that managed to look effortless and intentional at the same time. Gold jewelry, because your grandmother always said gold warmed the skin and you believed her. A gold bangle on your right wrist that caught the light every time you moved. Your favorite necklace, a gold chain with a heart locket, and inside that locket, a photograph of your grandmother, the one who'd gifted it to you when you were fourteen, her smile small, proud, and permanent behind the glass, and beside her photo, an empty space where a second picture could go, a blank rectangle of possibility you'd never filled. Gold teardrop earrings that swayed when you turned your head. Your hair was done out, wavy at the ends, falling over your shoulders the way you'd spent forty minutes and two YouTube tutorials perfecting.

When Jay had arrived at your dorm to pick you up, he'd knocked his usual two taps, and you'd opened the door, and he'd — stopped. His hand was still raised from the knock, his mouth slightly open, his eyes traveling from your hair to your earrings to the locket resting against your collarbone to the drape of the top to the sweep of the skirt to the kitten heels, and then back up again, slowly, the way someone reads a letter they weren't expecting. He didn't say anything. He just looked at you, and the silence stretched, and it wasn't the comfortable kind, it was the kind that had weight, the kind that pressed against your skin and made you acutely, almost painfully aware of every inch of yourself.

"Jay?" you said. "Do I have something on my face? Is my foundation cakey? Did I smudge my—" You touched your cheek, your hand moving instinctively, your confidence deflating by the second under the intensity of his stare.

He blinked. Then he swallowed. Then he said, quietly, almost to himself, "You look—" and stopped again, the word lodged somewhere in his throat, and he exhaled a small breath and ran his hand through his hair and tried again, his voice steadier but still carrying that undercurrent of something stunned and unguarded: "You look really beautiful, Y/N."

The knot in your stomach, yup, the same damn one you'd been ignoring for months, pulled tight enough to hurt.

Now you were here, walking through the front door of the Park family home, and the word home didn't even begin to cover it. The foyer was the size of your entire dorm floor. Dark hardwood, polished to a mirror shine. A double staircase curving upward. A chandelier that probably cost more than your parents' house. Fresh flowers on a console table, lilies, white ones, and you tried not to read into it but your hand drifted to your locket anyway. The house smelled like gardenias, furniture polish, and the kind of quiet that only enormous, expensive spaces could produce.

Dinner was served in a dining room that could have seated twenty and was currently set for four. Candles. Crystal glasses. Plates that probably had a heritage. You sat across from Mrs. Park and beside Jay, and the food was extraordinary and your appetite was nonexistent, but you ate, because that was what you did — you ate what was in front of you and you were grateful for it, because once upon a time there hadn't always been something on the plate.

"So, Y/N," Mr. Park began, his voice deep and measured, carrying the practiced warmth of a man who was accustomed to making people feel comfortable before he decided whether they deserved to stay that way. "Jongseong tells us you're on a full scholarship. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir! It took a lot of work, but I'm grateful every day for the opportunity." You kept your voice steady, your posture straighter than it had ever been, your hands folded in your lap under the table where they wouldn't give you away.

"And what are you studying?"

You told him. He nodded. The conversation moved through the expected checkpoints, your coursework, your lab work, your plans after graduation, and you answered each question cleanly, precisely, the way you answered exam prompts, and Jay beside you was a quiet, steady presence, his hand occasionally brushing your knee under the table in a gesture that was either reassurance or reflex or both.

"She's the top of her class, actually," Jay said, and there was pride in his voice, real pride, not performance, the kind that couldn't be faked, or at least the kind that you chose to believe couldn't be. "She works as a lab instructor on top of her full course load. She's—she's really remarkable."

Mrs. Park smiled. It was a beautiful smile, technically. All the right muscles, all the right timing. But it didn't reach her eyes, which remained cool and assessing, two dark stones set in an otherwise immaculate face. "How lovely," she said. "You must be very dedicated."

"I try to be," you said.

"And your family—where are they based?" Mrs. Park asked, and the question landed softly, the way sharp things do when they're wrapped in silk.

You told her. The small town. The modest background. The distance. You didn't apologize for it, you wouldn't, but you felt the temperature of the room shift, felt it the way you feel a window crack open in winter: a thin, precise draft that changes everything without disturbing a single thing.

"How quaint," Mrs. Park said, and lifted her wine glass to her lips.

The rest of dinner passed in a rhythm that felt like walking across a frozen lake, each step measured, each sound checked for the groan of something giving way beneath you. Mr. Park asked about your interests, your hobbies, your opinions on a recent news story, and you answered, and he nodded. He seemed pleased, genuinely, which was more than you could say for the woman sitting across from you, whose silence had developed its own vocabulary. Every time you spoke, her gaze would drift, just slightly, to the locket at your collarbone, or the modest cut of your top, or the way you held your fork, cataloguing, calculating, placing each observation into a mental file labeled Not Enough.

After dinner, Mr. Park retreated to his study with a cordial "it was wonderful to meet you, Y/N," and Jay went to use the restroom, and Mrs. Park excused herself with a gracious smile and a hand on your shoulder that lingered one beat too long, and you were left standing in the hallway with the echo of crystal and the ghost of gardenias, unsure of what to do with your hands or your body or the evening that still stretched ahead of you.

So you wandered. Not with intention, just with the aimless, curious impulse of someone who'd never been in a house this size and couldn't quite fathom its dimensions. You found the kitchen. Or rather, the kitchen found you, you turned a corner and there it was, vast, gleaming, and staffed by two women in uniform who were clearing the dinner dishes with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.

"Can I help?" you asked, and they looked at you the way you'd been looked at all evening, with surprise, though this time it was a different kind.

"Oh, no, miss, we've got it," the older one said, her hands already moving, stacking plates.

"Please, I insist. I'm not a guest who sits around," you said, and you were already reaching for a dish towel, and something in your voice or your hands or the way you said guest, like it was a costume you were wearing rather than a role you inhabited, made them pause, and then relent, and then smile, and before long you were standing beside them at the counter, wiping down plates and making small talk about the weather, the commute, and how long they'd worked here. It was easy, the easiest you'd felt all night, because you knew this rhythm, this work, this language of hands, tasks, and the quiet solidarity of people who kept things running while other people sat at tables and made decisions about their lives.

You helped sweep the kitchen floor, the broom familiar in your hands, the motion automatic — you'd done this before, after all. Not in a house like this, but in houses, other people's houses, back when you were young and your mom would clean for families in the next town over. You'd go with her on weekends because she couldn't afford a sitter, and you'd help because that was what you did, because your hands were small but they could hold a rag, because every extra pair of hands meant finishing earlier and going home sooner, and because the women who employed your mother sometimes slipped you a few bills at the end of the day. You'd hand them over and your mom would kiss your forehead and say “that's my girl.” The money would then disappear into the jar on top of the refrigerator that was saving for something you never quite reached.

"You're very kind," the younger maid said, watching you work. "Most of Mr. and Mrs. Park's guests don't—they don't really notice us."

"I notice you," you said simply, because you did, because you always had, because you'd been on the other side of that not-noticed wall your whole life and you'd promised yourself that if you ever ended up on this side, you wouldn't be the person who walked past.

After a while, you needed paper towels, you'd spilled a bit of water on the counter and the dish towel was already damp. The younger maid pointed you toward the supply closet down the hall, and you walked, your heels quiet on the hardwood, the hallway long and lit by sconces that cast amber pools on the walls, and you were rounding the corner when you heard your name.

Not your first name. Your full name. Spoken by a voice that was smooth, unhurried, and utterly without malice — which made the words it was producing all the more devastating.

"She's a sweet girl," Mrs. Park was saying, and her voice carried through the gap of a door that wasn't fully closed, a sliver of warm light falling across the hallway floor. "She's pretty, she's smart, she's polite. But she's poor, Jongseong, and we do not want that reputation clinging onto our family."

Your hand stopped on the wall. Your heels stopped on the floor. Your lungs stopped in your chest.

"I don't want other people figuring out that my son married a peasant."

Peasant. The word hit you like a slap — not sharp, not sudden, but deep, a bruise that formed instantly and throbbed with a pain that radiated outward into your jaw, your shoulders, your fingertips. Peasant. As if your grandmother's hands that raised you were dirt. As if your mother's back that bent over other people's floors was a stain. As if the scholarship you'd bled for was a charity case instead of a testimony. Peasant. You pressed your back against the hallway wall and the locket was cool against your collarbone, your grandmother's face was pressed against the glass inside it. You wanted to scream but your throat was made of stone.

"Mom, that's—" Jay's voice, strained, tight, a wire pulled to its limit.

"Jongseong, honey." Mrs. Park again, and her tone shifted — still smooth, still gentle, but with an edge underneath, the edge of someone who believed with absolute certainty that they were doing you a favor by telling you the truth. "I know what's best for you, and Y/N isn't what's best for you."

"Isn't it better that she comes from less?" Jay said, and you could hear him struggling, hear the syllables catching and tumbling, hear the way he was reaching for arguments and coming up with handfuls of air. "She's hard-working, she's independent, she's earned everything she has—like, she didn't just inherit it, she built it. Built it. Isn't that—isn't that worth something?"

"Of course it's worth something, dear. Worth something to her," Mrs. Park said, and the distinction was precisely devastating. "Worth something to the life she comes from. But this family has a legacy, and that legacy requires a partner who can stand beside you at a charity gala and talk to the governor's wife about the yacht club without looking out of place. It requires someone who understands the world you're going to inherit."

"I understand the world I'm going to inherit," Jay said, but his voice was smaller now, less certain, and you realized with a slow, sickening clarity what was happening, he wasn't failing to defend you. He was drowning in something else entirely, something that was rising in him at the same time his mother was tearing you apart, and the two forces were colliding inside his chest and neither one was winning and you could hear it, you could hear the exact moment when the boy who'd handed you an envelope full of cash, begged you to save him realized that you'd saved him in a way money couldn't buy, and he couldn't speak because love, real, involuntary, and irreversible love, doesn't come with talking points.

"Your father agrees with me," Mrs. Park continued, and you heard Mr. Park's voice then, low and conciliatory, the voice of a man who'd already made his decision and was now merely softening its edges: "Jongseong, your mother and I only want what's best for you. You're the sole heir to the company. Everything we've built—the business, the reputation, the standing—all of it goes to you. And the person standing beside you determines how the world sees that legacy. It isn't about Y/N as a person, okay? It's about suitability."

Sole heir. The words registered somewhere beneath the devastation, filed away in the part of your brain that was still functioning, but they landed on numb ground. Of course he was. Of course the only son of this house, this dynasty, this gleaming empire of hardwood and chandeliers. Of course he was the one who'd carry it all. And of course they wanted someone suitable. Someone who knew what a yacht club was. Someone who didn't learn which fork to use by watching other people eat. Someone who wasn't you.

"Y/N is suitable," Jay said, and his voice cracked on the word suitable, cracked the way his voice had cracked in that study room ages ago when he'd said I'm begging, except this time the desperation wasn't about freedom from an arrangement. It was about you, specifically you, and the crack in his voice said everything his sentences couldn't: he loved you, that he'd been too late realizing it, that the realization was so big and so sudden and so consuming that it had stolen the language right out of his mouth, and his mother was still talking and he couldn't find the words to stop her because every word he reached for felt too small for what he was trying to say.

"Jongseong." Mrs. Park's voice again, patient, immovable, the voice of a woman who had been winning arguments in this house since before her son was born. "I'm not saying she's a bad person. I'm saying she's not our person. There's a difference, and you know it. You've known it your whole life."

Silence. The worst kind — the kind that isn't absence of sound but absence of response, the kind that means someone has opened their mouth and found nothing there, the kind that means the person you needed to fight for you is fighting something inside themselves instead and losing.

You pressed your palm flat against the hallway wall. The wallpaper was silk, you noticed. Actual silk. You noticed because noticing small, irrelevant things is what the body does when the large, relevant things are too heavy to carry. Your grandmother's face was warm against your collarbone. The empty space in the locket beside her was cold.

"Y/N, dear? The paper towels?" A voice from behind you, gentle, concerned, the younger maid, standing at the end of the hallway with a questioning tilt of her head, her eyes scanning your face and finding something there that made her expression shift from curiosity to caution. "Are you okay?"

You straightened. You smoothed the front of your skirt. You touched the locket once, quick, reflexive, like pressing a hand to a wound, and you smiled. A small smile. A functional one. The kind that holds a person together long enough to get to the bathroom where they can fall apart in private.

"Yup, coming!" you said, and your voice didn't crack, not even once, and that was the bravest thing you'd ever done.

An hour later, you still felt so sick to your stomach that you were genuinely surprised you hadn't thrown up.

The nausea sat low and persistent, a churning, acidic thing that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the word peasant reverberating through your skull on an endless loop, each repetition carving it a little deeper, making it a little more permanent, turning it from something someone had said into something you might always hear. Both of you had left the Park residence about ten minutes ago, you in the passenger seat, Jay behind the wheel, the glow of the dashboard illuminating his jaw, his hands, the side profile you'd memorized without meaning to. And his mother — his mother had the audacity, the sheer, staggering audacity, to pull you into a hug before you left. Right there in the foyer, in front of the gardenias and the chandelier, she'd wrapped her arms around you and pressed her cheek to yours and said, "It was so lovely to meet you, dear," and her perfume was expensive and her embrace was warm and every cell in your body was screaming you called me a peasant, you called me a peasant, you called me a peasant while your arms hung at your sides and your mouth said, "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Park," and you smiled, and she smiled, and the hug lasted exactly the right number of seconds for a woman who meant absolutely none of it. Absolutely disgusting.

You were upset for the whole ride, and you knew it was visible, you could feel it in the weight of your own silence, in the way your answers came out a half-beat too slow, in the faint, persistent tremor in your hands that you hid by keeping them folded in your lap. You were still talking to Jay, still responding to his questions, still maintaining the basic architecture of a conversation, but there was a layer of sadness underneath everything, thin and translucent but unmistakable, the way frost on a window doesn't block the view but changes the color of everything behind it. He'd asked if you had fun. You said yes. He'd asked if you thought dinner went well. You said it went fine. He'd asked if his mom was nice to you. You said she was very hospitable. Each answer was technically true and emotionally hollow, and the hollowness rang like a bell in the space between you.

Of course, Jay noticed. He noticed within the first three minutes, because Jay noticed everything about you, had been noticing for months, cataloguing your habits and your silences and the specific way your voice changed when you were trying very hard not to feel something, and this voice — this flat, careful, polite voice — was the one you used when you were hurting and refusing to admit it. He tried pushing you to answer why you were upset. Gently at first, "Hey, are you okay? You seem quiet,” and then with more intention, "Seriously, Y/N, talk to me. What's wrong?" and you wouldn't budge. You shook your head, you said nothing, you said you were just tired, you said it'd been a long evening, you said you were fine, and every "I'm fine" was a door you were closing in his face. He kept knocking, you kept closing, and the rhythm of it was making the air in the car thicker, heavier, and harder to breathe.

A few pushes later, rain started pouring. Somewhat heavy rain, the kind that arrived all at once, as if someone had turned a faucet, the sky splitting open and dumping sheets of water across the windshield so thick that the world outside became a blur of headlights, dark asphalt, and the ghostly shapes of trees bending under the weight of it. Predictable, you thought. You'd checked your weather app earlier, back at the dorms when you were still getting ready, and it had said it was going to rain around this hour. You'd even packed a small umbrella in your bag. Funny how the universe couldn't even be original about the timing. Eventually, that was all the conversation in the car was about while it was raining, Jay kept pushing and you just wouldn't give, the back-and-forth wearing down into something jagged and raw, his persistence meeting your silence like water against stone except the stone was starting to crack and the water kept coming and neither of you knew how to stop.

"Y/N, come on, you've been off since we left, just tell me—"

"I'm fine, Jay."

"You're not fine, you haven't been fine all night—"

"I said I'm fine."

"Would you stop saying that? You're clearly not—"

"There's nothing to talk about."

And then, finally the thread snapped. Jay's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, his jaw clenched, and something broke loose in his chest, something that had been building for miles, and the words came out sharp, frustrated, and louder than he meant them to be, loud enough to cut through the rain drumming against the roof of the car, loud enough to make you flinch:

"Fuck, Y/N, you're acting like we're an actual couple!"

The car went quiet. Even the rain seemed to recede for a second, pulling back just enough to let the silence rush in and fill the space where the sound had been. Then your eyes burned. Just like that, without warning, without permission, the heat surged upward from somewhere deep in your chest, hit the backs of your eyes, your vision blurred, and the dashboard lights smeared into streaks of amber and white, and you couldn't even hold it anymore, couldn't keep the door closed, couldn't pretend the frost on the window wasn't there, and the tears came. Not the quiet, dignified kind. The kind that take everything with them. Your mascara and your eyeliner, the eyeliner you'd spent twenty minutes perfecting, the mascara that was supposed to be waterproof but clearly had not been road-tested against the specific devastation of hearing the boy you love tell you that your feelings were out of bounds, streamed down your cheeks in dark, inky rivers, tracing lines along your jaw, dripping off your chin onto the satin skirt you'd chosen so carefully, and you couldn't stop it, you couldn't even slow it down, you could only sit there in the passenger seat and sob silently, your shoulders barely moving, your mouth pressed shut, the only sound the wet, ragged catch of your breath trying to hold itself together and failing.

Jay just thought you'd gone radio silent, another refusal, another door, another round of the same fight. He glanced over once, briefly, saw you facing the window, and returned his eyes to the road, his jaw still tight, his hands still gripping the wheel, the frustration still hot in his veins. Then he glanced at the rearview mirror. And he saw you. Not the back of your head, your face, reflected in the glass, and the reflection showed mascara-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and a mouth trembling with the effort of not making a sound, and you were sobbing, silently, completely, the kind of crying that meant the person had decided long ago that their pain wasn't worth hearing and was holding it underwater with both hands. His heart broke. It broke the way glass breaks, suddenly, completely, into a thousand pieces that couldn't be reassembled, that could only be swept up and carried. He pulled over. No warning, no signal, just the car jerking to the right, the tires splashing through the puddle at the edge of the road, the vehicle settling onto the gravel shoulder of some neighborhood street, the houses dark, the streetlights haloed in rain, the world reduced to the sound of water and the ghost of your breathing.

"Y/N—" he started, and he reached over, his hand extending across the center console toward your shoulder, toward your arm, toward any part of you he could hold, because he couldn't think straight while driving and he couldn't think straight now and the only thing his body knew how to do was reach for you. But the moment his fingertips brushed the fabric of your sleeve, you moved, you unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp click, yanked the door handle, and you were out, the door swinging open and the rain pouring in and you stepping out of the car and into the downpour like it was the only direction left.

You ran. Not far, not fast, your kitten heels slipped on the wet asphalt and you kicked them off without breaking stride, bare feet slapping against the puddles, the rain hitting your shoulders, your hair, your face, mixing with the tears until you couldn't tell which was falling from the sky and which was falling from you. You didn't know where you were going — just away, just forward, just anywhere that wasn't the passenger seat of that car where you'd heard those words.

You're acting like we're an actual couple.

Jay followed. He was out of the car before the door had fully closed behind you, his own door left open, the interior light on, and he was running, actually running, his shoes hitting the pavement, his shirt already soaked through, the rain flattening his hair against his forehead, and he was following you because one time, months ago, when you'd stepped out of your dorm without an umbrella on a cloudy day, your roommate had absentmindedly told him, told Jay, who'd been waiting in the hallway with takeout, that you were prone to sickness. Like, one raindrop and it was absolutely over. One drop and you were congested for a week. One chill and you were bedridden for three days. She'd said it casually, dismissively, the way people mention things that are just facts of life, and Jay had filed it away in the same mental cabinet where he stored your coffee order and your favorite flower and the sound of your laugh, and now you were standing in a downpour in with nothing but your dogs out and he was not about to let you catch your death on some stranger's sidewalk.

"Y/N, stop—please, just stop—"

You didn't stop. You walked faster, arms wrapped around yourself, the rain hammering your back, your skirt heavy with water and clinging to your legs, the gold earrings cold against your neck, the locket pressed to your chest like a shield that wasn't working. He caught up to you anyway, longer legs, less stubbornness, more desperation, and fell into step beside you, and you kept walking, and he kept pace, and the two of you moved down the wet sidewalk like two people who'd lost the map and couldn't agree on which way was home.

"Y/N—"

"I'm fine, Jay."

"You're not fine, you're standing in the rain without shoes—"

"I said I'm fine!"

And then you stopped. Not because you wanted to — because your legs gave out, not from weakness but from the sheer, crushing exhaustion of holding months of love inside a body that wasn't built to contain it. You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, rain streaming down your face, your bare feet in a puddle, your mascara ruined and your hair ruined and your heart absolutely, irreparably ruined, and you turned to face him, and the dam broke.

"I feel so stupid," you said, and your voice cracked on stupid, cracked wide open, the word splitting into fragments that the rain carried away. "I feel so—god, I'm so stupid, Jay, because I—I heard what your mother and father said about me. I heard it. I was looking for paper towels and the door was open and I—I heard everything." A sob tore through your chest and you pressed your hand over your mouth and it did nothing, the sound still came, muffled and wet and broken. "They called me a peasant. Your mother called me a—she said peasant, Jay, and your dad—suitability, he said it's about—about suitability, and I—"

You were breaking down. Visibly, audibly, completely. The stoic, composed girl who'd walked into the Park residence was gone, and what was left was someone younger, someone rawer, someone who'd been holding herself together with thread, spit, and willpower, had finally run out of all three. Your sentences were stuttering, fragmenting, words tumbling over each other like people trying to escape a burning room.

"And I know—I know this is just—I know we're just—I know it's fake, I know that, I was the one who said no, I was the one who—who said no falling in love shit, I was the one who said no weird couple stuff, I drew the lines, I made the rules, and—" Your breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary gasp that bent you slightly forward, and the rain ran down your face, your shoulders shook, you were crying so hard you could barely form words but you kept going because it was all coming out now, all of it, everything you'd swallowed, buried, and denied for months, and it was messy, ugly, and exactly what the truth always sounds like when it finally gets permission to speak. "But fuck you, Jay! Bullshit—I actually love you. I love you so much it hurts, and I—I don't even recall when it started feeling less like some mutual agreement and more like—more like—"

You couldn't finish. The sob swallowed the rest of the sentence and you stood there, drenched and trembling, your hands balled into fists at your sides, your mascara in ruins, your grandmother's locket pressed cold and heavy against your sternum, and you'd said it, you'd finally said it, and the relief and the terror of it were indistinguishable, two rivers merging into the same flood.

Jay stared at you. Through the rain, through the dark, through the curtain of water that blurred the edges of everything, he stared at you, and the expression on his face was something you'd never seen before, not shock, not pity, not the practiced composure of the campus heartthrob, but something stripped and raw, a boy standing in the rain watching the girl he loved say the words he hadn't been able to find in his parents' study, the words that had been sitting in his throat for weeks, months, maybe since that first evening in the diner when she'd smiled at him with ice cream on her lips and he'd thought oh no.

He stepped closer. One step. Two. Three. Close enough that you could see the rain caught in his eyelashes, close enough that you could see his chest rising and falling with breaths that were faster than they should've been, close enough that you could see his hands shaking. He reached out and pulled you into a hug from behind, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, his chest pressing against your back, his chin dropping to the top of your wet, wavy hair, and the embrace was so sudden, so warm, and so tight that it knocked the remaining breath out of your lungs and a fresh sob out of your throat. You could feel his heart through his soaked shirt, hammering against your spine, and it was racing, racing the way yours was, the same tempo, the same desperation, two drums beating in the same storm.

Then he turned you. Gently, his hands on your shoulders, guiding you until you were facing him, and the rain was between you, on you, and everywhere. Your eyes were red, your face was a mess, and he looked at you the way he'd looked at you in that polaroid in his car, not at the camera, not at the performance, at you, just you, and there was nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, nothing fake.

"And even after all that," he said, his voice low and rough and thick with something that sounded like it had been drowning for months and had finally broken the surface, "you still feel like you're the one who broke the agreement?"

And then he kissed you.

Not a feather-light press. Not a convincing-for-the-crowd peck. Not a contractual obligation on a cafeteria cheek. He kissed you in the rain, on a sidewalk in a neighborhood neither of you knew, with your mascara running, his shirt soaked, your bare feet in a puddle, and his hands cupping your face like you were something precious and terrifyingly impossible to let go of. It was long — longer than any kiss you'd imagined, longer than any kiss in any movie, long enough that the rain had time to trace paths down both your faces and pool where your lips met, and the cold became irrelevant because his mouth was warm and his hands were warm and the whole world was cold and wet and none of it mattered, none of it existed. Nothing existed except the pressure of his lips, the steadiness of his grip, and the way your hands found the front of his shirt and held on the way you'd been wanting to hold on for months, fingers twisting into the wet fabric, pulling him closer, closer, because if this was the only real thing then you were going to make it as real as possible, you were going to press every ounce of everything you'd been carrying into the space between your mouths and hope it was enough.

When you broke apart, slowly, reluctantly, the way people separate when the air they share is more necessary than the air around them, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your rain-cold skin, his thumbs brushing the remnants of mascara from your cheeks with a gentleness that made your chest ache in a completely different way than it had been aching all night. Then he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead — a seal, a promise, a full stop on a sentence that had been running for months. Then he took your hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss to your palm, the kind of kiss that wasn't about passion but about tenderness, about treating a part of you that had swept floors, held rags, carried groceries, and typed lab reports as though it was worthy of being kissed.

"Let's head back now to the car," he said quietly, his voice still rough, still raw, but steadier now, anchored.

You looked down at yourself, drenched, barefoot, skirt heavy with water, hair plastered to your neck, and then at him, equally soaked, shirt clinging, shoes squelching, the both of you looking like you'd climbed out of a lake, and you let out a small, watery, almost-laugh. "We're both soaking wet, Jay."

He looked at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted, that same easy, warm, real smile, the one that was only yours, and he said, "It's okay. You're acting like I can't handle some wet ass car seat. It's all good."

You laughed. An actual laugh, small, broken, wet, and still trembling with the aftershocks of everything, but real, and he smiled wider, and he kept your hand in his as he walked you back to the car through the rain, and the car seat did get wet, but it didn't matter at all.

Jay drove you back to his condominium unit. He didn't ask, he just told you. The car was still humming with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened on that sidewalk, the rain still hammering the windshield, your bare feet still cold and your skirt still heavy and the taste of him still faint and electric on your lips, when he glanced at you and said, simply, "You're staying at mine tonight." Not a question. Not an offer. A statement, delivered with the same quiet certainty he used when he told you to order what you actually wanted at the diner, the same certainty he used when he picked up your bag without asking, the same certainty that had been steadily, silently eroding every wall you'd built since the day you'd said deal in that study room.

"Jay, I—"

"You're wet. You're barefoot. Your roommate went home for the weekend, right?" He already knew the answer, you'd mentioned it earlier in the week, in passing, one of those small facts that Jay collected and stored and retrieved at exactly the moment they became relevant. "I'm not letting you walk back to an empty dorm soaking wet in the rain. You'll get sick. End of discussion."

You wanted to argue. Some part of you, the stubborn, self-sufficient part that had raised itself on the principle that you didn't need anyone to take care of you, wanted to say I'm fine, I can handle it, I've handled worse. But that part was small and tired and waterlogged, and the part of you that had just said I love you out loud for the first time was larger and louder and didn't have the energy to pretend anymore. So you nodded, a small, quiet nod, and you pulled your knees up onto the seat, looking out the window and you let him drive you home.

His home. The word didn't feel as foreign as it should have.

The journey up to his unit was funny, in the way that things are funny when they're happening to you and you're too exhausted to feel embarrassed about them yet. The lobby of his condominium was quiet at this hour, late enough that the ambient music had been turned down to a whisper and the marble floors reflected only the warm glow of the recessed lighting and the silence had that particular, hushed quality of spaces that were usually full but were currently holding their breath. You walked in behind Jay, your bare feet leaving wet prints on the polished floor, your ruined satin skirt dripping a small trail behind you like a sad, glamorous snail, your mascara still smeared under your eyes in a way that made you look vaguely like a raccoon who'd had a very bad night. Jay was no better, his shirt was plastered to his torso, his hair was flattened against his forehead in dark, wet spikes, and his shoes made a squelching sound with every step that echoed through the lobby like someone repeatedly stepping on a sponge.

The woman behind the front desk, the same one who'd greeted you with "Welcome back, Mr. Park, and guest" all those months ago, looked up as you both passed. Her eyes traveled from Jay's soaked shirt to your bare feet to the dark mascara tracks on your cheeks to the way Jay's hand was resting on the small of your back, and her expression underwent a very specific, very readable journey: first confusion, then assessment, then a slow, knowing crinkle at the corners of her eyes, and finally a smile, warm, private, the kind of smile people reserve for things they find genuinely endearing. She didn't say anything to you, but as you passed the desk, you heard her mutter under her breath, quiet enough that she probably thought you couldn't hear but you could, you absolutely could: "Lovebirds, how cute." And then a small, fond exhale, the way someone sighs at a movie scene that hits a little too close to home.

Jay didn't hear it. He was already guiding you toward the elevator, his hand still warm against your back even through the wet fabric. But you heard it, and something about it, the casual certainty of it, the way this stranger looked at the two of you, dripping, ruined, and walking through a lobby at midnight, and saw love before she saw mess, made your throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

You showered first. Jay handed you a towel and pointed you toward the bathroom and said "take your time, the water pressure's ridiculous" and you stood under the shower for longer than you needed to, letting the hot water undo what the cold rain had done, watching the mascara swirl down the drain in grey and black ribbons, pressing your forehead against the tile and breathing and breathing and breathing. When you turned the water off and reached for the towel, you realized the problem. Your undergarments. Your bra, your underwear, the ones you'd worn under, the ones you'd chosen specifically because they didn't show lines, were wet. Soaking, thoroughly, irreversibly wet, the rain having penetrated every layer you'd been wearing, and you hadn't brought a change of clothes because you'd come to Jay’s house to have dinner with his parents, not to sleep over, not to plan for a rain-soaked confession and a kiss on a stranger's sidewalk and a night that had gone so far off-script that the script was now a distant memory. You wrapped the towel around yourself and cracked the bathroom door open and called out, "Jay?"

He appeared a moment later, still damp, having changed into dry sweats and a t-shirt, his hair sticking up in that way it did when he'd toweled it off without looking in a mirror. "Yeah?"

"I, um. I don't have—my undergarments are wet. Everything's wet. I didn't exactly pack an overnight bag."

He stared at you for a second, then his face did something, a quick flicker of oh followed by that familiar, faint flush that crept along his cheekbones whenever the conversation veered into territory that reminded him you were, in fact, a person with a body, and that that body currently existed on the other side of a towel. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah. Of course. Hold on."

He disappeared and came back with his arms full, an oversized grey hoodie, soft and worn from many washes, the kind of hoodie that had lived in his closet long enough to carry the shape of his shoulders; a pair of red plaid boxers, clean, folded, the fabric soft and slightly faded; a pair of thick socks, the kind meant for hardwood floors in winter; and a pair of slippers he handed you with a slightly sheepish expression. "These are a little big. I never really wear them—they were a gift, my aunt bought them thinking I'd use them around the unit but they don't fit right and I keep forgetting to throw them out. They're clean, though. I promise."

You took the pile from him, and the hoodie was warm from being in a drawer near the heating vent, and it smelled like his laundry detergent, that same clean, woody scent that his whole condominium carried, the scent that meant safe before your brain had consciously decided it meant anything at all. You closed the bathroom door, dropped the towel, and put everything on. The hoodie hung past your hips, the sleeves falling well beyond your wrists, the neckline wide enough that it slipped slightly off one shoulder. The boxers sat loose around your waist, the plaid pattern absurd and comfortable. The socks were thick and warm and the slippers were, as promised, a little big, your feet sliding slightly when you walked, and you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, mascara-free, hair wet, drowning in a grey hoodie and red plaid boxers that belonged to the boy you loved, who loved you back, and you thought: this is the most myself I've ever looked.

When you opened the bathroom door, the steam followed you out into the hallway. Jay was standing right there, waiting, a towel draped over his shoulder and a smaller one in his hand, the hair towel, you realized, when he gestured for you to come closer.

"Come here," he said, and you did, walking toward him in your oversized slippers, and he guided you to sit on the edge of the couch, and then he stood behind you and began drying your hair with the smaller towel, his hands working the fabric through your damp strands with a gentleness that made your eyes prickle. You'd never had anyone dry your hair before. It was such a small thing, a nothing thing, a functional thing, and yet the intimacy of it was staggering, the careful way his fingers moved through the wet, the way he'd occasionally pause to squeeze a section between the towel and his palm, the way he'd brush a strand away from your neck and his fingertips would graze your skin and send a small, involuntary shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"My eyes still hurt," you whined, pressing the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids, and the whine came out small and childish and genuinely pitiful because they did hurt, you'd cried so hard on that sidewalk that your eyelids were swollen and raw and every blink felt like sandpaper. "They're all puffy and gross."

Jay giggled, a bright, surprised sound, the kind that escaped him before he could catch it, and you could hear the smile in it, the unguarded warmth of it, and you wanted to be annoyed that he was laughing at your suffering but the sound was so genuinely, infectiously happy that you couldn't even muster the indignation.

"They're not gross," he said, still working the towel through your hair, his voice soft with amusement. "You're just having a reaction to being dramatically beautiful in the rain for ten minutes. It's a known side effect."

"Dramatically beautiful?" You lifted your head slightly. "I looked like a swamp creature."

"Mm, a very pretty swamp creature," he corrected, and you could hear the grin, and you groaned and slumped back against his abdomen and he laughed again, and the sound of it traveled through his chest and into your spine and settled there, warm and constant, and you thought: I could live in this sound.

He finished drying your hair after a few more minutes, the dampness reduced to a soft, manageable weight that would air-dry the rest of the way. He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm gonna go wash up. Make yourself comfortable, there's water in the fridge, extra blankets in the closet, and the TV remote is—somewhere under the couch cushions, I always lose it."

You nodded, and he disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom, and you heard the shower turn on, and then you were alone. The condominium was quiet, that rich, expensive quiet that big spaces produced, the kind that felt like being wrapped in something soft. You sat on the couch for a moment, your knees pulled up to your chest inside the oversized hoodie, the slippers half-off your feet, the towel still draped over your shoulders.

Then you got up. You didn't mean to go looking for him, you were just restless, your body still humming with the residual electricity of the evening, your skin still remembering the rain, the kiss, and his hands on your face, and walking felt like the only thing to do with all that leftover voltage. You padded down the hallway in your too-big slippers, past the kitchen, past the closet with the extra blankets, past the bathroom where the shower was still running, and you found his bedroom.

The door was open. The room was dim, just the lamp on the nightstand, a warm amber glow that made the bed and the bookshelf and the guitar propped in the corner look like they belonged in a painting rather than a real person's life. And there was Jay, seated in the comfortable lounge chair in the corner, the one with the deep cushion and the angled back that faced the window, the one you'd seen him sit in before when he was reading or thinking or absentmindedly strumming chords on his guitar without plugging it in. He was still in his sweats and t-shirt, his own hair damp and finger-combed back, his legs stretched out, his phone abandoned on the armrest, and he looked up when you appeared in the doorway, and the look on his face, open, warm, a little tired, completely yours, made your breath catch.

You walked in. Your slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the hardwood. You didn't say anything, you didn't know what to say, your voice having apparently used up its entire vocabulary on that sidewalk and now sitting empty and quiet in your throat. You just walked toward him, slowly, your hands finding the front pocket of the hoodie and burying themselves inside it, and you stopped a few feet from the chair, and you looked at him, and he looked at you, and the air in the room felt thick and warm and charged with something neither of you had named yet but both of you could feel pressing against your skin.

Then, without warning, without a word, without a question, without anything except the quiet, certain movement of his hands, Jay reached out and pulled you onto his lap.

It was smooth, the kind of movement that looked effortless but required a specific kind of confidence, a specific kind of certainty that the person being pulled wanted to be there. His hands found your waist inside the hoodie, his fingers closing around the fabric and the warmth underneath, and he drew you forward and down until you were settled across his thighs, your knees on either side of his hips, the hoodie riding up slightly where his hands gripped it, the red plaid boxers hidden beneath the grey fabric. Your hands landed on his shoulders, the only place they could go, and you were close, closer than ever before because this was a different kind of closeness, the kind that wasn't born from desperation or confession but from choice, from the simple, deliberate act of being exactly where you wanted to be.

His hands stayed on your waist. His eyes stayed on yours. The lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the slope of his nose and the sharpness of his jaw and the way his pupils had darkened, blown wide, the amber glow reflected in them like small fires. Neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and his breathing and the distant, low hum of the city beyond the window, and the silence wasn't awkward, heavy, or uncertain — it was full, the way silence is full when it's holding something that words would only diminish.

You sat there, on his lap, in his hoodie, in his boxers, in his slippers that had fallen off your feet somewhere between the doorway and the chair, and his hands were warm through the fabric, and his heart was beating fast against your chest, and the night was still raining outside, and you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

"If there's something horrendous on my face you should tell me and stop staring like that."

The words came out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper, because the way Jay was looking at you right now made it difficult to breathe properly, let alone speak at full volume. His eyes were dark, not the warm amber-brown they'd been over dinner or the soft, fond shade they'd taken on while drying your hair, but something deeper, something hungrier, the color of burnt honey held over a flame, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter and your thighs press instinctively tighter around his hips.

He didn't answer right away. His thumbs, which had been resting idle against your waist, began to move — slow, deliberate strokes along the curve of your hips through the hoodie, his fingers pressing into the fabric just hard enough that you could feel the warmth of each individual fingertip through the worn cotton, and every point of contact lit up like a switch being flipped somewhere beneath your skin.

"There's nothing horrendous on your face," he said finally, and his voice had dropped, lower than you'd ever heard it, a rough, quiet thing that seemed to vibrate through the pads of his fingers and into your bones. "I'm staring because you're in my clothes and it's making me lose my mind."

A startled laugh escaped you, breathy and nervous. "It's just a hoodie—"

"It's not just a hoodie." His grip tightened fractionally, his fingers curling into the fabric at your hips, and the slight, possessive pressure of it sent a sharp thrill skating down your spine. "You're sitting on my lap in my clothes, smelling like me, looking like that, and you're asking me why I'm staring?" He exhaled, a short, almost-laugh that was more breath than sound. "You're killing me."

The laugh that had been building in your throat dissolved into something else, something warmer and less certain, and you became acutely aware of how close his face was to yours, close enough that you could see the faint water droplets still clinging to the ends of his hair, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his exhale ghosting across your chin, close enough that the distance between his mouth and yours had become a question that neither of you had asked yet but both of you were waiting to answer.

You answered it.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't a decision made by the rational, thinking part of your brain. It was gravity, pure and simple, the same force that had pulled you into his lap and pulled you to this condominium and pulled those three words out of your mouth on a rain-soaked sidewalk, your body leaning forward, your fingers tightening on his shoulders, and your mouth finding his with a certainty that surprised you both.

Jay made a sound against your lips, a low, sharp inhale through his nose, and then his hands were sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you forward, pressing you closer, and he was kissing you back with a fervor that made the kiss on the sidewalk feel like a prelude, a rough draft, a sketch compared to this, the final, full-color rendering, all the detail and depth and texture filled in at once. His mouth was warm, sure, and unhurried despite the urgency thrumming beneath it, his lips moving against yours with a precision that suggested he'd been thinking about this exact thing for longer than he'd ever admit, mapping out the pressure, the angle, and the way his lower lip fit between yours, and the deliberateness of it, the care of it, was so fundamentally him that it made something in your chest crack open and spill warmth through your entire body.

Your fingers climbed from his shoulders into his hair, threading through the damp strands, and the sound he made in response, a muted, rough “fuck” breathed against your mouth, sent a jolt of electricity straight down your center. You tugged lightly, experimentally, and his head tilted back. His breath stuttered and his fingers dug into your back through the hoodie hard enough that you knew his fingerprints would be embedded onto your skin, and the thought of that, of wearing his fingerprints beneath his hoodie, made you press into him harder, made the kiss deeper, made your tongue slide against his with a desperation that surprised you.

He responded instantly. One hand left your back and came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and the new angle made everything sharper, more intense, the slide of his tongue against yours sending sparks skittering down your nerve endings like lit matches dropped on dry kindling. His other hand stayed pressed into the small of your back, keeping you flush against him, and you could feel his heart hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it was both of them beating in tandem like they'd been doing it forever and were only now acknowledging the rhythm.

You shifted on his lap, adjusting your weight, your knees tightening against the outside of his thighs, and the movement pressed your hips down against his in a way that made you both freeze. The sound that escaped you was small and involuntary, a half-swallowed whimper that vibrated against his lips, and the sound he made was worse, or better, depending on perspective — a low, guttural groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and traveled through his body into yours like a seismic event.

"Don't—" His voice was fractured, barely coherent, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath coming ragged and hot against your swollen lips. "Don't move like that if you're not—fuck—if you're not planning to follow through, because I—"

You moved again. Deliberately this time, not an adjustment but a choice, your hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate grind that pressed the heat between your thighs against the unmistakable hardness that had developed beneath the fabric of his sweats. The friction, the pressure, the feeling of him solid and insistent against you even through layers of clothing, pulled a moan from your throat that you didn't recognize as your own voice.

"Shit—" Jay's head fell back against the chair, his neck corded, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut for a single, trembling moment before they opened again and fixed on you with a look so raw, so unguarded, so full of want that it made your stomach clench and your breath come short. His hands slid down from your back to your hips, fingers spread wide, and he held you there, held you against him, and he didn't stop you when you moved again.

The dry grinding started slowly, almost tentatively, your hips finding a rhythm against his that was more instinct than experience, more feeling than technique. The seam of the boxers you were wearing, his boxers, dragged against you in a way that sent sharp, stuttering pulses of pleasure through your core with every movement, and the angle of it, the way his body was positioned beneath you, meant that every roll of your hips pressed you directly against the length of him, hard, thick, and impossible to ignore through the thin cotton of his sweats. You could feel the shape of him, the heat of him, and the knowledge that you were doing that, that you were the reason the campus heartthrob was hard, breathless, and gripping your hips like you were the only solid thing in a spinning room, sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs so quickly it almost embarrassed you.

"Jay—" His name came out broken, half-moaned, and you didn't even know what you were asking for, only that the friction wasn't enough anymore, only that the fabric between you was a barrier that your body was increasingly desperate to dissolve.

"I know," he breathed, and his hands flexed on your hips, guiding you, easing you into a slower, deeper grind that made you both gasp. "I know, baby, I know."

Baby. The word hit you like a physical thing, warm and weighted, and the way he said it, rough and reverent, like it had been sitting on his tongue for weeks waiting for permission to come out, made your hips stutter and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his t-shirt and a small, needy sound escape your lips that you couldn't have stopped if you'd tried.

"You feel so good," you whispered, and the admission came easier than it should have, your inhibitions eroded by the haze of sensation and the certainty that the boy beneath you was someone who would catch every vulnerable thing you dropped. "Mmgh, Jay, you feel—god, you feel so big."

A strangled sound escaped him, half-laugh, half-groan, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, palms covering the curve of you through the hoodie, fingers pressing into the plush softness with a grip that made your breath hitch and your spine arch. "You can't just—fuck—you can't just say things like that to me—"

"It's true," you breathed, rolling your hips again, slower, feeling every inch of him against you, and the words tumbled out without permission, fueled by the way his fingers were kneading your ass through the fabric with a desperation that matched your own. "You're so hard, Jay, I can feel all of you and you're so—"

He kissed you to shut you up, or maybe because he couldn't not kiss you, his mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that made the previous kisses feel like polite suggestions, his tongue sliding against yours with a slick, dirty insistence that made your toes curl and your hips grind down harder and your thoughts dissolve into a warm, wanting blur. His hands were everywhere on your lower half, squeezing, gripping, pulling you against him with each roll of your hips, and the wet sounds of your kissing and the muted creak of the chair beneath you and the broken, shared breathing filled the quiet room like a symphony composed in the key of desperation.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his lips were swollen and wet. His eyes were nearly black, the amber swallowed entirely by the blown-wide pupils, his chest was rising and falling with a heaviness that made you feel powerful and wrecked in equal measure. His right hand stayed on your ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to dimple the fabric, but his left hand moved, traveled from your hip to the front of the hoodie, fingertips tracing up your stomach through the soft cotton, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, until his hand reached the hem of the hoodie where it bunched at your waist, and his fingers slipped beneath it.

The first touch of his bare fingers against the skin of your stomach made you shiver violently, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the way his hand was warm, moving downward with a slowness that was almost cruel. His fingertips traced the line of your waistband, his waistband, the plaid boxers, the fabric you were wearing because everything you owned was soaked through, ruined, and the only thing standing between his hand and the place you needed it most was a thin, faded layer of cotton that he'd bought at a store months ago and never thought would be worn by anyone but himself.

"Can I?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and low, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mixing with yours in the small space between your faces. His hand had stilled just above the hem of the boxers, his fingertips resting against the bare skin of your lower belly, and the question was so gentle, so Jay, even now, even with his other hand still gripping your ass, his hardness still pressing against you, and his breathing still ragged with want, he was still asking, still making sure, still putting your comfort above his own desperation, and the tenderness of it made your eyes sting, your heart clench, and your hips can’t forward into his palm in an answer that was more honest than words could ever be.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please, yes."

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

The first brush of his fingers against you made a sharp, keening sound rip from your throat that you'd never made before, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than your lungs, somewhere primal and wanting and utterly unguarded. Jay groaned in response, a low, broken sound, and his fingers pressed more firmly against the damp fabric, feeling the wetness that had nothing to do with rain, and the heel of his palm ground against you and fuck—

"You're so wet," he breathed against your mouth, and the words were reverent and ragged and almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite comprehend that he was the cause of this, that the girl on his lap was this affected by him, by his hands and his mouth and the sound of his voice saying baby like it was the only word that mattered. "God, you're so wet for me already and I've barely touched you."

"You've been touching me," you managed, and your voice was unsteady, cracked down the middle by the slow, deliberate circles his fingers were drawing against you through the thin cotton. "You've been—ah—touching me this whole time, your hands on my—on my hips, on my ass, you've been—"

"Been driving you crazy?" he finished, and there was a smile in his voice, that same quiet, knowing confidence that made you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure, and his fingers chose that moment to hook around the elastic of your underwear and tug it aside, the first touch of his bare fingers against your bare skin made every thought in your head evaporate like mist.

He explored you slowly at first, which was somehow worse than if he'd just plunged in and gotten to it, because his fingertips traced along the slick, swollen edges of you with a meticulous attention that felt like study, like he was memorizing you, learning you, cataloging every fold and every flutter and every place that made your breath catch or your hips jerk or your fingers dig harder into his shoulders. His middle finger slid through your wetness, gathering it, spreading it, and the obscene, slick sound of it combined with the feeling of his finger moving so close to where you needed it most and yet not quite there, not quite inside, was a form of torture so exquisite you almost sobbed.

"Jay, please—"

"Please what?" His voice was silk and gravel, his finger still drawing lazy, maddening patterns along your entrance, dipping just barely inside before retreating, a cruel, tantalizing hint of what was to come. "Use that pretty mouth for me, baby."

"I want—I want your fingers inside me, please, I need—"

He gave you what you wanted.

One finger slid inside, slow and deep and deliberate, and the stretch of it, the intrusion, the feeling of him entering you for the first time in any capacity, made your mouth fall open, your eyes squeeze shut, and a sound escape your throat that was somewhere between a moan and a cry. He was inside you, his finger, just one, but the girth of it, the length, the way it curled slightly as it pressed to the hilt, was enough to make your walls clench around him reflexively and your hips grind down against his hand seeking more, more, because one wasn't enough, not when you could feel how much more he had to give.

"Mmgh, that's it, baby," he groaned against your jaw, his lips brushing the skin there, his breath hot and unsteady. "Clench around me like the good girl you are."

The phrase hit you like a freight train. Good girl. Two words, spoken in that low, rough voice, with his finger inside you and his other hand still gripping your ass like he owned it, and you felt a fresh pulse of wetness coat his finger and your walls clamp down around him so hard that he hissed through his teeth and his own hips bucked up involuntarily beneath you.

"You like that," he observed, and it wasn't a question, and the quiet certainty in his voice, the way he'd clocked exactly what those words did to you and filed it away for future use, made you whine high and needy in the back of your throat. "You like when I tell you how good you're being for me."

"I like—I like everything you do," you gasped, and it was the most honest thing you'd ever said, because his finger was moving inside you now, curling and pressing and finding a spot that made your vision white out at the edges, your thighs tremble against his, and his thumb had found your clit and was drawing tight, devastating circles around it that made coherent thought impossible. "I like—oh god—I like you, I like your hands, I like—"

"Mm, like my fingers inside you?" His voice was filth, pure filth, spoken against the shell of your ear, and the warmth of his breath, the obscenity of the words, and the feeling of a second finger joining the first made your whole body seize and arch and press into his hand with a desperation that bordered on mindless.

Two fingers. The stretch was significant now, the girth of two of his fingers pressing into you, spreading you open, and the fullness of it, the pressure, the way his fingers moved in tandem, curling, thrusting, grinding against the spot inside you that made stars scatter behind your eyelids, was so overwhelmingly good that the sounds you were making weren't even words anymore, just a stream of whimpers and moans and broken syllables that spilled from your lips without your permission or your awareness. Your tongue was out, just slightly, your mouth open, your breathing ragged and wet and audible, and you were riding his hand now, your hips moving of their own accord, grinding down against his fingers, chasing the pleasure, and every roll of your hips pressed your ass into the grip of his other hand, which was squeezing and pulling you apart with a fervor that made you feel desired in a way you'd never felt before, like you were something precious, filthy, and his.

"You're so wet and so tight," he groaned, his fingers pumping into you with a steadiness that contradicted the tremor in his voice, the crack in his composure. "Squeeze me tight, baby, just like that—fuck—just like that, you're doing so good, you feel so fucking good—"

"I feel—you feel—" You couldn't finish the sentence, your brain unable to string together enough words to express the overwhelming, consuming, devastating pleasure of his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his other hand on your ass, and his voice in your ear saying things that would make your past self combust with embarrassment and your present self drip with more arousal onto his already-soaked fingers. "Jay—ugh—Jay, please, I need—I need more, I need you, I need—"

"You need me?" His fingers slowed, just slightly, and his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes finding yours, and the look in them was so intense, so burning, so full of love and lust and something fierce and protective that it stole the air from your lungs. "You need me where, baby? Tell me."

"Inside me," you whispered, and the words came out trembling and true and stripped of every layer of pretense you'd ever worn. "Not your fingers. I need—I need your cock inside me. Please."

Something in Jay's expression fractured. You watched it happen, watched the last thread of his restraint snap like a guitar string pulled too tight, watched his jaw clench and his nostrils flare and his eyes darken to something feral and desperate, and then his fingers withdrew from you, dragging through your wetness, leaving you empty and aching. Both hands came to your hips, gripping hard, steadying you, and he stood up from the chair in one fluid motion, lifting you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms locking around his neck, and he carried you the four steps to the bed and laid you down on the mattress with a gentleness that was almost incongruous with the hunger in his eyes.

He stood over you for a moment, just looking, his chest heaving, his hair falling across his forehead in damp, messy strands, his sweats tented obscenely, and the visual of him, this boy, this man, who you'd watched from across lecture halls and sat beside in study rooms and fake-dated for months, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing, made you reach for him with both hands, your fingers closing around the hem of his t-shirt and tugging.

"Come here," you said, and your voice was wrecked and breathless.

He came. He stripped his t-shirt over his head in one swift motion and dropped it somewhere — floor, chair, another dimension, you didn't care, couldn't care, because his chest was bare, his abdomen was lean and toned, his skin was glowing warm in the lamplight, and then he was climbing over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his hands on either side of your head, and he was kissing you again, deep and dirty and consuming, his bare chest pressing against the hoodie, and you could feel his heart pounding against yours, or yours against his, or both, both, both.

"Wait," he said against your mouth, and he pulled back just enough to look down at you, at the hoodie, at his hoodie stretched across your body, the fabric that carried his scent and his shape and now you inside of it, and something in his expression went soft and hungry and utterly undone. "You have no idea what you look like right now."

"I look like I'm wearing your clothes—"

"You look like you're mine," he said, and the word came out rough and low and proprietary in a way that should have made your feminist sensibilities bristle but instead made lava flood through your veins and pool molten and insistent between your legs. "You look like you belong to me, and I've never—god—I've never been so horny for anyone the way I am for you right now. The way I've been for you this whole time. Every time you wore my jacket, every time you pulled it around yourself and it swallowed you whole and you looked at me from inside it like you were safe there—I wanted to put you on every flat surface I could find and—"

"Then do it," you interrupted, breathless, bold, your hands sliding down his bare chest, feeling the heat and the firmness and the slight tremor of his muscles beneath your palms. "Stop telling me and show me."

His breath hitched. His eyes searched yours for a single, electric second, and then he was kissing you again, and his hands were on the hoodie, pushing it up, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric and finding your bare waist and climbing higher, higher, until his palms covered your breasts, the feeling of his warm, slightly rough hands cupping you, squeezing gently, his thumbs tracing the swell of you above the cups, made you arch into his touch with a whine that vibrated against his lips.

"Off," he said against your mouth, and it took you a confused moment to realize he was talking about the hoodie, and then his hands were gripping the hem and pulling it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it off you, the soft grey fabric sliding over your head and your arms and joining his t-shirt on the floor, and the cool air of the room hit your bare skin for exactly one second before his mouth was on you, his lips pressing to your collarbone, your chest, your breasts, and his hands were everywhere, warm and big and eager, kneading and caressing and exploring the territory they'd been denied for months with a thoroughness that left you gasping and trembling and threading your fingers through his hair and holding on.

"Loved you in the hoodie," he murmured against your sternum, his breath hot and damp, his lips dragging across your skin between words. "Love you out of it, too. Love you every way you come. I want you every way you'll let me have you."

"Have me," you breathed. "All of me. Every—ah—every way."

His hands were on your bare breasts, palming them, cupping them, his thumbs dragging across your nipples with a slow, firm pressure that sent lightning bolts of pleasure shooting straight down your body to the place where you were wet and swollen and desperate and aching, and you were making sounds again. You couldn't stop making sounds, couldn't stop the whimpers and the moans and the small, keening ah, ah, ahs that fell from your lips every time his thumbs circled or his fingers squeezed or his mouth dipped down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your breast. Your back was arched, your hips were grinding against nothing, seeking friction, seeking him, and the desperation of it, the mindlessness of it, would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for embarrassment left, but you didn't, you'd left it on that sidewalk in the rain along with every wall you'd ever built.

"Jay, please," you gasped, your hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, your fingers clumsy and urgent and trembling. "I need you, I need you inside me, I can't—please—"

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of you, bare from the waist up, your chest heaving, your lips swollen, your eyes glazed with want, wearing nothing but his red plaid boxers, made him exhale shakily and press his forehead against yours and whisper, "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"Then die happy," you managed, and he laughed, even in the middle of this, even with his cock straining against his sweats, his hands on your bare breasts, your fingers in his waistband, and the sound was so warm and so him that it made your heart ache even as your body burned.

He stood, just for a moment, and pushed his sweats and boxers down in one motion, and then he was bare before you, fully bare, and the sight of him, all of him, the lean lines of his hips and the firm planes of his abdomen and his cock, hard and thick and curving slightly upward toward his stomach, the tip flushed and glistening, made your mouth go dry and your breath catch and a single, overwhelmed thought crystallize in the haze of your desire: who knew the campus heartthrob had such a big dick?

You'd imagined, of course. You were only human, and Jay was — well, Jay, and the rumors that circulated through campus gossip were as persistent as they were impossible to verify, and you'd filed them away under "things that were none of your business" even during the weeks when your business and his had become increasingly entangled. But the reality of him, the generous length, the substantial girth, and the way it twitched under your gaze, the tip leaking a bead of moisture that caught the amber lamplight, it exceeded every rumor, every imagined scenario, every late-night thought you'd dismissed as wishful thinking the morning after.

"You're staring," he said, and there was a smile in his voice, that same quiet, confident smile, but there was vulnerability underneath it too, the vulnerability of someone exposing himself, in every sense, to the person whose opinion mattered most.

"I'm appreciating," you corrected, and your voice was hoarse and your eyes were still fixed on him, and you reached out, your fingers wrapping around him, and the sound he made, a sharp, strangled gasp, his hips jerking forward involuntarily into your grip, was the single most intoxicating thing you'd ever heard. "You're—mm, Jay, you're really—you're so—"

"Stop," he breathed, but it wasn't a command, it was a plea, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut and his hands gripping the edge of the mattress on either side of your hips like he was holding on for dear life. "If you keep talking and touching me like that I'm not going to last long enough to—"

"Then don't make me wait," you whispered, and you released him and reached for him instead, your hands finding his shoulders and pulling him down toward you, and he came willingly, eagerly, his body covering yours, his weight settling between your thighs, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was gentler than the moment called for, slower, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips the same way he'd memorized everything else about you.

He shifted your positions then, his hands on your hips, guiding you, and you understood without being told, he wanted you on top. He settled back against the pillows, his head on the cushioned headboard, his hands on your waist, and he looked up at you with those dark, burning eyes and said, "I want to see you. I want to watch you. I want you to take what you need."

Your heart stuttered. Your hands were trembling as you straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips, the red plaid boxers still loose around your thighs, and you hooked your thumbs under the elastic of both, his boxers and yours, and tugged them down just enough, just far enough, and the cool air hit the slick, swollen heat of you and you shivered. Then you were positioned above him, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, and the anticipation of it, the size of it, made your breath come short and your fingers dig into his shoulders.

"Slow," he said, his hands steady on your hips, steadying you, grounding you. "As slow as you need. I've got you."

You sank down.

The first inch made you both gasp, you at the stretch, the overwhelming fullness of him pressing into you, the girth spreading you open wider than his fingers had prepared you for; him at the wet, tight heat of you wrapping around the most sensitive part of him, the clench of your walls drawing a broken, guttural “fuck” from his throat that seemed to come from the soles of his feet. You paused, breathing through it, adjusting, and his hands rubbed slow circles into your hips, his thumbs tracing the crease where your thighs met your hips, so patient even though you could see the strain in his jaw and the tendons in his neck and the way his knuckles were white with the effort of not grabbing you and pulling you down the rest of the way.

"More," you breathed, and you lowered yourself another inch, and another, and the stretch was intense, almost too much, the kind of fullness that bordered on pain and pleasure in equal measure, and your face must have shown it because Jay's hand came up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his voice coming out soft and concerned beneath the raw need.

"You okay? We can stop, we can—"

"Don’t stop," you said fiercely, and you dropped your hips the rest of the way, taking all of him, and the sound that ripped from your throat was something between a scream and a moan, loud, broken, and utterly beyond your control, and the sound that echoed from his was its mirror — a raw, shuddering groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours, his head thrown back against the headboard, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough that you knew there would be bruises shaped like his hands tomorrow, and you would press each one in the mirror and remember this moment.

Full. You were so full, impossibly, overwhelmingly full, stretched to your limit around him, and he was big, bigger than you'd even thought from looking, because looking and feeling were two entirely different universes of experience, and the feeling of him inside you, the heat and the hardness and the way your walls clenched and fluttered and tried to accommodate the intrusion, was so much, too much, exactly enough. You stayed still for a moment, both of you breathing, both of you adjusting, both of you existing in the space between anticipation and motion where the world narrows to a single point of connection.

Then you moved.

You lifted your hips, slow, feeling every inch of him sliding against your inner walls, the drag of him exquisite and maddening, and then you sank back down, and the angle pressed him against that spot inside you, that spot, the one his fingers had found earlier, the one that made your eyes roll and your breath stutter and a high, keening whine escape your lips, and the pleasure was so sharp, so blinding, so sudden that your body acted before your brain could intervene. You bounced again, faster, harder, chasing that feeling, and the sound of your bodies meeting, the slick, wet slap of skin against skin, the obscene squelch of him moving inside your wetness, filled the room alongside the symphony of your shared moans.

"Fuck—" Jay's voice was shattered, breathless, his hands gripping your hips but letting you set the pace, letting you ride him, letting you use him for your pleasure, and the sight of you above him, bare and lost in it, your head thrown back, your lips parted, your breasts bouncing with every movement, was unraveling him from the inside out. "You feel so fucking good, you're so—god, you're so tight, you're squeezing me so hard, baby—"

"I can't help it," you gasped, and you couldn't, your walls were clenching around him involuntarily with every thrust, every grind, every time he hit that spot that made your brain short-circuit, and the clenching made him groan and the groaning made you clench harder and the feedback loop of it was driving you both toward an edge that was coming too fast and not fast enough. "You're so—you're so big, Jay, I can feel you so deep, you're hitting—ah—you're hitting right there, right there, don't stop, please don't—"

"I'm not stopping," he growled, and his hands moved from your hips to your breasts, palming them, squeezing them, his thumbs dragging across your nipples with a firm, deliberate pressure that sent shockwaves of pleasure cascading through your body, converging with the pleasure building between your thighs, and the combined sensation was so overwhelming that you barely registered the shift in his posture until his arm was around your neck.

Not choking, never choking, you trusted him with your life and your body and every fragile thing you'd ever held, but holding, his bicep curling around the side of your neck, his forearm resting along your collarbone, his hand coming to cup the opposite shoulder, and the position, the possessiveness of it, the intimacy of it, the way it pressed your body flush against his chest and kept you close and controlled and his, made something wild, needy, and desperate claw its way up from the pit of your stomach and out through your mouth in a long, shuddering whine that you muffled against the side of his neck.

"I've got you," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and damp, his voice a low, devastating rumble that you felt in your bones, and his hips snapped up to meet yours, and the new angle, the new depth, the new force of him driving into you from below made you sob against his skin. "I've got you, baby, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere—you feel so good wrapped around me like this, so fucking good, taking me so well—"

"Jay—" His name was a plea and the only word left in your vocabulary, repeated over and over against the warm skin of his neck between wet, open-mouthed kisses and whimpers and the small, helpless sounds that were being fucked out of you with every thrust. "Jay, Jay, Jay—you feel so good, you make me feel so good, I've never—I've never felt like this, you're so deep, you're so—oh god—you're so big, how are you so—fuck—"

"Yeah?" His voice was gravel and fire against your ear, and his arm tightened fractionally around your neck, just enough to make your head spin and your body sing, and his hips pistoned up into you with a rhythm that was losing its steadiness, becoming rougher, more desperate, more animal. "You like how big I am? You like feeling me deep inside this tight little pussy? Squeezing me so good, baby, fuck—you're gonna make me come if you keep making those sounds—"

"What sounds—" you tried to ask, but the question dissolved into a moan so filthy and so loud that you would have been mortified if you had any mortification left, but you didn't, it was all gone, burned away by the heat of him and the grip of him and the relentless, devastating pleasure of him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over until your vision was blurring. Your thighs were trembling, your fingers were clawing at his back, and your sounds — the whimpers, the moans, the broken ah ah ahs, the way your tongue was out and your mouth was open and you were practically drooling with the overwhelming, consuming, ruinous pleasure of it, were filling the room and his ear and his consciousness until there was nothing else in the world but you and him and this.

"Those sounds," he answered, his voice fractured, wrecked, barely recognizable as the composed, collected boy who'd charmed an entire campus without trying. "Those—fuck—those sweet little whines, the way you're moaning my name, the way you can't even—you can't even talk, can you? Too full of me to think, aren't you, baby?"

"Yes—" It came out as a sob, honest and raw, your forehead pressed against his neck, your body bouncing on his cock with a desperation that had abandoned all rhythm and restraint, your hips moving faster, harder, chasing the peak that was building inside you like a wave pulling away from shore, gathering size and force and inevitability. "Yes, I can't—I can't think, you feel too good, you're too —god—you're too big, you're so deep, I'm—Jay, I'm close, I'm so close—"

"Me too," he breathed, and his arm around your neck shifted, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, and he held you against him, your face pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder, his face pressed to the crown of your head, the way he was holding you like something precious even while his hips were driving into you with an intensity that bordered on savage, made your chest crack open wider than it already was, made the pleasure in your body merge with the love in your heart until they were the same thing, the same overwhelming, consuming, impossible force, and you were crying again, you realized distantly, not from sadness but from fullness, from too much, from the impossible, miraculous reality of being loved, fucked, and held all at once by the same person, by the person you loved, by the person who loved you back.

"Jay—" you whined, high and desperate. Your walls were clenching around him in rapid, involuntary pulses that signaled the approaching edge, and his hips were stuttering, his rhythm falling apart, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps against your hair. "Jay, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Me too, baby, me too," he gasped, and his hand tightened in your hair, and his other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you impossibly closer, deeper, his cock buried to the hilt inside you and his hips grinding up against you in tight, desperate circles that pressed against your clit with every movement. "Come for me, I've got you, come on my cock, let me feel you—"

And then, just before the wave broke, just before the edge crumbled beneath you, just before your orgasm crashed through you like a storm making landfall, he whispered it.

"I love you."

Oh my god.

Not love you. Not the shorthand version he'd been using for months, the lazy, abbreviated thing that let him say it without really saying it, that kept the I out of it, that kept the confession at arm's length where it was safe and deniable and less terrifying than the full, unedited truth. I love you. With the I. For the first time. The most important word in the sentence, the word that made it a declaration instead of a throwaway, the word that turned it from something you could brush off into something you had to catch and hold and carry with you for the rest of your life, and he said it right there, right then, with his cock inside you and his arms around you and your body on the edge of the most intense pleasure you'd ever felt, and the shock of it, the staggering, breathtaking gift of it, was what pushed you over.

You came with a cry that broke in the middle, his name and a sob tangled together into a sound that was neither and both, and your walls clenched around him in rhythmic, devastating waves that pulled and squeezed and milked him with an intensity that ripped a sound from from his chest that you'd never heard before, raw, loud, unrestrained, his head thrown back, his jaw clenched and his entire body rigid beneath you and inside you and around you, and then he was coming too, his hips jerking up into yours in erratic, desperate thrusts, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot and filling, and the feeling of him coming inside you, the warmth of it spreading through you, the intimacy of it, no barrier, no distance, nothing between you but skin and the shared, shuddering aftermath of something that had changed you both, made your orgasm intensify rather than fade, a second wave cresting on the heels of the first, and you were both gasping, trembling, and holding onto each other with a ferocity that suggested letting go would mean falling off the edge of the earth.

The aftershocks rolled through you in diminishing pulses, your walls still fluttering around him, his cock still twitching inside you, your bodies still pressed together from chest to hip, neither of you willing to create even an inch of distance. The room was quiet except for your breathing and the rain against the window, which had never stopped, which had been the soundtrack to the entire night from sidewalk to confession to this, this moment, this bed, this body against yours, this love made physical and undeniable and real.

He was still inside you. Softening, but still there, still filling you, still connected, and the warmth of him inside you, the physical proof of what had just happened, made you squeeze around him reflexively and him hiss in oversensitive response, and the small exchange was so intimate, so coupled, that it made you press your face into his neck and breathe him in and whisper, against his pulse, "I love you too. With the I. I love y—wait, no. I love you more."

His arms tightened around you. His chest expanded with a breath that seemed to fill him entirely, a breath that had been waiting, maybe, since the first time he'd said those words without the I and wondered if you noticed the omission, and the exhale that followed was warm and slow and carried with it a tension you hadn't realized he'd been holding until it was gone.

"Mm, good," he murmured into your hair, and his voice was hoarse and raw and smiling, and the hand in your hair stroked gently, absently, the way you'd stroke something you'd been terrified of losing and were now learning you could hold. "Good. I meant it, by the way. Every time I said it before, I meant it. I just—I wasn't brave enough to include myself in the sentence."

You woke up to the smell of butter.

Not perfume-butter, not the artificial, movie-theater approximation of butter, but real butter, the kind that sizzled and popped and went golden-brown in a pan, the kind that meant someone was cooking something that would be terrible for you and perfect in every other way. Your face was pressed into a pillow, the sheets were tangled around your bare legs, and the space beside you on the mattress was empty but still warm. The amber lamp had been turned off at some point during the night and replaced by the grey-white morning light filtering through the curtains, and you lay there for a long, suspended moment with your eyes closed and your cheek against the pillowcase, breathing in, breathing out, letting the reality of the night before settle over you like a second skin.

Then the smell of butter intensified, and your stomach growled loud enough that it echoed off the headboard, and you opened your eyes.

The bedroom was soft in the morning light, quieter and less cinematic than it had been in the amber glow of the lamp, but somehow more real for it. The chair in the corner where it had all started was just a chair again. The bed was just a bed, albeit one with rumpled sheets and the clear evidence of two people who had spent the night learning each other in ways that went far beyond the physical. Your clothes, his clothes, the grey hoodie and the red plaid boxers, were folded neatly on the nightstand, and next to them was a fresh glass of water, two Advil, and a small sticky note with handwriting that made your chest ache:

Eyepatch for the puffy eyes is in the bathroom cabinet. Left side, second shelf. Take the pills. Come find me when you're ready ❤︎

You took the pills. You found the eyepatch, which turned out to be under-eye gel patches, not a pirate costume, and you pressed them under your eyes and stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror and looked exactly like what you were: a girl who had cried in the rain, confessed her love, had incredible sex, and slept in the bed of the boy who loved her back, in that order. The gel patches were cold, soothing, and you left them on while you pulled the hoodie over your head and stepped into the boxers and padded barefoot down the hallway toward the smell of butter and the sound of something sizzling.

Jay was at the stove.

He was shirtless, still in his sweats, his hair doing that thing it did in the mornings where it stuck up in the back at an angle that defied physics and dignity in equal measure, and he was holding a spatula and frowning at a pan with the concentrated intensity of someone performing neurosurgery rather than making a sandwich. The kitchen was warm and golden with natural light, and the butter was crackling, and there were two plates on the counter and a pot of tomato soup simmering on the back burner, and the scene was so unexpectedly, devastatingly domestic that you stopped in the hallway entrance and pressed your palm flat against your sternum as if you could physically hold your heart in place.

He hadn't seen you yet. He was focused on the sandwich, lifting the edge with the spatula to check the browning on the bottom, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like come on, come on, don't burn, don't you dare, and the tenderness of it, the sight of this boy, the one the entire campus tripped over themselves to get close to, standing shirtless in his kitchen at ten in the morning carefully monitoring a grilled cheese sandwich as if it were the most important task he'd ever undertaken, made something bloom in your chest so suddenly and so fully that you were moving before you decided to move.

You crossed the kitchen in five quick steps on your bare feet, rose up on your tip-toes, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

He was actually startled, the spatula jerking, his shoulder jumping, a small whoa escaping him, and then he turned his head and saw you and the startled expression dissolved into something so warm, so open, so unguardedly happy that you rose up on your tip-toes again and kissed him properly, on the mouth, soft, slow, tasting like nothing at all except morning and him and the quiet, unbelievable joy of getting to do this.

"Hi," you said against his lips.

"Hi," he said back, and he was smiling, you could feel it, the curve of his mouth against yours, and his free hand, the one not holding the spatula, came to rest on your hip over the hoodie, his thumb tracing a small, absent circle against the fabric. "You slept late."

"You wore me out," you said, and the words came out without thinking, and then the meaning of them caught up with you and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks, and Jay's smile widened against your mouth and he pressed another kiss to the corner of your lips and said, "Nice," with such quiet, satisfied certainty that you had to bury your face in his bare shoulder to hide the fact that you were grinning like an idiot.

He finished the grilled cheese, two of them, golden, crispy, and oozing cheese from the edges, cut diagonally because, as he informed you when you raised an eyebrow, "diagonal is the correct cut, this isn't a negotiation,” and poured the tomato soup into two mugs, and you carried everything to the couch and settled into the cushions with your legs folded beneath you. The hoodie pooled around your thighs, the warm mug between your palms, and Jay sat close enough that your knees overlapped and his arm rested along the back of the couch behind you, not quite around you but undeniably there, a warm, steady presence that made the couch feel smaller and safer and more like home than any piece of furniture had a right to.

You ate. The sandwich was perfect — buttery, crunchy, the cheese pulling in long strings when you bit into it, the soup warm and rich and exactly the right thing for a morning when your body was sore in unfamiliar places, your eyes were still slightly swollen, and your heart was so full it felt like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. Jay ate his sandwich in three bites, which was both impressive and horrifying, and then he stole one of your untouched halves and ate that too, and you let him because you were too full, too content, and too busy watching the way the morning light caught the line of his jaw to summon the energy for indignation.

The TV was on but the volume was low, some morning show neither of you were watching, and Jay picked up the remote and navigated to Netflix and handed you the remote with a look that said your pick, and you scrolled. You scrolled through the usual suspects, the true crime documentaries you'd been meaning to watch, the romantic comedy that kept appearing in your recommendations with an algorithmic stubbornness that felt almost personal, the K-drama Jay pretended not to be interested in but always watched over your shoulder when you put it on, the nature documentary with the dramatic voiceover, the animated series, the cooking competition, the vintage sitcom, the new release with the ominous thumbnail, and the sheer, absurd abundance of it, the endless scroll of options that you'd never have time to watch, became its own form of entertainment, the two of you debating the merits of each option with the lazy, low-stakes passion of people who had nowhere to be and no one to impress and all the time in the world to decide.

You'd narrowed it down to three candidates when Jay's phone buzzed.

The sound was sharp and specific, the particular vibration pattern he'd set for family messages, and it cut through the comfortable haze of the morning like a pin through a soap bubble. Jay reached for the phone on the coffee table, swiped it open, and you watched his expression change, the easy, post-sleep warmth in his eyes sharpening into something more focused, his brow furrowing as he read, his jaw setting in a way you'd come to recognize as his tell for something he didn't want to deal with.

"Oh my god, you have to be kidding me," he muttered, and there was a note in his voice — not anger, exactly, but something adjacent to it, the exasperation of a person who'd just been handed an obligation he hadn't asked for and couldn't refuse.

"What's wrong?" You lowered the remote, the Netflix menu forgotten, the three candidate movies suddenly the least important thing in the world.

He turned the screen toward you.

The message was from his mother — you recognized the contact name, the formal Mom with no emoji, no affectionate modifier, just the word itself, clean and unadorned, the way Jay said she preferred most things. The text read:

Mom [10:49 AM]: Jongseong, bring Y/N to the summer estate in two weeks time. Your uncle can't make it this weekend.

And then, directly beneath it, as if the first sentence were merely logistical preamble to the real point:

Mom [10:49 AM]: If you're so serious about her, it's time the entire family met her.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 : @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @willothewispbf @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina @fialtorelle @slutforaz @adoreade | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙

🎹 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ഒ i like me better by lauv

𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : hi again hoonguin nation !!! unfortunately i did grow attached to this fic somewhere along the way & there are still so so so many things i have yet to put 🙁 no i didn’t put them here because too much would’ve been happening already . . there’ll definitely be a part two soon because i don’t leave you guys hanging 😘

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

[janiary]

ERROR ⁴⁰⁴ : 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍

pairing — gamer!sunghoon x fem!reader

summary — Sunghoon is good at exactly two things: gaming and being ridiculously, unbelievably hot. Nothing matters to him more than leading the school's esports team to victory at regionals this year, but a certain summer course is getting in the way of all his practice time. Luckily, he thinks he's found himself the cheat code to an easy A and a clear schedule: you, a project partner so easily flustered by his presence that you'll happily take on all the work.

18+ mdni ⚠︎ smut with plot, humour, very mild angst, college au, slowburn, sunghoon pov, in which his face card is the only thing saving him, valorant, e-sports, gaming terms used, toxic gaming culture, emotional manipulation, morally grey characters, misogynistic themes & language, extremely possessive!sunghoon, objectification, sex as an apology, corruption kink, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, dom!Hoon, verbal consent, size kink, big dick hoon (couldn't help myself sorry), big dick=big ego, begging, multiple smut scenes, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, handjobs, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (pull-out method), oral (f receiving), rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, scratching, slapping, spanking, heavy praise kink, light degradation, please guys do not lose your virginity like this FEAT. hyung line as roomies

wc — 30.7k

a/n — ah, what a treat it was to return to my comp sci major sunghoon roots. i love writing about losers and uh... i kinda went insane with this one. this is inspired by a comment left by @m-hypen on my other fic ♡ takes place in the same au but this is entirely a standalone. i might make more for the rest of the hyung line eventually? but we’ll see. happy reading!

"Sunghoon!"

Headshot, headshot, assist—that's all that's being processed when the front door bursts open hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans on Sunghoon's desk. He doesn't blink, even as one of them falls over, rolling around on the floor. He doesn't even stop to think about the remaining drop left in the can that's probably leaking onto the carpet somewhere.

"Sunghoon, get your ass out here!"

He's in game mode, and nobody stops him when he's like that. Not even his roommates, whose approaching footsteps he fails to register. The only thing that matters is the screen in front of him as he lines up his next shot, just waiting for the remaining enemy teammate to peek around the corner. His prey is right there. Right behind that wall. All they have to do is walk into his trap.

Just peek already, you little pussy bitch—

"Sunghoon!"

He yelps when a hand clamps on his shoulder. His arm jerks, aim twitching, and the enemy peeks at that very moment, landing a clean headshot on him. His teammates start cursing at him in the voice chat. A lovely, overlapping chorus of "kill yourself" and "delete the game" as if he hadn't carried them for the past two rounds.

Sunghoon mutes the mic and pulls his headphones down around his neck, glaring behind him at Heeseung, who is practically dragging him up from his seat. He tries to yank his arm away, but then another pair of hands is hauling him out of his seat. He directs his glare back at Jay.

"What the f—"

"Don't act surprised. I literally told you we needed your help an hour ago. It's your fault for queueing a ranked game," Jay states, patting his shoulder. Sunghoon is now on his feet, blinking at him. Annoyed, but... ultimately unable to argue back, given he had ignored all his texts.

"Can't you just get Jake or something?" He mutters.

Jay is already leaving his bedroom, and Heeseung nudges him forward, forcing him to follow. Sunghoon rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. He moves with begrudging footsteps out into the hallway.

"It's a four-man job. Turns out my grandma's coffee table is heavy as shit."

"Your grandma's coffee table...?"

He's not exaggerating. The thing is solid oak—masterfully crafted, intricately carved, and so extremely fucking heavy that by the time they've wrestled it through the front door, all four of them go down, collapsing to the couch. Jake, already muttering something about needing a drink, Heeseung describing his physical decline in real time, and Jay, heaving in silence.

Sunghoon sinks into the cushions, and his vision blurs, wondering which is more to blame for it: the summer heat or the fact that he's been skipping the gym to play ranked and living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks. His headset is still around his neck, and he can hear his teammates losing without him. He doesn't care. He can't feel his arms.

"Fuck, I'm gonna feel that in my back for weeks," Heeseung announces to the ceiling, then his head lifts, "but look at that—really ties the place together, right?"

He gestures to the room. Sunghoon's eyes glaze over the sight. Bare white walls, curtainless windows, a TV that sits directly on the floor, and a trash bag in the corner full of takeout containers and red solo cups—and of course, now, the beautiful table, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the room's college-boy barrenness.

"We've lived here a whole year now," Sunghoon starts between breaths, not enough energy in him to glare at his roommates. "Not once has any one of us said, 'Oh no, where will I put my cup of coffee?'"

"Who says we have to use it for coffee?"

He blinks. He doesn't know when Jake left the room, but he's now returning with a six-pack of beer, setting it down on the new table. He cracks one open immediately, settling next to him on the couch.

"My grandma's downsizing." Jay reaches forward, patting the table's surface with genuine affection. "She gave it to us for free. You don't say no to a free coffee table."

"Well, it looks stupid." Sunghoon folds his arms, "Really helps the whole we have nothing aesthetic."

"Come on. We're adults now." Heeseung perks up, "Adults have coffee tables. It's about presentation. Besides, I heard chicks dig it. Something about owning real furniture and bed frames just does it for them."

"None of us are bringing girls home," Sunghoon starts, looking at each of them. He sees Jake's mouth open to protest, "And no, your weird situationship does not count."

"Maybe that's 'cause we didn't have a coffee table before," Jay shrugs.

"Yeah, tell the ladies all about your grandma's furniture. I'm sure they'll start lining up the block."

Sunghoon feels a headache starting behind his left eye, and when he hears the game end through his headset at his shoulders, he rips the device from his neck, shoving it to the cushion at his side.

"Shitty ass game," He mutters.

A sweat had gathered at his brow, and he now moves to wipe it as he's reaching for a beer, cracking it open and taking a large gulp like it's water.

"Rough match?"

"Nah. Would've been an easy match," Sunghoon replies, groaning, "Just stressed. Coach has been pressuring me, plus there's that stupid course I have to retake this semester."

"Tough life being Captain of the E-sports team, huh?" Heeseung jokes, "Or what is it you were called that one time? The school's biggest virgin?"

Captain of the E-sports team. A title Heeseung delivers like a punchline. Most people do. Sunghoon, on the other hand, wears it with pride, and had long since stopped trying to explain himself—both the fact that being the best player in the whole school is a legitimate accomplishment, and the fact that he is not a virgin. Effectively explaining either of those things would require Heeseung to actually care, which he doesn't.

Sunghoon had spent his whole life refining his skills for that sort of recognition. He shoots with precision and wins. He reads his opponents to filth, predicting their every move, and annihilates them with ease. He plays Valorant at a level that makes his teammates worship him like a god, and the enemy team start inventing new slurs to type in the chat. That is to say, he was very, very good at it. And very serious about it.

It's precisely why he doesn't have time for moving coffee tables. Or sitting around like this. Or—

His phone buzzes.

His is summer course. Right. The one he'd failed last semester, that his academic advisor had gently but firmly informed him he needed to retake if he wanted to graduate on time. He'd registered for it in a fog of dismissive irritation back in March, figuring it would be easy enough. And then the syllabus had dropped with the word group project, and he'd been assigned a project partner who had emailed him four times before the first week of classes had even ended, asking about meeting up weeks before the deliverable due dates.

He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the feed of missed notifications from you: One shared document link, more than a couple missed messages, and—he squints—a voice memo. Who the fuck sends voice memos about code?

"Is that the project partner you keep complaining about?" Heeseung leans over his shoulder, snatching the phone away, "She sends voice memos. How adorable. Don't tell me you're ignoring those?"

"Give it back."

He doesn't; instead, he hits play, raising the volume to the max so the whole room can hear it.

"Hey, Sunghoon. How are you? Um... I'm here at the library now. I know we agreed to meet at three o'clock, but I got here a little early," he hears you laugh a bit nervously through the speaker. You have one of those that's just a little too sweet, a little too apologetic for no reason in particular. "I booked a study room, so text me when you're here. And... that's all for now. Bye, Sunghoon."

The boys sit there in silence. Glaring in disbelief at their friend.

"Oh my god," Heeseung groans, "Sweet Jesus, your partner sounds like this, and you've been ignoring her?"

Jay snatched the phone, glaring at it, then glaring at Sunghoon, "She sounds like an angel. What the fuck is wrong with you? Like, medically. What kind of mental illness does a guy have to have to end up like this?"

"That's the long-term psychological damage of being a Valorant player," Jake scoffs, and Sunghoon rolls his eyes.

"Play it again," Heeseung demands, and Jay rewinds it a bit, just to hear the breathing and that nervous little laugh through the speaker, a smile forming on his lips, "Is she cute? She sounds cute. She's got the voice. You know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they could—"

"I don't know. I haven't even met her—yet." Sunghoon snatches the device back, "She's annoying. She sends like twenty messages a day."

"Twenty messages a day," Heeseung looks at him, "From a girl who sounds like she whimpers when she's nervous. You know what I'd do with twenty messages a day? I'd be jacking off to the typing indicators."

"That's disgusting. Keep that shit to yourself."

"What's disgusting is you having a girl sending you personalized audio content, saying your name like that, and choosing to ignore it."

"Bet he's got it all in a folder somewhere," Jay snorts, "Keeps it hidden away, playing on loop while he queues ranked. Jacks off between rounds."

"I've never even listened to any of these," Sunghoon says flatly, "She sends so many. Seriously. She's like an organized freak. The kind who start projects early and shit."

"Oh, so she's one of those girls?" Jake grins, "super nervous, apologizes for nothing... You know the type?"

"I don't." Sunghoon deadpans, feeling like his friend is about to start describing a porno category rather than an actual person, given the smirk on his face.

"The type that acts all innocent and sweet on the surface," Heeseung nudges him, "you know what they say about them, right? That they're total freaks in bed. Shit, if a girl like that booked me a study room I'd—"

"Actually finish your degree and graduate?" Jake offers.

"I'd graduate with honours."

"She's probably been waiting in the library for how long, now?" Jay shakes his head, "She got there early. Early. She's probably sitting there with her little notes and highlighters and her 'bye Sunghoon' voice, checking her phone every thirty seconds, and you're here drinking beer and complaining."

Today. The meeting was today. He checks the time—forty minutes ago.

"Shit," Sunghoon's on his feet, sprinting towards his room, "Shit, shit, shit."

He starts digging around for his backpack in his room, under piles of laundry, and nearly trips on the can he forgot to pick up on his floor.

"Guys, the library!" he calls out in a panic, "I'm supposed to be at the library. I need a ride. Now. Jay?" "Not my problem." "Jake?" "Nope."

Sunghoon grabs his bag and stumbles back to the living room, bracing himself against the doorframe. Heeseung is already looking at him with that slow, insufferable smile, sprawled on the couch like he's been waiting for this exact moment.

"I dunno," Heeseung says, stretching his arms over his head with a theatrical groan. "I'm feeling pretty tired. That table was heavy." "I helped." "You complained the whole time." "I did not—" "And you kept voice memos hidden from me. From all of us. That's a betrayal of household trust." "I didn't hide anything. You're just a nosy degenerate." Sunghoon's grip tightens on the doorframe. "Are you driving me or not?" "Hm." Heeseung taps his chin. "Maybe if you ask me nicely..." Sunghoon takes a breath. Swallows his pride. "Heeseung." He says through gritted teeth, "Can you please drive me?" "Ah, I like the sound of that." Heeseung pushes off the couch and brushes past him with infuriating slowness. "Fine. But you owe me. I wanna hear more of cute-girl's voice notes, so be nice to her." "Okay. Whatever, you fucking pervert." Sunghoon scoffs, watching him snag his keys off the hook by the door. "Just drive."

The library's fairly empty. It's expected, given it's the middle of summer on a weekend, but it's still jarring as ever to walk past empty tables where people would go to war to get a spot during finals season. And, for the first time in a while, he's thankful to be in an air-conditioned building.

"Hi Sunghoon!" you greet him as soon as he enters the room, seemingly startled by the suddenness of his arrival. He watches you for a moment, how your back straightens, and your immediate, almost rehearsed smile.

She's got the voice. Heeseung's words ring in his mind as he takes you in, you know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they could—

"Hi," he answers, slipping into the seat next to you, "Sorry for making you wait. Roommate stuff. Had to move a coffee table. Very adult."

You laugh a little too quickly, and he notes the way your hands tremble in your lap. He also notes the way you refuse to meet his eyes.

"That's okay," you glance towards your phone, which was still face-up with its messages open. You fumble with it, tucking it away. "I was just worried maybe, like, you got lost or something."

Lost? He has to resist the urge to scoff. He's late, and instead of being upset, you decided to make up lousy excuses for him. He looks you up and down again. You're cute, like you sounded over the phone. A nervous-looking mess. The type of thing his roommates would call endearing. Sunghoon, on the other hand, finds it frustratingly pathetic.

"So." You're already turning your laptop to face him, "I've been working on the backend structure. I commented everything, so it should be pretty straightforward. Here's the API setup, and the database schema..."

You click through files as you talk, your voice picking up speed, and he doesn't listen. He tries to. He swears, he does. But his eyes instead follow your posture, and how you sit uptight, spine straight. Your hands fumble around, twitching like you can't keep them still, and your knees bounce under the desk like a nervous habit.

Good god, you look like you'll crumble to pieces any moment. He can feel a headache creeping up on him already. It's exhausting just looking at you.

"...What do you think?"

"Huh?" He blinks, taking in whatever you're pointing to on your screen. You're looking at him all bright-eyed and earnest, as if his opinion would add any sort of valuable insight here. "I... think it looks good. You did well."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean," he shrugs, "Why do you sound so surprised?"

His question catches you off guard. He suspected it would, that's why he asked it. Not that he was trying to prod around in your anxious little head. Just that you seemed predictable. Now he knows you are.

"I just..." You're tapping the desk now. "I wanted it to be up to your standards. I didn't want to disappoint you."

"My standards?" He repeats. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. Not at you—well, maybe a little at you. But mostly at the absurdity of the most competent person in the room, asking for his approval. "You're something else, you know that?"

You blink. "What does that—?"

"Here," He's still smiling. The headache from earlier has faded. He's not sure when. "Let me show you what you're working with."

He opens his laptop and spins it toward you. His frontend code sits there in all its tragic glory—bare bones, placeholder text, a CSS file with plenty of questionable styling decisions. Your take it all in, and for a split second, you forget to hide the horrified expression on your face.

"See? Trash. Actual garbage. I don't even show up to class. I'm not the guy whose 'standards' you should be worried about. Besides..." He leans back. "You're probably the best student in the whole class."

"I'm sure I'm not," you say, almost bashful, brushing it off as if it were a compliment. It wasn't. He was stating a fact. But you're too self-deprecating to know the difference, he supposes. "And your code isn't trash—"

"It is. We both know it's ass. You don't have to be polite."

"It's... disorganized. And a little rushed..." You hesitate, "Were you busy with something—?"

"Oh my god, you have no idea," he tilts his head back, a sigh of frustration leaving him almost immediately. "Regionals. Scrims every night. Coach breathing down my neck. I'm pretty sure I heard someone call for a flank in my dream last night, and I don't even think I was asleep. Or maybe that was just my roommates fucking with me again..."

You nod along as if you understand, though you definitely don't. You probably don't even know what half those words mean, but you're listening, and for some reason, that's less annoying than it was ten minutes ago.

"Anyway. I know it's rough. But like I said. Don't worry your head over anything else. I'll get to it, I swear."

"I'm not worried. I trust you. We still have another week, so it's not like it's last-minute. We just need to clean up some things here," You nod sweetly, then angle the screen toward him and lean in, your shoulder nearly brushing his. "The class labelling in the HTML is messing with the CSS styling. If you restructure the divs here, it should resolve most of the layout issues. And then here..."

You start explaining—specificity, nesting, the cascade. Your voice is steady now, in your element. You point at the screen with a capped highlighter like a tiny lecturer. He catches maybe sixty percent of it.

What he catches more of is your instinctive forgiveness. He shows up an hour late with half-done work that looks like a middle schooler's first project, and you're already pivoting to reassurance mode. It's okay. It's a good start. We can fix it. It's spineless. A little sad, honestly. It's also nice. You're a nice person. No bite, no sarcasm, no passive-aggressiveness, just pure, unearned kindness.

He sighs, leaning back in his chair, settling in as you continue. He makes himself comfortable as best he can in his plastic library chair, and subconsciously, his legs spread, his knee drifting outward until it presses against yours under the table.

It wasn't intentional, and he's about to mutter a quick apology and draw his leg back, but then you pause completely. Your mouth is still half-open around whatever you were about to say, but nothing comes out. Your eyes drop to the table. Your fingers freeze over the trackpad.

He notices. He absolutely notices all of it. The way you swallow, the way your lip trembles trying to find your next word, the way you glance at him from the side in a panic, checking to see his reaction. She gets flustered when I touch her, he thinks, filing the thought away like data, interesting. He doesn't move his knee. Doesn't say anything or make any sort of face. He just watches you scramble, suddenly feeling a lot less bored than he'd felt a few seconds ago.

"I—" You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "Sorry, what was I—the bullet points. Right. I'll email you."

You clear your throat. Find your place in your notes again, though your hands are fumbling slightly, your crisp efficiency gone. You're scrambling to recover, to be useful again, to reassert the order you're using as a crutch.

"Anyway," you manage, "That's everything from my end. We're in good shape."

You're already packing up. The laptop closed with a decisive click. Highlighters swept into your bag in a single motion. Notebook stacked on top. The organized girl, reassembling her armour. Trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn't happen.

"You in a hurry?" He has to hold back a teasing grin as you scramble for your words. "No! I mean—yeah. Just. Gotta go, so... yeah. See you next week. Or something." "Yeah. Or something."

He doesn't move. He's thinking about the bus. The long, slow route across campus. The forty-minute wait. Maybe Jay will pick up if he calls. Maybe Heeseung will text him something unhelpful, like walk it builds character.

You're standing, bag over your shoulder, then you pause, noticing he hasn't gotten up. "You're staying?"

"Hm? Just deciding if I want to beg my roommates for a ride, or suck it up and take the bus."

"Oh..." you adjust the strap of your bag, watching him thoughtfully. Your hand is already at the door, ready to go. But you don't. Your mouth hangs open slightly, hesitating on your next word. "Do you maybe want a ride? I have my car. If you want."

He looks at you. Still shrinking yourself. Still avoiding direct eye contact. And you're offering him a ride he didn't ask for. You're offering favours for him—a stranger you don't know. He files that fact away, too.

"Yeah." He stands, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "A ride would be great, actually."

You smile like he's the one doing you a favour, and he smiles back. Not for the same reason. Just because he's feeling really fucking lucky that his project partner is this nice to him.

What a stupid, stupid idea. Really, what on earth were you thinking? Having him, of all people, in your car? In your passenger seat?

Park Sunghoon. You'd read the name about a hundred times in email threads and shared documents. Now that same man is here, in your car, looking out the window with his jawline catching the late afternoon light like it's trying to blind you. Your blood pressure is rising by the second, trying to keep your focus on the road, while your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.

Admittedly, you were annoyed at first. You'd spend an hour in the library, checking your phone, re-reading the room booking confirmation, composing and deleting increasingly pathetic messages. Hey, just checking in! No rush!

You even practiced in your head the polite-but-firm speech you'd planned to deliver. It's a new thing you've been trying to do where you don't let people walk all over you—where you set boundaries and explain that your time is valuable. Then he'd walked in.

To call him hot would be an understatement. That man right there is not simply hot. Hot is a word for attractive people who still seem human. Sunghoon, on the other hand, looks like someone photoshopped a male model into your web programming course as a prank.

His hair is dark and slightly messy, like he just rolled out of bed and somehow falls perfectly into place. His jawline, so sharp it could kill you, and when he flashed that dimpled smile at you—that lazy, unbothered, gorgeous smile—your brain had performed a full system shutdown.

You don't offer people rides. You don't even like having your friends in your car. You get stressed by the thought of someone else in your space, watching you drive, listening to your playlist. And now he's in the passenger seat of your car, looking so gorgeous that you're wondering if he's even real, and you're freaking the fuck out. His knee bounces idly as he stares out the window, and your eyes snag on the movement—the way his hand, large and sprawled out, rests loose on his knee. You snap your gaze back to the road.

Deep breaths, you tell yourself, sparing him another glance from the corner of your eye. Stop thinking about weird stuff. Stop being weird. Just make conversation or something.

"So," you manage, and the fact that you manage to say it while sounding almost normal is a small victory. "You said you were busy? With, like, a summer internship or something?"

"Nah." He's still looking out the window, nodding his head slowly to the music. You don't even know what song you have playing. The sound of your own thoughts is too loud for you to notice, but a warmth floods your cheeks at the mere idea that he's enjoying your music. "E-sports. I'm on the school team. We've got regionals coming up."

You blink.

E-sports. You suppose it makes sense. He is in computer science, like you. Most guys in your program are into the whole video gaming thing. It's just hard to imagine him as one of them.

You try to picture it in your head: The E-sports team. A group of socially awkward loners who sit in darkened rooms with headsets, shouting at each other. And then there’s Sunghoon who, beneath the old hoodie and messy hair, looks like he's one photoshoot away from a skincare campaign.

"That's—" You search for the right word. "Cool. I didn't realize the school had an E-sports team."

"Most people don't." He shrugs, glancing over at you. "It's not exactly a spectator sport. But we're good. Made regionals last season. Coach says if we podium this year, we might actually get real funding."

He says it less with arrogance, and more in that matter-of-fact tone he seems to always have. There's something about the way he doesn't perform humility or pride, how he states his truth and moves on. It seems easy. You admire that. You also find it deeply unfair that his voice is making you feel all sorts of things while he's just... talking.

"What game?" you ask.

"Valorant. The shooter. With the agents and the abilities?" He glances at you. "You've heard of it?"

"Oh! My younger cousin plays." You think back, laughing a little at the recollection of the time he made you download it to your laptop. "I'm terrible at it. Like, genuinely embarrassingly bad. I panic and shoot at the floor."

He laughs. It's a real laugh, short and surprised, and a heat creeps to your cheeks. "Everyone's bad at first. It's all just practice."

"Right. Practice." You're smiling now, "I'll add it to my schedule. Between the project and avoiding my parents' calls."

"Your parents?"

"Strict. They mean well, but..." You shake your head, letting your words trail off.

You feel the weight of his stare, a soft hum leaving his lips. The intersection ahead goes yellow. You slow to a stop, grateful for the excuse to look away from him.

"So." You pivot, "E-sports. You must be practicing a lot then, right?"

"It's a lot of pressure," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly. Less casual. His brows scrunch together, and he's looking out the window again, passing streetlights catching the angles of his sharp, beautiful profile. "Coach says if we don't podium, our funding might get cut. Again. So I've been practicing nonstop. Scrims every night. VOD reviews."

Scrims. VOD reviews. Words that do not exist in your vocabulary, but you nod your head along like you understand. You think you get the idea, anyway.

"And then there's this course." He gestures vaguely at you, at the car, at everything. "This bullshit that I have to retake it."

"You failed web programming?"

"I was carrying the team through the playoffs. Sacrificed my homework for practice." He rubs the back of his neck, and your eyes track the shift of his shoulder, the way his fingers press into the muscle there, the brief glimpse of his collarbone where his hoodie shifts. You look away before he catches you staring. "Didn't think I'd end up failing, but. Here we are."

You think about his half-finished frontend. The skeleton components. The CSS file, full of god knows what. He'd shown it to you with the sheepish shrug of someone who knew exactly how bad it was and hated it. He hadn't tried to convince you it was better than it looked.

"But it's okay. It's worth it to make it to regionals." He's smiling to himself, "I'll fucking destroy those losers. They won't know what hit them."

You laugh, but he doesn't. You realize it's not a joke very quickly, and so you clear your throat instead.

"And I'll get my work done, of course," he tips his head towards you, his posture shifting. "Can't guarantee my portion will be as good as yours. But you can blame it on me in the group review doc."

"I'm sure you'll do great," you hear yourself say. "Not just the project. The tournament, too."

He turns to look at you. The late afternoon light catches the side of his face, and you have to force your eyes back to the road.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You clear your throat. "I mean, I don't know anything about E-sports. But you're the captain, right?"

"Yeah."

"So you must be good. Like, actually good."

He doesn't answer right away. When you glance over, he's not looking at the road—he's looking at you, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to figure you out.

"I am. I'm the best player on the team." He says it with that matter-of-fact tone again.

You pull up to his place. It's a student housing unit—one of those rundown ones that nobody cares about enough to fix up. Someone inside is yelling, the way guys yell when they're playing video games. You shift into park.

"Thanks," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "For the ride. And for... You know. Not being pissed about the code. Or the being late thing."

"It's fine," you smile. "Really. Don't worry about it."

He pauses with his hand on the door. Looks at you. There's something in his expression you can't read, the hint of a smile that you think might be lazy amusement, though you're not sure what he's amused by. He stops. Shakes his head slightly. "See you soon?"

"Yeah! I'll send the invite. And the notes."

He smiles. That damn smile. And then he's gone, walking up the path to his door, and you're sitting in your parked car with your heart doing something stupid in your chest. You watch him disappear inside. You're warm all over, and there's no good reason for it either. All he did was sit there and talk to you like a normal person, and yet you're here, feeling a deeply humiliating sort of heat forming in your lower stomach the more you think about it.

Through the front window, you can see movement—someone on a couch, the blue glow of a TV. His roommates, probably. You wonder if he'll tell them about you. You wonder if they even know you exist. Then you realize you're still parked outside his apartment, staring at his front door like a creep, and you pull away from the curb.

You have to drive all the way back to campus. It's a route you know by heart, familiar enough that your brain has permission to drift. And drift it does—back to the study room, the way he'd leaned back in his chair, the way his knee had pressed against yours. You'd frozen. Completely, mortifyingly frozen. You'd forgotten your own sentence and stammered through the recovery. And then he'd smiled at you in the car. And now you're smiling. You're smiling at a red light with no one else in the car, like an idiot, and you can't stop.

It's late, past two in the morning, and the place has gone quiet—Heeseung retreated to his room hours ago, Jake's been dead to the world the moment he got home from his summer job, and Jay's probably doomscrolling, given the amount of Instagram reels he keeps sending to the roommates group chat. The only light is the fridge, a dull white glow illuminating Sunghoon’s tired gaze.

Sunghoon stands in front of it, scanning the contents inside, none of it looking particularly enticing, but he just lost a ranked game, and he needs to eat his feelings. Leftover takeout. Someone's half-eaten burrito. A case of energy drinks. He grabs a container that looks decent enough—day-old noodles, probably Jay’s because nobody else in the house bothers to cook. Deciding that dealing with the aftermath of stealing his food is a problem for tomorrow, he shoves it in the microwave.

"Sup."

The floorboards creak behind him, and Sunghoon turns around to glare. Heeseung. Of course. The microwave beeps, and Sunghoon grabs the container, shoving his chopsticks around. It’s still cold in the center.

"Why do you always choose to enter the kitchen when I'm here?"

"Because we run on the same sleepless schedule," Heeseung moves to the sink, waterbottle held under the faucet and turns on the tap. His hair is a disaster, his shirt inside-out, and he watches Sunghoon eat Jay’s leftover noodles straight from the container, too lazy to comment on it. "And 'cause I wanna hear about your little library date. Was she cute?"

"Not a date."

"She drove you home. So it clearly went well." He turns off the tap and fastens the cap back on the plastic bottle. "Were you nice to her?"

"I was nice."

"You better have been. Most women would've called you a loser for being a grown ass man with no driver's license."

"Whatever."

"No, not whatever. I can't believe you." Heeseung points the water bottle at him, frowning, "I can't believe what I'm hearing. She waited an hour for you. Then she gave you a ride home.”

"I know. Real nice of her, right?"

"Too nice of her." Heeseung stares at him, watching him shove noodles into his mouth. "Jay's right. We really should do a scan of your brain. Admit you to a psych ward or some shit."

He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it. But his brain, unhelpfully, is already thinking about it. The project. He should really start working on the project. That's the thought he keeps trying to hold onto. Not because he actually wants to do it, but because of you.

You'd been kind. Genuinely kind. You'd asked about regionals like you gave a single shit. You'd nodded along while he talked about Valorant, even though you don't understand any of it. Then there was his code—his shitty ass code that he knew was trash, that you knew was trash, too. There was no lecture. No guilt trip. Not even a hint of disdain. You just showed him how to fix it. Carefully explained it, even sent him an email after with an organized bullet-point list of all the steps he needed to implement.

An angel. That's what you are. Or a doormat. It’s the same thing, in his mind. A worse person would take advantage of that, wouldn't they?

His phone buzzes on the counter: One new email. An attachment. Then a second notification—a voice memo.

Heeseung's eyes immediately drop to the screen.

"Is that her?"

"Can you not—?"

Heeseung snatches the phone. Again. Sunghoon is too tired to fight him.

"She sent you another voice memo. At 2am." Heeseung's thumb hovers over the play button. "You know what girls send voice memos at 2am for, right?"

He's grinning as he presses play, and Sunghoon digs his chopsticks further into his noodles, ignoring his crude commentary.

"Hi, Sunghoon. Um. Okay, so I was thinking about earlier—about the whole esports thing, and how stressed you seemed about the tournament? And I just... I had some extra time, so I finished up the code. It wasn’t a big deal, really. Only took a few hours.” There’s a nervous laugh, then a pause like you’d forgotten your next words, “Hopefully, this helps? So you can focus on practice and not have to worry about the project on top of everything else… yeah. Just. Let me know if you have questions. I'm always happy to help. Okay. This is getting long. Sorry. Bye, Sunghoon.”

Heeseung sets the phone down on the counter, the movement slow and careful, like he’d just handled a sacred artifact.

"Dude."

"I know."

"This is insane."

"I know."

"You've got a girl doing all your work for you. At two in the morning. Because you mentioned you were stressed about a Valorant tournament. Said she’s always happy to help."

"I said I know. She's nice. Now leave me alone."

"No, I don't think you understand. Do you even realize what this is?" Heeseung is pacing now, the kitchen too small for his indignation. "This is the literal definition of pretty privilege. You literally just sit there, and she’s doing things for you—Holy shit, it's like when Jake was doing some hot chick's homework for an entire semester 'cause he was begging for a crumb of pussy—"

"Jake was manipulated." Sunghoon sets his leftovers down. "I'm not manipulating anyone. I didn't even—I never asked for this."

"Yeah." Heeseung stops pacing and looks at him. "But you could've. That's the fucked up part. You could  ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. She'd probably bring her own detergent."

Sunghoon wants to retort that, but... You would, wouldn't you? He drags two hands down his face, sighing as his roommate's mouth continues to run.

"Life's so unfair." Heeseung throws his hands up. "I send a girl one message. One. And she leaves me on read for three days. You ignore a girl for a week, and she's doing your homework, giving you rides home, and sending you audio porn. What is wrong with the world?"

Sunghoon's looking at his phone.

He should type something. Thanks, maybe. Or sorry—sorry you’re doing his work at 2am, sorry he didn't do it himself, sorry he's probably going to keep disappointing you. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.

thanks. you didn't have to do that. Deletes it. seriously thank you. i owe you. Deletes it.

He pockets his phone and walks past Heeseung, leaving the leftovers container behind.

"Where are you going?"

"Bed."

"You're not going to respond? You're just going to leave her on read?" He half-calls out, "You're really gonna act like you're not interested at all?"

He shuts his door. Sits on the edge of his bed, the room dark except for the blue glow of his monitor in sleep mode and with a heavy sigh, he opens the voice recorder. A hand runs through his hair, and he clears his throat, feeling like an idiot. Then he presses record.

"Hey. Got your email. Thanks. You seriously didn't have to do that." A pause. He doesn't know how to end these things. Your voice memos always ended with ‘bye Sunghoon,’ all soft and hesitant-sounding, but he thinks something like that would just sound awkward in his own voice. He then realizes he’s still recording and stammers, "I'll—yeah. I'll make it up to you. Goodnight."

He hits send before he can delete it and stares at it for longer than he should. Girls like that shit, right? The whole voice memo thing. He's not sure. He just felt like you deserve a little more than a thank-you text for doing his work for him.

He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and lies back on his bed, long limbs stretched out from a long day of doing mostly nothing (apart from moving that damn coffee table). His brain, unhelpfully, drifts back to the library. The way you'd frozen when his knee touched yours. The way you'd stammered through the rest of your sentence and then offered him a ride anyway. The way you'd looked at him in the car, wide-eyed and nervous. It's been a while since he'd seen anyone look at him like that.

Not that he's inexperienced with women—unlike what his roommates' constant teasing would imply. It's a lack of interest, something he had discovered about himself in high school with his first whopping three-month-long relationship. He'd gotten bored of her in the first month, and when she asked him to choose “me, or your stupid game,” it really wasn’t a difficult choice to make.

Then there was the odd fling here and there in his first year of college. Again, never lasted long. He didn't have the time or energy to commit. In his defence, he was upfront about his intentions. It's not his fault they never listened.

He stopped bothering after that. Girls are drama. They get clingy and weird. They pout and whine over not getting enough attention, trying to drag him away from his game. That shit is annoying. And he doesn't put up with annoying shit.

A part of him wonders if you'd be the same. You're cute, but insecure. The type to get attached too quickly, he'd assume. But you also listened when he talked about his game. You did his code so he could practice more and asked for nothing in return. That's maybe the most supportive any woman has ever been of his future E-sports career.

You could probably ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. He scoffs at Heeseung's voice in his head. Then, a much crueller thought enters his mind: I could probably get her to do the whole project, too.

It's sharp and invasive—so much so that he's rolling over with a groan, burying his face into the pillows. Sunghoon's a lot of things. A shitty project partner being somewhere near the top of that list, but he is not a freeloading whore. He'll be grateful and move on. He'll do his work, he'll win regionals, and when the semester is done, he'll never see your face again.

Sunghoon did not, in fact, do his work.

He tried to—if opening up an empty file and staring at it for five minutes before queuing another ranked Valorant game counts as trying.

Bless your heart, you even sent him reminders. Texts of encouragement with little smiley faces, offers to help, to which he replied with empty promises. Don't worry, I'm working on it tomorrow. I've got it. All good.

All of that, until he woke up the next week with a calendar notification:

deliverable 2 meeting today

It's a weekday, which means Jay took his car to work. Which means he has to take the bus to the library. Which means he won't have time to string something together at the last minute for when he's supposed to meet you.

Sunghoon: can we meet at my place? Sunghoon: got no ride today You: sure :)

He grins at the text. Perfect. That's perfect. All he has to do is sit down, write some bullshit, and hope that you offer to fix it—which he's sure you will. You're nice like that. You're understanding.

But then he's at his computer, and he's looking at the Valorant icon in the corner of his home screen. And then he's queuing another game. Then another. And another... and— The doorbell rings.

Hours. He'd just spent hours playing instead of doing his work like a fucking idiot. And now he's in the middle of a ranked game, clutching up another round.

"Heeseung!" He yells, "Get the door!"

No response. Of course, there's no response.

Luckily, the last remaining enemy peeks, and he finishes the round with another win. With that, he's sprinting to the door. Swings it wide open. A wave of muggy outdoor air hits him, the summer sun beaming down, and you're there smiling slightly, hands gripping the strap of your bag. He doesn't have time to process you.

"Come in," he gestures, sprinting back towards his room. He calls out over his shoulder, "Sorry, I'm in a game. Ranked. Can't leave. Make yourself at home." He's sliding back into his seat, and your footsteps follow tentatively behind him.

“Ranked?”

“Like, if I leave, I’ll be penalized and lose ranked points.”

“Ah.”

You stand behind him, a polite distance away, still gripping your bag. You shift your weight where you stand, squinting at the screen.

"I'll be done soon, don't worry. These guys are easy."

"Okay..." You sound a little confused, leaning over his shoulder, watching him move through the map.

Somehow, the feeling of your eyes on him as he plays feels like a power boost. And something in him feels the urge to show off just a little bit. You watch him easily take out two enemies with precision, and he smiles, cockily.

"Told you. Easy."

A voice perks up in the lobby chat. The enemy team. "Reported for aimbotting. This is fucking bullshit."

Sunghoon presses the button on his mic to talk, "Nah. I'm just better."

The voice on the other end proceeds to start cussing him out, mouth close enough to the mic that it cuts out every few words, calling him every slur and cuss word under the sun and from the corner of his eye, he sees your face drop in horror. He mutes himself for a second.

"It's just trash talk. Don't worry. Happens all the time."

"All the time?"

“Gaming culture. It’s not for the weak.”

He gets another headshot, and another voice joins in, "Yo, asshole, how does it feel being a basement-dwelling, virgin?"

"Wouldn't know.” Sunghoon quickly unmutes again, firing back, “Why don't you tell me about it?"

A third voice, "Don't bother with him. This guy probably jerks off to his own highlight clips. I guarantee he's never felt the touch of a woman."

Sunghoon's about to respond, but then you're leaning forward in one confident stride.

"Oh? You guarantee that?"

The mic picks up your voice loud and clear, and the lobby explodes. Both the enemy team and his own.

"NO WAY."

“WHO IS THAT?"

"Bro has a whole woman in his room, and he's playing Valorant right now."

"She sounds hot as fuck."

"Dude, I'll forfeit if you get her to moan in the mic."

"Can we get a whimper if we win the next round?" His teammate says.

“Fuck off,” He says immediately, glancing over at you. You’re shifting your weight, your arms around yourself, looking incredibly embarrassed, but you’re grinning proudly. He grins right back, unable to resist the urge to rub this moment in on every other loser in the lobby. “She’s a little busy under the desk right now.” Your eyes go wide at the implication, and the voice chat explodes.

“WHAT THE FUCK DOES HE MEAN BY—”

The whole lobby talks over each other, and when he gets his final shot, VICTORY printed across his screen, he leans back in his chair.

"Anyway, she’s waiting for me," He glances over at you, his voice terribly smug, and you visibly embarrassed. "Later incels."

The post-game stats load, and finally, there is silence in his headset. He lets it fall to his neck, still grinning.

"Sorry." You start, "I didn't mean to—"

"Sorry?" He raises a brow, "Sorry for what? That was badass. You just destroyed them. Now those guys have to cope with losing and being bitchless. They're gonna be crying over it for the next year, at least."

"Well... good. They deserve it." You say a little proudly, watching him report the guy who called him slurs for bullying. "I don't understand. How can people get so mad over a game?"

"Sore losers," he says simply, "they're mad because they're bad."

"Or they're mad because you're really good," you offer a smile, "I didn't see you miss a single shot. How is that possible?"

He opens his mouth to answer, but the words don't come. Instead, he’s blinking, really taking you in for a moment, because if his eyes don’t deceive him, you actually seem… impressed. Genuine admiration. The kind he only gets from his teammates and other losers in game.

"Practice," he starts, letting his gaze drop, taking you in. The skirt that rides up your thighs, your hands clasped in your lap, and those wide, attentive eyes of yours. "Years of aim training. Game sense. Good instincts."

Something stirs in him, and suddenly he’s thinking about how good you’d look underneath him, making that same wide-eyed expression for an entirely different reason. How nervous that little voice of yours would sound making other kinds of noises for him, what you’d actually look like if you were under his desk on your knees.

You'd give in so easy.

“Anyone can learn it.” He finally says, the intensity of his gaze half-wiped, replaced with something more polite. “It just takes dedication."

"I'm a lost cause with this stuff. Trust me," you laugh, "Anyway. We should probably get to the project."

Ah. The project. The thing he has nothing to show for on his end because he didn't do anything.

“There's a lot more ground we have to cover this time. There are a lot more features that need to be implemented this time and..."

You ramble on as you seat yourself at the edge of his bed, opening up your bag, and Sunghoon gulps.

He could rip off the band-aid and admit it right now. "Sorry, I'm an idiot, and I played ranked instead of doing my work, but I'll get it done in the next week, I swear."

But you already did his work last week. Already spent a whole week sending him reminders and sending sweet little voice notes—all of which he'd responded to with empty promises. He swears he never meant for those promises to become empty. He planned on doing his work. He just... didn't.

Instinctively, he stands, and mid-sentence, he's placing his headset on your head, adjusting it. You freeze up like last time, and look up at him with the most helpless gaze, all train of thought just gone. His train of thought is rather lost, too, if he's being honest.

"Better idea," he says, "What if I teach you how to play?"

"But—"

"You defended my honour in a Valorant lobby. That kind of bravery deserves a reward.” He pulls out his chair for you, "Sit."

You hesitate. He can see the war happening behind your eyes—the good, responsible side of you trying to fight the flustered one that wishes to give in.

"Just one game. For me?" He reaches out and nudges your shoulder. He lets the touch linger a second longer than it needs to, and he watches your breath hitch.

"Just one.”

The gaming chair swallows your frame, and he pushes it in, hovering just a little too close as he leans over you. He puts you in practice mode to start.

"Alright. Basics first. This is how you move." He guides your hand to the keyboard, his fingers deliberately brushing yours. "WASD. Forward, left, back, right. You know that already?"

You nod weakly, moving around, not quite with ease, but at least you know how to do it. He laughs a little at the jerky movements, and your flustered demeanour from him being this close. He's enjoying this.

"Good. Now shooting." His hand covers yours on the mouse. "Left click. Aim for the head."

The bot appears. You click. Miss entirely. Click again. Hit the shoulder.

"See? You're already better than half my ranked teammates."

"Don't make fun of me."

"I'm not, I swear."

He lets you get comfortable with the practice range. You're clumsy but getting the hang of it, your movements less awkward, your aim less panicked. By the time he queues you into a real match—comms and text chat both disabled, he's not having a repeat of earlier—you're at least facing the right direction.

He drags a chair from the kitchen and sits next to you.

"Real game now. Real players. They're going to be better than the bots."

The first few rounds are rough. You die early in the first. Then the second. By the fourth round, you've done exactly zero damage, and the enemy team is up 3-1. Your teammates are probably flaming you. He's glad he muted them before the round started.

"See? I told you I'm terrible."

"No talking. Just play."

Round five. Your teammates are dropping around you. It's a disaster—your teammates rushed in too soon, leaving you behind. And then it's just you. One versus two.

"Stay behind the corner," Sunghoon says, his voice low near your ear. "Wait for them to come to you."

"But our team is supposed to be attacking, right?"

"Yeah, but these players are stupid. They're playing too aggressively. They'll come to you."

His hand lands on your shoulder, and your hands are trembling slightly on the keyboard.

"Keep your crosshair at head level. Right there."

He adjusts your mouse, and you nod. In your ears, you hear footsteps. Then, the enemy peeks. You click. The headshot sound is unmistakable—a clean, crisp dink that echoes through the headphones. One enemy down. Pings explode from your dead teammates.

"Holy shit!" Sunghoon leans forward, grinning. "Look at that! You got a headshot!"

"I—I did?"

"You did. One tap. Clean as hell," he's beaming, "Now, don't lose focus yet. One more to go."

You're staring at the screen like you can't quite believe it. Your hands are still trembling, but you're smiling now—a real smile, wide and bright and unguarded.

Though you don’t have time to celebrate, because a body shot hits from behind you, not enough to kill you, but enough that you scream. You move behind the wall, frantically moving the mouse around.

"Don't panic. They're coming to you. Just wait—"

The enemy appears, and you click, your bullets spraying clumsily, and by some miracle, you outlive them with barely any health left—but you won. You won the 1v2.

"That's my girl!" He's grinning wide, "You're a natural, you see that?"

You play terribly the rest of the game, but your team locks in, their hope reignited by your clutch up, and carries you to a win. VICTORY. It appears in big letters across your screen.

You take off the headset, your smile unwavering, your cheeks warm. "That was... actually kind of fun."

"See? Told you."

"I still mostly did nothing."

"You won. Stop being humble." He nudges your shoulder, allowing the touch to linger. "Most people don't win their first game. Bet I can help you win your second, too."

"Sunghoon." You laugh, gently moving his arm away as he tries to queue another game. "We have to do the project."

"We can do that another time."

"We can do this another time. We need to work."

"Do we really need to?"

"Yes."

He pauses a moment. A beat of silence passes, and your gaze lingers on him.

"Sunghoon," you say again, gently, carefully. Like you already understand where this is going, "If your work is a little messy like last time, I don't mind. I just want to make sure we're on the same page."

"I just..." He looks at you. Still in his chair, still wearing his headset around your neck now, and the way you're looking at him—half-flustered, half-stubborn, trying so hard to be responsible and even going so far as to push back—makes him realize he'll have to try harder than he thought to distract you. "I just think with you, it's always: Project this. Project that. You work so hard. You know it's okay to relax sometimes, right?"

"I—"

"You know what your problem is? You worry too much. Whenever I see you, you're always worrying. What's up with that?"

He leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Your eyes follow them, how his biceps strain in his shirt, and his knee bumps yours. He stays watchful, analyzing the way your breathing picks up. The way your eyes go wide again.

"I don't know... I've always been..." you manage, shaking your head, "My parents were strict growing up, so..."

"I don't see your parents anywhere."

"Right. I know it's silly, but sometimes it's like I still hear them in my head," you laugh nervously, avoiding his gaze, "it was always study, study, study. No fun, no friends, no boys—"

"No boys?"

All of a sudden, it clicks for him. The shyness. The stuttering. The way you'd frozen in the library when his knee touched yours—not just flustered, but genuinely short-circuited, like your brain had no protocol for what to do. The way you'd offered him a ride, even though you could barely look at him. The way you'd defended him in voice chat, fierce and uncalculated, with no idea of the attention it would bring.

It all makes sense now. Every single thing. You're not just anxious or sheltered. You're completely, profoundly inexperienced. He's likely the first guy who's ever been this close to you—and you’re here, in his room, wearing his headset. Every reaction you've had, every flush and stammer and nervous laugh, it's all because you've never done this before. He smiles, enjoying the thought more than he should. A lot more.

"No boys," he repeats, and his voice comes out slow and deliberate. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means no boys. Like." You're flustered already, and he hasn't even moved. "No dating. My parents were really strict about it, and I just—I never really—"

"Never really what?"

He knows exactly what you're trying to say. He just wants to hear you try to say it.

"Never really... dated?" he offers, tilting his head. "Never really had a boyfriend?"

You shake your head, barely a movement.

"Never really..." He lets the pause stretch. Watches you squirm. "...anything?"

You can't manage another word, so you don't speak. You don't have to. The silence speaks for itself.

"You've never done anything?"

The question hangs in the air. He watches you process it—the implication, and how you can’t hide from it.

"Never even been kissed?" "No." There it is. The confession, small and brave. "It's embarrassing. I know. I never really—" "It's cute, actually."

You look at him, wordless. Maybe he should feel bad. He should feel guilty for prying this out of you, for enjoying how uncomfortable you are and filing all of this away as useful information. Some distant, rational part of his brain knows that. Instead, he's thinking about how nobody has ever touched you. How he’s the first one now to have been close enough to see you all flustered and vulnerable and completely unguarded.

His hand finds your knee. It's innocent enough, not drifting any higher than above it, his thumb moving in slow circles, and he watches in real time as your mind goes completely blank.

He's going to kiss you. Honestly, he knew he was going to kiss you the moment he understood what "no boys" meant, and while part of him is still trying to distract you from the project by getting you all hot and bothered like this, another part of him wants to do it just because he can. Just because you're there, in his chair, looking at him like that, reacting to his touch like this. That kind of power is a drug. It only makes him want to see just how far he can push you.

"Sunghoon," Your voice comes out thin, breathless. Your hand flutters up, not pushing him away, just hovering, like you're not sure what to do with it. "The project. We really need to—"

"The project." He says it flat, like the word itself is a chore. "The project will be fine. It'll get done. Right?"

He tilts his head, lets the implication hang there: You did the last one. You'll do this one, too.

Your mouth opens, but whatever argument you'd prepared dissolves the second his hand moves. It slides up from your knee to the edge of your skirt, his fingers tracing the hem where it brushes your thigh, and you go absolutely still beneath his touch.

"You look cute today, by the way." His voice is low, and his eyes look you up and down. "I like this."

He toys with the hem of the fabric, his knuckle grazing bare skin. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and he catches it. The movement. The sharp little inhale. The way your hands grip the armrests, fingers curling into them.

A sound escapes your throat, something small and embarrassing. A whimper you clearly didn't mean to make. His eyes flick up to your face. Your lips are parted, and you're looking at him like you've forgotten how words work.

"That's it," he murmurs, "You'll be good for me, right?"

Your eyes drop to his lips. You nod. It's a tiny, helpless movement, and the last of your resistance crumbles.

His free hand comes up to cup your chin, tilting your face toward his. He's close enough now to feel your breath, shallow and uneven. Close enough to know that no one has ever touched you like this before, and you're terrified, but you're not pulling away.

He leans in, slowly inching forward, closer and closer and—

"Sunghoon!" The door bursts open, "Have you seen my charger? I think..."

Heeseung's voice trails off as he takes in the sight. You. Sunghoon. The proximity between you. His hand on your thigh. Valorant open on his PC.

"Well, well, well..." he grins, leaning against the doorframe, "do my eyes deceive me, or is that a girl? In your bedroom? Sitting on your throne?"

"Leave."

"And you're making the poor thing play your stupid game. That's no way to treat a lady," he gestures around, then looks to you, "You. Don't tell me you're pretending to be impressed by his KDA ratio?"

You shrink under his gaze, looking like you wished to flee any second.

"Listen, I get it.” He raises his hands in surrender, “He's a good-looking guy. But his personality?" He shakes his head, "He’s a walking red flag. And not in the hot bad boy way. In like, a discord-moderating, redditor way."

"Seriously, get out."

Sunghoon is on his feet now, jaw tight. But you're already up, already grabbing your bag, already not looking at anyone.

"Actually, I should go."

"You don't have to—"

"I'll see you soon." The words tumble out. You duck past Heeseung, out of the bedroom, into the hall. Your footsteps go fast—past the living room where the coffee table sits in all its carved, solid-oak glory.

Heeseung follows you as far as the hallway, leaning against the wall with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he ruined something, but has no idea what.

"Wait!" he calls after you. "Before you leave, what do you think of the coffee table? Real craftsmanship, right?"

The front door slams. Hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans still scattered on Sunghoon's desk.

Heeseung turns back to the bedroom doorway, where Sunghoon is standing rigid, hands at his sides.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sunghoon spits.

"Me? What's wrong with you?" He strides on into his room, taking his lost phone charger from the port near his bedside. The one he took yesterday without asking, "You steal my shit, you get cockblocked. Sorry."

"You know that was my project partner, right?"

"I know who it was." Heeseung wraps the cord around his hand, watching Sunghoon with an expression that's sharper than before. "The one with the voice. The one who did your work at two in the morning. I guess now she comes over to stroke your ego too, huh?"

"I was this close to—"

"This close to what?" Heeseung quips, raising a brow. "Finish the sentence."

"This close to... to taking her mind off of worrying. She's a chronic worrier. It's annoying. It's..." his voice trails off.

Silence. Sunghoon notices the look in his roommate’s eyes: disapproving, doubtful.

"You know what I think?" Heeseung says slowly, "I think you're getting a little too comfortable with the amount of kindness she gives you."

"I don't know what you mean."

“The walls are thin, and I’m nosy. I know what I heard,” he scoffs, heading toward the door. "You’re pushing your luck. And trying to tongue your project partner so she can do your work for you is a new low. Even for you."

Sunghoon then gapes at the offensive, downright defamatory implications his roommate is making towards him.

"I didn't—" Heeseung leaves before he can defend himself. And Sunghoon stumbles to the hallway, calling out after him. "I didn't do anything wrong!"

Sunghoon slams the door shut on him, taking a second to breathe. There's a ping on his phone. A new voice note. He clicks it immediately, your voice rushed, the sound of your car running in the background.

"Hey Sunghoon. Sorry for leaving like that. I got kinda nervous when your roommate walked in. But I had a really good time with the game! And with you. And... oh, and about deliverable 2." You pause, then a sigh escapes you—heavy, but hesitant. "I've thought about it, and I know your tournament is coming up really soon, so I don't mind taking it off your hands. Anyway, goodbye for now, Sunghoon."

Sunghoon sinks into his gaming chair. Relief morphs into glee, a short laugh escaping him. He can’t believe it. He can’t believe you. Whatever guilt Heeseung was trying to make him feel fades instantly—easily. Too easily. He queues another game.

The basement is quiet. Still. Peaceful. Just Sunghoon, the ironing board, and his team jersey, steam hissing in the silence. His gamer tag stares up at him from the back of the jersey, crisp and clean. Tomorrow he'll be wearing it on stage. Tomorrow it's game time. Tomorrow, he's locked the fuck in, with his team at his side and everyone there to watch him take that victory.

He's in the zone. Has been all night. Showered, prepped, head clear. No distractions. No thoughts about the final project deliverable due next week that he definitely hasn't started, or thoughts about Heeseung's accusations, or thoughts about you, and your wide eyes, and the way you looked at his lips right before—Nope. He’s not thinking about it.

The basement door groans open, followed by footsteps. Sunghoon doesn't bother turning around. He knows it’s Jay, judging by the heaviness of the tread, and because he’s the only one of them who regularly uses the washer instead of letting clothes pile up until they smell.

"Game's tomorrow?"

"Yep." Steam hisses. Sunghoon runs the iron along a sleeve. "You're still driving me, right?"

There’s a pause. Too long a pause. Sunghoon turns. Jay's standing by the washer, suddenly fascinated by the lint trap.

"Jay."

"Huh?"

"The tournament," Sunghoon says it slower this time, the iron forgotten in his hand. "The thing I gave you the date for a month ago. The thing you swore you'd drive me to. Ringing any bells?"

"Right, right." Jay shuts the washer door. Doesn't meet his eyes. "Well."

"Jay."

"Thing is," Jay scrubs the back of his neck, "my grandma's moving. Already told my mom I'd help tomorrow morning."

“Dude.” Sunghoon blinks, gaping at him, "You promised me first."

"Sorry, man. Grandma over you."

"I gave you a month's notice."

"And my grandma gave me twenty-two years of birthday money." Jay shrugs, already turning toward the stairs. "Can't put a price on that."

Sunghoon sets the iron down with a little more force than necessary. "You could've said something before tonight."

"It's not the end of the world. Just take the bus."

"It's an hour drive. Longer by bus. On a Sunday. That's—"

"Tough luck."

"Jay." Sunghoon's voice sharpens. "This is the biggest day of my—"

But Jay's already halfway up, and the basement door clicks shut behind him. The washing machine hums into the silence. Sunghoon stares at the empty staircase.

The bus is not an option. Absolutely not. He didn't grind all season to show up to regionals late, all sweaty from sprinting across a transit terminal because the Sunday schedule runs once every forty-five minutes if he's lucky. And his teammates? He could squeeze into someone's car, knee to chest, listening to them argue about team comps and whose mom packed snacks. He'd rather walk.

But… there is another option. Someone who's given him a ride before. Someone who is always happy to help. Someone who did his code, who defended him in a Valorant voice chat, who can't resist him, no matter how many times he's proven himself incompetent.

He pulls out his phone. It seems like a shitty thing to do. He knows that. But, it's mutually beneficial, isn't it? He gets a favour, you get to see him. It's a win-win, really. Besides, it's not like he's only calling for the ride. He genuinely does like the idea of you there, front row, cheering his name. Watching him destroy the enemy team live instead of from his bedroom. You'd get all confused, trying to follow the game, and then he'd win, and you'd be proud even though you don't really understand what you're proud of and—hell, maybe he'd finally get to give you that kiss. Maybe more. It's been on his mind too much lately. Your eager, parted lips, your thigh tense beneath his touch, the way you leaned into it like a good little plaything. Always so desperate to please—you'd make him feel like a real champion, wouldn't you? All nervous and untouched and entirely his. His prize, his to guide, his to take. It's a perverse fantasy. It's also not entirely impossible. Though, he shakes his head at himself, not erasing the thought, but putting it back on the shelf. The ride. That's the priority now. Having a pretty girl at his arm is just a bonus.

You press submit. Deliverable two, done. Your portion, pristine, commented, tested, and complete. His portion—the portion you told yourself you wouldn't do—also complete. Also entirely yours. You close the laptop and sit there in the dark of your dorm room.

This is getting out of hand. You know it is. It's been out of hand, actually, ever since the library and the first deliverable that you fixed—the thing you should’ve never done in the first place but did anyway. He didn't do his work again, and this time he didn't even try to pretend otherwise. He just looked at you with those eyes, said ‘It will be fine,’ and you let the subject drop because his hand was on your thigh, your brain had stopped working, and the only thing on your mind was not wanting to let him down.

But what about him letting you down? It’s happened twice now. Not enough times to call it a pattern of behaviour yet, but enough to imply something about his character and where his priorities lie. He's unreliable. Lazy. Probably manipulative, if your best friend's theories are true. That's not the kind of guy you want. That's not the kind of guy anyone should want. You should be furious, actually. You should send him a firm email. You should stand your ground.

He’s hot, though, your brain unhelpfully reminds you. Stupidly, impossibly hot, and he almost kissed you—you think. Sometimes you replay it in your head, and you're certain of it. Other times, you wonder if you imagined the leaning in, the pause, and the way his voice dropped when he said you'll be good for me, right?

You sigh, hand twitching against your thigh. When you close your eyes, it's like you can still feel him touching you there. Every time you think about it, your whole body goes hot, and you think about it a lot—not just about what happened but what could've happened if his roommate hadn't walked in. You can't even keep track of the amount of times you've lied awake, drenched in your own sweat, thighs pressed together, just thinking about his hand slipping further up your skirt and relieving you of the torturous, wound-up feeling that's had you in a chokehold all summer.

Your phone buzzes.

Incoming video call: Sunghoon

You stare at the screen, still recovering from your fantasy. It takes you a minute to actually process that it is, in fact, him calling you and not a figment of your imagination. He's never called you before. Not once. All summer, it's been voice memos and texts and the occasional thumbs-up emoji.

It rings again, and you fumble reaching for it, nearly dropping it on the floor. You pick up, and as soon as you see the FaceTime video loading, you click to turn off your camera.

Your eyes are glued to the screen as you take in the sight of him. He's lying in bed, his hoodie pulled up over his head, shadows cutting across his jaw, and his hair falls over his eyes. You're almost pissed at the fact that someone can look that good so casually.

"Hey." His voice comes through your earbuds low and rough, and it travels down your spine. Your whole body shivers.

"Hi," you manage, small and a little breathless.

"How's my girl doing?"

My girl. That's the second time he's called you that. The first was during the game, when you landed the headshot. You'd assumed it was adrenaline, or a reflex. Something guys said to their duo partners, like "my man" or "my guy". But he's not gaming now. He's in bed. Talking to you.

"I'm good—fine." You swallow. "What about—?"

"Can I see you?"

"See me?" You glance down at yourself. Old t-shirt. Not a trace of makeup. Yeah. That's not happening. "I'm in bed. It's dark. There's nothing to see, so..."

"Hm," he sighs, and you hear the rustling of fabric as he adjusts himself. "Too bad."

"What's up?" You're trying to sound normal, clearing your throat, "Why'd you call?"

"Just wanted to chat."

His free hand finds the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it idly around one finger. Your eyes follow the movement, staring at the veins, the size of his hand, the length of his fingers and—you drag your eyes back to his face.

"About?"

"You free tomorrow?"

He shifts again, and the camera jostles, this time a light groan escaping him.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you have—nothing. You have absolutely nothing. And even if you did have something, you'd still say you have nothing because it's him who's asking. Your heart skips a beat, a stupid smile breaking on your face.

"Yes," you say, immediately trying to downplay the eagerness in your voice. "Yeah, I'm free. Why?"

"And you can drive?"

"Sure. Why—?"

"Good." He ignores the question again. "Then I'm taking you out."

Your heart does a full stop. "Where?"

"Surprise.”  He smiles. “Just wear something cute, m'kay?"

Wear something cute. What does that mean exactly? Cute how? Cute like a dress? Or is a dress too much? Maybe a skirt. He said he liked your skirt last week. He toyed with the hem and said I like this and you made a sound you're still embarrassed to remember.

"Sleep well," he then says, breaking the long, silent pause with a slight chuckle, "See ya."

And before you can get another word in, he's gone. The reflection of yourself stares back at you in the darkened screen. Maybe you should call him back and ask what 'cute' means. What kind of 'cute'? Dinner cute? Coffee cute? Hanging out at his house, cute? But after a long time of staring at his contact, debating how to even ask, you decide it's too late.

You shower, scrubbing every inch of yourself. Exfoliate. Shave—you shave everything—carefully, methodically, in places you don't normally bother with because usually you're thinking "who's going to see?" But if his hand travels further than it did last time, you do not want to be stuck in your own head worrying about it, so you do it just in case. Just to be prepared.

Then you stand in front of your closet for forty minutes trying on everything you own, trying to decide what feels like too much, and what feels like not enough. You don't know.

Eventually, you settle. A skirt you usually avoid because it rides up your thighs too much. A top that's nice without trying too hard. You look at yourself in the mirror. You feel pretty. Normally, you feel clean, or presentable, or fine. But today, you feel pretty.

It's a dangerous feeling. You're getting dressed up for a boy who hasn't done a single assignment all summer. You're shaving your legs for him when technically you're still not sure what "taking you out" implies. But your heart is racing, and your cheeks are warm, and you find yourself smiling at your reflection in the mirror like an idiot, anyway.

So what if you dressed up for him? You're allowed to feel pretty. You're allowed to want him. You're allowed to hope.

You're shaking when you pull up to his place. Not visibly, at least, as you’re gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hide it. You’ve been talking to yourself under your breath for the last three blocks. Be normal. Be cool. Which would be a lot easier to do if this weren't the first time a boy had asked to "take you out" and you’ve been alone with your own anxious thoughts for so long now that you're starting to dwell on what that might mean again. Dinner, maybe? The thought simultaneously makes your heart flutter and your stomach churn. You're so nervous, you're not sure you could hold down any food. What if he asks why you're not eating—?

You're getting ahead of yourself. Maybe he's right. You do worry too much. You don't even know where you're going yet, and you're already jumping to conclusions.

Predictably, you're early. Of course you are. You'd left your dorm with an extra twenty minutes because you couldn't stand to pace around your room anymore, and now you're pulling up at the curb feeling like an idiot. But, to your surprise, he's already waiting on the porch.

He spots your car before you even have time to honk, jogging down the steps, and you roll down the window, smiling bright and stupid and probably too eager. Then...

Then your eyes drop to his chest. The jersey. The school's E-sports team jersey, to be precise. You know what it looks like because you've stalked the team's Instagram page about a hundred times just to stare at the photos of him on there until they were permanently burned into your retinas forever.

"Hey," he says, pulling open the passenger door. "Right on time."

"Hi," you swallow, smiling politely. "What are you wearing?"

"Team gear." He slides into the seat, dropping his bag at his feet. "Regionals are today. Didn't I tell you?"

Your blood runs cold.

No. No, he did not. He said I'm taking you out. He said to wear something cute. He said it was a surprise.

"Regionals," you repeat. "Right. The tournament."

"Yeah. It's at the convention centre. About an hour drive." He's buckling his seatbelt, "Coach said we could bring anyone we want. Figured I should bring my number one supporter, right?"

So it's not a date. Not at all what you were thinking when he called you late at night with his voice all low and asking if you were available—asking if you could drive. Still, you smile. You smile because even if your heart has sunk into your stomach, you know it's your own fault for thinking this would be anything more than it was. And, well, this matters to him. This is the thing he's been neglecting the project for. The thing he told you he’d been practicing for, talking about it in the car that first day you met him. He’s choosing to bring you to his thing. That alone must mean something... right?

"That sounds fun," you say, and the words feel like they belong to someone else. "I've never been to an E-sports thing before."

"You'll love it. You'll finally see me play for real. Not just some ranked lobby."

"Yeah." Your smile starts to hurt your cheeks. It strains and fails to reach your eyes. "Can't wait."

The drive is an hour. You spend most of it listening. He talks about the bracket, the teams they're facing, and some enemy team player who's been trash-talking him online. He talks about comps and strats and something called a meta. You nod, you smile. You ask questions. You try to seem engaged.

In a way, you are a little. Not because you care about the game, but because it's hard not to feel warm in the face when you see him like this. He's barely able to sit still in the passenger seat, gesturing with his hands, more animated than you've ever seen him, smirking with the kind of confidence you'd expect a star player to have. This is his thing. This is what he's good at. He invited you.

That has to mean something—you're certain of it now. Even if it's not what you thought. Even if you spent an hour getting ready, shaving everywhere and trying on countless different outfits just to sit in a convention centre folding chair.

You glance down at your skirt and your pretty top. All that effort you put into looking like you hadn't put in effort now feels wasted. Maybe people dress up nice for these things, you tell yourself. You've never been to an E-sports tournament, so you wouldn't know. At least, that's what you tell yourself, refusing to believe that he chose those words on purpose, knowing how they'd come across, knowing how they'd affect you. "You look pretty, by the way." Your head snaps toward him. He's looking out the window, and the words slipped out of him so casually that you almost don't catch it. Your heart furiously pounds in your chest, all doubt in your mind momentarily forgotten. "You too." The words tumble out before your brain can catch up, and immediately you want to grab them and shove them back in your mouth. You too? "I mean—you look good. The jersey. It suits you." There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and yours tug into one too—something small and hopeful.

You keep driving, trying to focus less on the quiet ache in your chest and more on the fact that he is here right now, in your car, bringing you into his world.

The convention center is freezing, the kind of cold that seeps through your thin top and settles into your bones. The air conditioning is blasting, likely to prepare for the body heat of the crowd that'll pack this place in a few hours. But right now, it's just you and a handful of other early arrivals and staff members scattered across folding chairs, listening to the distant sound of someone testing a microphone.

He didn't introduce you to his team. Didn't even glance back. Just pointed at the front row and said, "Sit there," and then he was gone—swallowed by a cluster of matching jerseys and equipment bags. You'd stood there for a moment, awkward, watching him disappear, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.

That was hours ago. Hours in a hard plastic chair, scrolling through every app on your phone until you'd seen every post, every story, every notification that wasn't there. You got up once to buy an iced coffee from the convention center cafe—watery, gone in ten minutes. It did nothing to quiet the growling in your stomach.

You're cold. You're hungry. You're bored. You're wearing a skirt and a cute top in a convention centre full of strangers who smell like they don't shower, and you feel stupid. So, so stupid. But when he jogs over to you, twenty minutes before the tournament starts, everything brightens. Like you're not freezing to death where you sit. Like it all makes sense now, why, against your better judgment, you decided to stay.

He's got his headset looped around his neck, and his eyes have that focused, sharp kind of intensity you witnessed the first time you saw him play in his bedroom. He carries himself like he’s already won. It’s the kind of easy confidence—or arrogance, rather—that others would call obnoxious. To you, however, it’s captivating.

"Hey!" He squeezes your shoulder, just once. The warmth of his hand cuts through the chill. "Still awake?"

You blink up at him, smiling before you can stop yourself. Your head is foggy from too much fluorescent light and not enough food, but suddenly none of that registers.

"Barely.” You laugh, “But still alive. What about you?"

"I’m ready." He grins, that cocky, unbothered grin. "More than ready, knowing that you're here."

Your breath catches. Stupid. It's such a small thing yet the warmth that blooms in your chest catches you off guard, and for a moment you forget about the miserable afternoon you've just had. You just smile back at him, helplessly.

"Don't get too sleepy. I want to hear you cheer. Loud."

"I will." You say without hesitation.

"Good."

He flashes you one last smile, and then he's gone, slipping back toward the stage. You call after him, "Good luck!" He doesn't turn around. Just raises a hand in acknowledgment.

You sink back into your chair, still smiling, still warm from the brief press of his fingers on your shoulder. It's pathetic, honestly. You know it's pathetic. One touch, one sentence, and suddenly the hours of waiting and the overpriced coffee and the cold that's still seeping through your clothes don't feel like such a big deal anymore.

When the tournament starts, you come to realize you know a lot less about this game than you thought. There's a lot of terminology that flies past your head. Strategies you don’t understand. Names you don’t recognize. But you know enough that you understand when his team is winning, and when he's the last one alive on his team, wiping out the enemy team like they're nothing, and you definitely understand why the crowd cheers loudly when he clutches a 1v5.

They win. Easily. It’s not even close, and when the final round ends and the casters are screaming, and his teammates are out of their chairs—you're on your feet too. Clapping until your hands sting. Cheering, though you're certain you'll lose your voice for it.

He finds you the moment his team filters off the stage. One second you're standing alone, scanning the crowd of jerseys; the next, his hand is at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your top, pulling you into his side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times. His palm is warm through the thin material, his thumb pressed just above your hip, and he's wearing the world's biggest grin.

The hall is chaos—people talking in every direction, the music playing too loudly, a coach yelling something across the room. You can't really hear what he's saying, just the rumble of his voice near your ear, the occasional word breaking through: ...killed it... ...see that clutch?... You nod, smiling, hyperaware of the heat of his hand and the way his fingers tighten whenever someone jostles past. He steers you toward his teammates with that grip on your waist, guiding you through the crowd like you're an extension of his victory. The other boys are clapping him on the back, shouting over each other. Every time someone congratulates him, his hand flexes against your hip—not quite pulling you closer, but not letting you drift either.

"...You good with sushi?"

"Hm?" You furrow your brows, not quite catching his words still.

"Post-game celebration. Coach is treating us," he leans in right next to your ear this time, his words a little clearer. He grabs your arm. "Let's go."

The sushi place is in a strip mall across the parking lot from the convention centre. Laminated menus, lighting that's too bright for a celebration, and employees who look like they're regretting every life choice that led them to this shift. The sheer amount of noise coming from the table doesn't help.

The team has been going around making speeches—thanking the coach, thanking their friends, thanking Sunghoon, their number one captain and player. He soaks it up like a sponge, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a star player who knows he killed it. The table goes a little quieter when it’s finally his turn.

"I'd like to thank my team, of course, for putting their best foot forward. Coach, for keeping us in line. But most importantly..." He turns to you. His arm slides from the back of your chair to your shoulders. "I'd like to thank this one right here. For the support. For cheering me on louder than anyone." He squeezes your shoulder. "You made my life a hell of a lot easier this semester."

Easier. You're not sure why that choice of words doesn't sit right. Maybe because it felt too cold, or detached. He could've said you made his life better, brighter, happier… and maybe you're reading too much into it. You’re probably overthinking it and jumping to conclusions that aren’t there, like you always do. But easier implies convenience, nothing else, and you don’t really like the way that makes you feel.

He's being nice, you tell yourself. He’s thanking you in front of everyone. It's a good thing.

"Oh, and I got you something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a jersey. Identical to his own. "My spare jersey. Since you know. I couldn't have done it without you."

You take it, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar in your hands. You open your mouth to say something—thank you, maybe, or you didn't have to—but nothing comes out.

"Put it on."

You do, and the shirt swallows your frame, the hem only a few centimetres above where your skirt ends. His gamertag is printed in bold letters on the back, and on you, it feels like a brand—a mark of his claim. You hold your breath, too overwhelmed by the scent of him, and your stomach does that flipping thing it always seems to when he gives you crumbs of affection like this, except this time with a newfound heaviness resting uncomfortably somewhere within you.

"Looks good," He hums, pleased, nodding to the rest of his team, "Right guys?"

The team cheers, someone whistling while the guy sitting next to him claps his back, and he takes it all in with pride, while you look down at your lap.

"Hey. Don't be shy." He leans in, voice dropping just for you. His knee bumps yours under the table. "I meant it. You do look pretty today."

The heaviness lifts. Just a little. Just enough to put on your brave face again, and the wait staff starts serving up whatever platters they ordered earlier. The boys descend like hawks, piling their dishes high, chopsticks clacking. Two of them fight over the remaining spicy salmon rolls, and someone orders another round of sake; meanwhile, Sunghoon is already talking about the next tournament.

You stare at your plate. You were hungry earlier. Starving, actually—your stomach had been growling through the final matches, but now you just poke at a piece of nigiri with your chopsticks, turning it over and over, watching the rice fall apart.

This isn't exactly what you had in mind when he said he was taking you out… but he thanked you in front of the team. Gave you a jersey. Called you pretty. And his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, making an embarrassing flush creep to your cheeks every time.

He wants you here. That should be enough. That should make you happy. So why do you still feel so hollow?

"Excuse me," a voice appears behind you both. You and Sunghoon turn to face him. "I'm with the school paper. Mind if I grab a few quotes?"

A guy with a press badge and a notebook is standing beside the table. You'd seen him earlier, sitting in the same section near the front as you. Reserved seating. It makes sense. Regionals are a big deal for your school; this is probably the most interesting story they've had in years.

"Yeah, sure."

"Just a few questions about the match. The clutch in finals—what was going through your head?"

"Oh. Easy. I locked the fuck in," he breaks into a smug grin.

Sunghoon talks about game sense. Instincts. Reading the enemy. The reporter scribbles notes, asks a few more questions. Asks about his training schedule, the responsibilities of being the team captain, and the pressure. You continue to poke at your food, assuming none of it involves you, until he glances at you.

"And I see your girlfriend is here. How does it feel to have that kind of support showing up for you?"

Your heart skips. Sunghoon glances at you, but his gaze isn't nearly as panicked as your own

"Oh. She's not my girlfriend." He says it casually. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the idea had never even occurred to him.

Suddenly, the table is a little quieter, like everyone had hushed their conversations just to overhear. Feeling the weight of everyone's eyes, your fingers tremble around your chopsticks.

"Ah." The reporter looks at you—the jersey, the arm around your shoulder—then offers an apologetic smile, "Sorry, I just assumed—"

"She's more like..." He tilts his head, considering. "My lucky charm."

Lucky charm. Not a girlfriend. Not a friend. Not even my project partner, who gave me a ride here and did all my work for me. A lucky charm. Something you carry around for good fortune and toss in a drawer when you no longer need it. "Or maybe," he starts again, "She's like my prize. You know, you win the tournament, you get the trophy. She's kind of both. Good luck and a good reward. You know what I mean?"

You hear a snicker from across the table, and he laughs too. He laughs. His arm is still around your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his thumb is tracing idle circles against your sleeve like nothing is wrong. Like he didn't just reduce you to an object in front of a reporter and his whole team.

"I'm just teasing. But, really, the closer I keep her, the easier my life becomes. So, you asked how it feels, right? I'd say it feels pretty damn good," he pulls you closer for a second, giving your shoulder another squeeze, "I was telling the whole team earlier. It's all thanks to her."

"Wait, so she's single?" One of his teammates leans over, "Dude, you've been gatekeeping her all night—"

"Fuck off." He snaps, turning back to the reporter, "Next question."

The interview fades to background noise.

Lucky charm. You want to laugh. Or maybe cry.

As if luck had anything to do with it. The only reason he's here, celebrating, getting interviewed, is because of the labour, time and energy that you freely offered him like a fool. And now he's calling it luck.

You sit there in your seat, his arm heavy around you like he owns you. You realize only then that it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.

You slide out from under it. "Bathroom," you murmur, already on your feet.

He doesn't look up. His hand drops to the back of the empty chair without pause, and the reporter is already asking the next question. You walk toward the door, and the bell chimes as you leave.

The parking lot is hot. The heat, humid and suffocating, rises off the asphalt, and the air feels thick in your lungs. Your car is at the far end. Too far away, you think, as you make your way. You walk fast, the jersey still hanging off your shoulders, and it feels like the weight of it is slowing you down. You hate that you're still wearing it.

Behind you, the restaurant door opens, and heavy footsteps follow. "Hey! Hey, wait up—"

You don't wait. Obviously. But he catches up very easily, hand on your shoulder to halt your frantic steps.

"What's going on?" He catches up, slightly out of breath. "You just left. What gives?"

You spin around. "I'm a lucky charm? A prize?"

"What?" His expression shifts—not guilty, but confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand. He takes a moment to gather himself. "Yeah. Like, it's a compliment. Like, I'm lucky to have you here with me. I mean, what did you want me to say? Project partner? Female friend?"

"Listen." Your voice is shaking. "I'm happy for you. You won. Congratulations. But I want to go home now."

"But why? We were having fun, right? And the team loves you—"

"No." You cut him off. "Your team loves you."

"Yeah, and you're with me."

"I'm with you?" The words catch in your throat. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Your heart thuds, watching him carefully. You hold your breath, hoping—desperately, pathetically—to hear something other than a lucky charm this time. Something meaningful. Something more.

"It means..." his voice is careful, processing every word in his head before he decides to say it, "You're wearing a shirt with my name on it, and I'll be the one taking you home after—"

A laugh escapes you. Not because any of this is entertaining, but because you truly cannot fathom how that is the best response he could come up with.

"You're taking me home?"

"You know what I mean."

"Sunghoon." Your voice drops. The frustration is bleeding out, leaving something softer behind. Something that hurts more. Your hands are trembling. "You told me to wear something cute. You said you were taking me out."

"So that's it?" He asks. You don’t know when he moved closer, or how you allowed him to, but suddenly his hand is at your shoulder again. He rubs it as if to comfort you, and his words tumble out, a little more frantic than he usually sounds, "You wanna go out? We can go out. We can go out right now. Just tell me where you want to go. I'll take you—”

"We aren't going anywhere." You say a little firmer this time, brushing his hand away. "I'm leaving."

You walk toward your car, but he doesn't relent. He came here with you, and his ride is standing in front of him, keys in hand, about to disappear. He can't let that happen.

"Wait."

He grabs your arm, his hand warm and familiar. You hate that it still makes your breath catch.

"Please." His voice is different now. Lower. The arrogance is gone—or maybe just hidden. "Don't go. I'm sorry. Okay?"

"Sorry for what?"

"For..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Calling you a lucky charm? And not taking you on a date? Whatever I did. Just… don't leave me here. Please."

"You don't even know what you're apologizing for," You hiss, your hand curling tighter around your car keys.

"Yeah. Because I'm confused." He tries, "I was being nice all night. I gave you the jersey. I don't know what I did wrong, so tell me. I'll do whatever you want. I'll fix it."

"Sunghoon," you frown, taking in a breath. You're going to do it. This is the moment where you stand your ground. "I am not some doll that exists to give you free rides whenever you want. Or do all your work. Or sit through your gaming tournaments and make you look good in front of your teammates."

"You're not—" his brows furrow, "That's not what you are."

"Then what am I?"

You try to step back, but your back meets your car door. Now you're cornered, and he still hasn't answered. Instead, his hand comes up. Hesitant, not quite sure if he's allowed, or if it's the right choice to make currently in the heat of the moment, but he does it regardless. His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight, just tracing it and his thumb settles under your chin. Everything else around you ceases to exist.

"Tell me what you want me to say." His voice is rough, and he tilts your face up, "What do you want from me? I don't understand what you want."

"Sunghoon—"

"I keep thinking about last week," He exhales, something between a laugh and a breath. His other hand finds your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of the jersey. "What we never got to finish. I know you think about it too."

His forehead nearly touches yours. His thumb still rests under your chin, holding you in place, and his eyes drop to your lips. "One last time," he asks, "What do you want?"

You realize he's doing it again. The thing where you try to talk about something serious—the project, the way he's been treating you—and weaponizes his irresistibility against you. You wonder if he even realizes that he's doing it. Regardless, you can’t help how you stare. He's just so... beautiful. So incredibly irresistible. The warm press of his body, caging yours to the car. The intense look in his eyes. His height, and how he towers over you. It's too much.

"You know what I want,” your voice comes out smaller than you intended. There it is. The part where you give in. You always do. How could you not? You’re just a girl, caged between the hottest man you've ever seen and your car door.

Your eyes drop to his lips. "That's all you had to say," he murmurs.

He kisses you. Your first kiss. It's not gentle. It's hungry, desperate, his hand sliding into your hair, his body pressing against yours. Your brain shuts off entirely. Your hands come up to his chest, and instead of pushing him away like you should, you're gripping his jersey, pulling him closer. You have no idea what you're doing, but the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands all over you has you whimpering under his touch, melting into his arms.

"You're with me." He says against your lips, rough and unrelenting. "Stay here with me."

His hand slides from your hip to the car door behind you.

"Let me make it up to you. I'll treat you so well. I promise."

Your whole body is trembling. He's so close and so warm, and you've wanted this for weeks and—fuck, who are you kidding?

The back seat of your car is cramped, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's above you, his body a warm weight, kissing you, worshipping you with his tongue and his mouth, kissing along your neck. He takes his time, letting you get familiar with the shape of him atop you, his hard cock pressed against your thigh through his pants. You're embarrassed with the amount of slick between your legs and how your skirt has ridden up all the way at your hips to reveal it all. If you thought you could ever try to hide what he does to you before, you certainly can’t do it now.

"Look at you," he murmurs against your mouth. His fingers find the hem of the jersey—his jersey. "You look so good in this. So fucking good."

You can't speak. Your voice is gone. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the jersey higher. Then he pauses. Looks down. A slow grin spreads across his face. His hand traces over your underwear, smooth skin separated by thin fabric.

"You prepped for this?" Your face burns. "All this?" His fingers thumb the lace edge of your panties, "For me?"

"I didn't—I wasn't—"

"You were expecting something." His voice is teasing. "Weren't you? All dressed up. All smooth." He kisses your throat. "Fuck, that's so cute."

A sound escapes you—a whimper you didn't mean to make—and he chuckles, the vibration of it travelling down your neck. His hand is still on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against bare skin just above the hem of your skirt. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers splay wide like he's claiming territory. Your hips shift without permission, angling toward him, chasing the pressure he isn't giving you.

Then his hand retreats. Slides back to your waist. His lips capture yours in another open-mouthed kiss, and you make a frustrated little sound against his mouth—half protest, half plea. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide it back down, pressing his palm right where you need it, your thighs parting in invitation.

“Hm?”  He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised, lips still slick. There's genuine surprise underneath his evident amusement. "You want—?"

“More.”

The word comes out sounding more certain than you expected. His expression flickers, both taken aback and deeply, thoroughly pleased, then his hand resumes its position, palm pressing flat against the lace of your underwear. He doesn't slip beneath the fabric, rubbing only slow, deliberate circles over it, letting the friction build until your hips are rolling into his touch.

It's a lot. The pressure, the heat, the way he watches your face the whole time like he's studying you. You're so sensitive that even just his hand over fabric has your breath catching in your throat.

"Like that?" he murmurs.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding on.

"I've never—"

"I know." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, his lips curving against your throat. He likes this. Likes the way you're coming apart beneath him, all trembling and flushed and brand-new. His fingers don't slow. "You want to stop?" It's a dare. He already knows the answer. His thumb presses down just a little harder, drawing another broken sound from your lips.

"No." The word is torn from your throat too fast. Stopping is actually the opposite of what you want. You've been dreaming of his touch all summer. Even if he's a complete asshole, he's a beautiful asshole, and the ache between your thighs knows where its priorities lie.

"Yeah?" His voice drops, words brushing against your ear, "Then tell me what you want."

"Sunghoon..." you trail off, his thumb still circling your clit over your underwear, "I don't know. Just touch me more, please."

“Begging already?” He smiles against your mouth, and then his hand slides back down, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they brush through your slick folds, gathering the wetness that's been building since he first kissed you. He doesn't push in yet—he circles your entrance lazily, teasing, letting you feel the pressure without the invasion. "You're too good to me."

It's been a while since he's done any of this, but he's always been good with his hands. It’s like facing an opponent: The technique is muscle memory, and the strategy is played by ear. He just has to watch you, learn your weaknesses, and exploit them until he wins. Though when it comes to you, he's learning that you're weak to pretty much everything he does, watching your lips part and your brows scrunch together without his fingers even inside you yet.

“So wet. So worked up. You really wanted this, didn't you?" he whispers, "Don't worry. I've got you."

He pushes one finger inside you—slow, deliberate, sinking deep until his knuckle presses against your entrance. Your back arches, a sharp gasp escaping your throat, and he watches your face as he curls that finger, searching, finding the spot that makes your eyes flutter shut.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."

He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the wet, slick sound of your body accepting him fills the foggy car. He pumps them in and out, his thumb pressing circles against your clit, and you feel yourself clenching around him, your hips rolling to meet his rhythm. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.

"Feels good?" His voice is in your ear, low and rough. You nod, unable to respond. Breath catching in your throat because you can barely breathe, think or do anything coherent. "Is this all you wanted? Needy girl just wanted my attention?"

In the midst of the fog, it catches your eye again. His cock, hard and untouched in his pants. You want to see him. All of him. And you reach out for the waistband, desperate to feel the weight of him in your hands.

"Wanna touch you, too," you manage, and his fingers slow inside you for a moment.

"Yeah?" He grins, watching you pull the waistband down and palm him through his boxers. He just watches you fumble around, looking up with that awestruck, wide-eyed gaze. "You sure?"

You pull him free anyway. And then you stop, staring for what you're sure is way too long. Because he's—well. He's big. Not that you have any real-life experience to compare him to, but still. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he's impossibly, unfairly big. So much that it makes you wonder if the universe just decided to give him everything: the face, the hands, the voice, and now this. Maybe you should've expected that the literal embodiment of the genetic lottery would have a pornstar cock.

"What's the matter?" He laughs, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better view of your face. "Nervous?"

“No.” You swallow, still staring. "You're just really—"

"Big?" He says it for you, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah. I know."

The bigger the dick, the bigger the ego, huh?

You watch him grin down at you, and you really do want to pretend like you're not affected by it, but it's actually kind of terrifying and a lot more than you bargained for.

“Don’t think about that right now,” He takes his free hand and encloses it around yours, around him, not showing you how to do it. Just guiding you. “I’m enjoying this.”

Your fingers are gentle and trembling and completely unsure, but he doesn't mind. He takes in the sight, watching you try to please him with your hand while you fall apart on his fingers. You clench around him as he presses inside, finding the right spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you can't help the cry that leaves your parted lips.

"That’s it," he murmurs. "Good girl. Just let go."

You unravel around his fingers, back arching off the leather seat, and he has to press his free hand flat across your hipbones to keep you from bucking against his palm. Your thighs clamp around his wrist, trembling, and his name, broken and breathless, catches in your throat. It’s the most beautiful sound he's ever heard you make. He watches it happen, watches your mouth fall open, and your lashes flutter, watches the tension seize through your body and then release, all at once, around his fingers.

When you come back to yourself, you're still gripping him. Your fingers are wrapped around his cock, loose now, your palm slick with the precome that's gathered at the tip. He's still hard and aching. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving, and for a long moment, he doesn't move—just stares down at the way your hand looks wrapped around him, your delicate fingers against the flushed, heavy weight of his length. Then his jaw tightens, and his hand closes over yours, repositioning your grip.

"Like this," he guides you, pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He tries to show you the rhythm, the pressure, the speed. And to your credit, you're trying. You are. And if he were in the mood to be a little more patient, he'd let you play with him. But currently, he doesn't have it in himself to torture himself any longer.

He closes his fist around yours, harder. Then he's moving, fucking into your hand with short, desperate thrusts. The sound of it fills the cramped car, skin on skin, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's too fast, too ragged to be anything but pure need. You watch him, still dazed from your own release, still sprawled across the back seat with your skirt bunched at your waist and his jersey twisted around your torso. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and your eyes—wide, glassy, utterly fixed on where his cock slides through your palm—are the only thing he can look at.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, but he forces himself to keep watching his length disappear and reappear through your grip. "All spread out for me. My cute little reward. My prize. All mine."

His rhythm breaks. His hips stutter, and then he's spilling across the jersey with a low, broken groan, something primal and possessive curling in his gut at the sight. You lie there, still catching your breath, wearing his name and his release.

He braces himself above you, breathing hard. His forehead nearly touches yours. The windows are fogged opaque, sealing you both inside this cramped, humid quiet.

Your skirt is bunched at your hips. The jersey is twisted around your torso, damp and clinging to your sweat. You don't move. Don't speak. Just lie there beneath him, wearing the evidence of what just happened, still recovering.

He exhales, long and slow, and his eyes trace over you.

"Shit," he breathes, sounding almost in awe. "You're really something, you know that?"

You don't answer. You're still catching your breath, floating somewhere between the high and the slow, creeping return of reality.

He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at you and the jersey he's made a mess of—at the way you're sprawled beneath him with something between satisfaction and wonder. All of his doing.

"So," he murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traces a lazy line down your arm. "You forgive me?"

"Hm?" Your eyes finally meet his, blinking up.

"The tournament. The project. The stuff I said. Or did." He presses his lips to your jaw, peppering kisses until he meets the shell of your ear. His thumb draws a slow circle on your hip. "You're not still mad, right?"

Your chest rises and falls, not quite finding the words just yet.

"Because I meant what I said. You're with me. This—" he gestures between you, "—this thing we have. I like this."

His eyes are on you—his unfairly beautiful eyes.

It would be so easy to forget the whole night ever happened. Your hands twitch where you hold onto him, warm and solid, and the part of you that's still deeply infatuated with the sight of him like this wants so badly to pull him back down and discover all the other ways he could take you to heaven and back.

But then you look down at the jersey. His jersey. At the stain already drying on the fabric. He'd marked his territory and tried to present it to you as a gift, and you think the worst part of it all is that he really, truly does believe it's something to be grateful for.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes. Your throat tightens. For a moment, you almost let it go. You almost fall back in.

"Also, like... you’ll still drive me back, right?"

Your eyes snap open.

You glare up at him. At his perfect, oblivious face. At the faint smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. He's still braced above you, still warm, still inside the afterglow you were both supposed to be sharing. And for a moment, you wonder who’s more stupid: him or you.

"Get out."

He lifts his head, "Huh?"

"Get out of my car."

"We just—hold on," He pushes himself up, still dazed. "I made you—you literally just—"

"You made me cum. Great job." You shove at his chest until his back hits the door, and he fumbles with his pants. "You’re still an asshole. Now get out of my face."

"You're kicking me out?" He gapes, "You can’t do that to me.”

"There's a bus stop nearby."

Your hand reaches for the door behind him, shoving him out, and he stumbles onto the asphalt. His brows furrow.

"I'm not taking the fucking bus."

"Not my problem." You yank the jersey over your head. Ball it up. Throw it at his chest, and he catches it on reflex—his own name, crumpled, damp, ruined. "Find your own way home."

You slam the door and climb into the driver's seat, ignoring the way he pleads outside the window, knocking on the glass. He's frantic, still recovering from the whiplash, but you don't stop.

You start the engine and back out of the parking spot, speeding away and in the rearview mirror, he's still standing there. Jersey in one hand, watching you disappear.

The ride back to your dorm is quiet. Radio off. Just you and your thoughts, the sun bleeding orange across the horizon.

People always say your first kiss is supposed to be special or that your first time is supposed to mean something. Meanwhile, your first kiss was followed by getting fingered in the backseat of your car in a strip mall parking lot with a boy who treats you like trash, wearing his cum-stained E-sports jersey.

It's a tale as old as time: a girl who doesn't know any better gives everything to a boy who couldn't care less. Maybe you should feel used or ashamed. Maybe it should feel wrong, or cheap, or degrading. Yet, it doesn't really. Because honestly? You'd wanted it all summer. His hands on you, his voice in your ear, touching you in places you've never been touched before. It wasn't special. It wasn't romantic. But it was yours, and you took it.

There is a heaviness in your chest. You can't deny that. But there is something else that shines brighter, that courses through your veins, head to toe. Satisfied. You feel satisfied. A little giddy, even.

Park Sunghoon. Brilliant esports player. Terrible project partner—and terrible person, really. But fuck, if he wasn't good with his hands. And body. And words. And face.

You grin to yourself at the memory of it all, free of the anxiety that used to cripple you every time you thought of him. All those hours you'd spent wondering what he thought of you, if he liked you back. You don't give a shit what he thinks anymore.

He debated for a while who to call. Not Jay, obviously. Jay would take one look at the crumpled fabric in his hand and drive in the opposite direction. He could've called Jake—Jake wouldn't judge him for his sexual failures, given his pathetic history with women, but Jake would certainly judge everything else about the situation. Also, there’s no way he would drive an hour out on a whim just to pick him up. That left Heeseung. The one most likely to actually pick up, only because he’s a nosy little shit and he'll absolutely never let Sunghoon live it down.

Sunghoon finds himself sitting in the passenger seat, jersey crumpled in his lap, staring out the window, and Heeseung takes a loud, dramatic sniff.

"You smell like jizz." He glances at the jersey. "The fuck did you do with that?"

"None of your business."

"None of my business, my ass." Heeseung pulls out of the lot. "I'm doing you a big favour. Think I deserve to know."

Silence.

"Sunghoon. Spill."

Sunghoon exhales. Long. Slow. Staring straight ahead.

"I don't get it. I mean, I don't get her. I was doing everything right. I gave her the jersey. I told the team I couldn't have won without her. I made her feel good. Really good. Like, screaming-my-name kind of good." He pauses. "Not to brag. But I blew her fucking mind. And then suddenly it's 'get out of my car,' and she throws the jersey at my chest and drives off." He turns to Heeseung, genuinely bewildered. "What am I missing?"

"Let me get this straight," Heeseung changes lanes. Checks his blind spot. "She drove you to your game? On top of all the project shit she did for you?"

"She wanted to."

"Did she?"

"...Well, she wanted to see me." He folds his arms, "She had a good time. So I don't get the problem—"

"Sunghoon. Dude." Heeseung sighs, "The whole seduction manipulation thing you're trying to do? It only works if you're hot and smart enough to pull it off. You're just hot."

"I'm not manipulating her."

"Sure you're not."

"I'm not. I'm just trying to keep her happy. Which, judging by how hard she came, I thought I was doing my job right."

Heeseung snorts. "Your job?"

"What?"

"You're treating her like a resource. Like a side quest. Keep her happy, get the rewards. She's a human being, not an NPC, dumbass." "That's not—" The denial dies halfway out of his mouth. Sunghoon stops, brows furrowing at his roommate's words. "That's not what she is. No, she's nice to me. Like, genuinely nice." The corner of his lip tugs, almost involuntary. "She's fun to be around. Laughs at my jokes. She listens when I talk about Valorant. She has this look, like she's all impressed, even though she probably doesn't understand any of it. And man, you should've seen the way she cheered for me. It was like... the best feeling in the world."

He stops a moment, sighing, the memory of you beneath him in the car resurfacing itself. You, falling apart for him. "She's cute," he says, and the words feels a little too innocent for what he actually means, but he probably shouldn't say anything more in front of Heeseung anyways. "She's really cute." He stops. Blinks. His own words catch up to him, and suddenly the inside of the car feels very small.

Suddenly, he feels warm. These days, he always seems to feel that way when he thinks about you. It's annoying. It's distracting. It's—

"Hold the fuck on." The car comes to a screeching halt at a red light, and Heeseung turns. "You like her."

"What?" It comes out too fast. "Yeah, right. You know I don't do dating. Or any of that bullshit. It's a waste of—"

"I didn't ask if you wanted to marry her. I asked if you liked her."

Sunghoon looks out the window, streetlights passing.

He thinks about you. Your laugh, your smile, the voice notes you always leave and how he sometimes finds himself listening to them late at night when he has nothing better to do. He thinks about the way you looked in the crowd, sitting there for him. The way you always show up when he needs you and let him treat you like trash.

For a while, he told himself he was only getting close to you for convenience. Though there’s nothing convenient about the jittery feeling in his stomach right now, is there? He shoves it back down.

"No," he folds his arms. "Obviously no."

Heeseung gives him a long look. A very long look. Then he turns back to the road.

"Then stop bothering the poor girl and do your damn project."

Heeseung turns up the radio. The highway hums beneath them.

Sunghoon stays silent. The jitteriness in his stomach fades into something new. Something that aches. A terrible feeling—an awful one. He wonders how you might feel right now. Worse than him, he's sure.

"I will," he suddenly says. "I'll stop."

He'll do his work. He'll make things right. And next time, when you inevitably come back around, he'll apologize properly.

Sunghoon opens the project folder. Stares at the empty files, the frontend he never built. The CSS that's still mostly placeholder comments.

This should be easy. He'd always told himself I could pass this class in my sleep if I actually tried. But now he's trying, and his brain is a blank wall.

He types a line, deletes it, types again. Wrong syntax. The error at the bottom of the screen glares red and refuses to explain itself. He opens google, checks Stack Overflow, which presents and answer he doesn't understand. He copies the code anyway, slots it in, and five more errors bloom where one used to be.

This is bad. Severely bad. If he fails this course again, his GPA risks dropping below the minimum threshold for athletic eligibility. No GPA, no team. No team, no playing next season. And if Sunghoon can’t play next season, the team loses the tournament, and they lose funding. No funding means the program folds, which means he can kiss his E-sports career goodbye.

His hand twitches toward his phone. It's become a reflex now—reach for you the moment something goes wrong, except now you won’t help him. Because he fucked that up and asked for too much too quickly and made you feel used. And now he’s stuck, watching the errors keep piling up, knowing the deadline is three days away.

Leave the poor girl alone. He grabs his phone anyway.

He can't do it without you. He doesn't know the syntax, doesn't know the structure. You were always there, filling the gaps, smoothing the edges, making it look easy. And he let you. He counted on it. He counted on you, and he didn't even realize it until you were gone.

He needs you. He opens your chat and looks at his messages. Still unanswered. Still unread.

Sunghoon: hey. i'm sorry. Sunghoon: i know you're mad but Sunghoon: idk how to do this without you sent three days ago Sunghoon: hey Sunghoon: i don’t wanna bother you again Sunghoon: but i really am trying Sunghoon: and im stuck Sunghoon: please sent two days ago

"Hey. It's me. I don't know if you're listening to these anymore." He clears his throat, eyes on the timer of the voice recording. He’s sent a lot of these over the past few days, and he’s long since stopped hoping you’ll respond. He treats it almost like a confessional instead. "I'm sorry. For everything. I really am. I tried to do the project. Like, actually tried. And I can't. I don't know how. I never went to class, and I never—I know it's all my fault. And that I've dug my own grave. Just... I hope you know I'm trying. And..." A long silence. The recording meter ticks. "...I miss you—fuck. Sorry. Just. Yeah. Sorry"

He hits send, immediately shoving the device aside and burying his face in his hands. He keeps telling himself he doesn't want to bother you. That he can figure this out on his own. That he should leave you alone. But the cursor's still blinking on an empty file, and his phone's still dark, and the lie is getting harder to hold onto every time he reaches for it. He needs you.

Sunghoon waits outside the lecture hall.

He's never even been to this building before, even had to look up the room number, the time, and the building itself. But now he’s there, leaning against the wall, hood pulled over his head, arms crossed, watching the doors like he's holding an angle. Students trickle out in pairs and clusters. He scans every face.

Then he sees you.

You're near the back of the crowd, and you're not alone. Some guy is walking beside you—boring and forgettable. He's leaning in as you talk, nodding at whatever you're saying, and smiling at you, and Sunghoon wants to call him pathetic, but you're smiling back at the guy. His jaw tightens.

You haven't noticed him yet. You're still talking, gesturing with one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, looking strangely relaxed. You never looked like that with him. He only knows you as the flustered girl who froze in the library when he knee touched yours. You, who melted into his touch in the backseat of his car. Not... this.

The guy says something, and you laugh, making Sunghoon's fingers dig into his own arm.

Then your eyes sweep the hall, landing on him. You hold for half a second before immediately looking away, starting to walk faster. You brush past him like he doesn’t exist, but Sunghoon’s already pushing himself off the wall, falling into step beside you.

"Hey." His hood falls back over his shoulders. "Can we talk?"

"I have somewhere to be."

"Five minutes. Please."

"Pretty sure she said no," The other guy frowns, then looks at you. "Everything okay? You know him?"

"She's my project partner," Sunghoon practically seethes, not looking at him. His eyes are on you. "Now leave us alone."

"Think that's up to her to decide—"

"She's with me." Sunghoon's voice is flat and final. "Right?"

You stop walking. Your shoulders square and you turn to face him, chin lifting, and for a split second, there's something almost amused flickering at the corner of your mouth. Like you'd been expecting this. Still, your eyes are cold, your jaw set. You’re pissed. He’s never seen you truly, completely pissed. You always hid it beneath a smile.

"It's fine," you say to the guy, your voice calm. "I'll catch up with you later."

The guy hesitates. Looks at Sunghoon, then back at you. He's probably weighing his options, and Sunghoon watches him do the math in real time.

"Yeah. Okay." He scoffs, walking off, "Later."

Sunghoon turns back to you immediately, his jaw still tight from watching that guy disappear around the corner.

"Who was that?"

"Classmate." You say it flat. You’re already walking again, your pace hurried.

"Yeah, right." He scoffs, falling into step beside you. "Does he know that? That he's just a classmate?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

"You're ignoring my messages." He avoids the question.

"Okay." You don't slow down. Don't even glance at him. "And?"

"And I'm kind of desperate here," His voice is rising now, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "I've been trying to reach you for days. I need your help."

You stop at the stairwell door, hand on the push bar, and finally, you look at him. Your expression is unreadable, but there's something almost pitying in the tilt of your head.

"You always need things, don't you?"

He blinks, and you're already pushing through the door, your footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell. He hesitates for half a second, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you climb, and then he's following, the door slamming shut behind him.

"You're greedy, Sunghoon. I've already given you so much."

"I know." His own footsteps fall heavy behind yours. "I know I don't deserve anything."

"Then stop wasting my time." You snap back.

You shove through the fire door at the top of the stairs, and suddenly you're both outside—the heat hitting him like a wall after the stale cool of the lecture hall, sunlight glaring off the sidewalk. You cut across the quad, weaving between clusters of students without slowing, and he stays on your heels like a shadow. You know he’s there, but you keep walking. Past the fountain. Past the library.

By the time you reach your dorm building, you're both breathing harder from the pace, and when you push through the glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby, he slips through behind you. Slowly, you turn.

"Why are you still following me?" Your frown cuts deep, brows furrowed. "Seriously, this is stalker behaviour."

Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.

"I won't leave until you help me."

"I dare you to tell that to campus security." You retort, chin tilted up, eyes locked on his.

Then you exhale through your nose, sharp and dismissive, and turn on your heel toward the elevator. You jab the call button with your thumb, harder than necessary.

"I dare you to call campus security." Suddenly, he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulder nearly brushing yours, a ghost of that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You won't."

The elevator dings, soft and cheerful, utterly indifferent to the tension coiled in the tiny space between your bodies. He steps in and stands close enough that you catch the familiar scent of him, and the doors slide shut, sealing you both inside.

"Because you don't scare me," you say, prodding a finger at his chest. He glances down at it, then back up at you, eyebrow raised. "You're like a whiny little toddler. Throwing a tantrum just because I won't give you what you want this time."

He doesn't step back. If anything, he leans into the prod, just slightly, letting your finger press into the fabric of his hoodie.

"Please," he says, and his voice has shifted—lower, stripped of the smirk. "The project is due in three days. None of my code works. I tried. I actually tried. I wanted to do better. But I don't know how to do this. I never learned, because you were always—"

"Always doing it for you." You stare at the elevator doors. "Yeah. I know."

"I'm sorry, okay? I know I fucked up. The tournament. The jersey. The lucky charm thing. All of it." He huffs, a short, humourless laugh at his own expense. "It wasn't very feminist of me. I shouldn't have treated you like an object, or something."

"No." Your voice is flat. "You shouldn't have."

The elevator dings, and you step out fast, keys already in your hand. Still, he's right behind you. His footsteps fall heavy on the carpet, matching your pace, refusing to give you even a stride of distance.

"Stop following me." You say again, firmer this time.

"I told you I won't."

"Well, you can cry in the hallway, then. I'm not dealing with this." You reach your door, and the keys jingle sharply as you slot them into the lock, missing the first time because your hands are not quite steady. You twist the knob and slip inside, already rolling your eyes, already swinging the door shut. "Bye—"

His hand catches it. Palm flat against the wood, fingers curling around the edge, arm braced. The door stops dead, half-open, and you're left gripping the handle on your side.

You stare at his hand. Then at him.

He pushes, though not very hard, and he steps through the gap, his body filling the frame and then clearing it. The door clicks shut behind him, and he leans back against it, his chest rising and falling with breaths that are just a little too fast to hide, like he’s equally as shocked as you are that he just forced himself inside your dorm room.

Your keys are still in your hand. Your knuckles are white around them, and you back up a few steps. Your chest is rising and falling to match his now, and the room feels suddenly very, very small.

“Listen, I just want to—”

"Get the fuck out of my room, or I swear to god I will actually call security."

"What do you want from me?" His voice comes out raw, louder than he meant. He pushes off the door, one step forward, then stops himself. "I apologized. I've tried to do my work. I'm trying to make things right. You want me to get on my knees and beg? 'Cause I will. I'll fucking do it."

"Sunghoon—"

He drops.

The movement is sudden and unceremonious. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and for a second, he just stays there, head bowed, hair falling forward into his eyes, probably in need of a haircut. Then he looks up at you from the floor, hands clasped together.

"Please." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You stare down at him, distraught. A little horrified. Kind of cringing to yourself, honestly. And for a moment, you just watch him apologize over and over again. He mutters the same things he texted you about already. Missing you. Wanting to be better. Wanting to fix things. Needing to pass the class.

You drop your keys on your bedside table. The clatter breaks the rhythm of his apologies, and he goes silent. His head lifts, tracking the sound, tracking you as you take a step toward him. Then another. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, it seems like.

Stopping just in front of him, his clasped hands loosen, fingers uncurling, and then he's reaching for yours instead—slow, uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed. His palms are warm, a little clammy. His fingers wrap around your knuckles and squeeze, and you can feel the tremor in his grasp. You think this is the first time you've ever seen this man experience any sort of real fear.

You lift his chin with your free hand, fingers pressing into his jaw, tilting his face up. The movement isn’t gentle or kind, as if the frown on your lips wasn't indicative enough of your displeasure with whatever this display is.

"You're pathetic."

"I know."

"You're an entitled, egotistical, manipulative loser."

"I know."

"Get up."

He does, and now you're the one craning your neck to look at him.

"For the last time." You say it slowly, "Leave me alone."

He doesn't move. His eyes trace your face. Your throat. The line of your collarbone. Your lips, still pulled into a tight frown.

"I can't do that." A silence follows. "You don't want me to do that either."

"I do."

"Maybe you do," he clarifies, hand finally reaching out until his fingers meet your throat, grazing your skin until they meet your chin. You lean into the touch. It’s your weakness. Your fatal flaw. You can say whatever you want, but when he has his hands on you, you crumble in his grasp. "But your body wants something else."

His thumb brushes your lower lip. Your mouth parts without permission.

You hold his gaze. Your breathing is shallow, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat where his fingers just were. You hate the way you can't pull yourself away. “Tell me what you want,” He rests leans in closer, his voice rough. "I can make it up to you. I'll make you forget what you were even upset about. You just have to—" You kiss him. Hard enough to shut him up. Hard enough that he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth before his hand tightens in your hair and he kisses you back. It's different from the parking lot. Slower, a little hesitant because you're still learning how this all works. Desperate still, but less immediately urgent. His hand cradles the back of your head, and his lips work yours like they have something to prove. Your hands come up to his chest, and this time you don't push him away. When you break apart, you're both breathing hard. His forehead presses to yours, his eyes dark and a little dazed. The look of someone who knows they're about to get exactly what they wanted. You despise it.

"Are you really whoring yourself out for grades?" Your voice comes out breathless, undermining the bite you'd intended.

He laughs, low and warm against your mouth.

"If I'm whoring myself out for anything, it's forgiveness." His hand drops to your waist, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "I meant it when I said I missed you."

"Oh, I'm sure you do." You laugh bitterly, but his lips are already trailing down your jaw. "I'm sure you miss the way I did all your work and drove you around and—"

"I miss when you were mine." He says it against your throat, the words vibrating against your skin. His hand tightens on your hip. "And not laughing at some other asshole's jokes."

You can feel the shift in him, his possessiveness bleeding through the charm.

"Seriously, who was that guy?"

"Told you. Nobody." Your head tips back as his mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. "Just a classmate."

"Did you do anything with—?"

"No. Obviously, no." The sigh that escapes you is half-frustration, half-surrender. "Just you. You know it's just you."

"That's right." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's satisfaction in his eyes—warm and smug and entirely undeserved. "Just me."

His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.

"What we did in the parking lot was just the start." His lips brush your ear, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I can do so much more for you. You know I can."

Your back suddenly hits the mattress. You didn't feel him walking you there—didn't register the steps, the turn, the careful way he lowered you down. But now he's above you, braced on his forearms, looking at you with a kind of hunger and hope.

"Let me apologize properly." He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Will you?"

You look up at him. At his jaw. His mouth. His dark, beautiful eyes. You nod without questioning it.

His lips find your throat first. Soft. Slow. He traces the line of your pulse with his mouth, feeling it flutter beneath his attention. Then lower—your collarbone, the hollow at the base of your throat, the warm skin just above the neckline of your shirt. He pushes the fabric aside, just enough, and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then lower.

His hands move with the same precision he brings to his game, but slower. Like he's memorizing the landscape of you as he strips you of your clothes. His mouth traces a slow path down your stomach. You’re near-bare when his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.

"Just lay back."

You nod again, not trusting your voice.

He pulls the fabric down. His breath is warm against the inside of your thigh. Then his mouth is there—gentle at first, testing, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you go still. His hands hold your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin, steadying you.

"Too much?" He murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver up your spine.

"No," You swallow. "Don't stop."

With that, he's grinning, lowering himself between your thighs.

He takes you apart slowly. Thoroughly. His tongue works in patterns you can't track, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, his voice a low murmur of praise against your skin. So good for me. So pretty. Just like that.

When he feels you getting close, he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm steady, deliberate, drawing it out until your hands are fisted in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress and his name is the only word left in your vocabulary.

"Who's making you feel this good?" His voice is rough, muffled against your skin. "Tell me."

"Sunghoon."

"Say it again."

"Sunghoon—please—!"

You shatter. The wave crashes through you, and he works you through every second of it—his mouth never stopping, his hands grounding you, holding you together even as you fall apart. When the last tremor leaves your body, you're gasping, your fingers still twisted in his hair.

He kisses his way back up. Your hip. Your ribs. The curve of your shoulder.

"All mine," he murmurs against your skin, pressing the words into you like a claim.

Finally, his lips find yours. Still slow, none of that frantic hunger that had him pressed against you before you could think in the back of your car. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours like an apology he doesn't know how to put into words.

But you're not done with him yet. Not even close.

Your hands drop from his chest to his waistband, fingers finding the drawstring and tugging. You fumble—too eager, too impatient—and the knot catches, your knuckles pressing into the hard plane of his stomach as you work at it. His abs tense under your touch. He pulls back, eyes wide, lips still swollen.

"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, caught between surprise and something else. His hand hovers over yours, but doesn't stop you.

"Want you." You meet his eyes and hold them, your chin tilting up. "Inside me."

He nearly groans at the sound of that, dick twitching in his pants. But, for the first time, he hesitates. Even now—even with you laid out beneath him, even with the taste of you still on his lips—there's a flicker of concern in his expression. "You sure?"

"You want forgiveness." Your voice is steadier than you feel. "Show me how sorry you are."

He stares at you for a beat. Something in his expression shifts—surprise giving way to something darker, more amused, thoroughly impressed. A low chuckle escapes him, warm and rough, and he shakes his head like he can't quite believe you.

"You want it that bad, huh?"

You push his hoodie up over his shoulders, suddenly self-conscious of how much skin you’re showing compared to him. He finishes the job for you, peeling off the hoodie and shirt beneath it in one motion, and then he’s reaching for the waistband.

You barely notice how his sweatpants are gone in a single impatient shove, too focused on him; the broad sweep of his chest, the tight lines of his stomach, the way his arms flex as he braces himself above you. Your hands flatten against his chest without second thought.

"How the hell are you so..." You trail off, too stunned to finish.

"Gym. Sometimes." He shrugs, "What? I'm not a complete loser."

"You're worse than a loser." You retort, but your words betray your actions as you find the waistband of his boxers.

"I am?" He's grinning now, watching your hands fumble, "You don't seem to mind."

He shifts his weight as you pull them down, and then you have him—hard, bare and intimidating, grinding against the inside of your thigh. Your breath catches.

"I'm serious, though." His voice drops. His forehead presses to yours, and his hips still. "You sure you want this? It feels sort of wrong. Like..."

"Like what?"

He doesn't answer right away. His thumb traces a slow line along your hip, grounding himself, grounding you. Like you should save it for someone else, he thinks. Someone more deserving. The thought makes him shudder. He can't stand it—the image of someone else's hands on you. Someone else seeing you like this, all flushed and open and unguarded. He's too obsessed with the way you react to his touch. Too greedy to give it up.

"Sunghoon," you sigh, "I literally don't care. Just put it in."

He sucks in a breath.

"Well, I care." He presses closer, and you feel him at your entrance. He doesn’t push in yet, just rests there, heavy and warm. His eyes find yours. "So tell me if it hurts. Tell me—" He pushes in just barely, just the head of him, and your mouth falls open. "—fuck, you're gorgeous."

He's not fully in yet—just working his way inside, pausing to let you adjust to each inch. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, soothing circles. And yet still—

"So big," you whimper, glancing down between your bodies, almost disbelieving. You already feel so impossibly full of him. Your fingers squeeze around his, your other hand gripping the back of his neck. "So much..."

"I know." He whispers it, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitching—trying not to smile too smugly, trying not to let it get to his head. But he's still just a guy, and the way you're looking at him, all wide-eyed and overwhelmed, is doing things to his ego he can't quite suppress. "Too much for you?"

You shake your head in denial, your nails pressing little crescents into his shoulder blade as he sinks in deeper. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the thought of him stopping is worse.

"I know it's a lot." There's a trace of that smugness in his voice now, but it's tempered by something softer. Something almost tender. "But it feels good when you get used to it, angel. I swear."

He's fully in now. You feel him everywhere—a deep, satisfying fullness that borders on overwhelming. His palm presses flat against your lower belly, and you watch his jaw go slack as he feels himself there, buried inside you, just beneath his hand.

"Fuck," he breathes, almost to himself. "Feel that? That's me. Right there."

You can't speak. You can only nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your body still adjusting to the size of him.

You feel him in your guts, an almost unbearable fullness that borders on pain before it tips into something else. When he starts moving, shallow and careful, it's like your whole body shakes with the sensation. Want. Need. Anticipation. You've wanted him so badly. All summer, every night, every time his knee brushed yours or his voice dropped low. And now here he is inside you, above you, finally, and you're barely able to handle it. The frustration prickles at the edges of your bliss.

A strained sound escapes you with each shallow thrust. Your face is still tight, your body still struggling to accommodate him, but you are so, so determined.

"More," you manage, the word half-demand, half-plea. "You can go harder. Faster. I won't break."

He just laughs, Low and warm.

"Not yet." He purrs. "Not this time. You'll take it like this."

He fucks you slow and deep. His thumb finds your clit and circles it in a lazy rhythm, matching the roll of his hips. The discomfort lingers at the edges from the stretch of him that still borders on too much, but then he shifts, angling your leg slightly higher, and something inside you ignites.

A raw, involuntary noise escapes you, and he catches it immediately.

"Right there, huh?" He does it again, same angle, same depth. You bite back a cry. "Feels good?"

"So good." Your nails rake down his back. "Fuck, it’s so—"

You don't finish the sentence. You cum around him, rather abruptly, a broken cry on your lips, your back arching. He groans, low and strained, and rocks you through every pulse of it, his hips rolling gently, letting you ride out your high.

When your eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, you stare up at him. At the sharp cut of his jaw. His mouth, still slightly parted. The dark hair falling over his gorgeous eyes. He looks like a fucking pornstar—it's actually unbelievable. Every inch of him is perfect, and it just makes you even more pissed.

And he hasn't finished yet. Still hard. Still inside you. Still watching you with that smug, knowing look, like he's got all the time in the world.

That also makes you pissed.

With a single-minded focus, you’re pushing him to his back, mounting him, your legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.

“What are you—” His voice is genuinely startled. His hands come up to your hips on instinct, not guiding, just holding, like he's bracing for impact. His eyes are wide, fixed on your face.

You lower yourself onto him, slowly. Sinking down until you’re fully seated there. It’s a lot. A lot more than it was trying to take him from just lying down. You feel all of him, even deeper than before, filling you to the brim, and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to swallow the slight discomfort that still lingers.

“I don’t know if you should—” His voice is strained. He's trying to be decent. Trying to hold still. You can feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, the effort it's taking him not to thrust up into the heat of you.

You start to move. Mostly to shut him up. There’s no rhyme or rhythm. No technique. Only directionless desire. Your hips rock in a shallow, uneven pace because you can't really handle what you're trying to take—the angle is different, and every downward stroke punches a gasp from your lungs. Your thighs burn with the effort. Your balance wavers. But you don't stop.

"Fuck." The word tears out of him, strangled and reverent. He's leaning back against your pillows now, propped on his elbows, watching you with helpless awe. "Just take it. Take what you want. It's yours."

Your nails drag down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The sting makes him hiss, but he doesn't stop you—doesn't grab your wrists, doesn't flip you over. He just watches, enthralled, as you claw at him like you're trying to leave a mark he'll feel for days.

You're cursing at him under your breath. Asshole. Entitled. Selfish. Using me. Words he can't quite catch but definitely deserves. Your rhythm stutters and breaks, your hips faltering as the pleasure builds too fast, too intense, and you can't keep the pace steady when every nerve in your body is screaming.

Maybe he should feel terrified that you're clawing at him like an animal, cursing his name with the same breath you use to moan it. But he's captivated. He's never been more attracted to anyone in his life. Your lips are parted, your chest bare and heaving, and you're riding him with zero grace and a summer’s worth of pent-up fury and sexual frustration.

"Shit," he breathes, his hands sliding up from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. "Look at you. So fucking hot when you're mad. Maybe I should—"

You slap him across the face.

As hard as you can.

It shocks you, even.

It’s not very hard—he's basically a wall of muscle—but the sting is real, and the crack of it echoes in the room.

For one suspended second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His head is still turned from the impact, a faint pink bloom already rising on his cheek. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you—the girl who stutters over her words and whimpers from a single touch—just slapped him across the face while riding him.

His eyes find yours.

"Shut the fuck up." You hiss.

He should probably feel pissed, right? Offended, maybe? He's never been slapped in his life—not by a girlfriend, not even by his roommates, though he’s sure sometimes they want to. And yet the sting on his cheek is radiating down his neck, into his chest, settling low in his gut where it twists into something insatiable.

His dick twitches, and a sound he's never made escapes him—which he does not have the time to unpack currently. He'll think about it later, probably, when he's alone and confused and trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him.

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Make me."

You slap him again, and his smile only widens.

His cheek is definitely pink now. He can feel the heat of it, the slight throb, and it's doing something to him. His hands tighten on your hips, not to restrain you, just to keep you there, like this. Steadying your hips.

You're breathing hard, staring down at him, the stretch of him wearing you thin. He splits you open in a way that borders on too much, your body still struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him even now, even after everything. Every inch is a presence you can't ignore, and for a dizzying second, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be completely consumed. Still, you take him. You take what you want.

You finish with a broken cry, your rhythm shattering completely. Your hips stutter, lose their pace, and then you're collapsing forward, forehead pressed to his chest, your whole body seizing and releasing around him in waves that don't seem to stop. His hands find your hips and hold you steady through it, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones, grounding you while you shudder apart on top of him.

For a moment, he lets you rest there. His hand cradles the back of your head. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He's still hard—achingly, painfully hard—and the feeling of you fluttering around him, spent and trembling, is almost enough to finish him right there.

But not quite.

He flips you onto your back.

It's fast. One arm wraps around your waist, and then the world tilts, and suddenly you're beneath him again, your back sinking into the mattress, your legs falling open around his hips. He doesn't give you time to adjust—doesn't give himself time to think. He just drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust.

"Hoon—!”

"Take it," he chokes out, hand reaching for your neck, "Don't tap out on me, now. Fucking take it like a good girl."

The pace is different now, a lot less considerate. He's been holding back all night—letting you adjust, letting you set the rhythm, letting you take what you wanted. But now he's wound too tight, every thrust driven by a pure, animalistic need.

His breath goes ragged. His jaw clenches so tight it aches. The hand around your neck tightens, not enough to choke you, but enough to keep you in place, and he fucks into you like he's trying to outrun something—the guilt, the fear, the dawning realization that this isn't just about getting off anymore and that it probably hasn't been for a while.

"I'm—" His rhythm breaks, stutters, and then he's pulling out at the last possible second. His hand wraps around himself. He finishes on your stomach with a low, broken groan that sounds like it's been dragged out of him against his will, and he stares at the image of it all: You, covered in his cum. Finally his again.

He stays there for a moment, braced above you, his arms trembling. His head hangs low, breath coming in ragged gasps. The mess between you is warm and slick, pooling on your skin, and neither of you moves to clean it up. Not yet, anyway.

The room goes quiet, the two of you only breathing.

He blinks down at you. At the mess. The way you're still catching your breath, still flushed, still looking up at him with those wide, unreadable eyes. Something flickers across his face—something almost tender, almost frightened—and then it's gone, replaced by the ghost of that infuriating grin.

"Shit," he breathes, and it comes out half-laugh, half-apology. "Come here."

He kisses you. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate, driving intensity of a few minutes ago. This kiss says something different—something he can't quite put into words and isn't sure he's ready to. His lips linger on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he pulls back. "You got anything to clean up with?"

You point him to the drawer at your bedside, and he reaches over. A pack of wet wipes. He cleans you up with careful, methodical hands, wiping the mess from your stomach, between your thighs, his touch efficient but gentle. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times.

He tosses the wipes toward the garbage bin in the corner. It lands short. He doesn't pick it up. Instead, he climbs back onto the bed and lies down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"Does it hurt anywhere?" He turns his head on the pillow to look at you. His hair is a disaster, still damp with sweat at the temples. "I was trying to be careful, but you were kind of intense. You were a virgin, like, two hours ago."

"A little sore." Your voice comes out hoarse. "I'll survive."

"You sure? I can get you Advil." He's already half-propped up on one elbow, ready to go searching through your bathroom cabinets. "I don't know where you keep your Advil."

"I'm sure."

He nods, settling back down. His arm finds its way around your waist, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand traces idle patterns on your hip—slow, absent shapes, like he's not even aware he's doing it.

"You're staying?"

He looks down at you. The question catches him off guard—not the words, but the way they sound to him. Soft and Uncertain, like you're bracing for him to leave. Clingy already, he thinks, but the thought makes him smile, rather than feel annoyed.

"Come on." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm not a complete asshole."

"You're not?"

"I'm staying." Another kiss, softer this time. "I'm not going anywhere."

You hum, a sigh leaving your body, head settled against his chest. His heart does something inconvenient in his ribcage—a flutter, a stutter, something he refuses to name. He pulls you a little closer anyway.

"I mean it," he says, and the words start coming faster now, tumbling out in a ramble he hadn't planned. The afterglow loosened something in his chest. "I'm gonna make it up to you. For real this time. Not like the parking lot. I know I said that then, but I mean it now. I'm gonna take you out. An actual date. No tournaments. No sushi—unless you want sushi? But a nicer place than that one. Just you and me. A real restaurant. Not some strip mall junk."

You're quiet, your thumb drawing lazy circles against his chest. It's a soothing, steady rhythm that has his eyes growing heavy.

"And I'll stop calling you a lucky charm or prize or whatever. That was stupid. I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know why I said it. I was just—the reporter was there, and I was still hyped from the match, and my teammates were all listening." He presses another kiss to your hair. "You're not any of that. You're good to me. Really good to me."

Still no response. Your thumb keeps tracing those slow circles, but you haven't looked up at him. You must be tired. Poor thing.

"Oh, and I'll teach you," he adds, a chuckle escaping him. "How to ride me. Properly. Not that I'm complaining. It was cute watching you struggle up there."

A yawn cracks his jaw. He tries to smother it, but it's too late. His body reminds him that he got zero sleep trying to work on the project, and that he just made you finish three times. The adrenaline is gone. What's left is heavy, dragging exhaustion. Almost peaceful.

"Anyway," he mumbles, eyes closing. "I'll be better. I swear. Actual date. No name-calling. Riding lessons. Sunghoon 2.0. The redeem—" Another yawn. "The redemption arc."

You turn your head on his chest. Your voice cuts through the haze of his exhaustion.

"Sunghoon."

"Mm?"

"What did I say about shutting up?"

He blinks. The question catches him off guard, and then a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest—genuine, surprised, a little bit giddy. A laugh only you seem to be able to pull out of him.

"Yes, ma'am," he says, grinning. "Shutting up now."

You settle back against his chest. Your hand resumes its position over his ribs, but the circles have stopped. He doesn't notice. He's already sinking, the warmth of you pulling him under.

He closes his eyes. The weight of you against his chest is warm and solid and real. His, some quiet, possessive part of him whispers. And the taste of you still lingers on his lips, tasting a lot like victory.

It's been two weeks. Sunghoon has learned a few things about you. He's learned that you're insatiable—and that Heeseung was right when he said something about the innocent ones being the freakiest in bed. He's learned that you like it when he pulls your hair—not hard, just enough. He's learned that you like to pull his hair and dig your nails into him and cuss him out, while begging him to go harder and faster. He's also learned that you still won't let him take you on an actual date. And trust him, he's tried.

"Let me take you out," he'll say, and you're cutting him off with your sweet, irresistible lips. "I'm serious," he'll insist, and your hand is down his pants, teasing him for being hard already. "I'll buy you dinner. Anything you want," he'll try, and you're sinking to your knees, taking his dick down your throat like it’s nothing. Then he forgets whatever he's arguing about.

It bothers him. Not the sex part, obviously—he enjoys that more than he's ever enjoyed anything—but he doesn't want you to think that's all he wants. He's been trying to prove otherwise. Trying to show you that he actually gives a shit. That he's not an asshole. That he's changed. You don't seem to believe him—that's the only reason he can think of why you keep avoiding his advances, anyway. Every time he brings up a real date, you dodge, distract and deflect with your hands and your mouth and the warm press of your body. He's determined to prove you wrong.

Today is no different. You're in his bed, head pressed into the pillows as he fucks you from behind, and he's covered in a layer of sweat. "Shit," he seethes, watching himself disappear inside you, your greedy cunt taking all of him. "So fucking gorgeous." "Faster," you whine, predictably. He almost laughs. "Let me take you out." He slows deliberately, his cock dragging along your walls at an agonizing pace—so slow you can feel every inch of him, the thick ridge of his head catching on just the right spot before he pulls back again. "Tomorrow. Dinner. Real restaurant." "Sunghoon." His name is muffled against the pillow, half-moan, half-protest. Your fingers twist in the sheets. "Somewhere nice." He rolls his hips, just barely, just enough to make you gasp. "No sex. Not before. Not after. Not even a little. Just talking." "You're already talking right now." You push back against him, trying to take him deeper, but his hands tighten on your hips, holding you still. "And it's very annoying." "I'm serious." "So am I. Now faster." "No."

A squeal escapes you as his palm connects with your ass—not hard, just a sharp little crack that makes you jolt forward. The sting blooms warm across your skin. He rubs the spot immediately, his palm soothing over the heat he left behind, and the contrast makes you shudder. "Just say yes." He leans over you, his chest brushing your spine, and you can feel the heat of him, the slick slide of his skin against yours. His lips find the shell of your ear. "Lemme hear it, and I'll fuck you right." His hips rock forward—barely an inch—and you moan at the shallow stretch. Then he pulls back again, leaving you empty and aching. "Fine," you huff, "Maybe." He stops moving entirely. You wait for the next thrust, the next tease, but nothing comes. Then he's pulling out completely, his hands leaving your hips, and the sudden absence of him is so jarring you actually whimper. "What are you—?" "No date, no dick." You crane your neck to glare at him over your shoulder. He's kneeling behind you, cock slick and ready, one hand wrapped lazily around himself. He strokes himself, just watching you squirm. "That's not fair." "It's completely fair." Trying not to grin, seeing the look of frustration on your face, "Seriously, what am I, a piece of meat to you?" "Yes," you don't even hesitate, "So put your dick back inside me and stop talking." "So demanding," he raises a brow, hands leaving his cock to return to your hips. You whine when you feel the tip of him tease along your slick heat, absolutely dripping for him. You huff, dropping your forehead to the pillow. Your body is aching. Empty. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, and he's just kneeling there, smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating. "Please." Your voice drops, softening. "Please give it to me." He bites his lip, hands gripping your hips tighter as he grinds against you. The begging. You know he can't resist the begging. He sucks in a breath. Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t— "Want it so bad." You push back onto your elbows, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. "Need you inside me. Need you to fill me up. Please, Sunghoon. Please." "Fuck." He stutters and lines himself up, the head of him pressing against your entrance—just barely, just enough to make you gasp and push back—and then he sheathes himself in one brutal, devastating thrust. "So fucking needy." You cry out, face buried in the pillow, your whole body jerking forward as he sheathes himself to the hilt. He doesn't give you time to adjust, nor does he give himself time to be careful. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress, and his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise. The headboard slams against the wall in a frantic rhythm, his pace punishing. Your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric, trying to anchor yourself against the force of him. Every thrust punches a broken sound from your throat—half gasp, half moan, muffled by the pillow. He watches himself disappear into you, the slick glide of his length, the way your body stretches to accommodate him, the way you push back against him even now, even pinned, even helpless. "That's it," he grits out, his voice wrecked. "Take it. Take all of it." You're babbling something into the pillow—his name, maybe, or just incoherent pleading. He can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering, the telltale tremble in your thighs. He reaches around, finds your clit, and the sound you make when he touches you there is almost enough to finish him on the spot. "Come for me," he breathes, his rhythm stuttering as his own control starts to fray. "Let go. I've got you."

You shatter. He feels it—the clench, the pulse, the way your whole body seizes and releases. Your cry is muffled by the pillow, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you grip him, in the way you shudder beneath him. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release now, and when it hits him, a low, broken groan is torn from his chest as he spills inside you.

He collapses forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. His forehead presses to the space between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your damp skin. Beneath him, you're still trembling—small aftershocks rippling through you. The room is quiet now, just the sound of breathing and the distant hum of his PC.

He stays there for a long moment, letting his heart rate settle, letting the sweat cool on his back. Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to the center of your spine. Then another, higher. Then another, at the nape of your neck. He works his way up slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing the landscape of you.

"Come here." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He eases out of you gently and tugs you down onto the pillows with him, pulling your back against his chest. His arm drapes across your waist, heavy and warm. His nose brushes the curve of your ear. But then he’s watching you slip from the bed, and he can’t help but frown. The sheets pool around his waist as he sits up, reaching for you. His fingers catch your arm before you can stand.

"Where are you going?" "Back to my place?” “Why?” “Because.” You break from his grasp, “I’m busy.” "With?"

"Studying. Work. Social life." You're pulling on your clothes with that efficient, no-nonsense energy he's come to recognize—underwear, shirt, the quick twist of your hair into something presentable. "Some of us care about our lives." He ignores the jab, tugging you back toward him. You stumble, one knee landing on the mattress, and he takes the opening—his mouth finding the curve of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along your throat.

"Sunghoon..." Your voice wavers, a warning and a surrender all at once. "I want to take you out." He murmurs it against your skin, his hand sliding up your arm. "Wanna do more than just this. Wanna do this right." You pull back just enough to look at him. Your expression is hard to read—something between exasperation and something softer you won't name. "This is fine. I like this." "I know. I like it too." His thumb traces your jaw. "But—" "I have to go." You lean down and kiss him. Brief. Almost dismissive. Then you're pulling away, grabbing your bag, and he's left in the bed, still warm from your body, still tasting you on his lips.

He groans, dragging himself upright. Hastily, he’s tugging his sweatpants on, and throwing a hoodie over his head, and he follows you down the hallway, catching up just as you reach the living room.

The usual suspects are in position—Heeseung on the couch, Jake in the armchair, Jay sprawled on the floor doing something on his phone that's making him smirk. Three heads lift in unison as you pass.

"Leaving so soon?" Heeseung calls, not looking up from his phone. "Not even cuddling? Sunghoon, man, don't tell me you fumbled that bad?" "I have places I need to be," you reply simply, not breaking your stride, "Bye, guys—"

He catches you at the door. His hand finds your waist, spinning you back toward him, and then he's kissing you—not the brief, dismissive peck you tried to give him in the bedroom, but something a lot more intentional.

He ignores the wolf whistle from the couch and the “get a room!” comment, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when they part on a surprised breath, he deepens the kiss without hesitation. You make a sound against his mouth—half embarrassment, half something else—and he grins into the kiss, pleased with himself.

"Sunghoon—" You pull back, hand pressed to his chest. "Next time." His voice is low, meant only for you, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I'm taking you out. Even if I have to keep my hands to myself the whole night." "Sure," Your smile is unreadable, but you don't pull away. "Next time." Then you're gone. The door clicks shut, and Sunghoon turns to face the room. Three stares bore into him.

"Bro," Jake says, "That was disgusting." "Downright pornographic," Jay agrees from the floor. Heeseung just shakes his head slowly, "You're down bad. Like, down bad, down bad." "Catastrophically down bad." "You guys don't get it." Sunghoon flops onto the couch. "She's perfect. Like, actually perfect. She's smart, and she's funny, and she puts up with my shit. And..." he cracks a smile as he gestures to his bedroom, "You know." "We know," the three of them say in unison, flatly.

His head falls back, and he sighs, the scent of your perfume still lingering on him. The one trace of you that stays behind whenever you leave too soon. "But," He pauses, his brows scrunched, "I don't think she believes me when I say I want more. I think that she thinks that I'm just trying to get in her pants." "To be fair," Jake says, "you have been in her pants. Multiple times." "And you literally spent the first half of the summer ignoring her while she did your coursework," Jay adds. "And you made her take you to your E-sports tournament, then came on her—" Heeseung starts. "I know. I did a lot of shitty things I regret." He stares at the ceiling. "It’s different now. I want to show her I actually care. That I'm not using her for her body or something. But every time I try, she changes the subject. Or distracts me. Or—" "Distracts you with sex?" Heeseung raises an eyebrow. "That must be terrible for you. Imagine that? Trying to take a girl out for dinner, and she just wants one order of your load down her throat instead. How awful." "I’m serious." "Sunghoon." Heeseung puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're complaining that a girl who's hot and smart and good in bed won't let you take her to Olive Garden. Do you hear yourself right now?" "She's got you whipped," Jay says, not looking up from his phone. "Never thought I'd see the day. The guy who once said 'relationships are a debuff' is now begging for a dinner reservation." "I'm not whipped." He retorts. "I just want her to know that I care. That's all." "Simp," Jake coughs. Sunghoon's head snaps toward him. "Oh, you did not just say that—" "Right message, wrong messenger," Heeseung interrupts him, "You are objectively a simp now. You, the guy who famously chose video games over his last relationship, who once said 'dating is a distraction from the grind'—" "The grind is still important." "—is now begging a woman to let him buy her overpriced appetizers."

Sunghoon would normally fire back with some well-aimed jab about Heeseung and Jay's own nonexistent love life or Jake's shit show of a dating history. But he's distracted. Thinking about you. About next time. About how he's finally going to convince you that he means it. "I am," he says simply, a smile on his face, "I'd buy her everything on the menu if she asked me to." A beat of horrified silence passes, the three boys sharing glances with each other. "Seriously, what happened to him?" Jay whispers to Jake, who shrugs in response, matching his look, "This is terrifying." "I'd almost rather hear him screaming at his ranked teammates." "Or cry over a broken Nintendo Switch controller." "Or talking to himself in the mirror before games. 'You got this, Sunghoon. You're him. You're cracked.'" "It's hard to believe," Heeseung says, lowering his head between them and pulling them into an impromptu huddle, their voices dropping to stage whispers, "but maybe love really did change him." "He's not in love," Jake rolls his eyes. "He's in heat or something." "Yeah, well, it's the closest he's gotten to love in like, what, years?" Heeseung replies, "Look at what he's wearing. That's a brand new hoodie. Clean, pristine condition, not a single stain or wrinkle. When's the last time you saw him in something that didn't come out of the laundry pile?" "It’s like when male birds start doing those weird dances to impress the females," Jay shudders, "Puffing up their chests. Spinning in circles. Except it's Sunghoon doing it. Which just feels—" "Gross?" Jake offers. "Unnatural.” "Wrong.” "A crime against nature." "You know I can hear you guys, right?" Sunghoon deadpans. "Literally everything." "We know," Heeseung says without turning around. "We don’t care. Go back to daydreaming."

Sunghoon opens his mouth to fire back, but his phone buzzes on the cushion beside him. A notification. He glances down, expecting your name on the screen—a text, maybe, or one of those voice notes he's learned to listen to the moment they arrive. His lips quirk up. Then he reads it.

Transcript Updated: Summer Semester — Web Programming Final Grade: F

The smile freezes on his face like a video paused on a single frame. "What?" Heeseung leans over, trying to see the screen. "What's that face? You look like you just watched your favourite vandal skin get vaulted."

Sunghoon doesn't answer. He opens the grade portal. Opens the project submission page. There it is: The final project. Submitted. Your name, alone. His? Nowhere to be seen.

"I failed." His voice is small, hollow. "The class. She took my name off the project." Silence.

Then Jay starts laughing. A sharp, incredulous bark. Heeseung joins in, his shoulders shaking. Jake sets down his controller with the slow deliberation of a man who wants to fully savour what's about to happen.

"No way," Heeseung manages between breaths. "She didn't." "She did." "Oh, this is beautiful." Jay wipes his eyes. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed." “So dicking her down didn’t get you anywhere after all,” Heeseung is grinning widely, “Tried to use her for grades, then caught feelings.” "That's not—” "You thought you had it all, huh? The A, the tournament win, the girl—" He wheezes, "You thought you were out here playing her, and she played you." "I told you it wasn't like that—" "Bro." Jake sets down his controller. "It was exactly like that." Sunghoon stares at the screen. At the F. At your name, alone on the submission page. His chest feels strange. Hollow. Like someone reached in and scooped something out and left a Sunghoon-shaped shell on the couch. He doesn't even have the energy to fight his roommates anymore.

He stands up from the couch, words dying on his lips. One moment he’s there, staring at his phone, and the next he’s walking—feet carrying him down the hallway toward his room. The laughter of his roommates fades behind him, muffled by the closing door.

His room is dark except for the blue glow of his monitor. The Valorant home screen stares back at him, waiting for a queue that won’t come. He sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the transcript notification again, as if looking at it long enough might change the grade.

His thumb hovers over your contact. The last message from you—a short, simple text from earlier that day. On my way. He'd smiled when he read it then. He presses the call button. "Sunghoon." You pick up after a few rings, "What's up?" "What's up?" His voice comes out strangled. "You failed me. You took my name off the project. I thought—I thought we were—" There’s a laugh on the other line. "You thought what?" You ask, clearly amused. "You really thought that because you fucked me, suddenly I'd decide to let you keep your name on a project you didn't contribute to?" "No, I—" He's stammering. "Not like that. But you made me think—" "I didn't make you do anything." "You let me believe—" He runs his hand through his hair, pacing. "Had me under the impression we were good. With each other. That things were fixed. That I apologized and you forgave me." "Oh? Do you feel misled?" You tease, a content sigh, then leaving you, "I never promised you anything, Sunghoon. It's not my fault you assumed things."

His stomach drops. He sits there, in the middle of his dark room, phone pressed to his ear, and the silence stretches long enough that he's not sure why you haven’t hung up on him yet.

"I like you." The words tumble out before he can stop them, earnest and vulnerable and nothing like how he usually is. "I wasn't just trying to get in your pants. I want to take you out. I've been trying to take you out for weeks. I wanted to show you—"

"Oh, I know. You made that very clear." "Then why—" "But I'm sorry to break it to you," you continue, "I don't date guys who can't fix their own broken code." He swallows, phone trembling in his grasp. "Call me when you want to fuck again, 'kay? That's all you're really good for." You say. It’s not smug or cruel. It’s just honest. "Bye, Sunghoon."

note ✰.ᐟ this work exists in the same au as this fic here

nav ✰.ᐟ m.list ✰.ᐟ thanks for reading ♡

[cb97percent]

「𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍」 · polaroid ii

❝𝚆𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞…? 𝙶𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝, 𝚘𝚛…?❞

➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 4.8k

➥ Single Parent Neighbors, Second Chances, S2L

➥ Contains: Swoooooning over Chris but what's new, Crissha going strong, oatmeal cookies, fact reveal that might cause wetness

➥ Your neighbor has a favor to ask, and you can't say no to those dimples even if you want to.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢 𝙸 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚈𝚘𝚞

“GOD, I FUCKING HATE HER!”

Ryder struck the entryway like a thunderbolt, bringing the wrath of Zeus with him. 

“Whoa, what’s going on?” you looked up from your book.

“Caaadence. Her name is Caaadence,” he taunted, on the brink of ripping the fridge door from its hinges. “What would YOU know about the almighty Lara Croft, you batgirl?!”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“She’s not one of my people, Mom,” he aggressively pointed at himself. “She belongs to a Hot Topic store, not my shrine.”

“Your shrine being that comic book place, is that right?”

This kid was unbelievable. Not to toot your own horn, but you were occasionally fighting the urge to smugly declare, “Yes, I made that” when passersby admired your son’s handsomeness. Every time you went to his school, you witnessed a trail of giggles following him everywhere he went. Yet, while his equally hormonal peers were googling date ideas, this dude was super into the other kind of fantasy realm with all the dragons and whatnot.

“It was a collectible figure, Mom. A COLLECTIBLE!”

“This obsession over the collectibles might be the reason why you’re super single, Ry,” you knowingly arched your brows as you turned the page of your book. “Juuust putting it out there.”

As if you put a lid on his rage, Ryder suddenly went silent. The mood shift was so jarring that you momentarily thought you had gone deaf.

“Everything alright, buddy?” you furrowed your brows.

He was growing more and more reserved lately, and this instance was no exception. He might be going through something he managed to smuggle past your Eagle Eye TSA, but he was distant all the same. It was during moments like this that you wanted to scream, “FUCK YOUR SPACE AND PRIVACY, JUST TALK TO ME!” 

You would have appreciated a ‘Stop worrying’ button at your baby shower all those years ago because it was getting harder and harder to act like everything was chill.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he replied solemnly. “We’ll hang out at Trev’s tonight. That cool with you?”

“Suuure, bro, whatevs,” you protested in that annoying voice he hated.

“Mom, come on.”

“We don’t spend any time anymore! It’s always you and your boys raising hell somewhere,” you slammed the book close, full-on pouting. “I’m feeling a little neglected, but unfortunately, there is no Mom Services I can call to report your ass.”

“Language, Mom,” he made a dangerous attempt to defuse the tension.

“I GAVE BIRTH TO YOU, BRAT, I CAN SAY WHATEVER THE HELL I WANT!”

He finally burst out laughing, and the heaviness in your chest instantly started to melt. You got a big hug in response, even a smooch on your head.

“How about you and I go catch a movie tomorrow, huh?” he offered. “Just us.”

“Promise you’ll buy slurpees?” you spoke with zero emotion and dead eyes.

“I promise. With my own money and everything,” he kissed your hands and jogged towards his room. “Enjoy your evening, yeah?”

Sure. A Friday night when the entire world had social functions to be, dates to attend, strangers to flirt over drinks with, and you were curled up with a historical romance book that you could stream on Netflix instead. 

Goodie.

The soft knock on the door that arrived half an hour later made you jump in your place as if there was someone with a Ghostface mask on out front. Ryder had taken the car, and the driveway was empty. Ergo, who the absolute heck…?

“Hiya!”

“You scared the shit out of me!” you clutched your chest, heaving the deepest sigh of relief at the sight of Chris.

“Sorry, was I too loud?” he asked with genuine panic. 

“No, no, it’s… No one really… Anyway, what’s up?” you unwittingly crossed your arms over your chest like you were trying to shield yourself from something.

“I uh… I really hate to ask this, but I don’t have anyone here, so…” he started apologetically. “I have to be somewhere for like an hour, and I was wondering if you’d be available to watch my girls?”

“Oh, jesus christ, you too?” you inadvertently groaned.

“Excuse me?”

You slapped your mouth, mortified by your knee-jerk reaction. Of course, that wasn’t aimed at Chris himself. It was just…

The universe going out of its way to remind you just how lonely you were was a bit unnecessary. It wasn’t like you could remove a tattoo with wet wipes; you were well aware.

“I’m sorry. It’s… Of–Of course!” you put on your best smile to bounce back.

“You are… fucking… amazing!” he placed his hands on your arms and gave them a gentle squeeze. 

The full-body shiver that followed had to be a side effect of your prolonged dry spell, right? 

You had met this guy only once, and the only thing you knew about him was that he had twin girls he was reading Singing Giraffe to, and that he was flirting with your cat. Sure, he was ridiculously gorgeous. Fine, his smile was endlessly charming. Okay, his physique was fucking unreal, but—

ANYWAY!

“They haven’t shut up about Missha,” Chris welcomed you into his home with a bright smile. “Fair warning, they might scream.”

The twins barged into the living room in the same clothes you saw them in the other day, immediately clinging to their King Daddy’s legs.

“Do you know our names?” the one in the sun-patterned pajamas asked you, having absolutely no expectations of a correct answer.

“Of course!” you pointed at them each. “You’re Harper, and you’re Piper.”

“Wrooooong!” 

“You can’t come in if you can’t tell us apart.”

“Yes, that’s not very nice.”

You and Chris shared a brief look. You were struggling to keep a straight face, biting inside your cheeks really hard not to smile.

“Why do you think I couldn’t tell you apart?” you crouched before them. 

“Because you couldn’t remember Harper is the moon. I am the sun.”

“So you didn’t swap your pajamas to trick me?” you narrowed your eyes.

“Did not!”

“Did too.”

“Daddy!” Harper pulled out the whine card, looking up at her father for an assist.

You finally caved in to your cuteness aggression and burst out laughing. 

“If you say you didn’t, then you didn’t, but I know Harper has a cute little beauty mark right…” you booped her nose, “...here.”

“So do I!” Piper protested.

You feigned thinking for a while, then widened your eyes like an idea occurred to you. The panicked look on their faces when you rubbed Piper’s nose was priceless.

“Oh, look, it vanished!” you gasped dramatically.

The twins looked at each other and bashfully smiled, enjoying your back-and-forth a bit too much.

“You’re very nice, Missha’s mom,” Harper spoke in tiny, looking at her panda slippers.

“You know who’s also nice?” you showed them the carrier behind you.

“MISSHA!”

Right at that moment, the doorbell rang, and when Chris answered it, you saw the reason why he had to be somewhere. Lisa was in full club attire as if she was picking up a frat guy at a Spring Break wet t-shirt contest.

“Isn’t it my job to pick you up?” Chris greeted her.

“Old school,” she sultrily smiled at him. “I figured Daddy had his hands full.”

Ugh, ick!

No judgment, but judgment a little bit. Not that it was any of your business, but considering how he picked the trashiest option out of an entire neighborhood drooling over him, Chris seemed to have abysmal taste in women. This man had freaking daughters; what the heck was he thinking going out with such a… well, Lisa?

“Oh, good, you at least found a nanny,” she flashed a fake as hell smile, wiggling her fingers at you just like the sorority princesses at your college used to do to greet each other. 

EXCUSE YOU?

It was as if an invisible prompter had manifested before you, citing all the burn material to hit this life-size Bratz doll with, but before you even opened your mouth for your performance, the twins rushed to the door.

“Missha’s mom isn’t our nanny! She’s our friend!” Harper yelled, glaring at Lisa like she wanted to make her catch on fire with her death stare.

“Oh, hi, Piper!” Lisa chirped. “I know I got it right this time. The sun pajamas!”

Harper’s eyes grew cartoonishly huge, damn near anime-sized, magnifying the tears about to fall tenfold. 

“Daddy, don’t go. Lisa’s not very nice,” she clung to the hem of Chris’s shirt.

“I’ll… be in the car,” Lisa turned around, left with no choice other than seeing herself out with that much awkwardness.

“Baby, we talked about this,” Chris kneeled before her. “How are we supposed to act?”

“We need to be nice,” Harper pursed her lips, staring at the floor.

“Yes, we do. I won’t be long, okay? Behave when I’m gone,” he kissed her head, then turned to you. “Thank you very much once again!”

“No problem. Have fun,” you saw him off, hoping your smile passed as genuine. 

The door closed, and a dense silence fell over the room. You could literally see the little nimbus clouds hovering over the girls’ little heads, raining heart-wrenching sadness on them. Your only job today was to get them out of their foul mood, and you were going to stop at nothing until you saw them smile again.

“Alright, ladies, we are baking cookies this evening!” you loudly clapped to snap them out of it. “Which kind do you like the most?”

“Daddy likes the oatmeal one,” Piper answered in a small voice.

“Then we’ll make the best oatmeal raisin cookies in the world,” you declared and pointed your miniature soldiers to the battlefield. “To the kitchen!”

With your ultra-enthusiastic mode on, you were able to trick them into thinking the kitchen was a funfair, albeit only for a short while. As you were nearing the sixteenth minute, Harper’s face had fallen again, brows knit together as if she was pondering how to pay the bills this month.

“Is something the matter, sweetie?” you asked as you put the tray in the oven.

“Lisa stole Daddy,” Harper pouted.

“No, she didn’t steal him,” you emphatically corrected. “Your dad should make friends, too, right?”

“But he already has friends!”

“He can always make new ones.”

“But aren’t you his new friend?”

Good lord, you had forgotten how hard this was. 

You didn’t want to lie to them, but they were way too young to comprehend the hardships of parenthood, much less a single one. You couldn’t tell them that he needed to maintain relationships with other adults so he could remember he was more than just a father. You couldn’t tell them that once you crossed a critical threshold, the brain shut itself down to new possibilities entirely and made you lose hope. You couldn’t tell them that even though parents would die for their kids without blinking, that kind of love was just not… enough.

You were already hating yourself a little for the last one. How could you ever verbalize it to children when you couldn’t even say it out loud to yourself?

“How come you’re not wearing a skirt like Lisa does?” Piper pointed at your pants as you were lost in thought.

“Because these are very comfortable. See?” you tugged on the loose waistband. “Like your shorts!”

“We wear shorts because we don’t have skirts,” Harper chimed in.

“You don’t?” you arched your brows in surprise.

“Daddy didn’t get us one. Do you want to see our wardrobe?”

You let the girls drag you upstairs by your hands, and as soon as you walked into their room, you traveled back in time. It was eerily reminiscent of Ryder’s childhood bedroom, and he even used to have some of those identical toys. You wondered if the choice of decoration was deliberate because the girls wanted it this way, or if Chris was just winging it based on whatever he could piece together from his own childhood.

“Well, do you want to have skirts?” you asked, maintaining a perfect poker face. 

“Yes!”

“Then how about we ask your dad to go shopping together?”

“YAY!”

Your heart sizzled a little in your chest. You had gone through something very similar with Ryder, entirely clueless about what a boy would go through on the way to adulthood, and the nonexistence of a prominent male figure in your life certainly wasn’t helping. Was that the case with Chris, too?

Because if it was, he was going to get the whiplash of his life in a few years when he had to get a mandatory master’s in menstruation.

Leaving the cute quirks of girl dad-ism to be enjoyed some other time, you let the girls pick the itinerary for their playtime, and for some reason, they seemed to get the biggest kick out of the “Guess which twin I am” game.

“I told youuu, you can’t fool meee~!” you feigned taunt with a singsongy voice.

“But I’m Piper!”

“No, you’re a ray of sunshine. Come here!”

Aaand mission accomplished. The living room was bursting with the high-pitched laughter of the twins. Nevertheless, you and the girls were so absorbed in your tickle fight that nobody noticed there was someone leaning against the wall, watching the whole thing with a barely there smile.

“Congrats, you’re the only one that can tell them apart so far.”

The sudden manifestation of the unfamiliar voice gave you a terrible jumpscare, and your little shriek frightened Missha into hiding. It belonged to a girl entirely clad in blacks, including the heavy eyeliner and the nail polish, as if she was in mourning. 

“Hi! I was watching the girls for the night. I live across the street,” you introduced yourself when the adrenaline rush subsided.

“I’m Cadence,” she extended her hand. “Chris’s daughter.”

“Cade—You’re Cadence?”

“Um… Have we met?”

Well, FIRST OF ALL, Chris had another child?! Another daughter at that?! She looked hella older than a teenager, just how old was this guy anyway? Were there vampire genes present in this family or something?

“No! No, we haven’t,” you shook your head to snap yourself out of it, “but I believe you’ve met my son. I’m Ryder’s mom.”

“Oh wow,” she smiled, though stained with excess amounts of sarcasm. “You’re so nice, it’s astounding that you are related.”

“Excuse me?” you cocked a brow, immediately pushing her into a panic fit.

“Fuck, I didn’t mean… Shit, I said fuck. Oh my fucking—!”

“Calm down! It’s okay,” you started laughing, placing your hands on her shoulders to pacify her. “We are well aware our kids curse. We just pretend you are still five just to cope with the fact that you’ll be leaving home soon.”

Right at that moment, the oven bell went off, telling you the cookies would also like to join the chat. You put the tray on the kitchen island and handed out the samples for Cadence and the twins, earning heartfelt compliments in the kids category and a stoic “Cool” in the young adult one. Well, the latter sorta translated into “FUCK YEAH!” in Teen-ese, so all in all, a successful batch.

“Wanna tell me your side of the story?” you asked Cadence as you put the cookies in a container.

She heaved the deepest sigh as if she was about to give you the account of her fifth divorce and began her opening statements.

“We’re in the same class…”

She and your dorky jock of a son wanted the same action figure, which happened to be an auction item at that comic book place. Cadence submitted her bid a few seconds past the deadline, but it was a lot higher than Ryder’s. They were both aggressively appealing for their bid to be the valid one, and the store owner had decided to suspend the auction until he could make a fair decision.

All in all, classic teenager shenanigans and absolutely nothing courtroom drama-worthy.

“I’ll be damned, I’ve heard more about my son from you in five minutes than I’ve heard from him in five months,” you snorted. 

“You know how it is. Peak angst era,” she munched on the cookie, her face expressionless, but cheekily winking at you. 

The entire kitchen population turned to the front door upon the sound of keys turning in the lock. You checked the time to see if you somehow lost track of it, but it was still early.

“Did something happen?” you asked with concern.

“No?” Chris creased his brows. “Should it have?”

“It’s 8:30.”

“I know,” he nodded, confused as to why you were confused. “I told you I’d be gone for an hour.”

“Told ya,” Cadence flashed an endlessly satisfied smirk from the kitchen island, still munching away. “You and dumb bitches are like mentos and coke, Dad. Stop trying to spare their feelings.”

“YOU WANNA REPEAT THAT TO ME, YOUNG LADY?!”

“I love you, too!” she yelled from the stairs and disappeared to her room.

“I actually thought you wouldn’t be coming home at all,” you confessed, a bit embarrassed by your presumptions.

“Do I really give off that much of a player vibe?” 

“Well, excuse me for thinking differently!” you protested. “I don’t know many dads that look like you.” 

“Yeah? What do I look like?” he asked, clearly enjoying the insinuation behind your words.

Oh, fucking hell…

“Like… the frat pledges at my campus,” you attempted to put the gear in reverse.

“So… I look hot.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what you meant,” he cheesed annoyingly, turning to Missha for support. “Back me up, baby girl. I can still pull, right?”

“Don’t even. She meowed, ‘Welcome home, cheater,’ the second you walked in, so…” 

“Aaand now I need to drink my sorrows away,” he grabbed a beer from the fridge. “Want one?”

You headed out to the backyard for some quiet hangout. The same swing as the one on the porch, pool lights on, the serene sound of water convincing you that this was a secret zen garden. As soon as Chris sat down, Missha galloped outside and jumped on his lap again, curling into a croissant as if she had permanently reserved that spot.

Apparently forgetting all about a recent betrayal.

“We just got some coffee,” Chris began his unprompted explanation. “I only said yes so she would um… she would stop…”

“Harassing you?” you deadpanned, a bit too familiar with Lisa’s ways. 

He nodded shyly. 

“I take it there won’t be a second date?” you asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“That wasn’t even a first date,” he answered while scratching between Missha’s ears. “Well, my evening was a total bust. How was yours?”

“Sick,” you responded unironically. “We baked cookies.”

“Chocolate chip?”

“Oatmeal raisin.”

“No fucking way, that’s my favorite!”

“So I was told,” you chuckled. “And now you have a fresh batch in your kitchen.”

“Oh, it’ll be gone in one to two business days, no worries,” he reassured you.

Neither of you talked for a while, just letting the tranquility linger in the air. You tried to remember the last time you felt this peaceful, not obsessively worrying about the future, Ryder, the next book signing you needed to arrange, but the archivist of your brain was holding up a ‘Not found’ sign. You wondered if it was at all possible that Chris was sent to you as a remedy of sorts. Not to alleviate all your burden at the snap of a finger, but just to… Just to stop and be. To remind you that you might wanna take all the fantastic advice you were giving everyone else while relentlessly whipping yourself to death. Out of guilt. Out of shame. Out of this unwavering feeling of not being good enough. Not for Ryder. Not for yourself. 

You wondered if there was any chance that Chris was sent to you to take the whip from your hands because it was so worn out from being used so much.

“How do you like Summerland so far?” you asked, putting a semicolon to your inner spiral.

“Lives up to the moniker,” he slowly nodded. “The nights are hot as balls, though.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna have a tough time if you don’t get an AC soon,” you concurred.

“I was hoping we could freeload yours,” he looked at you with mischief flashing in his eyes.

“Sure,” you immediately agreed. “Cough up ten bands.” 

“WHAT? Even my car is—”

“Or you could man the barbecue on the weekends,” you offered a more reasonable alternative. “Your call.”

“Sold,” he extended his hand to seal the deal. You shook it.

A simple handshake shouldn’t have felt like a tiny jolt of electricity jumping from skin to skin like hopscotch, sending tingles all over your body. Even the parts you didn’t know existed.

“So uh… W–What do you do?” you cleared your throat to get it together.

“Former musician, current surf instructor,” he informed you.

“Really?!” you exclaimed in surprise. “Were you in a band, or…?”

“Yeah. Good times,” he stared at his feet with a smile laced with nostalgia. “I don’t perform anymore, but I still do side gigs from time to time. Jingles and whatnot.”

“I can see the vision,” you approvingly nodded. “Topless drummers were a particular weakness of mine back in the day.”

Chris stared at you in silence for a few seconds, then broke into a smirk so annoying that it felt like he was making fun of you for something.

“What?” you requested an explanation.

“I play the drums,” he divulged, grinning away.

“NO FUCKING WAY!”

“No, really. My set is still intact in there,” he pointed at the garage door. “I’ll show you sometime.”

“Well, I’ll put on my best bra to throw at you then.” 

When your laughter died down, it would usually be your cue to start panicking, trying to find ways to fill in that silence, but for some reason, silences were never awkward with Chris. It felt… okay to keep quiet because it didn’t feel like the conversation was dying down. It felt like it was just going out to take a walk around the block, reassuring you that it would come back again. 

“Ryder’s father,” he carefully opened the radioactive closet. “Is he… in the picture, or?”

“We’re divorced,” you told him, not exactly in the mood to give him a rundown of your entire history. “I wasn’t expecting a happily ever after anyway. It was a panic ‘I do’ at the city hall on a Tuesday afternoon.”

“Do they have a relationship at least?” he tilted his head.

“Not really,” you responded. “If Ryder one day decides he wants a relationship with him, it will probably be around the time he joins the workforce. His father is more of a conversation over scotch kinda guy.”

“Well, I can’t promise scotch, but if he’s into craft beer…”

“I will kill you! He’s underage!”

He responded with a giggle fit, and something tried to take flight in your chest.

“What about the girls’ mother?” you asked, doing your best to be equally cautious. “Does she spend time with the girls at all?”

His face suddenly fell, and you panicked so hard, convinced you accidentally let the uranium out of the radioactive closet.

“She passed a few years ago,” he replied solemnly.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he intercepted, forcing a smile, pretending to be nonchalant to the best of his ability. “Not Gemini, not Leo, the other thing in between.”

You didn’t know what to say. You were dead quiet on the outside, but inside your head was an orderless courtroom, having a heated discussion about the finality of death. When you break up with someone, even if you know you will never see them again in your life, there is still a chance the world might glitch because it’s too small. But to know you will never ever ever see them again… No matter how drunk you get in the middle of a night… 

No matter how much you miss them…

“I live for my girls now,” Chris spoke, thinking about god knows what with his eyes wandering off into the distance. “I can’t be selfish anymore.”

“The second they’re born, we tuck our lives away in a trunk and start living for them, don’t we?” you flashed a broken smile.

“Well, when I made a few attempts to meet people, the landlords of my heart decided it wasn’t available for rent, so…” he chuckled in defeat. “Message received.”

“I mean, I get it. Kids can be a little possessive around this age, and you’re all they have,” you sympathized with him. “It’s normal that they aren’t thrilled at the idea of you with someone else other than their mom.”

“First, it was Cade. Then she grew up and passed the baton to the twins,” he couldn’t help the frustrated grunt. “Was your son like that, too?” 

“Was?” you started laughing hysterically. “My man, he still thinks he’s my personal bouncer.”

The heavy clouds dispersed when you shared that laugh. It felt so nice when he laughed. It felt like a hug. So warm, so comforting, truly like the sunset itself.

No wonder Missha’s sunbeam nap-loving ass was so attached to Chris.

“They can’t really understand yet that I’m not trying to replace their mom,” he continued, finding courage to open up a bit more in your smile. “I’m… trying so hard on my own, but…” 

“But?” you gently encouraged him.

“Never mind,” he heaved a resigned sigh. “I don’t want to suddenly demote myself to ‘horrible father’ in your eyes.”

“Just because the love of your kids isn’t enough sometimes?”

His eyes widened a measure, a little startled. You knew that look from the mirror on your bathroom wall. Writhing in shame for even daring to want to be loved. By someone whose factory settings were not unconditional love. 

Someone you didn’t share a last name with.

“Hi, neighbor,” you raised your bottle with a faded smile. 

You were conditioned not to load meaning into things because “signs from the universe” did not exist. Everyone saw what they wanted to see, and that was it. But when you were with Chris…

When you were with him, it suddenly felt like…

“Thank you,” he uttered in a voice surprisingly tiny for his figure.

“For what?”

“For… not shaming me,” he answered, hyperfocused on his toes as he kicked little pebbles away. “Unlike… you know, the world.”

“If you were to piece a broken vase back together, would you use scotch tape instead of glue?” you suddenly posed a problem.

“No?” he knit his brows together in confusion.

“Why not? Both can hold things together.” 

He knowingly smiled at you once it sank in, averting his eyes from you shyly. 

“Just because they are shelved in the same aisle doesn’t mean they are interchangeable,” you pointed your beer bottle at him, “which is why there is no reason for you to feel guilty.” 

“You don’t feel guilty?”

Aaand this would be where you earned the title of a raging hypocrite. 

“Let’s just say the opportunity to feel guilty never presented itself,” you tried to dodge the question.

“But what if it did?” 

You were conditioned not to load meaning into things because “signs from the universe” did not exist. Just because he was asking a hypothetical question did not mean that he… It did not mean that…

It did not…

“Would you…? Give it a shot, or…?” he asked with ample amounts of pauses, trying his hardest not to break the door of the radioactive closet. “Should the opportunity just… not hold onto any hopes?”

You were conditioned not to load meaning into things, but he was being too much at this point. 

“It… can,” you couldn’t look him in the eye while answering, your voice waning into a murmur. “I mean, if… if it… wants to…”

Chris held Missha up so he could look at her because this seemed like “face-to-face news.”

“I understand this might come as a shock, but I would like to open our relationship,” he spoke dramatically. “If you can’t, I respect it, but once a topless drummer, always a topless drummer, baby girl. I can’t change who I am.”

You cracked up at the cringe fuckboy antics, immediately slapping your own mouth to mute your noise-complaint-worthy volume. Missha let out a tired meow, exhausted from catting all day, and reached for Chris’s neck to continue her nap.

“I think someone has a crush on you,” you giggled, endeared by your human-hating girl acting like this with someone other than Ryder for once.

Chris placed a kiss on Missha’s tiny head, then looked up at you so fondly, damn near inducing cardiac arrest with the sigh he punctuated his sentence with.

“I think I’m crushing on her a little bit, too.”

❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to throw your bra at Chris.

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[channlust]

cyber-sēx!

or: oh great. your roommate bailed on you right before the new month's payment, and you need to find a new roommate asap. lucky for you, chan came (literally) to your rescue. he's charming enough, and more importantly, pays rent on time. you've agreed to split rent by half, but rent won't be the only thing getting split in half, because he's hiding a big secret. and no, not just the one in his pants.

warnings: MDNI!!! contains heavy sexual content, camboy!chris x roommate!reader, porn with some plot, perv!reader, masturbation, piv, mānhandling, spānkïng, hāirpulling, too many kinks , kinda switch!chan but he's mostly a dom daddy dwdw, I'm a cocky chan truther so yk what's coming, a sprinkle of fluff and banter.

wc: 11k

a/n: loosely based off this drabble

"You're fucking kidding me." You stare at the text message. Three sentences that might as well be a bomb dropped in the middle of your living room.

Hey, sorry for the short notice, but I’m moving in with my boyfriend at the end of the week.

I know rent’s due soon, but I kinda already spent my half on the security deposit for our new place.

Good luck finding someone else!

shit

Rent is due in nine days, and your bank account isn’t exactly overflowing.

You’ve never lived alone before. Couldn’t afford it even if you wanted to. And the thought of scrambling to find a new roommate in a week makes your stomach twist.

You're halfway through drafting a frantic "roommate needed ASAP" text to your groupchat when your phone buzzes.

it's one of your few friends who actually bothers to check in.

Heard about your roomie bailing. Absolute bullshit.

Anyway I know a guy. Chill as hell, works freelance, needs a place.

You'd vibe.

You hesitate, thumb hovering over the keyboard. The last thing you want is some rando bringing chaos into your already crumbling life.

But then your landlord's terse "rent due on the 1st, no exceptions" text flashes in your mind.

Fine. Give him my number.

Chan texts you thirty minutes later. His messages are polite. Full sentences, proper punctuation, none of that monosyllabic grunting.

He suggests meeting at the apartment tomorrow afternoon to check the place out, and you agree.

The next day, you're scrubbing the bathroom sink when the doorbell rings. Chan stands in the hallway holding a paper bag that smells like garlic and herbs. "Figured we could talk over lunch," he says, smiling like this isn't weird at all.

Up close, he's so much cuter than you expected, blond hair, unfairly big broad shoulders, dressed in a blank tanktop that showed them off perfectly.

You blink at the take out bag, then at Chan’s easy grin.

There’s no nervous energy radiating off him, no awkward shuffling — just this unsettling calm, like he’s already decided he belongs here. “Uh,” you say, wiping your damp hands on your pants, “you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, already toeing off his sneakers without waiting for an invite. The scent of roasted garlic and rosemary spills into the apartment as he breezes past you toward the kitchen. “But food makes everything less weird, right?”

You trail after him, you don't know whether to be annoyed or charmed.

Chan unpacks the food containers, grilled chicken, some kind of herby rice, roasted vegetables that don’t look like the sad microwave steam bags you usually survive on.

He slides a plate toward you. “Eat first, then interrogation.”

“Interrogation?” You stab a piece of chicken, watching him warily.

Chan shrugs, mouth already full. “Standard roommate shit. ‘Do you snore?’ ‘Are you a serial killer?’ ‘Will you steal my leftovers?’” He swallows, grinning.

“The answer’s no, no, and only if you leave them unlabelled.”

The food is homemade stupidly good, and Chan’s presence is… unsettlingly comfortable.

By the time you’re scraping the last of the rice off your plate, you’ve learned he does something vague with digital marketing (“Basically, I convince people to buy shit they don’t need”), he actually enjoys doing laundry, and he likes to cook.

“So,” Chan says, stacking the empty containers, “you wanna show me around, or should I just start claiming drawers?”

The tour is quick — your apartment isn’t exactly sprawling — but Chan makes appreciative noises at the closet space and tests how sturdy the bed frame is (#whatdatmean).

When you hesitantly mention rent, he waves a hand. “Half’s fine. I’ll pay first and last upfront if you want.”

You stare. “You don’t even know the amount.”

Chan shrugs, leaning against the kitchen counter “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got it.” He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, and, before you can protest, your own phone buzzes with a notification.

It’s a Venmo payment for double what you were about to say rent costs.

Your mouth opens, then closes. “You—what? That’s too much.”

“Nah.” He pockets his phone, grinning at your baffled expression. “Consider it a ‘sorry for being weirdly pushy’. ”

You don’t argue. You can’t argue — not when your bank account is currently breathing its first sigh of relief in months.

A girls got priorities, and he doesn't really seem to mind. it's a win win scenario.

~

The first month was… strange. Not bad, just strange. he was genuinely nice, easy to talk to. it wasn't long till the initial awkwardness — if there was any — wore off. you'd become something sort of friends, and both of you settled into a quiet rhythm.

he'd left cash for rent in a neat stack on the kitchen counter on first of the month, slightly more than his half again.

When you tried to give him the extra back, he just waved you off.

You caught glimpses of his routine. disappearing into his room at odd hours, the low murmur of his voice through the walls late at night.

And then there was the day you came home early.

You weren’t supposed to be back until ten, but your shift ended early, and the bus was miraculously on time for once.

The apartment was quiet when you unlocked the door, just the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the floorboards under your feet.

You’d barely set your bag down when you heard it — a low noise from Chan’s room.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your jacket. The sound came again, breathier this time, followed by the slick, rhythmic sound of skin on skin.

you thought it was a girlfriend he never told you about.

The idea punched a weird, hollow ache into your ribs — which was stupid, because it’s not like you had any claim on him.

Still, you stood there frozen in the hallway, his door slightly ajar, listening to the sounds of his pleasure like some kind of creep.

You backed out of the apartment, easing the door shut with just the softest whisper of the latch catching. Your pulse hammered in your throat as you ducked into the stairwell, pressing your back against the cool concrete wall.

The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop being weird, to just walk back in like a normal person. But the irrational part — the part currently in charge — was too busy replaying the sounds spilling from Chan’s room to listen.

You get out of the building and circle the block twice, three times, counting cracks in the sidewalk. The air smells like rain that hasn’t fallen yet, and you bask in that atmosphere till roughly an hour has passed.

When you finally drag yourself back inside, the apartment is quiet. Chan’s door is shut tight, the shower running, and no girlfriend in sight.

she must've left early.

You freeze halfway to your room when the shower shuts off. your feet are planted still go to your room, go to your room

but you weren't quick enough, and a few seconds later, Chan emerges with only a towel slung low on his hips.

He's startled when he sees you, droplets flicking off his hair as he jerks his head up. “oh hey—” His voice is casual before you cut him off, "shit—sorry!" your face heats up at the sight, your eyes wander, trailing down his toned chest that still had water droplets running down, before snapping your head in the other direction.

was he always this muscular?

and you can't help but notice that there are no hickeys on his neck, no marks on his arms, and surprisingly put together for someone who just had his girlfriend over less than an hour ago.

"no no— you're good." he reassures with a smile, "you're back early."

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Shift got cut."

Chan leans against the doorframe, his damp hair curling at the ends. You try not to stare at the way his towel clings precariously to his hips, but your gaze keeps flicking downward anyway, betraying you.

"Everything okay?" he asks, tilting his head slightly.

"Y-yeah," you stammer, fingers twisting in the hem of your jacket. "Just—uh. Busy day."

Chan hums, nodding. His eyes flick over your face, lingering a second too long on your flushed cheeks before he grins. "Cool. I was just gonna make some food if you’re hungry."

The casual offer throws you off. You were expecting — what? Awkward silence? Averted eyes? Not this easy warmth.

but you just nod dumbly. "Yeah. Food sounds good."

he pushes off the doorframe, padding toward the kitchen. The towel rides up slightly with each step, revealing the sharp cut of his hip bones, and you have to physically bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise.

“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, like he can feel your stare burning into his back.

“Fine,” you squeak, following at a safe distance, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. The kitchen tile is cool under your socked feet, a welcome distraction from the heat crawling up your neck.

Chan hums again, rummaging through the fridge with one hand while the other keeps his towel secured. The muscles in his back flex as he leans forward, and you’re suddenly very interested in the color of your sponge bob socks.

“Leftover pasta okay?” he asks, pulling out a container with a rattle of plastic. You nod mutely, watching as he moves around the kitchen, his bare feet slapping against the tiles.

The stove clicks to life, the hiss of gas filling the silence between you. Chan leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, “So,” he starts, “how was work?”

You blink. “Uh. Fine. Boring.” The words tumble out too fast, your pulse jumping when Chan chuckles. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of every inch of space between you.

he scrapes the leftover pasta into the pan, the sizzle of garlic and butter filling the silence between you. His towel shifts dangerously low with each stir, but he doesn’t seem to notice — or maybe he does.

The corner of his mouth twitches when he catches you staring, and you snap your gaze to the ceiling like it’s suddenly fascinating.

"You know," he says, voice light, "most roommates don’t freak out when they see each other half dressed." The wooden spoon clinks against the pan as he scrapes the edges.

"I wasn’t freaking out."

Chan laughs, "You literally yelped like I pulled a knife on you." He glances over his shoulder, eyes dragging down your body in a way that makes your knees weak. "Unless you’re into that."

The pasta sizzles loudly in the pan, drowning out the choked sound that escapes your throat at Chan’s words. "I—that’s not—"

Chan turns fully now, abandoning the stove, and the towel dips dangerously low. His smirk is infuriating, "Relax," he murmurs, stepping closer, "Just teasing."

You laugh nervously, the sound too high pitched, too obvious. "I'm just gonna—" You jerk your thumb toward your room, already backing away. "Change into something more... home-y."

Chan raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Home-y,"

"yea—!" your voice cracks "y'know comfortable....home clothes"

Then you gesture vaguely at his towel, your voice cracking slightly. "Are you— uh, gonna put on actual clothes before we eat? Because I'm pretty sure health code violations apply to apartments too."

Chan glances down at himself, then back up at you, "Why?" He grins, tilting his head. "Distracted?"

"Yes—no," you sputter, crossing your arms tightly over your chest like armor. "I just don’t want your—" You wave a hand wildly in the general direction of his hips. "That—near my dinner."

Chan laughs, a full blown laugh, and you take that chance to bolt for your room, shoulders hunched as if that’ll make you smaller, less noticeable.

The door clicks shut behind you with a click, and you press your forehead against the cool wood, exhaling sharply.

"And turn the heat down!" you call out, voice too high,"Unless you want to burn the house down!"

Another laugh, muffled through the door. "Yes, mom," Chan drawls, the playful lilt in his voice making your cheeks burn hotter.

The stove clicks as he adjusts the flame, the sound followed by the soft thud of his footsteps padding down the hall. You squeeze your eyes shut, listening to the creak of his bedroom door, the rustle of fabric as he presumably — finally — changes.

You peel yourself off the door, fingers fumbling at the jacket of your shirt. The fabric clings to your skin, damp with nervous sweat, and you wrestle it off.

Home-y. Right. who even says that?

Stupid stupid stupid.

Your dresser drawer sticks halfway open, You grab the first shirt your fingers brush against, soft from too many washes, and a pair of sweatpants with the elastic stretched out.

'He has a girlfriend,' you think, shimmying out of your jeans. The denim catches around your ankles, nearly causing you to trip.

'Probably. Maybe. Who the fuck knows.'

You yank the shirt over your head so hard the neckline stretches. The mirror across the room reflects your flushed face, your hair mussed from the fabric dragging through it.

You look and feel ridiculous.

You pull up your pants, then pause, fingers hovering at the waistband. Avoid him. Simple. Logical. You can do that.

but it wasn't that easy. after all there is only so much avoiding one could do to someone they live with.

The apartment isn’t big enough for elaborate evasion tactics, and Chan seems to have a sixth sense for popping up exactly where you don’t want him.

Leaning against the fridge when you’re raiding it at 2 am, or lounging on the couch just as you’re about to claim it for a late night tv binge.

So you just ended up being cooped in your room for most of the day.

But Chan isn’t stupid. eventually after days passed by, he’s leaning against your bedroom doorframe when you crack it open after what you thought was a safe half hour of silence.

“So,” he says, arms crossed, voice dripping with amusement, “you’re avoiding me.”

You freeze, one socked foot hovering mid step like a cartoon character caught mid sneak. “No,” you lie too quickly.

Chan raises an eyebrow. “You literally just ducked into the bathroom because you heard me coming down the hall.”

“I had to pee.”

“For the fourth time today?” His grin lopsided, “Either you’ve got a UTI, or you’re full of shit.”

You grit your teeth, fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Maybe both.”

he sighs out laugh, then steps closer, “Listen,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a serious tone, “if this is about the whole towel thing—”

“It’s not,” you answer quickly, too loud, too fast.

“So it is about the towel thing.”

“I’m not—” You exhale sharply through your nose, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can you just—” You gesture vaguely at the space between you. “Give me, like, a three foot radius?”

Chan tilts his head, considering. His gaze drags down your body, before settling back on your face. “Nah,” he says finally, “I like you flustered.”

You bite your lip, eyes darting around, then settle on his, before darting around again.

The silence stretches, until you finally crack under the weight of it. “you—don’t you have a girlfriend?” you blurt, the words stumbling out in a rushed, stuttering mess.

Chan blinks, his smirk faltering for half a second before dissolving into genuine confusion. “A what?” His laugh sounds startled, almost disbelieving.

You press your lips together, suddenly regretting every life choice that led you to this moment.

Chan's eyebrows climb toward his hairline, "A girlfriend?" He repeats, "What, like, some theoretical girl who sneaks in when you're not looking?"

You gesture vaguely at him — the tousled hair, the unfairly sculpted shoulders, the effortless charm that clings to him like a second skin.

"You just—seem like the type." The words tumble out half mumbled, your gaze darting anywhere but his face.

Chan’s laughter echoes through the hallway, loud enough that you flinch—not just from the sound, but from the way it makes your stomach flip.

"Oh my god," he wheezes, leaning against the doorframe like he needs the support. "You thought I had some secret girlfriend sneaking in here to—what, fuck me while you're at work?"

You cross your arms tightly, "It's not that ridiculous," you mutter, but even you hear how weak it sounds.

"First of all, if I had a girlfriend, you'd know. I'm not subtle." His smirk tilts into something teasing. "Second, I'm very single. And third—" He pauses, tilting his head. "Wait. Is that why you've been avoiding me? You thought I was getting laid in there and didn't invite you?"

Your face burns. "No—that's not—"

His grin softens slightly, but the teasing glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. "So," he murmurs, voice dropping lower, "what is it, then?"

You swallow hard, fingers gripping the edge of your shirt so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. "Nothing," you lie. "Just—roommate stuff. Boundaries."

Chan hums, "Boundaries," he echoes, Then, "You know you can just tell me if I’m doing something that makes you uncomfortable, right?"

You swallow hard, "Yeah," you mutter, gaze trailing to his eyes and holding his stare for the first time throughout this conversation "I know."

Chan pushes off the doorframe with a shrug, "Alright then," he says, clapping his hands together like he's wiping the whole conversation away. "Takeout time. You in?"

it's like all this man does is think about food...and make you weak in the knees.

You blink, "Uh. Yeah. Sure."

Chan pulls out his phone, already scrolling through delivery apps, "Thai? Or that new Italian place that opened down the street?" He glances up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Unless you're feeling sushi again, but last time you complained about the wasbi being too strong."

The normalcy of it — the way he remembers your stupid, offhand complaints about condiments — makes something in your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. "Thai’s good."

~

The weirdness fades slowly, chan doesn’t mention the girlfriend comment again, and you stop bolting like a startled deer every time he walks into a room.

He starts leaving his door open when he’s working, the rhythmic tap of his keyboard drifting into the hallway. You catch yourself lingering in the doorway sometimes, watching the way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating, the way he bites his tongue when he’s stuck on something.

once, he catches you staring and pats the space beside him on the bed without looking up from his laptop. “Help me brainstorm this dumb tagline,”

You perch awkwardly at first, careful not to touch him, but Chan sprawls like he owns every inch of the mattress, his thigh pressing warm against yours. and before you know it, you’re leaning into him, pointing at the screen. “That one’s terrible,”

~

Movie nights become a thing.

The first movie night starts by accident — or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked under your chin, scrolling through your phone while Chan sprawls across the other end, his laptop balanced precariously on his thighs.

Then the Wi-Fi cuts out.

Chan groans, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Fucking landlord,” he mutters, jabbing at his keyboard like it’ll magically fix the connection.

You snort, watching him glare at the screen like it’s personally offended him. “Guess we’re gonna have to talk to each other,”

“Horrifying,” he deadpans, then grabs the remote off the coffee table. “a movie it is.”

You end up with some terrible action movie Chan insists is a “classic,” but neither of you pay much attention. Halfway through, you catch him watching you instead of the screen, his head turning back to the movie when you caught him.

You brush it off, focusing on the screen, but your pulse jumps when Chan shifts closer, his thigh pressing against yours.

The credits roll, and he stretches. The couch creaks as he shifts, stretching his arms overhead with a groan that does things to your already frayed nerves.

"Well," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, "that was a cinematic masterpiece."

You snort, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, if you consider explosions and zero plot development masterful storytelling."

Chan’s chuckles “Plot is overrated,” he says, “Sometimes you just wanna watch things blow up.”

Chan then exhales heavily and stands. “Alright, I’m hitting the shower,” he says, stretching until his shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of toned stomach. You look away — too late — and Chan’s smirk is audible in his voice. “Try not to miss me too much.”

“In your dreams,” you mutter, but your pulse jumps when he pauses by the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Exactly.”

You sit there, frozen, until the bathroom door clicks shut and the shower starts running. The sound of water hitting tile fills the apartment, and you press your palms to your overheated cheeks, exhaling sharply.

Stupid. You’re being stupid. That probably didn't mean anything.

But then your phone buzzes on the couch beside you, and Chan’s name lights up the screen.

forgot my towel. mind grabbing it?

You stare at the message, then at the hallway, Trap, your brain supplies helpfully.

type back,

Seriously?

he answers immediately

dead serious. i’m vulnerable here.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face, but you’re already standing. His towel hangs on the back of his bedroom door, You grab it, then walk out to the bathroom.

You knock once, then freeze when Chan calls out, “Just come in.”

Your throat goes dry. “Absolutely not.”

Chan’s laugh echoes off the tiles. “Relax, I’m decent.” A pause. “Mostly.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, then shove the towel through the gap in the door, arm outstretched as far as possible. “Here.”

Chan’s fingers brush yours as he takes the towel. His skin is warm, damp, and you jerk your hand back like you’ve been burned.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, voice closer than you expected. You can *feel* his smile through the door. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You bolt back to the living room, collapsing onto the couch with a groan.

too much for your first movie night.

~

just when things were getting normal, It happens again on a monday.

You’re home early again, the apartment is silent. You toe off your shoes, and you were about to shout a "I'm back" when you heard it again.

Low, breathy moans slipping through the crack in Chan’s door.

Your feet root to the floor, ears straining as the noise curls around you.

His voice, thick with pleasure, murmurs something you can’t quite catch — then a wet, rhythmic sound that sends heat flooding your cheeks.

apparently, this man takes his....alone time very seriously.

that's what it had to be right? you can't blame him — you've been there once or twice.

Your breath sticks in your throat, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. The sound— god, the sound — wraps around you, thick and heady, Chan's voice breaking on a moan that scrapes down your spine.

You should move. should bolt to your room, slam the door, drown it out with headphones. but your feet refuse to cooperate.

You tiptoe into the hallway, his door is cracked just enough, and your pulse hammers so loud its drowning out any other coherent thought in your brain.

A peak wouldn't hurt...

The door creaks faintly as it opens another inch, just enough for you to see.

Chan sits on the edge of his bed, but not like you thought. Not hidden, not private. No, this is something else entirely.

A ring light casts a glow over his bare skin, the camera propped on his desk angled perfectly to capture every inch of him. His laptop screen is open with a reflection of him and a rapid stream of comments too fast to read.

Oh.

Oh god.

Your stomach drops, then tightens all at once.

Chan’s head is tipped back, his throat working around a groan as his hand moves lazily between his thighs.

You press yourself against the hallway wall, pulse hammering, thoughts running a hundred miles per hour.

you did not expect this.

His breath hitches, a sharp, punched out sound, and your nails dig into your palms.

Chan’s fingers twist at the base of his cock, his thumb smearing precum in slow circles. The camera catches the way his abs flex as he arches into his own touch, his voice ragged when he murmurs, "Wish you were here." before he bites down on his lower lip. "Could use a mouth right now."

You watch, frozen in place, as his thighs tremble, his free hand fisting in the sheets beside him. The comments on his screen blur into a frenzy of emojis and a bunch of pinging donations. His breath stutters, his jaw clenching as his strokes turn erratic, desperate. “Yeah,” he gasps, voice breaking, “yeah, just like that—”

Then he comes with a choked moan, stripes of white painting his stomach as his back arches off the bed.

Gosh, he’s gorgeous — and you barely register the dampness between your own thighs until Chan slumps back against the pillows, chest heaving.

Chan exhales sharply, his fingers still lazily stroking his softening cock as he leans forward, just enough to tap something on his laptop.

he ends the stream with a wink and a low, raspy comment that you didn't quite catch. The screen goes black, and you barely have half a second to process the situation before your body kicks into motion.

You bolt down the hallway, socked feet silent against the hardwood.

Your bedroom door clicks shut behind you just as Chan gets up. You press your back against the door, lungs burning from holding your breath, and listen.

Water runs in the sink. A towel rustles. Then you hear footsteps.

They pause outside your door.

You purse your lips and hold your breath. Then Chan hums, before his footsteps retreat down the hall.

You slump against the door, exhaling shakily.

Holy shit.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you fumble to pull it out.

you home early?

You stare at the text, thumbs hovering over the screen. Lie, your brain screams. Tell him no. but then how would you fake going into the apartment if you're already inside the apartment?

Just got back

You hit send before you can second guess it.

Cool. Dinner soon?

Your fingers hover over the screen, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs like a stone. The air in your room feels — too thick — and suddenly the idea of sitting across from Chan at the kitchen table, pretending you didn’t just watch him get off on camera, makes your stomach twist.

Gonna shower first.

Your phone buzzes again before you can even set it down,

Can I join?

You nearly drop it, blood roaring in your ears. Then—

jk. don’t use up all the hot water.

You toss your phone onto your bed and drag a hand down your face with a sigh.

You're deeply fucked.

~

That night, you stayed up aggressively googling him till his page came up.

Onlychans? really?

you'd laugh at the username if it wasn't for the videos that popped up when you clicked on his profile.

Chan, shirtless, sprawled across what is unmistakably your living room couch, one hand lazily palming himself through his sweatpants.

Chan, biting his lip as he slicks lube down his cock, the camera angled to capture every twitch of his abs.

Chan, moaning, his head thrown back against the pillows of his bed —your apartment, your shared space — while his other hand works something thick and glistening into his—

You slam the laptop shut.

Your face burns. Your pulse thrums in your ears. The apartment is silent — Chan’s out for a run, or so he’d claimed when he’d left an hour ago.

You open the laptop again.

It’s Curiosity. That’s all.

It starts innocently enough — just checking his schedule, really. A quick glance at his calendar pinned to the fridge.

"For productivity purposes," Chan had joked when you asked.

Then, sure enough, it spiraled.

You memorize the time of his streams, monday nights, Friday nights, he'd timed them perfectly in sync with times he knew you wouldn't be home. that's why you've been blissfully unaware of him filming in different locations around your shared apartment for the past two and a half months.

And the occasional late night surprise session that leaves you fumbling for your earbuds at 1 am. You'd literally be home, but he'd go live anyway. was he into that?

you were into it too, admittedly, because you turned out to be just as shameful as him.

The notification pops up at 1:47 am on a Wednesday 'Chan is live!' (yes, you turned his notifs on) and your fingers freeze mid doom scroll through Instagram.

your room is dark except for the glow of your phone screen, you're supposed to be asleep.

You tap the notification.

Chan’s face fills the screen, his grin already in place as he adjusts the camera. He’s shirtless, propped against the headboard of his bed, one arm draped lazily over his bent knee. The ring light casts shadows along his abs, highlighting every dip and curve.

"Late night surprise," he murmurs, "*Miss me?*" aaaand heat is already pooling low in your stomach.

His fingers work on hinseld, slow and teasing at first, thumb smearing precum in lazy circles while he talks— god, he sure does talk, filthy praises and half formed fantasies spilling from his lips like he’s whispering them directly into your ear. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, your other hand slipping under the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Chan arches his back on screen, his free hand gripping the sheets beside him. "Fuck, you guys are greedy tonight," he rasps, stroking himself slowly. His thumb presses against the head on every upstroke, just how you’ve learned he likes it — learned from watching, from nights spent with your phone hidden under your pillow, screen dimmed to its lowest setting.

"Fuck, m'close," Chan groans, your fingers moving between your thighs in time with his rhythm, matching the pace, hips shifting under the sheets, your breath coming shallow.

It’s not the first time you’ve watched him like this, but it’s the first time you’ve done it live, with the shaky thrill of knowing he has no idea you’re here.

A whimper almost escapes you when he swipes his thumb over the head of his cock, his breath hitching. You press your palm over your mouth, stifling the sound.

The last thing you need is him hearing you through the thin walls.

The thought alone, him catching you, realizing, sends a sharp jolt between your legs. You squeeze your thighs together, chasing the feeling before it slips away.

His hand speeds up, the wet sound of his skin moving over his cock muffled only slightly by the mic's noise suppression. "God, fuck—gonna come so hard for you," he grits out, his voice cracking on the last word.

You press your free hand harder against your mouth, fingers digging into your own cheek as you watch his stomach tense, the muscles there flexing under the sheen of sweat. Your own movements stutter when he lets out a low, punched out moan, his hips jerking up into his fist.

You’re so close you can’t think straight. The coil in your stomach winds tighter with every stroke of his hand, every filthy sound he makes, matching his rhythm like you’re desperate to prove something— like if you can just finish at the same time, it’ll mean something. Stupid. It’s stupid. But your hips jerk anyway, your breath coming in short, shaky bursts against your palm.

"Fuck, fuck—" His hand stills suddenly, fingers tightening around the base of his cock as he tips his head back, you watch as his body locks up for one second — and then he’s coming, stripes of white painting his stomach, his chest.

Your own climax crashes over you at the same time, so violently you nearly choke on the gasp you swallow down, your back arching off the bed as pleasure burns through you in hot, dizzying waves.

He’s still catching his breath, his free hand dragging lazily through the mess on his stomach, fingers tracing the lines of cum with a slow, absentminded swipe.

His lips curl into that stupid, effortless smirk you’ve seen a hundred times,

"Mmm, fuck," he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, still a little breathless. "You all got me good tonight."

He reaches for a towel off screen, the muscles in his arm flexing as he wipes himself clean. You watch, transfixed, as he tosses the towel aside and leans closer to the camera, cheeks are still flushed, his lashes low.

"Hope that was worth the wait," he says, eyes flickering to the chat before he grins. "gosh you guys are generous with the tips tonight." and you catch a few of the comments.

slave4u: how bout you come and give me that tip

sweetheartonline: gone broke just for you </3

Chan just chuckles, shaking his head. "Alright, alright, I’m done. You’re all insatiable." He stretches his arms above his head, his torso arching beautifully, "Next stream’s friday. Be good for me til then, yeah?"

With one last wink, he reaches forward, and the screen goes black.

You yank your earbuds out, Your chest heaves, your skin still buzzing, your thighs still sticky, and you press the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids until colors bloom behind them.

you find it ridiculous that you're actually enjoying this, perverted thoughts. Stupid. So stupid.

~

Two weeks pass after that. You're hyperaware of Chan’s presence in a way that makes your skin itch. Every casual touch sends sparks skittering up your spine.

You try to act normal, you really do.

But you catch yourself staring at his hands when he cooks, remembering the way they moved over himself on screen, and have to physically shake your head to clear the image.

Chan, for his part, seems to thrive on your discomfort. He leaves his bedroom door cracked just a little wider than necessary, and infuriatingly, he's rarely not shirtless.

it's okay. you're okay. at least you tell yourself that.

till it's Friday morning, marking the beginning of your third month.

the apartment is quiet, still bathed in the soft gold of early morning light filtering through the kitchen window. you hum under your breath as you flip pancakes.

then Chan emerges, shirtless, his sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still messy from sleep.

He leans against the doorway, watching you with that lazy, knowing smirk. “Morning,” he rasps, voice still thick with sleep.

this feels too domestic for your liking.

“Morning,” you mumble, not turning around.

Chan pads closer, bare feet silent against the hardwood, until he’s right behind you. His warmth radiates against your back, “Smells good,” he murmurs, and you swear his lips brush the shell of your ear.

The spatula clatters against the pan. too domestic.

Chan chuckles, as he reaches around you to steal a piece of pancake from the prepared stack. His chest presses against your shoulder, his skin searing where it touches yours. “Careful,” he teases, popping the bite into his mouth. “You’ll burn them.”

The pancake batter sizzles violently as you stand there, frozen, Chan’s body heat scorching against your back.

His fingers brush your hip as he reaches for the syrup, and you nearly drop the spatula again.

"You’re jumpy this morning," Chan muses, leaning against the counter beside you. "Bad dreams?"

sure, if 'bad' and 'wet' are the same thing. "something like that."

Chan hums, tilting his head as he studies you. "Got plans today?"

You flip another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just groceries later." The words come out steadier than you feel.

His grin grows. "Mind if I tag along?"

You shrug, "It’s just errands."

Chan snags another pancake, leaning into your space until his bare shoulder presses against yours. "Exactly. Sounds thrilling." His fingers brush yours as he steals the spatula, flipping the last pancake with a flick of his wrist. "Come on. I’ll even push the cart."

You huff a laugh despite yourself. "You’ll get bored in five minutes."

"Bet?" He bumps your hip with his, "Loser buys ice cream."

~

The grocery store is exactly as mundane as you predicted, but Chan makes it unbearable in ways you didn’t anticipate — his fingers lingering when he passes you items, his chest pressing against your back in crowded aisles like it’s accidental. By the time you hit the freezer section, your nerves are frayed.

"Pick a flavor," Chan murmurs, chin hooked over your shoulder as he reaches past you to open the glass door. His breath ghosts across your cheek. "I’m feeling generous."

The freezer air hits your face, but it does nothing to cool the heat creeping up your neck. Chan’s arm brushes yours as he leans in, his fingers tracing the edge of a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. "This one," he decides, plucking it from the shelf. "tastes like toothpaste sometimes, but eh" he said with a shrug.

You snort, grabbing a classic vanilla, but he plucks it from your hands and replaces it with something absurdly decadent, something with caramel swirls and chocolate chunks.

"Live a little," he grins, tossing it into the cart.

The checkout line is agony. Chan stands close enough that his knuckles keep brushing the small of your back, each touch sending sparks up your spine.

the cashier — an exhausted looking college student — scans everything, he pushed your hand aside when you tried to pay, and handed the cashier his card.

he caried all the groceries too, and swatted your hand away when you try to carry any.

it feels like he's your boyfriend.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you both, grocery bags rustling as Chan kicks off his shoes. You’re still fumbling with the laces of your sneakers when he brushes past you with the plastic bags.

You follow, already going to pull things out and putting them in their designated cupboards, Chan’s already rummaging through to find the ice cream, His grin is wide as he holds it up. "Scoops or straight from the tub?"

"freezer" you deadpan, "it's probably melted by now"

his shoulders slump a little, turning around to place the tubs in the freezer.

"and, scoops," you mutter, "We’re not animals."

he snickers, "Debatable."

Chan nudges the freezer door shut with his hip, the ice cream safely stowed away for later. "Movie night?" he suddenly asks, casual as anything, "Haven't done one in a while."

You nod, "Yeah. Okay."

You retreat to your room to change, fingers fumbling with the hem of your shirt before you even reach the door. The fabric sticks to your skin, too warm and you peel it off with a relieved sigh the second you’re alone.

The dresser drawer squeaks as you rummage for shorts and a tank top since its getting too hot, but your hands freeze mid reach when you hear Chan’s door creak open down the hall.

The unmistakable sound of fabric hitting the floor — jeans, probably — makes your throat go dry. You strain to listen, pulse hammering in your ears, as Chan hums under his breath. Something clatters, a belt buckle, and then the soft rustle of fresh clothes being pulled on.

You yank your own shorts up so fast you nearly trip, ears burning. Pathetic.

When you emerge, Chan’s already sprawled across the couch in loose joggers and that stupidly thin white tank top.

"You took forever," Chan drawls from the couch, already eating his way through a popcorn bucket.

"You're picking?" he scoffs, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. "After the garbage you called 'cinema' last time?"

You snatch the remote before he can lunge for it. "You picked Twilight unironically last time."

Chan clutches his chest like you've wounded him. "Bella Swan is a cultural icon."

You scoff, scrolling through the options, ignoring Chan's dramatic sigh as he flops back against the cushions. His knee bumps yours, but you don't pull away.

"Fine," he huffs. "But if it's another pretentious indie film where people whisper for two hours, I'm revoking your movie privileges."

"Fine," you grumble back, scrolling past a dozen of said pretentious indie films with moody black and white thumbnails. "But only because I pity your attention span."

Chan's grin is immediate as he stretches an arm along the back of the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder.

"pick something with action," then wiggles his eyebrows, "Or nudity."

You elbow him hard in the ribs.

"Ow—," Chan wheezes, but he's laughing, catching your wrist before you can retreat. His fingers are warm and rough against your pulse point, thumb pressing into the flutter there. "Violent and kinky," he muses, tugging you closer until your shoulders press together. "I like it."

You yank your wrist free and snatch up the remote again, scrolling through titles.

Chan's laughter vibrates through the couch cushions as you land on something, anything, just to shut him up. The movie starts with a car chase, tires screeching, glass shattering. Perfect. Loud enough to distract whenever Chan shifts beside you.

"Action and nudity," Chan murmurs, nodding approvingly at the screen where some actor's shirt rips open during a fight scene. "You do know me."

You sink lower into the couch, arms crossed. "Shut up and watch."

The first ten minutes of the movie blur into a haze of gunfire and badly timed one-liners, the volume turned up just loud enough to drown out the way Chan’s fingers keep tracing idle patterns against your shoulder.

You focus resolutely on the screen, but Chan’s warmth beside you is impossible to ignore. His knee presses into yours, his bare arm brushing against yours every time he reaches for more popcorn, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity down your spine.

Then, during a lull in the action, Chan shifts beside you, his hand sliding from your shoulder to the back of your neck. His fingers curl gently into your hair, thumb brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"You’re not even watching," he mmurmur.

You swallow hard, refusing to look at him. "Am too."

Chan hums, unconvinced, his thumb stroking slow circles against your skin. "Liar."

His accusation hangs between you, thick and charged, and suddenly the movie feels like background noise.

His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, tipping your head back just enough that you have no choice but to meet his gaze.

His eyes are dark, there’s no teasing smirk now, no playful glint — just hunger.

Your breath hitches audibly.

Chan’s thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

You don’t.

His lips crash into yours before you can form a coherent thought, the remote clattering to the floor as your hands fist in his shirt.

Chan groans into your mouth, fingers tightening in your hair as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with so much desperation.

The movie drones on, but all you can feel is the way his hips jerk forward against yours as you press closer. His hands slide down to grip your waist, hauling you halfway into his lap without breaking the kissl.

"You’ve been driving me insane," Chan pants against your lips, one hand slipping under your shirt to trace the dip of your spine. "Watching me, pretending you weren’t—fuck—" His words dissolve into a groan when you grind down against him, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

He knows you know. he has all this time. The realization makes your eyes widen slightly—but it doesn’t surprise you. Not really.

Not when Chan’s fingers tighten possessively around your hips, his teeth scraping your lower lip like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

His palm slides up your ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your thin tank top, and your breath stutters against his mouth.

Of course he knew. The cracked doors, the late night streams he timed too perfectly with your schedule. Those weren't just coincidences.

You pull back just enough to see his face, your eyes wide with the realization that just dawned on you.

his lips are swollen from your kisses, panting, “Surprise,” he rasps, voice wrecked.

Chan’s grip shifts, hauling you fully into his lap, and you gasp when his hardness presses against you. His chuckle vibrates through your chest as he rolls his hips up, slow and filthy. “Thought you’d never crack,” he murmurs, lips grazing your jaw.

Your hands fist in his tank top, the fabric damp with sweat where it clings to his chest. “You—asshole” you pant, hips jerking against his involuntarily. “All that teasing—”

Chan's grin widens "All what teasing?" he murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kisses to your neck. "You mean leaving my door open just a little too wide?"

His teeth scrape your skin, "Or maybe streaming at exactly the times I knew you'd be home?" His palm cups your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple.

You gasp when he pinches lightly, hips jerking against his. "You're insane," you manage, though the words come out more breathless than angry.

Chan laughs against your throat, before his teeth sink into the tender skin just below your ear. Your nails dig into his shoulders as his hands slide down to grip your hips, guiding your movements as you grind against him. The friction is dizzying, the thin fabric of your shorts doing nothing to dull the heat of him pressed against you.

"Insane?" His breath is hot against your damp skin. "Baby, aren't the one who watched my streams every other night?" His fingers slip under the hem of your tank top, tracing the waistband of your shorts with maddening slowness.

You whine, the sound high and desperate in your throat, and nod before you can think better of it. The admission burns your cheeks, but the way Chan groans against your skin makes it worth it.

"yeah?" he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

Chan’s fingers flex against your waist, his breath hot against your lips. “Every fucking time,” he admits, voice rough “I’d pretend it was your hand on me,” His thumb presses into the dip of your hipbone, “Your mouth.” His gaze drops to your parted lips, then back up, heavy lidded. “You have no idea how many times I came thinking about you watching me.”

Chan exhales sharply, his nose brushing yours. “cancelled tonight’s stream,” he murmurs, lips grazing yours with every word. “would rather beg you to fuck me instead.” His palm slides up your ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of your bra through your tank top.

“You don’t have to beg,” you murmur, lips brushing his as you swing your leg off his lap. Chan exhales sharply, hands gripping your waist tighter like he’s afraid you’ll pull away entirely, but then you’re sliding to your knees between his legs, fingers hooking into the waistband of his joggers.

His breath catches when you tug them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking against his stomach.

gosh he's even bigger than he looks on camera.

Chan's breath stutters when your fingers wrap around him, his hips jerking into your grip before he can stop himself. "Fuck—" His voice cracks, a hand flying to fist in your hair as you stroke him slow, watching the way his eyelids flutter.

He's hot and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip, and the way his thighs tense when you swipe your thumb over the head is obscene.

Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair when your lips brush the head of his cock, his breath stuttering out in a ragged groan. “Fuck—fuck—” His hips jerk up instinctively, but you pull back just enough to tease, swirling your tongue over the tip without taking him deeper, and you can’t resist glancing up through your lashes to watch his face twist with pleasure.

“So loud,” you giggle, blowing a slow breath over the wetness you’ve left behind. Chan’s thighs tense under your palms. “All those streams,” you continue, stroking him lazily with one hand while the other traces the vein running along his length, “and you never moaned like this.”

Chan’s laugh comes out strained, his chest heaving. “it wasn't you,” he grits out, hips rolling up into your touch. His fingers tug at your hair, guiding you back to him with a quiet desperation that sends heat pooling low in your stomach. “Now stop teasing—”

You swallow him down before he can finish, humming around him just to feel the way his whole body jerks. His moan is filthy, unfiltered, his hips canting up into the wet heat of your mouth like he can’t help it.

You take him deeper, throat working around him, and Chan’s fingers tighten in your hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.

“god—” His voice cracks when you hollow your cheeks, tongue pressing flat against the underside of his cock. His other hand fists the couch cushion beside his thigh, knuckles going white. “So good—shit—you take me so fucking good—”

You pull off with a slick pop, lips brushing the flushed tip as you peer up at him, teasing, thumb swiping over the bead of precome gathered there.

Chan’s chest heaves, his abs flexing as he stares down at you, His grip in your hair tightens just enough to sting — a silent warning — but you just grin and duck back down, sucking him deep until his thighs tremble.

Chan curses, his hips lifting off the couch as you bob your head, the wet sounds obscenely loud even with the movie still playing forgotten in the background.

“Gonna—” He's cut off by his own gasp, “Gonna come if you keep—”

You pull off with a wet sound, lips slick and swollen, and replace your mouth with both hands, jerking him so fast his hips stutter off the couch, his breath coming in ragged, punched out gasps.

“Wait—fuck—” Chan chokes out, fingers scrambling at your shoulders, but it’s too late — his back arches off the cushions, muscles locking tight as he spills hot over your fingers and his own stomach.

His thighs shake under your palms, his cock twitching in your grip as you stroke him through it, slower now, milking every last drop until he’s whimpering and oversensitive, his hands weakly pushing at your wrists.

“Turn around,” Chan rasps, chest rising and falling rapidly. His fingers slide from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your spit slick bottom lip. “Want you riding me.”

Your stomach flips at the command, but before you can move, Chan’s hands are gripping your waist, hauling you up onto the couch with surprising strength. He settles you over his lap in one smooth motion, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the sudden press of his bare skin against yours makes you gasp.

Chan groans, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he leans back to look at you, really look at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that makes your skin prickle.

he hooks a thumb into the waistband of your shorts and tugs, sliding them off, his breath hitching when he finds you already soaked through your panties.

"Fuck," he exhales, dragging the damp fabric aside with one finger, his touch featherlight as he traces your slit. His other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you down until your foreheads touch, his breath mingling with yours. "You're so wet," he murmurs, voice rough with disbelief. "Just from sucking me off?"

You nod, hips canting into his touch shamelessly, his finger circles your clit —once, twice, before dipping lower, sliding into you, crooking just right to make your back arch. His free hand fists in your tank top, dragging you closer until your chest presses against his, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples harden against him.

His thumb pressing firm circles against your clit, and your vision whites out for a second — just long enough to miss the way his free hand fists in your tank top, yanking it up until the fabric bunches just above your chest. His mouth replaces his fingers, teeth scraping over your nipple through the lace of your bra, and you gasp, hips stuttering against his hand.

“Thought about this,” he pants against your skin, his tongue lapping at the wet spot he’s left behind. “Every goddamn stream—imagined you like this, wet and desperate for me.” His finger curls again, dragging a broken moan from your throat, and his grin is all teeth when he leans back to watch you unravel. “Knew you’d be prettier than I imagined.”

You grab his wrist, stilling his movements, and his brows furrow — confused, frustrated — until you swing your leg over him, straddling his lap properly this time. His cock, half hard again, twitches against your thigh as you grind down, the friction drawing a ragged groan from both of you.

Chan’s hands fly to your hips, guiding your movements as you rock against him, his breath hot against your collarbone.

“Wanna feel you,” you murmur, fingers fumbling between you to grip him, slicking him up with your own arousal. Chan’s head falls back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as you line him up, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance.

You sink down onto him with a choked gasp, thighs trembling as he stretches you open inch by agonizing inch. Chan’s hands clamp around your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he doesn’t rush you —just watches as you take him deeper.

"Fuck," you whimper, nails scraping his shoulders when he bottoms out, your body shuddering at the unfamiliar stretch. "You’re—god—you’re so big—"

Chan groans, hips twitching beneath you, fighting not to thrust up. "Yeah?" His voice is wrecked, breath hitching as you clench around him. "Feel good, baby? Stuffed full of me?" His fingers trail up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts while you adjust. "taking me so good."

You roll your hips experimentally, and Chan’s head thuds back against the couch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. "That’s it," he rasps, hands sliding to grip your ass. "Use me—ride me just like you imagined."

The words send heat flaring up your neck, but you can’t deny them, can’t stop the way your body responds, hips rolling in slow circles. Chan hisses between his teeth when you clench around him, his fingers flexing against your skin.

"Christ—fuck—you’re so tight," he grits out, eyes locked on where you’re joined. "Bet you thought about this every night, hmm? Watching me stroke my cock on cam while you fucked yourself on your fingers?"

You whimper, thighs quivering as you lift yourself halfway up before sinking back down, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you. his breath stutters, his hips jerking up to meet you halfway, and the sudden shift punches a ragged moan from your throat. "Oh fuck—Chan—"

"Say it," he demands, thumb brushing your clit as you bounce in his lap. His voice is rough, wrecked, his pupils blown wide, "Tell me how much you thought about this, how many times you came imagining me inside you."

You gasp when he pinches your clit lightly, your rhythm faltering, "Every—ah—every night," you admit, nails digging into his shoulders as you grind down harder. "Watched you—touched myself—god, wanted you—"

Chan groans, fingers tightening on your hips as he guides your movements, thrusting up to meet you. "Knew it," he pants, lips brushing yours with every ragged breath.

"Knew you were getting off to me—fuck—your little gasps when I’d look at the camera—" His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing your nipples through your bra. "Bet you came so pretty for me, huh? All quiet so I wouldn’t hear?"

You nod frantically, hips stuttering as his cock hits that spot inside you, the pleasure building dangerously fast. "Y-yes—*fuck*—Chan, please—"

"Please what?" he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk even as his own breathing falters. He slows your movements deliberately, dragging you through each excruciatingly slow roll of your hips. "Need me to fuck you harder, baby?"

You whine, fingers tangling in his hair as you try to chase your own rhythm, but his grip on your hips is unrelenting. "Yes—god, yes—"

he flips you onto your stomach before you can finish begging, his hands rough and sure as he shoves your knees apart against the couch cushions. The fabric burns against your bare thighs when he yanks your hips back, his cock sliding out of you with a slick sound that makes your face burn.

You barely have time to whimper before his fingers dig into your waist, lifting you on all fours with a sharp tug — his chest presses hot against your back, his breath ragged in your ear as he lines himself up again.

he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. He slams into you with one brutal thrust, punching the air from your lungs as your elbows buckle against the cushions. His cock stretches you open deeper than before, the angle hitting deeper, and you choke on a scream when his hips snap forward again, setting a punishing pace before you can catch your breath.

Hands clamp around your hips, fingers bruising as he drags you back onto him with every thrust. The couch creaks beneath you, the sound drowned out by chan’s ragged groans and the slick slap of skin on skin. His rhythm is merciless, no teasing now, just pure, desperate need as he fucks into you like he’s been starving for it.

Chan's grip on your hips shifts — one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine bows beautifully beneath him. "Fuck, look at you," he growls, his voice rough with something between awe and hunger as he takes in the sight of you spread out beneath him.

His fingers tighten, pulling just enough to make your scalp prickle, before his palm cracks down against your ass, the sound echoing through the room louder than the forgotten movie still playing in the background.

You gasp, thighs trembling as the heat blooms across your skin, but Chan doesn’t give you a second to recover. His hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your nails scrabbling against the couch cushions for purchase. "Take it," he orders, voice wrecked, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips hard enough to leave bruises. "God, you feel so good—clenching around me like—" His words dissolve into a groan as he picks up the pace, each thrust punching a ragged sound from your throat.

His free hand slides around your waist, pressing firm circles against your clit, and the dual sensation has your vision blurring at the edges. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his rhythm falters for just a second, "Gonna make you come just like this—spread out, taking me so well—"

His thumb presses harder against your clit, and your back arches involuntarily, a broken moan tearing from your lips as the pleasure crests suddenly, violently.

Chan curses, his grip tightening as you clench around him, your body shuddering through the waves of it. "Yeah, there you go, gonna cum for me?"

You nod vigorously, your fingers twisting into the couch cushions as Chan’s thrusts turn erratic, his breath ragged against your ear. "Cum with me," he rasps, and it’s all you need.

Your body clenches around him like a vice, pleasure crashing over you in waves so intense your vision whites out for a second. Chan groans, his hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken gasp, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades.

Chan pulls out slowly, hissing through his teeth when you clench around him reflexively, oversensitive.

The couch cushions are damp beneath your trembling thighs, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat as you collapse onto your stomach, chest heaving. Chan exhales sharply, running a hand down your spine, before flipping you onto your back, more gently this time.

The shift makes you wince, your body still thrumming with aftershocks, he slides off the couch onto his knees between your legs. His palms skate up your inner thighs, spreading them apart with slowly despite your weak protest. "Shh," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. "Just wanna taste you."

You squirm when his breath ghosts over your sensitive skin, but Chan’s grip tightens, holding you open. "Chan—" His name comes out hoarse, your voice wrecked. "I’m—ah—too sensitive—"

Chan’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, holding you open despite your squirming. His tongue flicks over your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, oversensitive and trembling.

“You can take it,” he murmurs against your skin, “You’re a big girl, yeah?” His teeth graze your inner thigh, before his mouth closes over you again, and your back arches off the couch with a choked gasp.

You can take it. You do.

Every swipe of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine, your fingers twisting into his hair — not to pull him away, but to keep him right there, his mouth working you through the dizzying aftershocks of your orgasm.

Chan hums against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his grip on your thighs tightens when you try to press them together instinctively. “None of that,” he chides, nipping at your skin before dragging his tongue up your slit again, “Just let me have you.”

You whine, hips caving into his mouth despite the oversensitivity, the pleasure tipping into something almost painful, but you don’t tell him to stop. Couldn’t if you wanted to.

"so sweet," he groans against you, the words vibrating through your oversensitive nerves. His fingers dig into your hips, pinning you down when you try to squirm away from the intensity. "No— stay still."

You whimper, but obey, letting him spread you wider as his tongue delves deeper, circling your entrance before dragging back up in one long, torturous lick.

"Chan—please—" you gasp, but you’re not even sure what you’re begging for — him to stop or never, ever stop.

His response is to hook your leg over his shoulder, angling you deeper into his mouth, and then he’s sucking you in, his tongue working you with precision. You sob his name, your hips jerking uncontrollably as the pressure builds again, too soon, too much—

You choke out his name, fingers scrambbling at his shoulders, a desperate attempt to ground yourself, before your hips jerk violently against his mouth.

“Chan, gonna—oh god—” The warning spills out brokenly, your thighs clamp around his head as you come with a shuddering gasp, your back bowing off the couch as pleasure rips through you.

he groans against you, the vibration wringing another broken sound from your throat, he doesn’t pull away, just laps at you greedily, his tongue dragging through the mess you’ve made of him with slow strokes.

“Fuck,” he rasps against your skin before pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “You’re perfect like this.” His thumb brushes your clit once, testing, and you jerk with a gasp, your body still thrumming with aftershocks.

Chan grins up at you, all dark eyes and swollen lips, before dragging his tongue up your slit one last time.

Chan rises from between your thighs with a groan, his lips slick and glistening with you, you realize with a jolt — before his mouth crashes into yours, the kiss filthy and possessive, his tongue licking into your mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair, sticky with sweat, and he moans into your mouth when you tug — sharp, just to feel him shudder.

You pull away eventually, both of you panting, sticky with sweat and other things, and collapse onto the couch in a tangle of limbs. Chan drags you half on top of him, your head resting against his chest where you can hear his heartbeat still racing beneath his skin.

His fingers trace idle patterns along your back, the movie’s credits roll, forgotten, casting flickering shadows across the ceiling.

You nuzzle into his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat slowing down, the rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek. His skin is warm and slightly sticky, and you press a kiss to it without thinking, smiling when his fingers pause for a second before resuming their path along your spine.

"Quit staring," you murmur, tilting your head up just enough to catch him watching you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. soft, almost awed, Chan huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing your hipbone where he’d gripped hard enough to leave marks earlier.

"Can’t help it," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion "You’re kinda fucking gorgeous like this."

You snort, but your cheeks heat anyway, and Chan’s grin widens when he notices. He shifts beneath you, rolling just enough to tuck you more firmly against his side, his arm a solid weight across your waist.

The movement makes you wince, your thighs ache in a way that’s equal parts delicious and punishing, and Chan’s fingers tighten reflexively, his smirk turning smug.

"Sorry," he lies, and you bite on his shoulder just to hear him yelp.

his yelp dissolves into laughter, his fingers digging into your sides as he squirms away from your teeth. “Fuck, ow,” he complains, but his grin ruins the effect, “You bite hard—should’ve known you’d be a menace.”

You grin against his shoulder, pressing another kiss to the reddening mark you left behind. “Payback,” you murmur, tracing the outline with your tongue just to feel him shiver. Chan groans, his hips jerking reflexively beneath you, and you freeze when you feel him stirring against your thigh—already half hard again.

“Seriously?” you ask, incredulous, and Chan has the audacity to look proud, his smirk widening as he rolls his hips up against you.

“What?” he teases, voice dripping with false innocence. “Can’t help it—you’re right there, all warm and fucked out—” His hand slides down your back, fingers skimming the curve of your ass before squeezing lightly. “And you bit me. That’s basically foreplay.”

You press a hand to Chan’s chest when he tries to roll you beneath him again, your thighs still trembling from the last round. “Shower,” you mumble, and Chan makes a wounded noise against your collarbone in protest.

“Five more minutes,” he tries, lips trailing up your neck like he’s trying to convince you with his mouth.

You laugh, breathless, and squirm out of his grip before he can distract you properly. “No—shower,” you insist, swatting at his hands when they try to drag you back. “We’re disgusting.”

Chan pouts — actually pouts, like this big hunk of a man didn't just fuck the daylights out of you — and flops back against the couch with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he grumbles, but his eyes track your every movement as you stand, snickering when you wobble slightly on unsteady legs.

You stumble towards the bathroom, then you glance back at Chan, sprawled across the couch with his arms behind his head, watching you with that stupid, smug grin, and ask, "When’s your next stream again?"

his grin falters into confusion when your question registers. "Monday," he says automatically, his brows furrowing, "Why?"

You hum, "Just thinking," then you shrug, "maybe I’ll join you next time."

he's caught off guard when you leave him hanging and close the bathroom door behind you, "don't start something you can't finish!"

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[loveridden1999]

top 3 hobbies for young adults:

1. borrowing misery from future

2. carrying grief of the past

3. agonizing over the present

[j-0ne25]

EASY [reloaded] — (18+!)

"This all reminds me of our time together back then, you know.”

“What time together?”

“Ah, you know. When we used to compete in each class, you were always trying to be better than me.” He pauses. “Unsuccessfully.”

🌋 SYNOPSIS: Minho and you have been enemies since you've been studying together, so it's not surprising that he's a little amused once he realises, you're one of his students in the first class he will be teaching. Until he realises there might be more than just rivalry that makes him think about you constantly...

📙 CONTENT INFO: minho x afab reader, enemies to lovers, enemy minho, professor minho, college student reader, smut with a lot of plot basically, they are the same age but he graduated earlier, minho is a little mean in this one but it’s his insecurities, a few random facts about rocks because reader is geology student, this is part of a series but can be read as a standalone

🧡 CONTENT WARNING: insecurities especially about intelligence and academic success, mention of mental health issues but nothing specified, jealousy, reader is wearing a skirt, smut warnings under the cut

🪨 WORD COUNT: 10.0K (I apologise)

🔥 SMUT: dom/sub dynamics, fingering, unprotected piv, sir kink, brat/brat tamer kink, praise, degrading, one kiss happens while they are drunk but nothing more, name calling (doll, baby, good girl)

You’ve never been the best at sticking to regular plans—instead always trying to achieve things your own way.

No matter if it’s dumping recipes and switching out ingredients when making a five star meal, copying choreographies of your favourite songs and adding little twists (quite literally) or following building instructions on all the items and furniture you’ve purchased from IKEA. Although, when it comes to the latter it hasn’t always been intended. Those guidelines are the worst.

The same has counted for studying since the beginning of your educational career path.

Geology has always been your thing. Your niche. The subject that keeps you going but sometimes—or rather often—mental health comes in the way and blocks this path, the rocks—pun intended—a real hindrance that make your feet hurt when stumbling over them once again but you will keep going anyway.

At your own pace, though.

The prettiest crystals didn’t form overnight. They needed many millions of years, great transformation at the right temperature and pressure and it seems as if you haven’t been able to cope with that high amount of pressure over the past years.

It’s no big deal. You’re privileged enough, luckily, that both your family and a part-time job are helping you financially and the college you are studying at doesn't demand expensive fees either.

However, with the possibility of adding another ‘I-will-just-do-this-class-next-semester’ and a few more of ‘oh-I-can-take-the-exam-the-following-summer’ you have become a little lightheaded and even lazier.

You aren’t actually lazy by any means. You just struggle with the way university and the curriculum is constipated. Educational freedom is important but deep down you’re craving someone to lead the way for you. Even though you would never ever admit that.

Nevertheless, you find yourself in front of your computer. The unattended matcha latte next to your bed gets watery from the ice cubes melting due to the warm temperature the heater provides in your dorm.

Your gaze is fixated on the bright screen in front of you, eyes glassy from the overstimulation of the neon lights. God. Whoever designed your college’s website needs to be fired. Immediately.

Once you have managed to find the course you are looking for which took you an embarrassingly long time—but again, that website is straight from hell—you search for the button that will make you join the class.

But you hold your breath for a second when your eyes roam over the professor’s name that sounds a little too familiar for your liking.

Lee Minho, M. Sc.

The Lee Minho, who started studying with you some years ago?

Nah. It can’t be. That’s impossible and too fast even for an overachiever like him. Besides that, it is a very common combination of names and could be anyone.

Anyway—it doesn’t matter. You have to take that class now. You can’t add yet another semester because there is a slight chance to almost zero that it could be your former college rival.

So, you press the dark blue button, type in a TAN-code that is required and hit send.

🌋

You wake up… utterly wasted.

Caused by an impulsive thought, triggered by your self-pity due to overthinking your whole life—a regular hobby of yours especially after evening hours—you emptied a bottle of white wine in one sitting after organising your time table.

Luckily, you got an email that your applications for all the classes were successful—opposite to your ability to wake up on time for once.

You grab the first sweater that crosses your vision and the baggy jeans that are laying on the chair a.k.a the ‘worn-but-not-dirty-enough-to-spend-half-your-income-at-the-laundromat’-chair. A half-empty bottle of calcareous tap water and an apple will work as your wannabe fancy breakfast until you decide to make an excursion to your favourite coffee shop nonetheless. You’re already too late anyway.

Only five minutes after the class has started, you enter the crowded room, occupying the last spot. To your demise, you soon realise that you may have forgotten about one tiny, maybe important detail. Your stupid study appliances. When you turn your head around in order to get a better view of the other students, you soon get aware that you don’t know even a single soul in here. It does make sense though, since they are all very much younger than you are.

You quickly create a faux notebook from a few crumpled pieces of paper and as you reach at the bottom of your backpack, you find a functioning pen in the process. Just when you’re about to move your head back up from under the table—almost letting your forehead collide with the thick wooden material—the door of the classroom opens, revealing the professor.

No.

This can’t be.

This is impossible.

It can’t actually be him.

As it seems, none of your drunk prayers last night have helped.

The brunette immediately spots you due to you sitting in the front row and you regret getting late to class now.

Fuck.

Hoping no one—and especially not the professor—notices, you bury your face in the palms of your hands and concentrate on pretending you're scribbling some words on your makeshift notebook. In the meantime, he grabs a pen from the little drawer of his desk and takes his time to write down broad, beautiful letters on the whiteboard.

Lee Minho, M. Sc.

It is in fact him.

The guy who started college with you many years ago. The guy you used to compete with in every class you were in. The guy who sucked even the last piece of sanity out of your body whenever he opened his mouth in order to annoy you just for the fun of it.

God, how you did not miss him.

You were actually convinced he started teaching at some other university after his graduation. At least that’s what Seungmin told you and Seungmin always knows everything considering he is the reincarnation of Gossip Girl. But it seems as if your best friend wasn’t aware of that tiny detail or Minho simply spontaneously changed jobs.

Probably just to annoy the shit out of you once again. Yes, this is as delusional as it gets. This is what years of rivalry do to you.

You’re awakened by your daydreams when Minho turns around again, finding your hidden face in an instant. He chuckles to himself, the infamous mischevious smirk decorating his pretty face.

And that’s the thing. While Minho is the most annoying, pretentious and overall exhausting human being—you cannot ignore the fact that you are attracted to him. Well. It’s hard not to be—whoever does not find him incredibly hot is lying.

“Ms Y/L/N.”

You swear you heard your name in the distance and once you feel dozens of pairs of eyes glued to your body, you get aware that it was the professor calling you out.

Very much unprofessional, isn’t it?

“What is the difference between a granite and a basalt?”

The staring contest between all those other students and the back of your head doesn’t stop anytime soon and you are captured in between your own anxious thoughts developing into full panic mode and Minho’s evil gaze on your face that is heating up rapidly.

“I don’t know, sorry,” you admit, still very much successfully avoiding his eyes.

However, you don’t miss how he raises an eyebrow and steps closer to the table you are sitting at. His hand brushes over the wooden surface, his view sticks to the doodling on your crinkly paper, as Minho suppresses a judgemental look. Not surprising you’re still not finished with your studies when you’re already losing focus during attendance.

“This knowledge is mandatory in my class.”

His voice is louder now, as he is speaking to the whole group of students. Minho tilts his head towards you one last time, before he catches the blue-inked sketch between two of his fingers and crumbles it inside his palm.

“Everyone got the email with the information to already read the first chapter of Basic Knowledge of Volcanology for Beginners. You’re here to learn something so it’s up to you to do your own research and participate if you want to get that degree. I am getting paid anyway.”

He adds a chuckle at the end of his sentence and you can feel the atmosphere in the cramped room thickening, the anxiety of all the other students very much present.

Professor Lee Minho is exactly like you have always imagined him. Just like he used to be back then—but he upgraded in strictness and annoyance by one thousand and thirteen degrees, the pressure he puts on his students is ridiculously intense.

Everything after that is a full blur. Probably—or more definitely—a coping mechanism of your brain helping you drift away in your thoughts. Luckily, the earlier provocation was enough for Minho’s taste as he leaves you alone for the rest of the ongoing class, rather getting back to his long ass boring monologue.

God. This dude really enjoys listening to himself, doesn’t he?

But your illusion of protection does not last that long, when Minho asks you to stay after class.

It is a mystery to you how he doesn’t seem to realise how suspicious he is behaving. Of course, it’s not a crime to know your student or have a somewhat past with them but, in your opinion, it makes him seem so unprofessional. Which, on another note, gives you a little boost of confidence caused by your deep rooted malicious joy when it comes to Lee Minho.

“Y/N,” he doesn’t use your surname for the first time today, creating a much more casual atmosphere. “Nice to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same,” you counter.

Your pen and the remains of your notes crash down your tote bag, hitting the apple and water bottle in the process.

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t this a class for first semester students?”

A dirty chuckle escapes his lips and you swear you can hear him click his tongue in the process.

“Yeah. What about it?”

He shakes his head. Pretentiously.

“Nah, nothing. But this means you’re more experienced than my other students. You should prepare better next time. This all reminds me of our time together back then, you know.”

“What time together?”

“Ah, you know. When we used to compete in each class, you were always trying to be better than me.” He pauses. “Unsuccessfully.”

“What do you want, Minho?”

“For you to not make a fool of yourself next week. Better be prepared, doll.”

With an emphasis on the pet name he grabs his stuff and leaves the classroom.

Fucking unprofessional.

But for some reason, he creates a sensation of excitement in your stomach, threatening to wander south if he doesn’t stop any time soon.

This semester will definitely not be easy.

🌋

As expected, the weeks pass by without a Monday of Minho not annoying the shit out of you. The primar anxiety subsided, especially once you start actually preparing for the classes. You’re not overworking yourself, basically just doing the bare minimum but it’s enough to not make a fool of yourself.

Professor Lee stays as unprofessional as ever—preferring to make you answer his question in class. Does he still not realise that this portrays the both of you in a… suspicious light?

Everyone seems to be aware. Except for the man himself.

During your obligatory lunch breaks with your best friend, Seungmin seems to catch up on the topic regularly. Why did you befriend him again?

“You must still have a crush on him or something.”

Again. Why did you befriend him?

Nowadays you regret telling Seungmin years ago that you used to have a slight crush on Minho. Your best friend told you to wake up from your enemies-to-lovers dream, reminding you of how bothersome and vexatious Minho really is.

“I don't,” you half-lie, “I’m just using this chance to get a good grade, okay?”

Seungmin stirs around in his food, the fried rice on his spoon falling into the bowl again.

“Sure, dude.”

You roll your eyes at his words, deciding to not bother with it anymore. This is so not true. You have developed a liking in volcanology because you’ve realised it’s actually interesting after digging deeper into the material of the course. It is definitely not because Minho has achieved exactly what he has been on about—getting a reaction out of you and, currently, making you his best student.

A win-win situation, isn’t it?

It could be, if your heart wasn’t pounding as much whenever he is walking through the entrance of the classroom, whenever you spot him on campus or whenever a notification gets sent to your phone, indicating you received an email from your professor. Although, it was sent to all the other thirty students too.

Ah, yes. We found the word we have been looking for!

Delusional. That’s what you have been these days. All because of stupid Lee Minho.

Seeing him at least once a week doesn’t make it any easier. But luckily, you’ve found a new friend in his class, a companion to suffer together. Even though he doesn’t know details about your background with Minho, Jisung shares the mutual feeling you have about the volcanology professor.

“Hey, Y/N, how are you?”

His smile enlightens the room, his cheeks are so squishable they boost your mood by one thousand and two hundred degrees in an instant. You’re glad the both of you are in this together.

“You forgot your homework again, Ji?” You ask him, reading through his hidden message covered in a kind gesture.

“What?! No! Never! Why would you– yeah, I did. Can you tell me what it was about?”

He makes you chuckle, your hand automatically traveling towards your face, covering the wrinkles around the corners of your mouth. Jisung adores the face you make whenever he achieves to let a laugh spill from your lips. Oh, your beautiful lips.

The younger boy would be lying if he said he hasn’t catched himself thinking about you as more than just a friend before. Sure, you’re only two years older but he just knows you would never think of him as more than just a funny classmate.

And besides that, even though most people in this room are convinced from quite the opposite, he doesn’t get the idea out of his head that there’s a weird, almost sexual tension between you and the professor. Maybe, that’s the reason he dislikes Mr Lee so much.

Jisung is torn out of his daydreaming—luckily you were so deeply absorbed by the scientific paper in front of you that you didn’t catch him ogling you from the side—when Minho enters the classroom. The atmosphere shifts faster than lightning speed, when he lets his heavy leather bag hit the desk in front of the whiteboard.

“So. I don’t have any time for any complaints or whatever’s on your mind, let’s just start with the lesson. We have lots to catch up on.”

He circles the wooden furniture with long steps, before he sinks down on the top of it, getting a better view of his students.

“Can someone summarise where we left off last week?”

Of course, everyone is exhaustingly avoiding eye contact with the professor now as if one’s life is depending on it. You do the same, even though you could have tattooed a ‘choose me’ on your forehead since Minho prefers to pick you anyway. Just to make fun of you, as always. Although it’s been some weeks, that dude seems to become more immature with each lesson he is teaching.

“Ms Y/L/N, could you please tell the class what we talked about last Monday.”

Panic. Your palms are getting sweaty, knees turning weak like jello in an instant when the sound of your name travels into your ears.

You don’t even get why you’re immediately turning into an anxious mess. That’s the effect he has on you. Thank you, Lee Minho.

But you take a deep breath nonetheless and try to let out a few words.

“Yes, uhm– last week we–“

When shifting your gaze up, you notice how Minho starts rolling his eyes, visibly annoyed by the way you’re speaking and not even managing to form one simple sentence.

“Talk a bit more unenthusiastically and I might wake up.”

What an asshole. Anxiety turns into extreme anger then. You’ve had enough of this. How dare he make you look like an absolute idiot in front of all these students?

Of course, you can already hear chuckling sounds erupting from behind you, cracking a little more of your almost non-existing self esteem.

It’s at this moment that you sense a shuffling beside you, dragging you out of your stage close to zoning out, snapping you back to reality. It’s Jisung, turning a little closer to you, his mouth right at your ear now.

“You can do this. You’re the smartest one in here.”

Desperately holding back a small giggle, you allow his kind words to give you a little confidence. As much as you need. In addition, he lays his hand on yours, squeezing it tight to reassure you a little more. Your posture is upright now and you’re ready to stand your ground.

You’ve got this, Y/N.

“That makes two of us, Mr Lee,” you begin then, still avoiding eye contact but your gaze wanders around in the room as if you are searching for the fucks to give.

“Where was I? Ah, right! The classification of pyroclastic rocks. We differentiate between blocks, lapilli and ash, considering the rock’s size. There are diverse types of deposition as well, for instance, we analysed pictures of two different ignimbrites, a solidified one, showing chemical zones, and a welded one, consisting of a coherent matrix made of ash. But the main topic of the previous lesson was learning what fallouts are.”

You can see Minho’s face scrunching, desperately trying to not snap because of your attitude but that’s what he gets for showing you up in front of everyone.

But he can withstand it.

Both the way you’re gaining confidence over the conversation and the fact you’re incredibly hot doing it–

Fuck. He really needs to focus now. Minho feels so unprofessional. And pathetic, letting his student win this passive aggressive argument.

It doesn’t help that he witnessed you holding hands with your classmate and if it was up to him, he would pull Jisung’s body away from yours and make him fail his class and all the following simply for touching you.

But he has to be professional.

“Could you elaborate on this as well?”

You nod, now fully back in the rhythm of defeating your arch enemy when it comes to academia. The adrenaline boost this gives you is beyond insane.

“Of course”, you go on, “fallouts are nothing more than the process of pyroclastic fractions falling out gravitationally, caused in case of the shrinking of the dynamic uplifting. Sometimes it’s possible that parts of the eruptive column of the volcano collapse, but we haven’t talked about that yet.”

Now you’re even adding the knowledge that he was supposed to teach to his class today. What goes around that comes around.

Y/N: 1; Minho: 0

But—even though he seems to forget it with every breath he takes—he can’t go all in with this little feud. There are thirty other people in here that aren’t paying college fees to see a professor fight some older student, when in reality he could take the anger out on you in a different way. A way that would be so easy if you would just let him.

Fuck, what Minho would do to bend you over his table whenever you talk back at him. Lift your short skirt up, spank your pretty ass whenever you disobey his rules. Stretch your tight little pussy with his fingers first, until you’re ready for his cock. Just to make you cum all over him again and again.

But that has to wait for now.

He has to stay professional, after all.

“Well done,” he says, “thanks for the transition to today’s topic.”

Just now you come to the realisation that your palms aren’t only uncomfortably sweaty, but one of them is still very much pressed against Jisung’s. When your friend sees you overthinking it, after you pull apart, he reassures you once again.

“Don’t worry, angel. I haven’t even noticed. But I’m very much fascinated by what a brainiac you are.”

You sink your head down, covering your shyness behind your hands, as you feel your face heat up. Still, you thank him and when Jisung looks at you like a little puppy taking care of his favourite human, you get all shy again.

Even though it’s hard for him—even harder than a certain body part whenever he thinks of you on a lonely night—Minho refrains from asking you more questions for the rest of the lesson. His ego is severely hurt, although he would never admit that.

It’s nothing new but with the heated conversation still lingering in the back of your head, you enter a spiral of overanalysing the looks the others gave you when you talked with the professor. From time to time, it even feels as if they are still staring, but somehow you manage to focus on your assigned task again.

For lunch, Jisung and you decide to take a quick break at the closest cafeteria on campus. Other kinds of science majors are usually busy around these early afternoon hours, so the both of you are lucky to quickly find a spacious table right at the window.

The weather is beautiful today, probably the highest temperature you have had this year so far and you're once again surprised, how a little glimpse of the sun shining through the clouds hypes up your mood by endless levels.

However, Jisung seems occupied in his head. As if there’s something bothering him, something crossing his mind that he doesn’t know how to explain to you. To encourage him, you ask him if there’s something wrong.

“N-No– it’s nothing. At least– definitely none of my business anyway, sorry.”

The duality this part-time brat carries is unbelievable. Jisung plays with you, pretending to not be interested—in whatever he wants to propose a question about—but you can see it in the look on his face, filled by the same amount of curiosity a child has when they accidentally find their birthday presents hiding in a big bag in the parent’s bedroom.

“Come on, ask me what you want.”

Jisung moves in his seat, now all of a sudden being showered with insecurity again. Almost as if he is thinking about something that shouldn’t be on his mind.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I could never,” you reassure him and that’s all your friend needs.

“I think I’m not the only one who has noticed the weird dynamic between the professor and you. Well– it makes me wonder if the two of you know each other–“

You sigh, unintentionally, and Jisung is fast to start apologising again but you stop him, as you lay your hand on his this time. The dark haired boy prays to God, that you don’t see the way he blushes, a pinkish curtain covering his squishy cheeks.

“I’ve already assumed that people talk. But it’s really nothing. We started university together some years ago and we used to attend the same classes and… kinda competed with each other all the time. He views it as a great success that he is my teacher now out of a sudden, you know, since we’re the same age and it probably gives him an enormous ego boost.”

Jisung attentively nods, as he tries to focus on your words instead of the way your skin is touching his, still.

“And to be honest,” you continue, “I am kinda intrigued by him. He’s often making me feel insecure about my skills and yeah– secretly I know that he’s the smarter one. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be teaching in the position he is in now.”

Jisung’s facial expression softens, before it gets filled with a little empathy, almost pity, until it turns into disappointment.

He squeezes your hand, to which you react, only now realising the both of you are still connected. But it’s comfortable. It always is with Jisung.

“Listen, Y/N,” his voice is a lot more serious now, “just because he finished university before you, doesn’t mean he’s smarter. There’s a difference between achieving a goal fast and being actually good at something.”

These are the words you needed. Sometimes your brain tricks you into thinking you’re not good enough, not strong enough, not talented enough. But that’s what good friends are for—picking you up again and bringing you back to reality.

Jisung senses that you’re feeling a little better now, although there is still something on your mind.

“Do you think… people could take the dynamic the wrong way?”

The boy in front of you shrugs his shoulders.

“I don’t know. I can only speak for myself. All I have noticed is that he puts a lot more pressure on you and I was afraid that he, maybe, might disadvantage you or something. That’s why I asked.”

That’s not the only reason he wanted to talk to you about this, but it’s neither the right place nor the right time to speak about what’s on his mind still.

🌋

You’re nine weeks into the semester and pretty much done with it, but your courses aren’t yet. seventeen more days until your final volcanology exam and then you will be a somewhat free student again.

To celebrate summer being right around the corner, you’re dragging Seungmin to the campus party tonight, glad that he could be convinced—after a thirty minute talk and after you promised to pay for all the drinks tonight since he then pretty quickly agreed to attend this booze-up.

Obviously, the campus is more crowded than usual since most college students value alcohol a lot higher than good grades and you spot a lot of familiar faces from the geology department and other science majors. You don’t know anyone personally, except for your best friend right by your side, so that’s why the two of you stick together like glue.

While Seungmin is busy buying drinks at a random temporary setup bar made out of tables from one of the classrooms—the beer being paid with your money of course—you look around a bit, until a girl crosses your vision.

She’s already approaching you and at a closer look you realise that she’s part of your volcanology class, too.

“Hey, Y/N, how are you?”

You can smell that Ryujin has probably had a few drinks already, but you don’t mind. She’s mostly been kind to you, although you haven’t interacted that much except for when you were assigned to do group projects together in class.

She pulls you into a quick hug but you allow her to and blame it on the alcohol.

“Are you here alone or waiting for a special someone?”

Ryujin is probably referring to the odd way you’re standing here, although her words are a little too straightforward for your liking. Fiddling with the pretty nephrite gemstone that is attached to your bracelet, you give her a confused look before you manage to reply.

“No, I’m waiting for my friend. He’s getting drinks for us.”

Ryujin, taking a sip from her own beer-lemonade mix, shoots a suggestive look in your direction.

“Oh, a male friend? Better be careful, I’ve spotted Mr Lee somewhere around here as well. Don’t tell him, he might get jealous.”

You can instantly feel your face heating up and you pray that she doesn’t notice the embarrassed look you are carrying now.

But, unfortunately, she does. And the fact you’re not capable of talking anything back, thickens the tension this conversation already has. She gets a little closer to you then, aligning her mouth right at your ear, as if she is afraid that someone is even remotely close to being able to understand a single syllable in this loud area.

“Am I wrong with my assumptions? I’m not the only one in class thinking the two of you are hooking up,” she whispers.

“Is he mean to you in bed, too? Is this what the both of you get off to? I’ve heard he’s pretty big, is that correct?”

God, why can’t she mind her own business? You really thought that Ryujin was nice but then again, you don’t know her that well and she’s pretty tipsy, maybe even drunk.

But once she realises that she won’t get an answer from you, she pulls you into a hug again—as you stand there paralysed—before saying goodbye to you.

“Anyway, it was nice to see you, Y/N. Let’s talk again some time.”

🌋

Three beers later and a few hours into the night, Seungmin and you decide to take part in a campus beer pong battle. After all you’re an experienced team when it comes to this game, having developed the best strategies over the last years in college and before.

So, it’s not a surprise you are convinced you can keep up with anyone and so far your high success rate proves exactly this. After defeating everyone in your group, you’ve made it to the finale, now destined to play against the other winners.

“The usual strategy?” Your best friend asks then, casually pinching the white ball between his thumb and index finger.

You nod at him, as you take the last sip out of your plastic cup—you’ve switched from beer to beer mixed with lemonade an hour ago, driven by excitement to win this game. Sure, getting shitfaced is the point of both beer pong and a campus party, but Seungmin and you are too destined to win.

“Oh, nice to see you here.”

The voice is familiar. A little too familiar for your liking.

And once your head snaps up, you’re greeted with a tipsy Minho, standing at the other side of the table. Next to him, is a guy quite the same height but a little more buff then your professor. His blonde curls hide his forehead mostly and he looks just as ambitious as all the other contestants.

Minho walks around the table now, standing right in front of Seungmin.

“I think I haven’t introduced myself yet. I’m Minho. Y/N and I used to study together.”

Seungmin pretends that the name isn’t familiar to him. After all, your best friend is the only one that knows you have a little crush on the professor that gets on your last nerve. But Seungmin is a good friend and plays it cool, as he tells the other man his own name.

After both teams fill the cups with enough liquid, the game starts and Minho really wants to be attentive and give his best. He really does.

But, unfortunately, all he can focus on is the interaction between your best friend and you. It’s very innocent—it always is. Seungmin and you have been best friends your whole life, practically like siblings, there is not a single thing for you that puts him in a romantic or sexual light and he shares the same opinion about you.

Of course, Minho doesn’t know about that part. For him, Seungmin is just some guy that you are playing beer pong with, that you hug whenever you score a trick-shot and that you’re pretty close to in general.

And when your best friend finally hits the ball into the last remaining cup on the side of the opponent team, carrying home the victory for you, Minho almost loses his temper. The way Seungmin is embracing you, pulling you closer to him and even adding a little tipsy kiss to your cheek is enough to make him go completely furious.

Faster than you’re able to realise, Minho stands right beside you, laying his hand on your shoulder to spin you around towards him.

That’s when you look into his eyes as deeply as you have never done before. The dark brown colour is hypnotising, putting you under a spell. He’s definitely as tipsy as you—if not even more.

At least that would explain his next sentence.

“Congratulations, great game. Can we talk for a moment?”

To say you’re surprised would be an understatement. But there’s not even half a second to think, when he’s already reaching for your hand, searching for any second guesses hinting that you don’t want to be alone with him.

Of course, he didn’t ask you that. But you’re both drunk and given the history you share, he wouldn’t expect you to voluntarily speak to him alone for more than a minute.

You shoot your best friend a quick glance, this way telling him that you're safe, before you toddle behind Minho. His fingers circle around your wrist, as he drags you through the large crowd, in his current state not caring at all if there’s someone recognising the both of you.

Abruptly, once you’re a little further away from where the party is going on, he stops at a corner. In front of the biochemistry building now, he guides you towards the exterior wall of the house, spinning you around with just a little strength needed.

Your back crashes into the wall, but it doesn’t hurt or you simply don’t notice, judging your high level of intoxication.

And all of a sudden he’s so dangerously close to you, his breath tingling your neck, lips hovering over the skin with only a millimetre of air separating your bodies. Minho places one of his forearms right beside you, cageing you between the cold bricks behind and his athletic body in front of you.

No way to escape.

But you’re not interested in that anyway.

Minho’s other hand brushes your jaw all so softly, before his index finger lands under your chin, slightly pulling your head up in the process. Now on eye level with him, his gaze meets your own and you’re lost in this deep colour again. Prettier than the prettiest gemstones you’ve ever seen.

And then Minho speaks or rather whispers, heating up your face from outside and inside.

“I can’t even put into words how much you annoy me, it’s insane.”

You chuckle, knowing exactly what hides behind these words and your assumptions turn out to be true, once his lips collide with your neck. He sucks on the skin, rough kisses hypnotising you all over again and when they graze over the spot right under your ear, you can’t help but let out a moan.

“I would have never thought teaching a class is that exhausting, but your constant competition is really making it hard… not just the class, baby.”

A smirk is decorating your face now and by the way his lips lay against your skin, you’re sure he has got the same mimics as you. One of his hands wanders down now, squeezing your ass through the thick fabric of your jeans and you can hear him chuckle into your ear.

Embarrassingly enough, another moan slips out of your mouth but Minho soon drowns out the noise, when his lips crash into yours. It’s as if all the piled up tension is forgotten, all the teasing comments vanishing away, all the rivalry leaving the both of you, when you focus on the way he is kissing you—passionately, without a single sign of regret.

“You know what’s the worst part about this, baby? It’s hard to admit but your intelligence is intimidating to me– you’re definitely smarter than me and–“

And that’s when regret does hit him.

He suddenly stops, his whole body freezing, paralysed.

Until the words that he formed himself register in his head.

You can’t stop yourself. You didn’t sit through nine weeks of constant stress to let this triumph slip.

“What did you say, Minho? Did I hear that correctly?”

The smirk decorates your face so evilly and in the back of his mind Minho thinks you’re so hot for talking back at him once again, for standing up for yourself. He’s adored you before—all secretly of course—but since he’s been challenging you and observing you growing more and more confident, you’ve been occupying his thoughts like a constant guest.

Unfortunately, he is not there yet—at the point to actually be completely honest with himself and, even more importantly, with you.

“I didn’t say anything,” he lies through his teeth then and as if this isn’t enough, more words spill from his lips.

“Except for you being annoying and pissing me off.”

You roll your eyes back, completely frustrated. You should have known. Minho finally breaks out of his thick shell and then he gets scared and the insecurities take over him. Although, the warm side he carries in him is the one you even prefer a little more.

“Don’t play dumb, repeat what you’ve just said.”

He turns to the side then, as his palm wanders upwards to cover his mouth. His eyes shut close, as he takes a deep breath and contemplates how to continue.

“I don’t know what you mean,” and that’s when his drunk self and the old Minho take over, “maybe you’re just imagining stuff, like the stupid little girl you are.”

You scoff, blatantly, before you shove him aside, shoulders bumping into each other. Your vision is blurry—both from the alcohol and the tears pricking at your lower lash line—but you somehow manage it through the crowd in order to search for Seungmin.

In the distance you can hear Minho calling your name, saying that he is sorry or some shit, but you don’t listen.

Luckily, you find your best friend quicker than expected and when he notices the tears running down your cheeks, he instantly pulls you into a hug.

“Did he do something that you didn’t want? Did he hurt you, Y/N?”

You shake your head, as you watch the salty droplets from your eyes staining Seungmin’s shirt, before you pull away to look at him.

“Physically? No. Verbally? Maybe.”

There’s something else than just empathy on Seungmin’s face now. Anger, almost.

“What an idiot– where is he–“

“Minnie, no. He didn’t mean it. He’s just immature and insecure and doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions.”

He takes a deep breath, brushing away the tears that are glistening on your skin.

“He still hurt you.”

You sigh, giving him a small smile.

“It’s okay, really. Can we just go home?”

“Of course.”

🌋

The last three and a half weeks have been a blur. A fever dream, almost. The days have been filled with studying and staying at the library with Jisung and Seungmin—who have become very good friends—to cramp as much knowledge as possible into your steaming head.

You’ve also spent a pathetic amount of time not thinking of Minho and the last two lessons were more than a little awkward. Although, you have noticed him observing you all the time, as if he’s trying to say something, apologise for insulting you. He even messages you one day, asking if the both of you can talk again, but you’re way too busy with studying and ignoring him anyway, so you haven’t realised that you received the text at all.

Luckily, throughout this whole time you can count on the midnight cup ramyeon, cola zero and your friends just being there for you. And in the blink of an eye, the three of you are crawling from one club to another, celebrating your freedom after doing your best on the exam.

The constant partying since then is the reason you slept so long today, Saturday afternoon sunlight hitting your face and you’re surprised the hangover isn’t as terrible as expected.

You take a long shower, make yourself some leftover food and a tea, before you switch back to the current drama you are watching.

Until you get a notification from your student mail account.

It’s an automatic message, telling you the grade of your volcanology exam can be found on the university’s website.

That was quicker than you thought, considering the fact it was a test including lots of questions which you had to answer with whole sentences.

After fighting with the stupidity of your school’s website again, you find yourself scrolling down to your achievements, finding an additional grade for this semester.

97%

If there is a textbook definition of ‘relieved’ it would definitely be the emotion you are experiencing in your whole body right now.

The hard work paid off and you’re fast to grab your phone, messaging Seungmin and Jisung, also asking the latter if he’s got a grade yet as well.

Just when you’re about to hit ‘send’, the notification sound from your computer echoes through your room and your head snaps up towards the screen.

You open the mail and read it.

Dear Students,

I’m happy to tell you most of the students in my class passed the exam, even though the results are improvable with some exceptions. As you know, it’s not possible to give back the test papers to you, since we have to archive them. If you have questions regarding your grades or the exam in general, you can come to my office on Monday, at the same time as our class, and we can talk about it in person. Please be patient in case many people show up.

Greetings,

Mr. Lee

No.

Never.

You can’t do this.

The idea is too ridiculous. You can’t show up when you’re probably the one who scored the highest points. Also, there’s only three percent missing—it’s probably just some tiny form error.

No…

You can’t just go there as an excuse to see Minho and finally talk to him about what happened and, basically, everything.

🌋

On Monday you find yourself in front of Minho’s office.

It is such a stupid idea that it’s unbelievable how you could be the one to score the highest in this class.

And you are indeed the only one who was that successful, judging the faces of the other students—a mixture of sadness because of their own grade and envy when they see you entering the hallway.

You’ve made sure to come here pretty late, wanting to be the last one in line. All these other students probably have much more important stuff to discuss—especially those who failed—so you don’t want to delay any of their schedules.

Once it’s your time to step inside the office, you hesitate first but after knocking three times and hearing a confident ‘come in’ erupting from the other side of the door, you decide to stick to your initial plan.

“Hi, I have a few questions regarding my grade.”

When Minho spots you his expression carries many facets that aren’t quite definable.

He looks annoyed, as always when he spots you. He looks furious, as if you shouldn’t be here. But he also looks both a little sad and hopeful, almost regretful, as if he has been waiting for this moment a little too long.

“Sure, take a seat.”

And so you do, sinking down on the chair at the opposite side of his table, sitting right in front of him now.

That’s when you look into his eyes again. They look the same as that night. But they also look different. Tired. Avoiding.

“What are your questions exactly?”

You shift in your seat, trying to get into a more comfortable position. In the meantime, Minho searches for your exam paper in the stack of all the others and places the test between the both of you, once he finds it.

Taking a little moment, you flick through the individual pages, pretending to be searching for something.

“I was wondering what the missing three percent were. I remember, there weren’t that many points to score and I am confused how such a small amount can be subtracted then.”

Minho nods, as he grabs the exam from you and skims through it, pretending to be searching for something as well. Until he stops.

“It’s mostly errors in your form. Your writing style isn’t really academic, at some parts it sounds as if a high school student wrote it.”

He’s doing it on purpose. Definitely. He knows exactly where he gets you with this—annoying you, teasing you, crawling under your skin with his words.

And you fall for it, every time.

“I see.”

“Do you have any further questions?”

His gaze stays focused on the test paper, before he lifts his head up and looks into your eyes.

“Yeah… but… not a-about the exam.”

You honestly don’t get why you’re so anxious now and you fear that the situation between the both of you, how you left off, has sparked more inside you than you would like.

“Technically,” Minho begins then and you can sense that he is rethinking every word that he is about to say.

“This is an appointment for exam evaluation only. But you’re the last student, so go on.”

You take a deep breath, scoffing to yourself about the ridiculousness of the situation, before you continue.

“How can I be both intimidating to you but also a stupid little girl at the same time?”

Minho’s face slowly meets the palms of his hands. He’s simultaneously relieved that you’re finally talking to him but also so furious that all this is brought up again.

“I– I’m not.”

He’s still hiding behind that thick layer. You can tell by the way he is avoiding your glares and fiddling with his silver rings.

Fuck. You’ve never paid attention to his hands that much, but his fingers look… pretty.

Almost as if they could make you feel very good, stretch you quite nicely and maybe even make you cum if Minho puts as much effort in as he does when challenging you.

God, this is not the time and place to be thinking about this now.

But then you see his eyes trailing down your curves, stopping right at the view of your thighs, just to snap up again and focus on your neck. He’s still got the taste of your lips on his, which is not surprising because for the last three and a half weeks Minho came almost every night to the thought of your pretty whimpers.

And when he catches you staring at his arms—his veins almost popping out—he knows you’re on the same page.

You both are pretty intelligent. Except when it comes to verbal communication—but luckily, there are other ways to argue.

That’s why you stand up and walk around the table until you’re behind Minho. Your hands land on his shoulders first, before they painfully slowly wander down his chest and through the material of his white button up shirt you can feel how firm he is.

“Mr Lee,” you begin then, knowing he won’t be able to withstand you if you address him like this and your intuitions turn out to be true.

“I’ve scored the highest in this class, always did my coursework on time and was your best student. I deserve at least a little explanation, don’t you think?”

That’s when you attach your lips to his neck and they feel so soft against his skin, Minho is already under your spell.

He can’t resist. And he doesn’t even want to. He can trust you enough to trust himself with his feelings. The curtain of insecurity, covered in meanness, has to fall now.

“Listen, I think my message got lost in your mails but…”

You stop with your movements for a second.

“I have never been intimidated by you but I’ve been intimidated by the possibility of getting suspended. This and all the insecurities and fears of rejection is the reason I behaved like a total asshole that night and I’m sorry for it.”

He gets up from his seat now and spins you around, as he takes the spot you were standing on a second ago.

And then, everything happens in the blink of an eye.

Minho grabs your jaw, pulling you closer to him, before his lips smash into yours in the most passionate and heated kiss you have ever experienced. It feels even better than that night a few weeks ago and this time you even invite his tongue in.

He’s impatient—after all he has wanted to devour your body for so long and especially whenever you talked back at him in class, he was dangerously close to snapping and just taking you in front of everyone else.

Especially Jisung.

God, Minho is still not over the fact your little friend was holding hands with you on a regular basis. He was even flirting with you but you didn’t notice.

But now he’s finally got you all to himself and he will make sure that you’ll never forget.

His hands make their way to your blouse, hastily opening every single button. Just like the other night, his lips are hovering over your neck again, sucking and biting the skin without mercy and you can’t help yourself but whimper.

“I wanted to apologise sooner,” he whispers, “but, you know, even if I manage to make sincere compliments, you let this get to your smart little head and ask me to repeat myself. It’s as if you can’t function without my attention, doll.”

You moan again, almost letting the syllables of his name escape your lips but you stop yourself.

“That’s not true,” you bluff. “I don’t care about that at all.”

Minho rips your bra in half, watching your tits bouncing, before he takes one of the buds inside his mouth, as one of his hands comes to help and massages the other.

“Min– Fuck–“

“Yeah, baby. Keep telling that to yourself. Do you know how pathetic you look right now? And all just for me?”

Your head falls back, as you simply can’t take it no more. Especially, when he moans against your skin, as if he’s enjoying this a little too much.

All while you try to ignore the way your panties are sticking to your pussy, the material all drenched and you convince yourself that’s only because of his captivating touches and not the words he uses.

But, you soon realise, Minho being mean isn’t just annoying—in combination with touching your body the way he does, it makes you crave more.

And you know exactly how you can get what you’re really longing for. By playing his game.

“You know, that makes two of us. You’re constantly trying to get my attention, too. It’s the same now, you’re all over me.”

He scoffs, as he abruptly lets go of your body, before his head wanders up and he’s on eye level with you again. Minho’s hand finds your face then, his fingers squishing your cheeks together roughly.

“Maybe I should just fuck the brat out of you, until you come to your senses, baby.”

Oh, God. Your underwear is practically sticking to you by now and you feel as if you have never been so wet before, just by some touches and a few little mean words from your enemy.

“Hm, I doubt that you could make me feel as good as you say.”

He chuckles. Minho lets his hand travel down your waist, glide over your hips, before it lands on your thighs. A moment later, he lifts you up and places you on top of his desk, standing between your legs now.

“You’re the one challenging me now?”

“Maybe…”

You’re not quite convinced and neither is he.

“You’re gonna regret this, doll.”

And you do, once his hand slips under your skirt and Minho wonders if you chose that outfit on purpose, knowing you have the same cliché desires that have been running on his mind since he became your professor.

You squirm in pleasure, when his fingertips collide with your underwear—as he finds the laces completely soaked, just for him.

“Pathetic little thing is all drenched just from a few touches, huh?”

He painfully slowly pushes the clothing aside, before two of his fingers start circling around your clit, finding your sensitive bud in an instant.

“Stop teasing, Minho, and just keep going already.”

He stops.

He brings his hand upwards again, as he aligns his fingers with your lips and you obediently part them for him, inviting him in just to taste yourself on his skin.

“I told you not to challenge me doll, do you get that?”

You want to talk back again, you really do.

But there are two problems.

One, he is shoving his fingers down your throat. Those pretty fingers that you weren’t able to take your eyes off just some minutes ago. And, well, this makes speaking a little hard.

Second, it seems as if you don’t want to anymore. You want to get to know the Minho that reacts to you finally listening to his words, obeying his rules and allowing him to take care of your body.

So, you nod.

He slides his fingers out of your mouth, the two digits covered into your saliva now, before he brings them right back between your legs.

But it’s not enough for him yet.

“Words, baby.”

He’s dangerously near to your aching hole now, circling around your entrance, ready to dip his fingers inside, both at once.

“Yes, I– I get that.”

You don’t want to stutter. But you can’t help it, when he’s teasing you like that.

“Are you gonna behave now and be a good girl?”

He pushes them inside and you immediately clench around them, your cunt sucking them in as if your body has been craving this exact touch for months. Not a complete lie, though.

“Y-Yes–“ you cry out, closing your eyes.

“Yes, what?”

And you know exactly what he needs to hear. One little word in addition.

“Yes, sir.”

He starts thrusting his fingers into you, stretching your walls so deliciously and when he grazes over that certain spot, curling his fingers inside you, you’re embarrassingly close after such a short amount of time.

“You like that, hm?”

You hastily nod, allowing a moan to spill from your lips.

“Sir–“ you whimper and Minho fears that he might cum in his pants when he hears you use that specific word on your own.

“N-Need more–“

His motions gain a slight bit of speed, as he curls his fingers inside you again.

“What do you need, doll?”

You cry out in pleasure, feeling the rope inside your lower stomach tighten to a knot, practically at the verge of snapping.

“Y-Your cock– inside me–“

He gives you the most mischievous smirk then, but you don’t notice, since your eyes are still closed in order to deal with the overwhelming sensation.

“Be a good girl and cum for me and I might consider it.”

And so you do. Your juices spill all over him, as your legs shake rapidly, your orgasm washing through your whole body. Minho makes sure to cover your mouth at the last second, when he realises how loud you’ve become.

“Good girl, such a good girl,” he praises you, while he helps you ride out your high before he pulls his fingers out of you and guides them towards your mouth again.

You grab his wrist with both your hands, guiding his digits into your mouths, as you suck them clean.

“You’re so smart, baby, such a quick learner. Just how I’ve expected it from you.”

You look at him with awaiting eyes then and it seems as if Minho is able to read your mind. He spins you around a second later and your ass crashes into his covered crotch, poking into your soft flesh.

He lifts your skirt up and you obediently slide your panties down completely now, as the fabric lands on the floor. In the meantime, he is fumbling with his belt, before he slides his pants and underwear down.

Minho gives his length a few strokes, while you spread your legs for him, your upper body meeting the wooden surface in front of you.

“You ready, doll?”

“Yes, sir.”

Minho is afraid that he will seriously cum within a few seconds, when he only pushes the tip inside, already feeling your cunt hugging him so tightly.

“Fuck– you’re big,” you cry out.

“Want me to stop?”

You hastily shake your head, “No, no. I’ll get used to it, don’t worry.”

That’s all he needs to slowly go further and once he is completely inside, he pulls out again, just to repeat his first step until he is bottoming you out fully.

Minho starts with a steady pace then, pounding his cock into you just how you’ve imagined all these lonely nights for the past twelve weeks. But the reality is a thousand times better, so much more satisfying than just the idea of it.

And he senses you enjoying it. After all, you’re clenching around him non-stop, all whilst begging for more and holding onto the table for dear life.

Whenever you get a little too loud, Minho makes sure to spank your pretty ass, just how he’s always wanted to. You’re sure, the skin will feel bruised tomorrow, but you don’t care at all.

You simply can’t. He’s taking over your mind completely, put you under a spell solely by fucking so deliciously into your aching hole, brushing over that spot from time to time, just how you adore it.

That’s the reason why, by now, only mindless babbling escapes your mouth, which Minho identifies as praise for him and little pleas that he should go even harder.

“I can’t believe a smart girl like you is turning dumb from my cock so easily,” he mocks you and you can’t help yourself but agree.

“You’re– so good at this,” you say, drooling all over the surface underneath you, “should have done this sooner.”

Minho picks up his pace then, now thrusting into you at a merciless speed and when you think your body is already overwhelmed enough, he brings two of his fingers between your legs again and starts massaging your clit.

That’s all you need to tip over the edge for a second time and for once again, Minho covers your mouth with his palm, when you get a little too loud.

“Good girl, just like that,” he whimpers and you can sense his movements getting sloppier, too. After all, you’re clenching around him without an end and your pretty little moans don’t help him stretch that moment further.

So, Minho pulls out at the last moment, gives his cock a few more strokes before his seeds spill all over your ass, painting your skin so beautifully. Your name slips out of his mouth like a mantra, repeated over and over again and for a moment you consider covering his lips as well.

He admires the view one last time, before he searches around in his office and finds some paper tissues to clean the both of you with. After he’s tugged his softening cock into his boxers again and put on his pants, he helps you into your own clothing, touching you all carefully, as if he is afraid to hurt you.

“Do you need anything? Are you alright, doll?”

You nod and give him a satisfied smile.

“So…” he starts then, thoughts trailing off as if he’s afraid of  the same one thing again—rejection.

“I was thinking… I could take you out on a date, if you like.”

He’s so adorable. So versatile. It makes you want to get to know him better. More of Minho. The real Minho.

“I’d like that, Mr Lee.”

Caused by shyness washing all over him, Minho covers his face with his hands, but you pull them away.

“Don’t get shy now. I just think it’s hilarious you’ve got a sir kink.”

He gains some confidence then, getting a little closer to you.

“Don’t test me with your teasing, brat.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: for my almost 1 year anniversary on here I wanted to rewrite my first ever story! oh lord, that was a cringe experience but at least I improved my skills lol the original one also had 6K instead of 10K words and I don't know what I should think about that. thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this story, please consider reblogging it and sharing your thoughts with me—there are no limits, from keyboard smashes to long essays, every kind comment is dearly appreciated and the number one motivation for authors to keep going.

© j-0ne25 2023 | copying, translating or stealing my work is prohibited

[leriexoxo]

Built For Ruin

Roommate! Leeknow x Reader

Tags: slow burn, thigh kink, filthy smut, roommates to lovers, thigh riding, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex, dom minho, work out teasing, overstimulation, accidental voyeurism

Word count: 4.8k

Summary: Living with Lee Know was fine… until his thighs became a problem. Now he’s working out shirtless in the living room, stealing your shampoo, and daring you with every smirk. You try to ignore it—until you walk in on him wet, naked, and waiting. And when he tells you to ride his thigh? Yeah. You don’t say no.

A/N: This fic was requested by @ihrtlix ❤️ Enjoy!

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Living with Lee Know was supposed to be chill. Strict chore schedule, shared Spotify rotation, and an unspoken rule: no feelings, no flirting, and definitely no walking around in nothing but boxers and that godforsaken muscle tee that showed everything.

And yet, there you were — biting into a peach on a lazy Tuesday morning, trying not to stare as he squatted to grab his protein powder from the bottom cabinet. Every flex of his thighs tested your willpower.

You told yourself not to look. You always told yourself. But Minho’s body betrayed every attempt at restraint. Lean everywhere except where it mattered. His arms were carved and precise, his waist trim, but his thighs? Thick like sin. Each step he took, every crouch, every stretch of fabric over hardened muscle taunted your self-control.

And he wasn’t oblivious.

He caught you sometimes — the beat of silence before you answered a question, the way your eyes dropped before darting away, the breath you held when he stretched too close on the couch. You’d swear he smirked once. Maybe twice. But he never said a word.

There were only the silences. Lingering, heavy, and charged. Accidental brushes of skin. The way his leg sometimes pressed against yours during movie nights. Close. Too close.

Still, you told yourself you were safe. That it didn’t mean anything.

Until the moment that shattered everything.

You’d come home late, annoyed, exhausted, half-ready to collapse. The apartment was quiet — lights low, faint music bleeding from behind the bathroom door. You heard the water shut off. Then a towel. A rustle.

The bathroom door cracked open before you could escape.

And there he was.

Wet. Bare. Steam curling around him like smoke. His hair stuck to his forehead, water dripping down the sharp lines of his collarbones. A white towel sat slung low on his hips, teasing just above the dangerous. His chest glistened under the hallway light, and his thighs—Jesus, those thighs—were pure destruction. Wide. Solid. Veined. They flexed with every slow, lazy step as he towel-dried his hair, and then… he looked up.

Right at you.

“Hey,” he said, like he didn’t look like every bad decision you’d ever fantasized about. Like his towel wasn’t a single twitch away from wrecking your entire nervous system.

“You good?”

You nodded. Lie. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

His eyes held yours a beat too long. Something shifted in his expression. Calculated. Curious. Knowing.

Then he tilted his head — just slightly — and let the towel dip a little lower on his hips.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

Your throat tightened. Your pulse throbbed in your ears. You tried to look away, but it was too late.

His gaze dipped down, tracking over your legs, the death grip of your hands at your sides, the way your breath had gone shallow. He looked back up — and smirked.

“Been doing a lot of leg day lately,” he said, voice thick with amusement. “Figured it was time someone noticed.”

You couldn’t move. The hallway felt too small. Too hot. And he stood too close.

That’s when it hit you. He’d known. All this time. Every stolen glance, every bitten lip, every time you pretended not to be affected while memorizing the shape of his body like scripture — he’d known.

And the worst part? He was enjoying it.

Minho stepped past you then, slow and deliberate. His bare shoulder brushed yours, sending sparks down your spine. His mouth passed close to your ear.

“If you like ’em so much… don’t be shy.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

And you?

You stood frozen. Drenched in heat.

Stunned.

—-

You tried to shake it off. That moment in the hallway — the wet skin, the low towel, the smirk like he’d just cracked your entire code — it replayed in your head on loop. And the worst part? He acted normal afterward. As if he hadn’t just stripped you bare without laying a single finger on you.

For the next few days, he didn’t say a word. But his silence had weight. A hum. A presence.

You felt it when he brushed past you in the kitchen, lingering just a second longer than necessary. You felt it when he reached for the remote, arm grazing yours like it was an accident — it wasn’t. You felt it every time he walked around in those tiny black shorts that clung to his thighs like a second skin, like he wanted to be watched.

He never said it outright. He didn’t have to.

Minho knew. And he was playing with you.

Especially during movie night.

He stretched out across the couch like he owned it — one thigh propped high, the other bent casually, teasing a dangerous view beneath loose fabric. You sat at the opposite end, pretending to care about the screen, pretending not to notice the way he occasionally shifted — slow and deliberate, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.

“You pressed?” he asked, voice smooth, eyes fixed on the movie.

“No.” You barely breathed the word.

“Then why are your legs crossed like that?”

You choked. “I always sit like this.”

“Mhm.” His lips curved into a smirk, but he didn’t look at you. “Cute.”

You turned back to the screen, ears burning, pulse hammering in places you didn’t want to admit. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. He already had you cornered.

And then came Saturday.

You’d just rolled out your yoga mat, hoping for some peace. A little mind-body disconnect. Something slow, something grounding. You wore leggings and a loose top, hair tied up, trying to focus on your breath. On your stretch. On not spiraling over the fact that your roommate had thighs that could suffocate you and the audacity to look good doing absolutely nothing.

You were two poses in when Minho walked in. Barefoot. Tank top. The same goddamn black shorts.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed a towel, tossed it on the floor, and dropped beside you — air shifting with the force of his presence.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Home workout,” he said, already rolling his neck like it was routine. “Leg day.”

Of course it was.

You watched him set up — no mat, no music, no distractions. Just him, kneeling, then rising into his first slow, steady squat.

And God help you.

His muscles flexed with every movement — taut and deliberate, as if he knew you were watching. And of course, you were. You tried not to be. You told yourself to focus on your breath, your pose, anything. But the sound of him exhaling, the tension in his quads, the way his thighs expanded and contracted under smooth skin — it was hypnotic.

At one point, you bent forward into a child’s pose and nearly whined. Not from the stretch — from the view.

“Something wrong?” he asked without turning.

“Nope,” you lied into your mat.

He chuckled low. “You’ve been holding that pose for a while.”

“I’m relaxing.”

“Are you sure?”

You sat up, flushed, glaring. “Why are you doing this here?”

“This is my house too.” He dropped into a deep lunge, one thigh slicing into the air like it knew it was being worshipped. “Besides, I thought you liked watching.”

Your breath caught.

He looked at you then. Full-on. No smirk this time. Just heat. Awareness.

“I mean,” he added, tilting his head, “you do a lot of staring for someone who’s just stretching.”

You opened your mouth. No words came.

Minho stood, grabbed his towel, and wiped his neck, gaze dragging down your body like he owned it.

“Let me know if I’m distracting you,” he said, already walking away. “Or don’t.”

His bedroom door shut.

You stared at the empty space he left behind, legs shaking — not from yoga.

And that was the thing about Minho. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t have to.

He was building you to the edge. Slowly. Mercilessly.

One day at a time.

—-

You’d had it.

The teasing. The stretching. The slow, smug smirks like he knew exactly how to unravel you without ever laying a hand. Minho was a storm in stillness — walking around that apartment like his thighs weren’t destroying your concentration one flex at a time.

But today?

Today he stole your shampoo. The expensive one. The one you rationed like gold.

You noticed it gone right after your lukewarm shower. No bottle on the ledge. Not in the cabinet. Nowhere. And you knew — you knew — he’d taken it. Not because he needed it. Not because he ran out.

But because he wanted you to come find it.

You stepped into the hallway and glared in the direction of his room. Your skin was still damp, towel clutched around your body, hair dripping. You stood there for a beat, chest rising and falling, fury burning low in your gut.

He wanted a reaction?

Fine.

You stomped to his room, still wrapped in your towel, not even bothering to knock. The door wasn’t locked — of course it wasn’t. You shoved it open, ready to yell—And froze.

Minho stood in the middle of the room. Still wet from his own shower. Back turned. Steam clinging to his skin like a second layer. And nothing but a white towel barely clinging to his hips.

As if on cue — perfectly timed, like he waited for your entrance — he turned.

And let the towel drop.

Time stopped.

His body was a punch to the throat. Wet hair clinging to sharp cheekbones. Chest gleaming. Abs carved like marble. And lower—

You swallowed. Hard.

His thighs — God, his thighs — were the first thing your eyes betrayed you for. Taut, thick, glistening. Cut so sharp you could trace the line from hip to knee without ever catching your breath. But it was all of him — the dripping cocky smirk, the full exposure, the quiet daring in his stare — that made your brain stutter.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Minho didn’t flinch. He stood there, bare, relaxed, like he’d just walked out of a dream you hadn’t woken up from. His eyes dragged down your figure — towel, damp skin, flushed face — and he grinned.

“You looking for something?” he asked, voice low, sinful.

You blinked. “My shampoo.”

He stepped closer, slow and predatory. “Oh. Right. That.”

You didn’t back up. Couldn’t. Your feet stayed planted as he crossed the room, stopping just in front of you — close enough that steam radiated off his skin and into your lungs.

“I might’ve borrowed it,” he said, voice a little too innocent.

“You think?” Your voice cracked, betraying you.

He tilted his head. Smirked. “You could’ve waited.”

“You could’ve not stolen my stuff.”

“I was curious,” he murmured. “About what made you smell that good all the time.”

That shut you up. Your breath caught, throat dry.

Minho leaned in, not touching you, just hovering — warm and wet and lethal.

“Gotta say,” he whispered, “I didn’t think you’d walk in this fast. Barely gave me time to dress.”

“Minho…”

His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

Because you snapped.

The air cracked between you — the tension finally slicing clean. Your towel loosened around your chest, breath ragged, fingers twitching like they didn’t know whether to slap him or touch everything. And Minho? He just watched you unravel, biting back a laugh, proud of every second it took to break you.

“You gonna stare all day…” he whispered, eyes dropping to your lips, “…or finally show me what you’ve been thinking about when you look at my thighs like that?”

You’d never seen him like that before.

Sure, you’d imagined it. In flashes. In filth. Late at night, hand between your thighs, brain filled with the shape of him under those shorts. But nothing — nothing — prepared you for the real thing.

Minho stood there like a god carved in steam. Skin flushed, droplets running over muscle, thighs thick and flexed, cock hanging heavy between his legs, thick and half-hard — already waking up under your stunned gaze.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look away.

“Say something,” he said, amused by your wide eyes and gaping mouth.

But words had abandoned you. You were stuck — eyes tracking the lazy twitch of him, how he stood so relaxed in his naked glory, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

And he did.

You took a step forward without meaning to, towel still clutched to your chest. Your fingers were trembling. Knees weak. He didn’t move, just watched you — eyes low, dark, waiting.

Another step.

Your towel slipped.

You felt it loosen, but your hands didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. It hit the floor in a soft thud, pooling around your feet like you’d given up the last of your defenses. You stood there — bare, breathless, burning — and he exhaled.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes dragging down your body like a slow lick.

Then, he moved.

Minho stepped in close — no warning, no question — and his hands found your waist, firm and sure. He guided you back two paces until the backs of your knees hit the edge of his bed. The room was spinning — or maybe it was just you. You couldn’t think. Couldn’t feel anything but the heat radiating off his skin and the way his eyes never left your face.

“You’ve been dying for this,” he whispered, voice low, rough with want.

You opened your mouth to argue, but then — his thigh slid between your legs.

Thick. Solid. Perfect.

You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

Minho grinned, smug and slow. “Yeah. Just like that.”

Your core pressed against him — bare skin to bare muscle — and it knocked the air from your lungs. The heat of him. The size of him. The position — obscene and grounding at the same time.

He bent slightly, mouth brushing your ear.

“Ride it.”

Your head snapped up, eyes wide.

“What?”

He tilted his hips forward just enough to press his thigh harder against your center, making your legs tremble.

“You heard me,” he murmured, turning you around and pulling you onto his legs to straddle him. “You’ve been eyeing them like a good girl with a filthy secret. So ride it. Let me feel how wet thinking about them made you.”

You whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And when your hips moved — instinctively, needily — his grip on your waist tightened.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Use me.”

You started slow, testing the friction, the give of muscle under your folds. It was too much. Not enough. Perfect. His skin was hot beneath you, slick from the shower, and your clit found pressure that made you jolt.

Minho watched you. Jaw tight, lip caught between teeth, cock now fully hard and pressed against your belly — untouched. He didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. Didn’t beg for more.

He just let you lose yourself.

Let you rub against him like you’d dreamed about.

Let you chase the high with heat building in your thighs and fire curling in your stomach.

“You look so fucking pretty when you’re desperate,” he muttered, hands sliding down to cup your ass, guiding your rhythm. “Wanna see you come just from this.”

Your head fell forward onto his shoulder, moaning into his skin as your hips sped up.

“Been teasing you for weeks,” he whispered, voice thick with pride. “This what you’ve been needing? My thigh between your legs? My voice telling you how fucking good you look dripping on me?”

Your answer was a broken gasp, your whole body trembling as slick coated his leg.

You didn’t mean to let it go this far.

You told yourself you had self control around him — that you’d stop before it got real.

But now you were riding his thigh, naked and soaked, fingers clinging to his shoulders like lifelines while your hips ground down in rhythmless, desperate circles. And Lee Know just watched you fall apart.

His cock pressed against your stomach, rock hard and untouched, but he didn’t move. Didn’t ask for more. He just let you rub yourself raw on the muscle you’d been obsessing over for weeks — strong, slick, made to ruin you.

“Minho,” you breathed, voice shaking. “I—what am I doing?”

He smirked against your cheek, hands gripping your waist like he owned it.

“You’re finally being honest,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re doing exactly what you wanted to do every time you stared at my thighs like it’s breakfast”

You whimpered, your hips stuttering forward as your clit hit the perfect spot. Again. And again. And again.

“I-I shouldn’t—fuck, I shouldn’t be—”

“But you are,” he growled, flexing his thigh beneath you, making your entire body jolt. “Look at you. Dripping. Shaking. Moaning on my leg like a filthy little thing. And you’re not even touching yourself.”

You let out a broken sob of pleasure, nails digging into his back. Every word he said made it worse. Or better. You didn’t know anymore. Your mind was a haze of heat and friction and him.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” you gasped. “This is—Minho, this is insane—”

“But does it feel good?” His voice was all low thunder now. Fingers sliding up your spine, tracing every arch and tremble.

You nodded before you could stop yourself. “Yes. God. Yes.”

“Then keep going,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “Don’t stop now. Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your hips moved on instinct, faster, harder — chasing the high building at the edge of your spine. The wet sound of your arousal on his skin filled the room. Your thighs burned, your stomach coiled, your whole body trembling from the friction, the pressure, the filth of it.

Minho tilted your chin up with two fingers, eyes blazing.

“You gonna come for me like this?” he asked, teasing and reverent all at once. “Riding my thigh like it’s the only thing that’ll make you feel better?”

You bit your lip, eyes glazed over. “I-I don’t think I can stop—”

He crushed his mouth to yours.

Hot. Hungry. Claiming.

You moaned into it, lips parting as he licked into you, deep and possessive. His hands roamed down, kneading your ass, guiding your rhythm as your body started to tremble harder.

His mouth broke from yours just enough to whisper against it:

“Then don’t stop. Come for me, baby. Soak me. Show me how badly you’ve wanted this.”

Your head fell back, gasping his name over and over, your climax rushing up like fire — fast, hot, blinding. Your hips stuttered, your thighs locked, and with one last grind, you shattered. Loud. Messy. Unapologetic.

You collapsed against him, trembling, your slick soaking his thigh.

And still, he held you.

Still hard. Still smirking. Still starving.

He dragged his mouth down your neck, voice ragged.

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Your body was still trembling — thighs weak, breath shallow, clinging to Minho like you’d drown without him. You’d just come undone, hard and messy, riding his thigh like an addict in heat.

But he hadn’t even started.

His cock still pulsed heavy against your belly. His mouth was wet from kissing you breathless. And his hands?

They moved.

He shifted with a low growl, gripping your waist as he guided you down to the mattress like you were made of glass and sin all at once. The sheets were cool under your back, a cruel contrast to the heat burning between your legs.

You barely had time to blink.

Minho knelt between your thighs — broad shoulders pushing them apart with no effort, gaze locked onto your soaked cunt like it was the prize at the end of a long, hard game he knew he’d win.

“You’re already a mess,” he muttered, voice dark with hunger. “And I haven’t even tasted you yet.”

Your breath hitched. “Minho—”

He dipped his head.

And devoured you.

No warning. No teasing.

Just full contact — lips wrapping around your clit, tongue sliding through your folds like he was starving and you were the only thing on the menu. You cried out, hips jerking, fists twisting in the sheets.

“Fuck—fuck—Minho—!”

He groaned into you, tongue fucking deeper, slower, filthier. The wet sounds of his mouth on your pussy echoed through the room, obscene and devastating. His grip on your thighs tightened, locking you open.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he rasped against your cunt. “And trust me, I’ve imagined it a lot.”

You were unraveling fast — overstimulated from before, nerves on fire, your body no longer yours. You reached down to push at his head, desperate for control, but he growled and slammed your hips back down.

“Don’t run,” he warned, eyes flicking up to yours. “You’re gonna take this.”

Then he flattened his tongue against your clit and sucked.

You sobbed.

Your body bucked, shaking, your thighs closing in on his head — but he didn’t stop. Didn’t care. He groaned low like your struggle turned him on more, mouth locked onto you with ruthless, perfect rhythm.

“Minho— I can’t— I’m gonna—!”

“Do it,” he said, voice muffled and filthy. “Come on my tongue, baby.”

You shattered again — harder, messier, wrecked. You screamed his name like a prayer as your back arched off the mattress, your entire body spasming under his mouth.

But he still didn’t stop.

He kept licking. Kept sucking. Pushing you higher again while you were still falling apart.

“Stop—stop—” you gasped, legs trembling. “I—please—I can’t—”

“Thought you wanted this,” he said, voice mocking but gentle. “Thought this was what you needed.”

“It is, but—fuck, Minho, I can’t take anymore—!”

His mouth left you with one last lick, and he rose over you — mouth shiny, hair wild, cock rock hard and leaking against his abs. He leaned in close, voice rough against your cheek.

“Then beg me for it.”

You blinked up at him — dazed, soaked, dizzy from pleasure.

“Minho, please—”

He smirked, hand sliding down your body, stroking your slick folds with two fingers, slow and teasing.

“Say it right.”

You whimpered, your hips chasing the contact. “Please. Please fuck me. I need it. I need you. I can’t take it anymore, Minho, please—”

He groaned like the sound of your begging was better than coming.

You didn’t even have time to breathe.

Minho lined himself up and pushed in slow — thick, stretching, perfect — and your gasp broke apart into a moan that could’ve shattered glass. He filled you inch by inch like he wanted you to feel everything — the shape of him, the weight, the stretch, the depth.

“Fuck,” he groaned, jaw clenched tight. “You’re so wet. I can feel how bad you wanted this—how long you’ve been holding back.”

You could barely nod. Could barely think.

He bottomed out with a low growl, hips flush against yours, his cock buried so deep it stole the breath from your lungs.

You were already shaking.

Already gone.

And he hadn’t even moved yet.

But then he did.

Minho pulled out halfway and slammed back in — hard enough to knock the air from your throat. You cried out, back arching, and his hand flew to your hip to hold you down.

“Oh my—Minho—”

“That’s it,” he growled, voice low and dangerous. “Take it.”

He set a brutal rhythm, hips snapping forward with precision — deep, fast, punishing. Your body jolted with every thrust, his skin slapping yours, his breath ragged against your ear.

“You begged for this,” he hissed, mouth at your neck. “Begged me to fuck you, to ruin you. So don’t tap out now, baby. You asked for this.”

You were babbling now — every filthy sound ripped from your throat as his cock hit every spot that made your vision blur.

“You’re so fucking deep,” you sobbed. “Minho, you’re—ahh—fuck, I can’t—”

“Yes, you fucking can,” he snarled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “You’re taking me so well, squeezing me like your pussy was made for me.”

His words sent heat straight to your core, and your legs wrapped tighter around his waist, locking him in.

He grinned through a moan.

“Just like that. Keep holding me there. Don’t let me leave.”

You didn’t plan to.

Your body refused to let him go.

Minho leaned back just enough to watch you — eyes wild, sweat dripping, abs flexing as he pistoned into you with a force that made the headboard slam against the wall.

“You see this?” he panted. “See how cockdrunk you are already?”

You nodded, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I’m yours, Minho—fuck—I’m so yours.”

That broke something in him.

He grabbed your face, kissed you hard — messy, teeth clashing, tongues desperate — and drove into you like a man starved. Like he needed to mark every inch of you from the inside out.

Your orgasm built fast — unstoppable. The angle. The stretch. The way he owned your body like it was created for this moment.

“Minho, I—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he growled. “Come all over my cock. I want to feel you lose it.”

And you did.

Your body seized, core clenching around him in hot, wet pulses as you screamed his name into the sheets. Your climax tore through you, wrecking you from the inside out. You shook, legs trembling, sobbing with the release.

Minho kept going — chasing his own edge, fucking you through your high like he couldn’t stop. And when he came, it was with a low, broken groan — hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled himself completely.

He collapsed on top of you, breath ragged, heart pounding against your chest.

The room was silent, save for the sound of your bodies trying to remember how to breathe.

And then, with a smirk pressed against your neck, he whispered:

“Next time… you’re riding both thighs.”

—-

Your body felt like it didn’t belong to you anymore.

Limbs tangled in sheets. Skin slick with sweat. Core still pulsing faintly where he’d broken you open and filled you up. Everything ached in that perfect way — the kind of ache that reminded you who made you fall apart.

Minho didn’t move for a while. His weight rested on you, warm and grounding, like he knew you needed it — or maybe like he did. You felt his breath fan softly against your neck, one hand tracing slow, lazy circles into your thigh that still trembled slightly.

Then he kissed your shoulder.

Slow. Soft. Sweet.

“You alive?” he murmured, voice low and half-laughing.

You huffed a breath, barely managing a reply. “Barely.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face. You blinked up at him — dazed, flushed, completely undone. His grin was pure mischief, but his eyes? Still dark, still starved, but softer now. Like he’d already started memorizing this version of you.

“Well,” he said, brushing damp hair off your forehead, “remind me to steal your shampoo more often.”

You groaned and buried your face in his neck. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m literally your favorite person right now.”

“You literally just broke me.”

His laugh was low and smug. “Yeah. You’re welcome.”

You slapped his chest weakly. He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles, smugness giving way to something gentler. His fingers interlaced with yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then, quietly, you asked, “Was that… okay?”

He looked at you like you’d just asked if water was wet.

“Are you kidding?” he murmured. “I’ve wanted to ruin you like that since the day you moaned over my thighs during that dumb Pilates video.”

Your face flamed. “I did not moan.”

“You made a noise.”

“It was a stretch!”

“It was a whimper. From your soul.”

You tried to pull away. He held you tighter, laughing now, mouth pressed to your cheek.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.

“And you’re obsessed with my legs.”

“…Maybe.”

Minho kissed you again — slower this time. Deep, with no urgency. Just skin and breath and the slow, sinking warmth of someone who didn’t need to rush anymore.

“You’re staying in my bed tonight,” he whispered against your lips.

“That wasn’t a question.”

“Nope.” He grinned. “You said it yourself, you’re mine now.”

You let out a breath, eyelids fluttering shut as you melted into his arms.

“Next time,” he added with a smirk, voice rough with leftover heat, “I’m making good on that thigh promise.”

Your stomach clenched.

You peeked up at him. “Both?”

He licked his lips, gaze flicking down your body again like he was already planning your undoing.

“Oh, baby…” he purred.

“That was just the beginning.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Heh babes, so my requests have racked up quite a bit and as promised i am gonna try to deliver all as much as possible! But for now, atleast till i clear the backlog; REQUESTS ARE CLOSED. Congratulations to Leeknow on his GUCCI Global Brand Ambassador deal!! This one’s for you baby!

A big thank you to all my readers for getting me to 2.1k followers (thats huge 🥹)

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @reignessance @jeonismm @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

[skzinsomnia]

The ‘Ice Queen’

summary : Y/N goes undercover to a club that belongs to Minho’s crime ring. She doesn’t know that he already knows who she is.

pairing : criminal lee know x detective reader

genre : enemies (exes) to lovers

word count : 6255

warnings : MINOR DNI, 18+, mature content, explicit language, underworld, fight, violence, mentions of blood, kidnapping, mentions of guns and knives, dirty talk, smut, unprotected sex, aggressive sex between “enemies”, rope tying, sub and dom lee know, dom and sub reader, masturbating, fingering, oral (f! and m. receiving), teasing/torturing , edging, spanking, spitting, biting/marking, riding, begging, breast play, multiple orgasms and positions.

a/n : I hope you enjoy it and I’m sorry for any mistakes!

The air in ‘The Gilded Cage’ was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon, expensive sins, and the metallic tang of hidden weapons. It was the crown jewel of Lee Minho’s empire,a sprawling underground club where the elite of the underworld came to trade secrets and bodies.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her midnight-blue silk dress, the fabric clinging to her curves like a second skin. Underneath the thigh-high slit, a garter held a micro-transmitter and a ceramic knife. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a steady, rhythmic drumming that she disciplined into silence. She was a detective now, the "Ice Queen" of the precinct, but tonight, she was just an anonymous shadow in a room full of ghosts.

She hadn’t seen Minho in three years. Not since the night he’d burnt their shared apartment to the ground and vanished, leaving her with nothing but a scar on her hip and a hollowed out soul. Since then, she had climbed the ranks of the police force with a single minded ferocity, fueled by a desire to bury him.

“Target spotted,” a voice crackled in her earpiece, her partner, Hongjoong, stationed in a van three blocks away. “VIP lounge, second floor. He’s early.”

Y/N looked up.

He was standing by the velvet railing, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. Lee Minho hadn’t changed; he had only become more of himself. His hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp, predatory angles of his face. He wore a suit that probably cost more than her yearly salary, tailored to perfection over a frame that she knew was mapped with scars and muscle.

He didn't look like a criminal. He looked like a god who had grown bored with heaven.

As if feeling her gaze, his eyes drifted down to the dance floor. Y/N didn't look away. To look away was to admit guilt. She took a sip of her martini, her expression a mask of bored elegance.

Minho’s lips curled into a slow, terrifyingly beautiful smile. He set his glass down and began to descend the stairs.

“He’s moving towards you,” Hongjoong warned. “Y/N, pull back. We don't have the backup in place yet.”

“Stay quiet,” she whispered into her collar, her pulse spiking.

Minho cut through the crowd like a shark through water. People instinctively parted for him, sensing the aura of casual violence he carried. He stopped directly in front of her, his presence slamming into her like a physical weight. Up close, he smelled of sandalwood, tobacco, and the memory of a life she’d tried to forget.

He didn't greet her. He leaned in close, his breath warm against her ear, while his eyes scanned the room with a mockery of innocence.

“You look familiar,” he said, his voice a low, melodic purr that vibrated in her chest. He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze dancing with a cruel sort of amusement. “Have we... shared a bed before?”

The woman next to them gasped, and a few of Minho’s nearby subordinates chuckled. Y/N felt the heat rise in her neck, a mixture of fury and a traitorous, deep seated ache.

“I doubt it,” Y/N replied, her voice steady. “I tend to remember the faces of the men I sleep with. Yours is... unremarkable.”

Minho’s grin widened, sharp and white. He reached out, his fingers grazing the skin of her bare shoulder. His touch was electric, a searing jolt that threatened to break her composure. He traced the line of her collarbone, his thumb lingering over the pulse point in her neck, which was thudding frantically.

“Unremarkable?” he mused, leaning in again. This time, his lips brushed the lobe of her ear. “That’s not what you said when you were screaming my name in that motel in Busan. Or have the years of playing 'good cop' dulled your memory along with your taste in men?”

She froze. He knew. He had known the moment she stepped through the door.

“You're under a lot of pressure, Lee,” she hissed, leaning into him so it looked like a flirtation to anyone watching. “Maybe the paranoia is finally setting in.”

“Is it paranoia if I can smell the police-issue soap on your skin?” He slid his hand down her back, his palm flat against the small of her spine, pulling her inches closer. “You're a long way from the station, Detective. This isn't a place for little girls who want to play hero. This is where monsters come to feed.”

His hand wandered lower, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her dress, grazing the edge of her concealed garter. His eyes darkened, the playfulness vanishing to reveal the abyss beneath.

“If you wanted to see me, Y/N, you only had to ask. You didn't have to put on a costume.”

“I'm not here for a reunion,” she whispered, her hand moving toward the knife at her thigh.

“I know what you're here for,” he whispered back, his voice dropping to a gravelly register. “But you're not going to get it tonight. Not unless you're prepared to handle the consequences.”

He stepped back, breaking the spell. He gave her a mock salute with his glass and turned away, leaving her trembling in the middle of the neon-lit chaos.

Two hours later, the rain was pouring in sheets over the industrial district.Minho walked toward his black SUV, his bodyguards trailing at a respectful distance. The alleyway was a canyon of rusted metal and crumbling brick. Suddenly, the streetlights flickered and died. A flash bang detonated, blinding the guards.

Before they could recover, a silhouette dropped from the fire escape.

Y/N moved with lethal efficiency. She didn't use her gun. This wasn't an official arrest. She moved through the smoke, her movements a blur of calculated rage. She took out the first guard with a knee to the solar plexus and a chop to the throat. The second went down with a clinical strike to the temple.

Minho didn't move. He stood by his car, hands in his pockets, watching her with an expression of quiet pride.

“Impressive,” he remarked as she stepped out of the haze, her chest heaving, a smear of blood on her cheek that wasn't hers. “Your form has improved. You used to be too hesitant to break bones.”

“Shut up,” she snapped, leveling a suppressed pistol at his chest. “Get in the car. The silver one.”

“Kidnapping a citizen, Detective? That’s a heavy blow to your moral compass.”

“You haven't been a citizen since the day you were born, Minho. You're a cancer. And tonight, I’m the surgeon.”

He chuckled, a dark, rich sound, and did exactly as he was told. He didn't resist when she shoved him into the passenger seat, nor when she drove them to a derelict safehouse on the edge of the docks—a place that didn't exist in any police registry.

The safehouse was cold, smelling of salt and damp concrete. A single lightbulb swung from the ceiling, casting long, wavering shadows.

Y/N had Minho seated in a heavy wooden chair. She had worked quickly, binding his wrists behind his back with thick, industrial grade zip ties and anchoring his ankles to the chair legs. She was breathing hard, her adrenaline beginning to crash into a messy heap of resentment and grief.

She stood in front of him, her hair disheveled, her dress torn at the hem. She looked like a fallen angel; he looked like a king on a throne.

“Where is the Ledger, Minho?” she asked, her voice cracking despite her best efforts. “The names of the politicians on your payroll. Give me the files, and I’ll make sure you get a cell with a view.”

Minho looked down at his restraints, then up at her. He didn't look scared. He looked... disappointed.

“You tied me up wrong,” he said softly.

“What?” Y/N blinked, startled.

“The tension,” he explained, tilting his head. “You used zip ties. They’re efficient, but they bite into the skin too quickly. They restrict the blood flow too much for a long conversation. If I lose feeling in my hands, I can't feel you when you finally decide to touch me.”

He leaned forward as much as the bonds would allow, his eyes locking onto hers with predatory intensity.

“Want me to show you how I prefer it? I always liked the silk scarves better. Or the leather straps we bought in Paris. Remember those, Y/N? You used to love the way they felt against your wrists.”

“Don't,” she hissed, stepping into his space. She grabbed his chin, forcing him to look at her. “Don't you dare talk about Paris. Don't talk about anything before the fire.”

“Why? Because it reminds you that the 'Ice Queen' is a lie?” He laughed, a jagged sound. “You became a monster to catch me, didn't you? Look at you. You’re holding a man captive in an illegal black site. You’ve abandoned the law you claim to love. You’re just like me now.”

“I am nothing like you!” she screamed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. She slapped him, hard.

His head snapped to the side. A bead of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He tasted it, his tongue swiping over his lip, and then he looked back at her with a hunger that made her knees weak.

“There she is,” he whispered. “There’s my girl. The one who wanted to burn the world down with me.”

“I loved you,” she choked out, her hand still stinging from the blow. “I would have followed you anywhere. And you left me to die.”

Minho’s expression shifted, the mockery vanishing. For a split second, the mask of the criminal mastermind slipped, revealing the raw, bleeding wound of the man who had disappeared to save her life.

“I left you because they were going to kill you to get to me,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal hum. “I turned myself into a nightmare so no one would ever dare touch you again. I built an empire to protect the one thing I couldn't have. You.”

“You're lying,” she whispered, though her heart was already breaking.

“Am I?” He strained against his bonds, the chair creaking. “Check your pocket, Y/N.”

She frowned, reaching into the pocket of her coat, which she’d tossed on a nearby crate. Her fingers brushed against a small, cold object. She pulled it out.

It was a ring. A simple platinum band with a single, flawless diamond. The same one she’d seen in a shop window in London years ago.He put it in there without her noticing.

“I’ve carried that every day for three years,” Minho said, his eyes burning into hers. “Waiting for the day you were strong enough to come and find me. Well... you found me. Now what are you going to do with me, Detective?”

The gun in her waistband felt like lead. The badge in her bag felt like a lie. Every moral pillar she had built her life around for the last three years began to crumble. She looked at the man she was supposed to hate, the man she was supposed to cage, and realized she was the one who was trapped.

She dropped the ring on the floor. It hit the concrete with a sharp clink.She walked toward him, not with the intent to interrogate, but with the intent to destroy the distance between them. She reached behind him, her fingers fumbling with the zip ties.

“Are you letting me go?” he asked, his voice thick with anticipation.

“No,” she said, her voice dropping into a dark, velvet depth. “I'm changing the restraints.”

She grabbed a coil of rope from the corner of the room, leftover supplies from whoever had used this place last. She cut the zip ties, and for a moment, Minho was free. He didn't run. He didn't attack. He sat there, his wrists red and raw, watching her.

She pushed him back into the chair and began to bind him again, but this time, it was different. She used the rope to pin his arms to the armrests, the knots intricate and tight, but designed for sensation rather than just security. She worked with a frantic, desperate energy, her hands trembling.

When she was finished, she stood between his legs, her hands resting on his shoulders.

“You think you're a monster, Minho?” she whispered, leaning down until their noses touched. “You haven't seen what you turned me into.”

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with a mix of triumph and agonizing desire. “Show me.”

Y/N didn't hesitate. She crashed her lips against his, a collision of teeth and tongue that tasted of salt, blood, and three years of starved longing. It wasn't a kiss; it was a battle. It was a reclamation.

Minho groaned into her mouth, his body straining against the ropes, his fingers curling into fists as he fought the urge to break the restraints and take control. But he stayed still, allowing her to dominate him, to vent her fury and her love through the only language they had left.

She pulled back, breathless, her eyes clouded with lust. She reached for the zipper of her dress, sliding it down until the silk pooled at her waist, leaving her in her lace lingerie. The cold air of the safehouse hit her skin, but she was burning from the inside out.

Minho’s gaze traveled over her body like a brand. “You're beautiful,” he rasped. “Even when you’re trying to kill me.”

“I’m not trying to kill you anymore,” she said, straddling his lap, her weight settling against him. She felt his hardness through the fabric of his trousers, a physical testament to the tension that had been building between them for years. “I'm going to ruin you.”

“Please,” he whispered.

She leaned down, her lips tracing the line of his jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of his neck. She bit him hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to claim him. Minho let out a choked sound, a mix of pain and pleasure, his head falling back against the chair.

“You think you can handle this?” she teased, her voice a low vibration against his skin. She ran her hands over his chest, feeling the frantic skip of his heart. “The 'Ice Queen' doesn't play fair.”

“I don't want fair,” Minho gasped, his muscles corded and pulsing. “I want... everything.”

She reached down, unbuckling his belt with practiced fingers. The air in the room seemed to vanish, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. As she exposed him, the reality of their situation, the illegality of it, the danger of it only added fuel to the fire.

“You always loved control,” she murmured, licking the palm of her hand seductively. “But not tonight. Tonight, you take what I give you.” her hand wrapping around him.

Minho’s breath hitched as she tightened her grip, her thumb brushing over the sensitive head of his cock. His hips jerked involuntarily, but the ropes held him firm.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he rasped, his voice ragged.

His pulse thundered under Y/N’s fingertips, his skin slick with sweat despite the cold. She could feel the tension in his thighs, the way his breath came in ragged bursts against her collarbone. His control was slipping finally, finally and the power of it made her lightheaded.

With her free hand, she unbuttoned his shirt slowly, one button at a time, revealing the expanse of his chest, the taut musculature she knew intimately. The light played over his skin, highlighting the subtle scars she remembered tracing with her tongue.

“Tell me you missed this,” she whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Tell me you thought about me..”

Minho’s throat worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed to speak.

“Every goddamn second,” he admitted hoarsely, his hips lifting helplessly into her grip. “I’d close my eyes and see you, feel you and then I’d remember why I couldn’t have you.” His breath hitched as she tightened her fingers just shy of pain. “You were my penance.”

She didn't hesitate. She slid off his lap onto her knees, the concrete biting into her bare skin through the torn silk of her dress. The cold didn't register, not when Minho's cock twitched inches from her lips, already leaking precum, already betraying how much he wanted this despite the ropes, despite the gun still tucked in her waistband. She exhaled sharply against the head, watching his stomach muscles contract violently at the contact of her breath alone.

She took him deep, her tongue tracing the hot length of him, her lips closing around him in a slow, deliberate suck. She began to work him, her tongue swirling, her throat clenching around him, pulling on him with a depth that made him groan.

She watched his face, her eyes clouded with lust, as she brought him to the brink, then pulled back, teasing him.She swirled her tongue around it, tasting salt and precum, before sinking down again.

Minho’s knuckles whitened against the armrests. He was losing it, not just his composure, not just the carefully cultivated mask of the untouchable crime lord, but the very essence of who he’d rebuilt himself into. His breath came in jagged, uneven gasps, his chest heaving like a man drowning in the very air she’d stolen from his lungs. The ropes bit into his wrists, but he didn’t care. The pain was nothing compared to the way Y/N’s mouth, god, her mouth, was unraveling him stitch by stitch.

Her throat relaxed just enough to let him slide in fully until she felt the thick head of his cock bump the back of her throat. His groan vibrated through her, raw and unfiltered. She held him there, her nose brushing the rough fabric of his trousers, her eyes watering just slightly.

“Look at you kneeling like a fucking saint with my dick in your mouth. Bet your precinct would love to see their Ice Queen now..Fuck.” Minho hissed, his voice raw and jagged.

Y/N pulled away with a wet pop, her lips glistening. Minho’s chest heaved, his cock twitching against his abdomen where she’d left it abandoned. She didn’t break eye contact as she dragged a wooden chair across the concrete floor.

“What are you..” Minho’s brow furrowed, curiosity flickering behind the haze of lust.

“Watch me.” she commanded.

Slowly, deliberately, she reached down and gathered the silk of her dress, pulling it up until it gathered at her hips. She sat on the chair her feet on his thighs, legs wide open, giving him a clear view. She ran her fingers along the delicate lace trim of her own panties her eyes never left his as she slipped a single finger inside herself, wetting it with her own desire.

“You sadistic fucking..” Minho swore violently, his voice cracking through the safehouse like a whip.

She watched him, her eyes dark and unblinking, as her finger worked slowly inside her, teasing the sensitive flesh, circling her clit without touching it directly. She arched her back slightly, her hips tilting, the movement a silent, devastating invitation.

“Look at you,” she whispered, her voice rough with her own rising arousal. “Bound and aching. But you can’t touch. Can’t relieve it. You’re at my mercy, Minho. All of it.”

“You always did know how to ruin me,” his voice broke.

His entire body was tense, straining against the ropes. His jaw was clenched, a vein throbbing in his neck. He was desperate, and she reveled in it. She withdrew her finger, bringing it to her lips, tasting herself, her gaze still locked with his. The raw, animalistic need in his eyes was almost unbearable.

Then, she leaned closer, bringing her wet finger to his lips. His nostrils flared as he sucked her finger, his gaze locked onto hers like a predator caught in the crosshairs. She pulled her hand back sharply, leaving his lips parted.

“Good boy,” she murmured, and the condescension was a lash.

She leaned back, her hand moving to her own breasts, palming them through the silk of her dress. Her nipples, already hard and peaked, responded instantly to the friction. She squeezed gently, then rolled the hard buds between her thumb and forefinger, her head tilted back, a small moan escaping her lips.

Minho’s eyes, wide and dilated, followed her every movement. His breathing was ragged, shallow.

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sensations wash over her, letting the pleasure build. Then she opened them, fixed her gaze on his burning ones. She hooked her thumbs under the elastic of her lace thong, pulling it aside, revealing her slick, swollen folds.

She began to finger herself openly, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his. Each stroke was an explicit promise, a denial. Her clit, a sensitive pearl, became the focus of her attention. She rubbed it gently, then harder, the pressure making her gasp. She wanted him to see, to hear, to feel her pleasure, knowing he couldn’t join her.

“This is for you, Minho,” she breathed, her voice thick with lust. “Every single sensation. Witness it. Suffer it.”

She pushed two fingers deep inside herself, stretching, filling. The sight of herself, raw and open, reflected in his tormented gaze, only intensified her pleasure. She edged herself, bringing herself to the precipice, then backing off, drawing out the exquisite agony. She wanted him to writhe, to beg.

“You want this?” she teased, her voice breathy, her fingers still working diligently inside her. “You want to touch me, Minho?”

“Y/N,” he growled, “You’re a cruel woman.” he shut his eyes.

She bit her lip, a dark frustration mixing with her lust. She pulled her fingers out, slick and glistening, and with a sudden, vicious gesture, she spat on him. The glob of saliva landed squarely on his lips, trickling down his chin.

His eyes snapped open, blazing with a dangerous light. The humiliation, the degradation, was starkly visible.

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to break these ropes, Y/N. I mean it.” he hissed, his voice filled with a mixture of rage and raw, unadulterated lust. His wrists twisted against the ropes, veins standing out. For a heartbeat, she thought he might actually break them.

“Fine,” she snarled, standing up, her body trembling with unreleased tension.

She straddled his lap, her bare mound pressing against his hard erection through the thin fabric of her panties. The immediate contact sent a shockwave through them both.

She ground down, slowly, her wetness seeping through the lace, mixing with the heat of his skin. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound.

“Tell me,” she demanded, her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling it back. “Tell me you want more.”

“You’re really asking?” his gaze dropped to where her thighs glistened, then back up with deliberate slowness. “I’ve been starving for you since the day I walked out of that burning apartment.”

She lowered herself further, letting her clit rub against the head of his penis, teasing, torturing.

“You’re so desperate.” she breathed, her hips swirling, the friction driving her to the brink. She felt her muscles clench, her body shaking. She was close, so close to an orgasm she knew would be savage and dark.

It was then that she knew she had lost control. All her defenses and dominance had collapsed. The Ice Queen had melted onto the body of the man who was responsible for her existence and could no longer resist him.

With a ragged gasp, she pulled away, the sudden loss of contact making him groan in protest. She stood up, her chest heaving, her eyes still locked with his. The gun in her waistband felt heavy, a symbol of the duty that separated them, yet a physical presence in this intimate space.

She went to her coat, pulling out a sharp utility knife. His gaze followed the gleaming blade. Then, she walked back to him, her movements now devoid of the earlier aggression. She knelt, and with a swift, almost surgical precision, she sliced through the ropes binding his wrists and then his ankles.

The ropes fell away, leaving red marks on his skin, but also an undeniable sense of freedom. He flexed his hands, rubbing the chafed skin, his eyes never leaving her face. The power dynamic, momentarily hers, was now poised on a knife’s edge.

“Your turn,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, a challenge and an invitation.

He slowly rose from the chair, his movements fluid, predator-like. The air in the room shifted, growing heavier, charged with an unspoken agreement. He was no longer the captive. He was Minho, the one who was always one step ahead, the one who saw her weaknesses and turned them into strengths.

He stood before her, his body still mostly undressed, his erection still magnificent. His eyes, dark and simmering, swept over her, taking in her disheveled hair, her flushed skin, the slight trembling of her hands. The gun in her waistband seemed to shrink, becoming less a weapon and more an accessory to the scene.

“Until now I've let you vent your anger however you pleased..Now it's my turn jagiya.” he reached out, his hand closing around the back of her neck, his thumb caressing the sensitive skin under her ear.He pulled her closer, their bodies almost touching, the heat between them undeniable.

“You like to think you’re in control,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. “But you always come undone for me. Always.” he bit her earlobe gently, sending a shiver down her spine.

Minho’s hands were firebrands on her skin, calloused fingertips tracing the ridges of her ribs before dragging down to grip her hips hard enough to bruise. He lifted her effortlessly, her thighs tightening around his waist as he carried her backward, to a nearby table, broad enough to support them. He laid her down, spreading her legs wide, and climbed between them.

He started to kiss her neck, his lips devouring the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire. His hands moved, agile and possessive, pushing the silk dress up past her waist, bunching it at her hips. He tore off her flimsy thong, discarding it on the floor with a disdainful flick of his wrist.

“You stripped for me,” he breathed against her skin, his voice thick with desire. “Now I’ll strip you bare. Of everything. Your control, your coldness, your sanity.”

His hand slid down her body, his fingers dipping between her thighs, finding her clit, swollen and throbbing from her earlier teasing. He circled it once, twice, then plunged two fingers inside her, stretching her, filling her in one deep motion.

She gasped, her body arching against his. The sudden, invasive penetration was exactly what she needed, what she had been craving. His fingers worked with a brutal efficiency, pushing into her, finding her G-spot with unerring accuracy.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered, his voice dark and triumphant. “Being filled. Being conquered.”

He continued to kiss her neck, his tongue tracing the delicate curve of her collarbone, then moving to her shoulders, his teeth nipping gently. His other hand went to her breasts, tearing her lace fabric of her bra to expose her nipples. He squeezed them, tugging, rolling the hard peaks between his fingers, his eyes blazing.

“Tell me you want it, Y/N,” he demanded, his fingers still brutally plowing into her. “Tell me you want me to fuck you until you can’t think, until you forget every fucking lie you’ve ever told yourself about hating me.”

“I… I want it Min.” she gasped, her voice hoarse, a plea.

He pulled his fingers out with a wet pop, and she whimpered in protest. His hands went to her ass cheeks, gripping them, squeezing them and dragging her at the edge of the table. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to her wet folds, inhaling her scent. She trembled violently, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“You teased me,” he growled, his tongue darting out to lick her clit. “Now I’ll tease you. Until you’re begging for release.”

His tongue was merciless, a hot, wet invasion. He licked into her like a man dying of thirst, he sucked, he swirled, his mouth working her clit with an exquisite torture. She grasped, fingers tangling in his hair, her thighs trembling. She arched into his mouth, her heels digging into his back. He edged her, bringing her to the brink of orgasm, then pulling back, only to start again, adding two fingers that crooked inside her ruthlessly.

“Please, Minho,” she whimpered, her head thrown back, her hair a wild mess against the table. “Please… I can’t…”

“Oh, but you can, my queen. You can take so much more.” He chuckled, a dark, satisfied sound against her pussy.

He spat, a sharp, degrading burst of moisture directly onto her entrance, using the lubrication to slide a third finger inside her. He increased the pressure, his tongue a relentless force, driving her higher and higher. She screamed, a raw, primal sound that echoed in the safehouse, as her first orgasm tore through her body, clenching around his fingers, shaking her to her core.

“That’s it jagi. Let your hot cum drip all over my face”

He didn’t stop. He kept his mouth fused to her, sucking her clit, riding the waves of her climax, driving her straight into a second, then a third. Her body spasmed uncontrollably, her legs trembling, her mind a blank slate of pure sensation.

Finally, he pulled away, her pussy slick and throbbing. She sagged against him, her breath coming in ragged gasps.He positioned himself between her weak and trembling legs, grabbing them and wrapping them around his waist.

“Ready, queen?” he whispered, his voice laced with triumph. “Ready to feel me inside you?”

The head of his cock bumped against her wet opening, a sudden, tantalizing pressure. She gasped, a low moan escaping her lips as she felt him stretch her, fill her completely. He was thick, hard, and utterly perfect.. He started to move, slowly at first, a deep, rhythmic thrust that made her moan. She wrapped her legs tighter around his waist, holding on for dear life.

“Look at you,” he muttered, his lips brushing against hers. “Always so cold. And yet, so hot for me.”

He started to move faster, slamming into her, hitting her deepest spot with every stroke.He watched her face as he drove into her, seeing the ecstasy, the surrender, the profound love that she could never hide from him. He pulled back, slapping her ass hard, the sound echoing in the room.

“Bend over,” he commanded, his voice gruff.

She obeyed instantly, got down from the table and leaned against it, presenting herself to him. He pulled her dress up to her waist again, exposing her pale skin to the dim light.The sound of his palm hitting her rear echoed like a gunshot.Y/N gasped, her toes curling.

“Count” he commanded.

“One” she choked out.

“For pretending you didn't miss me." Another stinging slap followed, this time on the other cheek.

“Two”

“For chasing me like I was just another case." His fingers dug into the heated skin, kneading the sting before delivering a third, harder smack that drew a gasp from her throat.

“Three”

“For slapping and spitting on the only face you see when you close your eyes for the last three years.”

He was hitting her hard, marking her, asserting a claim that the law could never erase. By the time she reached ten, her skin was a burning rose color, and she was sobbing with a mixture of pain and overstimulated pleasure. When he was done he gripped her hips, pulling her back against him, and drove into her from behind, her body arching with the force of his thrusts.

“Dirty girl,” he growled, his hand reaching between her legs, finding her clit, rubbing it roughly as he continued to pound into her. “My filthy little detective.”

She cried out, the combined sensations overwhelming. He changed positions again. He turned her around and hoisted her up, her legs wrapping around his waist once again. He walked her over to the chair he had been tied to. He sat down and positioned her over him.

“Ride me,” he said. “Show me how much you missed me.”

Y/N lowered herself onto him. The fullness was overwhelming, stretching her, filling the void that had been there for three years. She began to move, her hands resting on his chest, feeling the frantic thunder of his heart.

She rode him with deliberate, punishing slowness. Every lift of her hips was a calculated tease, every downward grind a silent promise of ruin. She watched the tendons in his neck strain, the sweat slicked column of his throat working around swallowed curses, his thighs trembling where they bracketed hers.His teeth grazed her collarbone, his breath searing against her skin.

Minho met every one of her descents with a powerful upward thrust, his hands moving to her hips to guide her rhythm. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her forehead pressed against his. Her eyes were closed and her moans, along with the sound of skin slapping against skin, filled the space.

It was intense, primal, and utterly devoid of the gentleness they had once shared. This was the sex of two people who had stared into the abyss and realized the abyss was home.

“Y/N” he demanded. “Look at me.”

She opened her eyes, her vision blurred with tears and lust. Minho watched her, his eyes never leaving hers even as his body betrayed him. He was a man who lived for control, but in this moment,with her hands around his neck, skin to skin, chest to chest, he was completely undone.

“Tell me you love me..Tell me you fucking love me..Tell me you’re not going anywhere” he choked out, his voice breaking.

"I love you Minho..I hate how much I fucking love you. I'm not going anywhere." a tear rolled down her face.

"Promise me," he whispered, "Promise me we’re both going to hell for this."

"We’re already there, Minho," she replied, her movement's quickening, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "We’ve been there for years."

The climax hit them like a physical blow, a shattering explosion of release that sent them both spiraling into the dark. Y/N buried her face in his neck, her body trembling with the aftershocks, while Minho’s head fell forward, his forehead resting against hers, his breath ragged and uneven.

The safehouse smelled like sweat and sex.Her breath was hot against the nape of his neck, his chest heaving against hers. For a long time, they sat in each other's arms, Minho with the tips of his fingers caressed her back and the only sounds were the rain drumming on the roof and their synchronized breathing.

Eventually, Y/N pulled back. She looked at him, really looked at him. The criminal mastermind looked human again. Vulnerable.He didn't move for a moment.

“So,” he said, his voice returning to its smooth, dangerous cadence, though it was softened by the exhaustion in his eyes. “What happens now? Do you take me to the precinct? Hand me over to the authorities?”

Y/N stood up, she fixed her dress with the help of Minho who zipped her up and gave her a kiss on her shoulder.She picked up the ring from the floor and held it in her palm for a moment before sliding it onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

She looked at her badge, discarded on the crate. Then she looked at Minho buttoning his belt.

“The precinct thinks I'm following a lead on the docks,” she said quietly. “They don't know I've found you. And they’re never going to.”

He stepped into her space, his hand coming up to cup her cheek. “You're choosing the dark side, Y/N. You know there’s no coming back from this.”

“I died the night you left,” she said, her eyes hard and clear. “I'm just a ghost now. And ghosts don't care about the law.”

Minho smiled, the first real smile she had seen in years. It wasn't the smile of a predator; it was the smile of a man who had finally found his equal.

“Then come with me,” he said, holding out his hand. “Let's go burn the world down together. This time, we do it right.”

Y/N looked at his hand, then at the ring on her finger. She thought about the cold, sterile world of the police station, the paperwork, the rules that never seemed to stop the real monsters. Then she looked at Minho, her monster. Her weak point. Her heart.She took his hand.

“Show me the Ledger,” she said. “We have some people to take care of.”

As they walked out of the safehouse and into the pouring rain, the Ice Queen was gone. In her place was something much more dangerous. They were two monsters in the dark, and for the first time in years, the world had a reason to be afraid.

The safehouse door creaked shut behind them, leaving the ropes and the zip ties on the floor the only evidence of the night the detective and the criminal finally stopped fighting the inevitable.

They disappeared into the curtain of rain, one step ahead of the law, and exactly where they were meant to be. Together.

[macabrevampire]

i think avoiding everything is going to save me for real this time

[heavensghost]

Accidentally put my whole fucking heart into something that wasnt fucking meant for me again fucking hell

[anxietyproblem]

[stllmnstr]

all that glitters — part one.

pairing: park jongseong x f reader

genre: academic rivals to lovers, rich jay au, university au, angst, slow burn

part one word count: 19.6k

warnings: angst, depictions of terminal illness, scenes that occur in hospitals, use of the american (usa) health system (aka receiving medical care is expensive), swearing, slowwwww burn

playlist: this is me trying / cardigan / mirrorball- taylor swift / yellow - coldplay / BIRDS OF A FEATHER - billie eilish / safety net - ariana grande / garden (say it like dat) - sza

note: Well it looks like two part fics are just my thing now so I hope that’s alright with youuuuu. This one is a rollercoaster of angst but also hopemaxxing and optimismmaxxing and yes, eventually lovemaxxing so I hope you enjoy!! Do note the tags for triggers, but don’t let the angst scare you I’m too much of a baby to write anything with a sad ending. Also, younger uni track star Jungwon is still in the works and in the drafts I just needed a quick change of pace after writing so much for him lately. And finally, FIRST STLLMNSTR JAY FIC!!!! EVERYBODY CHEEREDDDDDD

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Park Jongseong is everything you hate. Spoiled, entitled, and the heir to a top conglomerate in the business world you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to break into. You can’t even begin to count how many sleepless nights, skipped meals, and personal desires you’ve sacrificed just for a seat at the table he was born sitting at.

But when a piece of news in your third year of university pulls your world out from under your feet, everything starts to change. Including your feelings towards the one person you thought you’d always loathe.

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The back of Park Jongseong’s head is almost as annoying as the rest of him. 

Haloed in a well-kept array of perfectly styled dark hair, it currently blocks your view of the last slide in today’s lecture. Eyes tracing the perfectly mussed strands, you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

It’s an illusion of a carefree nature you know Park Jonseong certainly does not possess. Every strand of hair, down to the very last follicle is exactly where he wants it to be, no matter how hard he tries to pretend like it was nothing but a few strokes of his fingers and the grace of the light afternoon breeze. 

You scoff. As if that control freak would leave anything up to the whims of nature. You’ve seen his planner, even if only in passing. And by accident, of course. 

Filled to the brim with reminders and deadlines and memos, all etched in his infuriatingly neat handwriting, you doubt he’s ever left anything up to chance.

You’d admire the incessant diligence if it came from anyone else. Or at least, you’d respect it. But with Jongseong, or Jay as he insists on being called, you can only resent it. 

Every minute he dedicates to his own meticulousness is only another hour you have to spend studying. Writing. Editing. Practicing. Perfecting your own work and hoping the final result looks half as effortless as his. 

Effortless. That word tastes more bitter on your tongue than it has any right to. But it’s hard not to resent someone that was handed everything on a silver platter and loves to dangle it just out of your reach. 

Park Jongseong. He’s the only son and surefire heir to the conglomerate his father has been grooming him to run since he could check boxes on a spreadsheet. Part of you wonders if his enrollment in university is just for show. Surely there’s nothing he could learn from a bachelor’s in business that he didn’t learn on his father’s lap at the age of ten. That only makes you even angier. 

Mentally, you begin to sift through the day’s to-do list. 

Finish econ homework. Assign roles for your insurance law midterm project. Email your marketing professor for a finalized version of the midterm schedule. Send it to your manager at the cafe so he doesn’t schedule any overlapping shifts. Call your mom. Text Sunoo back. Make sure this month’s stipend didn’t get blocked during transfer again. Ask Kaia if she got an update from the landlord about next year’s rent increase. 

The longer the list extends, the more the words start to swim in your mind. The sound of your professor’s voice begins to lose its sharpness. It fades to a lulling wave before it disappears entirely, replaced by a sudden ringing in your ears. 

Your vision starts to swim, too. Blinking, you try to clear the black spots that suddenly halo Jay’s head. Quickly, the effort begins to strain. Screwing your eyes shut, you lower your head, hoping it will ease the sudden nausea beginning to rise from the pit of your stomach. 

Your skin feels hot. Too hot. Sweat beads at your temple as you fight the urge to be sick. 

Not on the laptop, you pray. Even through the haze in your mind, you’re well aware of just how many notes and assignments you would lose if your laptop died. Never mind the fact that you wouldn’t be able to afford a replacement for at least five months, and even that leaves no room for error in your finances or emergency spending. 

Palm supporting the weight of your clammy forehead, the ringing in your ears sharpens to something piercing. You can feel your consciousness slipping, thoughts fading as soon as they come. 

The urge to be sick is still there, but it’s distant now, fading into some corner of your mind that you can’t quite access. 

I’m not going to puke, you realize. But I am about to pass out.

Forcing breath in through your nose, you feel your heartbeat pounding in your throat. It echoes between your ears as you do your best to hold onto your last threads of coherence. 

You think you hear your name, maybe, somewhere in the distance. Grinding your teeth, you do your best to focus on it. Reach out like it’s a lifeline pulling you through the waves. 

You hear it again, louder this time. You’re closer. The nausea has faded now, more of a mild discomfort than an imminent threat. The vertigo that sent your mind swooping is calming to a gentle rock. 

Hesitantly, you try opening your eyes, just barely. The bottom of your keyboard looks back at you, blurry through your eyelashes. 

Again, you hear the sound of your name. Only this time, it’s clear enough to realize that it’s not a figment of your imagination. 

Too quickly, you lift your head, opening your eyes fully. Doing your best not to wince at the sudden movement, you suppress the sudden chill that traces your spine in a shiver. 

Sat halfway up the bowl of the lecture hall, you meet your professor’s eyes. Your face, previously clammy, suddenly feels impossibly warm as you realize nearly everyone in the lecture hall has their eyes locked on you too. 

Their expressions are a mix of concern and confusion. You can’t decide which one is worse. 

Pointedly, you avoid the weight of the stare coming from directly in front of you. The last thing you want to know is how Park Jongseong is looking at you right now. Because he is. 

You can feel it, the heaviness of his lingering gaze. What expression does he have? Is he confused like the rest of them? Or maybe his eyes are full of nothing but contempt, a sick sense of vindication at your humiliation. 

You did just barely edge him out of the top score on last week’s econ quiz, after all. Maybe he’s been praying for a moment like this. Karmic justice for taking what he must be sure is rightfully his. 

Or, worst of all, his eyes could be shrouded in sympathy. Worry. A reminder that no matter how many sleepless nights you spend studying and extra shifts you pick up just to afford the used versions of the pristine, brand new textbooks he arranges on his bookshelf, you will always be nothing to him. 

Not a threat, even if your GPA rivals his. Not competition, even though the two of you are always fighting for the last word in class discussions. 

You’re just another student. A girl whose place in the lecture hall behind him is funded by scholarships he’s never had to think twice about. A business major who studies the field and knows that ultimately, connections are the only thing that make your name worth anything in this cutthroat industry. 

It doesn’t matter how many networking functions you attend, how many professors you build relationships with, and how much of your own blood, sweat, and tears you pour into this. 

The blazer you found on clearance with loose threads and a stubborn wrinkle that your old iron can never seem to entirely erase will never turn heads the way his limited edition, perfectly pressed designer brand suits do. 

The name your parents gave you, will love and consideration and pride, will never hold the same weight, the same value, as Park Jongseong. 

“I—” you try, but your voice comes out dry, scratched raw. Forcing down a reluctant swallow and hoping your humiliation goes down with it, you try again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question. Could you repeat it?”

Your professor hesitates for a moment, frowning. Eventually, she says, “That’s alright. We’re just about out of time actually.” 

You glance at the clock. Class isn’t scheduled to finish for another eight minutes. And Professor Jung never ends early. Ever. 

Addressing the entire hall now, she adds, “Don’t forget that this semester, we’ll be doing an exam and a project for your midterm. Again, my recommendation is that you find someone to partner with for the project. It’s extensive, and I designed it intending for the work to be split between two people. I won’t stop you if you choose to work alone, but the deadline will come sooner than you think. Finalize your plans and topic now, and send me an email or come see me at office hours if you have any questions. I’ll see you all next time.” 

With her reminders, students begin to shift, gathering their things as a few glance around in disbelief at the early dismissal. Thankfully, the gesture has eased most of the attention off of you. 

But before you can slide your laptop into your bag, her voice cuts through the hall once again. “And, ____?” Startled by the sound of your name, you look up to find her eyes already on you. Her expression is unreadable. “Stay after class for just a minute.”

Shit.     

Nodding, you bend to grab your bag. As soon as you stand from your chair, you feel it again. That same pair of eyes. 

This time, he catches you off guard. You don’t have enough of a warning to avoid the gaze you suddenly meet. 

Over his shoulder, Jay isn’t looking at you with disgust or contempt or even vindication. He’s just… looking. The same way you’ve seen him fine comb a spreadsheet or double check a report when the numbers don’t quite add up. 

Like he’s searching for something. Trying to figure something out. 

Your eyes widen slightly before you turn your head, breaking eye contact. 

When Park Jongseong looks at you, the only thing you want to see is the mild annoyance he has whenever you beat him to a correct answer. The strained frustration whenever you edge him out of setting the exam curve. 

Not his scrutiny, his searching assessment like you’re someone worth a second glance. No matter how much you resent him for largely treating you like a pesky fly, it’s what you’ve come to recognize as the status quo. It’s comfortable. Safe. 

Him giving you any sort of actual attention is very much not. 

Pulling your bag over your shoulder with a bit more force than necessary, you’re pleasantly surprised to find your legs quite stable beneath you, even if that shaky, jello-like feeling lingers slightly. 

Approaching Professor Jung’s podium with trepidation, you do your best not to fidget. She busies herself shutting down the projector and gathering her notes as the rest of the students file out of the hall.  

After a handful of moments, she closes her laptop and looks up at you. Her eyes shift over your shoulder, somewhere near the door. 

“Is there something you need, Jay?” she asks. 

Immediately, a surge of unease pulls at your stomach. The last thing you need is for him to bear witness to this conversation. 

“I…” you hear behind you, hesitant in a way he almost never is. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll ask you next time, Professor.”

You watch as she nods towards him. “You can always send an email, too, if it’s urgent.”

“Right.” His voice is smooth. Sliding around your shoulders and settling in the air. “Thank you, Professor.”

She nods again, a final dismissal. “Take care, Jay.”

You can’t bring yourself to look. Instead, you wait for the soft thud of the door closing behind him. 

Your professor waits, too. She parts her lips to speak, but the words are spilling from you before she can. 

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” you plead. Participation isn’t weighted particularly heavily, according to the syllabus she handed out at the beginning of the semester, but you need all the points you can get. “I promise it won’t happen again. And I really was paying attention, I just had this weird headache all of a sudden, and—”

“Woah,” she reaches out a hand. “Slow down.” Confusion creases her brow at your reaction. “I didn’t ask you to stay to chastise you.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Relief is short lived as confusion begins to take its place. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry that I gave that impression.” She sighs. Silence stretches for a moment before she continues, “Look, ___, you’re one of my top performing students. Maybe the top performing student.”

For a second, you almost wish Jay had stuck around, just to hear that. 

“I’m not concerned about your academic abilities or your focus in class,” she continues. “I am, however, starting to become a bit concerned about you.” 

“Me?” you echo. 

Nearly halfway through the semester, Professor Jung has solidified herself as one of your favorites. She’s in her mid-forties, demanding but receptive, and an absolute genius in the accounting world. 

She’s pushed you to see numbers, data, in a new way. To stop looking at them as some cold, detached thing and start looking for the implications. To consider how salaries and bonuses and business expenses affect not only a company’s bottom line, but also the employees that make it possible. 

Numbers, she always says, are a reflection. They tell you about customer satisfaction, employee well-being. Factors that matter if you care about longevity. Continued success. Ethics and morality. Conversations that are all too often missing or pushed to the side in this industry. 

You’ve been hoping that come finals, she’ll be willing to write you a recommendation letter. Maybe even ask you to TA for one of her lower level classes if your schedule allows. 

In short, you value her opinion. Not just as someone with significant authority over your GPA, but as someone with experience who seems to share your values. In the business world, it’s as rare as striking gold. 

Now, she stands across from you with concern etched across her features. “You’ve been quieter in class,” she says. “And today isn’t the first time I’ve seen you like that.” She nods towards your earlier seat. “Hand on your head like you’re in pain.”

“Oh,” you exhale, not sure what to do with her worry. You never imagined she, or anyone for that matter, would notice. You shake your head, prepared to brush her off, “I’m fine—”

She won’t let it go so easily. “Are you sleeping?”

“What?” you flounder for a moment. “I mean, it’s almost midterms, so I’ve been doing some extra studying, but—”

“So you haven’t,” she concludes, disapproval in her eyes. 

“I have,” you insist. “Just less.” The concern in her gaze doesn’t ease. “A little less,” you amend. 

“Are you eating?”

“Yes,” you nod. Extra hours in the library and the pressure of a potential rent increase might mean your meals are a bit less regular these days, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I even get free things from the case at the cafe during shifts, so—”

“You’re working?” Another flicker of concern crosses her face. 

Shit. 

“Oh, I…” you trail off, unsure what to do with the sudden interrogation. “I mean, yeah. But only part time.”

“You’re taking nearly double the recommended course load and you’re working. No wonder you’re nearly fainting in the lecture hall.”

Swallowing your pride, you admit, “I’m trying to graduate early. My scholarship depends on my class rank, and I—” you bite at the inside of your bottom lip. Your throat suddenly feels full, words getting stuck on the way out. “I can’t—”

“I know what it’s like,” she says, voice gentle. “Believe me, I do.” She pauses for a moment, weighing her words. “You’re brilliant, truly. One of the most impressive students I’ve had in my classroom in a long time. And you have grit, talent, perseverance. A commendable work ethic. You have what it takes to make it in this industry. But you need to take care of yourself, too.”

It’s humiliating, the way a tear catches in the corner of your eye. It spills, despite your stubbornness. You feel small, helpless as it tracks a hot, wet streak down the curve of your cheek. 

Professor Jung’s voice softens even further. “Is there someone nearby that can help? A family member? A friend?”

You’re biting the inside of your lip so hard you’re worried you might draw blood. Another tear escapes as you shake your head in a miniscule movement. 

Friends have long since fallen off your list of priorities. The few relationships you formed during freshman year have long since fizzled after you left one too many texts without a response and canceled on one too many plans. Kaia is the closest thing you have now, but your schedules are nearly opposite each other and as a nursing student, she’s nearly as busy as you. Even after two years of living together, you still call her your roommate. Not your friend. 

Your family is far away. Back in your hometown, the distance between them and the city your university campus sits on feels like an uncrossable ravine. Besides, they have their own worries to take care of. Namely, the restaurant that’s been in your family for generations. An enterprise that has cost your family more than it’s earned them for the last decade. 

Your father, mother, and younger brother all work multiple jobs to make ends meet. It would be nothing short of selfish to ask them for help now. 

“Okay,” your professor nods. The sympathy in her eyes is almost unbearable. “Then I’m going to request that you go visit the university clinic. I’ll call now and make you an appointment for this afternoon.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, really, I’m fine—”

Professor Jung is firm. “Their services are free for students. It’s a university resource. Your tuition funds it.”

“I work this afternoon,” you protest.

“What time?”

“Three thirty.”

She’s already pulling out her phone. “I’ll see what’s available before then.” 

“Really,” you try to stop her, “I’m fine. I’ll eat a good meal tonight and make sure I go to bed early—”

“Frequent headaches and dizziness can be a cause for concern.”

“I’m sure if I just rest, then—”

“But you won’t rest.” Her gaze is heavy, something almost protective in it. “I know how it is. You tell yourself you just need to push through until midterms. But then there are events and presentations and research conferences. And then there are finals and you’re doing the same thing over again. It doesn’t end with graduation. This line of work rewards people who never sleep, who never rest, who never take a breath. Your competition is always trying to get one step ahead of you, to edge you out. You wear yourself to the bone until you make enough money to pay someone else to do it for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel that familiar sting at the edge of your eyes again. The urge to cry, but this time for an entirely different reason. 

“I believe in you,” she says. “I know you have big dreams, and I believe in those, too. So take an hour out of your afternoon and go visit the university clinic. Do it once and the next time you’re feeling unwell, it will be a little easier. Find ways to take care of you, too.”

The hesitation must still be apparent on your face, because she adds, “I’m more than happy to resort to threats if I must. I’ll make the midterm project a mandatory partner assignment.”

Your gaze wavers. “You wouldn’t.”

She just nods. “And I’ll assign partners. Why not pair up the two best students in class? I’m sure if the two of you put your heads together, you could come up with something truly commendable.”

The two top students. That would mean you and— 

No. 

“This doesn’t feel aligned to the Business School code of ethics,” you point out.

“Then go to the clinic,” she instructs, a note of finality in her voice. “And you’ll never have to find out just how terribly malleable that handbook is.”

You clench your jaw for a moment, looking for a loophole, a way out. And then, finally—

“Fine,” you acquiesce. 

“Good,” she nods. “I know the director at the university health center. I messaged him before the end of class. Go now. They’re waiting for you. They’ll see you right when you arrive.”

“You already…” your jaw drops slightly. “But what if I—”

“Just go,” she urges, nodding towards the door. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back to running yourself into the ground studying.”

There’s more you want to say, to argue, but she’s right. The quicker they diagnose you with stress induced headaches and fatigue and recommend resting more, the sooner you can get back to doing the opposite. 

Nodding, you make your way towards the door. Fingers around the handle, her earlier words echo through your mind. 

I believe in you. It’s been a long time since anyone told you that.

Turning back, you meet her gaze one more time, trying to swallow the emotions that threaten to rise. “Thank you.”

Professor Jung nods once, an expression you can’t quite read in her eyes. “I’ll see you next week, ___.”  

Halfway between the lecture hall and the health center, your phone dings with an incoming notification.   

You smile as the image spreads across your screen. Sunoo poses next to one of the cutest dogs you’ve ever seen, both of them tilting their heads at the exact same angle. 

A surge of fondness is quickly followed by a pang of loneliness. You’d give anything to see your little brother in person right now. To see that smile in person and wrap him in the biggest hug as he laughs in your ear. 

Looking at the picture a moment longer, you send a quick response before tucking your phone back into your pocket. 

Sunoo. Your brother is only one year your junior, but the protectiveness you feel towards him makes the gap feel bigger. 

He hates it, the way you coddle him. But after a life-threatening tumor nearly took his life when the two of you were in elementary school, you’ve felt more like a guardian than an older sister. 

It’s hard to remember how things were when you were just a kid. Your memories are hazy around the edges, and the passage of time has only dulled them further. 

There was never a time when your family was wealthy, but things were different back then. Your mother smiled more. Her back didn’t ache yet. She came home from long days of taking telephone orders and covering waitress shifts at your family’s restaurant with a smile on her face and enough energy to chase you and Sunoo around the neighborhood playground for hours. 

Your father came home later, usually. After all the cleaning was done and the restaurant was prepped for the next day. After the books were balanced and the cash register was double checked. But he laughed when he saw the two of you. Entertained your requests for endless rounds of hide-and-seek no matter how exhausted he was. 

Sunoo was always a sweet kid. The kind of shy that people gravitated towards. He was gentle, thoughtful, good. His teachers sang his praises and his friends’ parents were always happy to have him over. 

You were a bit rougher around the edges. Not mean or misbehaved, but something in you was always trying to run, to take, to push, even when everyone around you was resting. You had a fierce competitive streak and a hard time losing at anything, especially at school. 

You wanted to be the best at math, at science, at language arts. You wanted to run faster than all of the boys who treated the playground like their domain and draw better than all of the girls who spent every second of free time at the arts and crafts table. 

You wanted to do everything. Be everything. An astronaut. A scientist. A famous singer. A doctor. A lawyer. The president. Your dreams, your hopes, your goals for the future were always shifting, never standing still. 

And then, on a rather ordinary Thursday afternoon when you were in the fifth grade, your world fell apart. 

You rode the bus home alone that day. Sunoo hadn’t gone to school. Complaining of a stomachache and his head hurting in the morning, your mother took a day away from the restaurant to stay home with him. 

When you finally arrived at your stop, the elderly woman who lived next door was waiting for you there. You still remember it now, the awful, aching look of sympathy in her eyes as she greeted you. Called you sweetheart and told you that your family wasn’t home right now. That they had asked her to bring you to them. 

You remember the confusion, the anxiety as she pulled her small car into the hospital parking lot. The terrible ache in your heart, the panic in your chest as you met the tearful, desperate gazes of your parents. The crushing weight of their arms around you as they pulled you into a crushing embrace. 

The utter agony of looking at your baby brother unconscious on a hospital bed, skin pale. So pale. Too pale. 

A tumor, the doctor called it. You were too young to know what he meant, but you understood the weight of it. The implications. The sickening feeling in your gut as you heard him tell your parents to prepare for the worst. That he likely had no more than three months left to live. 

The clang of your mother’s knees hitting the hospital floor still rings in your ears sometimes. The desperate, hushed tones of your father’s whispers as he pleaded with the doctor, begging him to save his son’s life. 

The next year was the worst of your life. 

Week after week, treatment after treatment, doctor after doctor, and your brother only got worse. Sicker, paler, weaker. 

It was a rare gene mutation that caused the tumor, the doctor explained to your family one afternoon. His voice was strange as he tried to juggle the appropriate amounts of professional detachment and sympathy all at once. And it was likely the same mutation making it so resistant to treatment.

The hospital was doing everything in their power, but they thought his chances might be better if he went to a larger hospital, one with more resources, with dedicated departments and doctors who specialized in this kind of treatment. 

Sunoo was moved to a different hospital less than a week later. Your parents took turns staying with him while the other kept the restaurant running. It killed them not to be at his side, you know, but the longer treatment took, the more bills began to stack up. 

There was a silver lining within it all, though. The three month estimate that the doctors gave came and went. And still, Sunoo was alive. Even if only barely.

Your community was supportive beyond words. Donation drives were set up, meal trains funded by strangers you’d never seen before. Your family's restaurant had more visitors than it had seen in decades. But even with their generosity, it wasn’t enough. 

When the revenue ran dry, keeping Sunoo alive was funded by your parent’s meager savings. And when that evaporated, they turned to loans. 

You watched as they worked themselves to the bone. Trying to keep their sick son alive and their only source of income afloat. 

Your parents wanted your life to remain as normal as possible. You still went to school, still lived at home, still rode the same bus. 

The same elderly woman who brought you to the hospital that day was the one who made your meals most nights. Who made sure you were taken care of and got to bed at a reasonable time. She even came to your parent-teacher conference. Knitted you a new sweater and a pair of mittens when autumn turned to winter. 

But no matter how much normalcy they wished for, your life was a shadow of its former self. School was different. Teachers treated you like broken glass. The high expectations they once had were whittled away into nothing in the name of sympathy. 

The friends in your class did their best to be kind, and the easygoing friendships you’d built before were lost somewhere in the rubble of their pity.

You had never felt more alone in your life. 

You only got to visit your brother on the weekends. You remember the way you would sit at his bedside for hours, telling him stories, tidbits from school, random thoughts no one else had the time or ability to listen to. He was unconscious for most of it, but you told him everything anyway. 

And when the weight of your grief was too heavy, when your throat was aching and sore from all the talking, you’d fall asleep like that, curled awkwardly over the edge of the hospital bed, his limp hand gripped tight between your fingers.

In the midst of it all, somewhere in the tangle of agony and grief and loneliness, you lost your dreams. 

You didn’t care about being the fastest runner on the playground anymore. You spent most recesses in the school counselor’s office now, anyway. Whenever you tried to draw, your hands weren’t sure what to do. It was as if they’d lost their spark, their creativity. 

It didn’t matter if someone else was better than you at times tables or if another classmate’s essay won first place.

You didn’t want to be an astronaut anymore. Space suddenly felt so far away and so terribly cold. You didn’t want to be a singer or a lawyer or a scientist, and you’d had enough of doctors to last a lifetime. 

The only thing you wanted was for your brother to get better. For him to come home so the two of you could ride the bus together again. For your mom to smile like she used to. For your dad to take the two of you berry picking on a sunny day again.

When spring finally bloomed, so did the first glimmers of hope. Sunoo was responding to his latest treatment. Much better and quicker than before. 

He was actually awake now when you would visit him. He laughed at your stories, even if it did usually end in a coughing fit that made your mother sick with worry. He would respond to you, ask you to tell him more. 

One weekend, just as the daffodils around your school began to grow, he was even sitting upright when you walked into his hospital room. The next time, you brought him one, and he smiled when the nurse helped find a vase to keep it in the windowsill. 

Slowly but surely, color started to return to his cheeks. Life started to take root in his body again. 

The day after you finished the fifth grade, he stood up from his hospital bed, with his hand on the table for support. You hugged him so tight that your parents nearly had to pry you off of him when his heart monitor started to jump.

At the agonizing pace of a snail, things got better. Day by day, he got stronger. Healthier. Until eventually, finally, he was given a clean bill of health. 

It wasn’t the same as before. A year in the hospital had taken its toll. Your brother was still fragile, still needed the extra support that everyone around him was more than ready to bend over backwards to give.  

By the time summer came, Sunoo was back home. His weekly hospital visits became monthly, then quarterly, and eventually biannual. When autumn arrived, he was back in school. 

Even after a year in hell, life started to become normal again. But some things had changed fundamentally. 

Your family, once financially sound, had begun to struggle immensely with money. Irregular operations at the restaurant made profits plummet to nearly irreparable levels. Beyond that, every penny your parents had saved was gone. 

The hospital bills had submerged them in immense debt. Put simply, your family had no money anymore and nothing but a now failing restaurant to try and dig yourselves out of a hole that felt more like an abyss. 

And you, once fueled by visions of grandeur, dreams that stretched beyond your wildest imagination, lost every desire to become something amazing. It just simply didn’t matter to you anymore. The only thing you wanted to be was Sunoo’s older sister. Someone that could help him and take care of him and stay by his side no matter what. 

You still had drive, still had this fire deep that burned deep within you, but now it was fueled by something else. 

At eleven, it meant helping Sunoo with homework and threatening the boys that teased him on the playground until they cried. 

At sixteen, it meant canceling last minute on your date to the junior prom to take Sunoo to the movie he’d been wanting to see in theaters. 

And when Sunoo, much to your parent’s dismay, decided that he wanted to take over the family business and inherit the restaurant they had never quite managed to make profitable again, you decided to shoulder that burden, too.    

Your brother loved to cook, loved to use food as a means of connecting with other people. He treated food like a remedy, like a gift. He used a warm meal to comfort people in despair and baked cookies whenever he wanted to show his appreciation. For him, he could think of no better way to spend his days than making, preparing, and serving food to all kinds of people. 

You had no talent in the kitchen, but it didn’t matter. Sunoo was the chef, not you. In your senior year of high school, you realized that what your family’s restaurant, what Sunoo, needed was someone who could handle the business side of things. Someone who could look at impossible numbers and make them work in their favor. Someone who could breathe life into a failing business and turn it into the bustling diner of your brother’s dreams. 

You needed a business degree. And not just a degree, but an education. One from a top university where your professors could give you the tools you needed to make Sunoo’s dreams a reality. Of course, that was never going to come without a hefty price tag. 

So you made a plan. You were smart. Academically gifted. You already had impressive college entrance exam scores on your side, but you needed more. While your classmates enjoyed their last months of time together, you worked. Day in, day out applying for scholarships, internships, fellowships. Writing essays, email professors, scouring the internet for every bit of information you could find on business schools. 

You could count on one hand the average number of hours you slept each night senior year. But in the end, it was worth it. You graduated high school with an offer into the most prestigious business school on this side of the country and the scholarship to fully fund it as long as you maintained a high enough GPA and class ranking. 

On top of that, you were even granted a modest living stipend. One to help cover the rent, textbooks, and grocery expenses you could never bring yourself to ask your parents to help cover. 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. It was enough. 

It didn’t matter that your dreams fell by the wayside all those years ago. It didn’t matter that before all of this, you had no interest in business. 

Your brother, your miracle of a brother, had been given a second chance at life. And now, you had the opportunity to help him achieve his only dream. 

Walking across your university campus now, you almost decide to just ditch the health center. You have work to do. You don’t have time to waste sitting in a doctor’s office.

Besides, the selfie Sunoo sent with the dog, no matter how adorable, is only a reminder of what you set out to do. The longer you take to graduate, the longer Sunoo has to keep the restaurant afloat through a combination of long hours at odd part-time jobs. 

Right now, his current gig is as an assistant at the local veterinarian’s office. Your brother loves animals, but it kills you knowing how much he’d rather spend that time cooking. Restoring your family’s restaurant to its former glory. Surpassing it. 

It would be such a relief to tell him he doesn’t have to pick up extra shifts anymore, to tell your mom that she doesn’t need to keep the job she hates at the grocery store anymore. To tell your dad he doesn’t need to keep taking all of the contract construction work that takes such a hard toll on his body. 

Your family, all three of them, have been through so much. It’s the least you can do to ease some of their strain. To lessen some of their burden. 

But then you hear Professor Jung’s words again. 

Find ways to take care of you, too.

Should you? Part of you is still resistant. But regardless, you realize, you’re no use to your brother’s dream if you run yourself entirely into the ground. 

Besides, maybe the clinic will give you something a bit more effective than Tylenol for your headaches and you can actually get a bit more studying done before your vision starts to swim. 

So, even with feet that want to drag, you force yourself all the way to the university health center. 

You don’t make a habit of spending time in hospitals, but much to your relief, this is one of the more pleasant waiting areas you’ve been in. The ceilings are high, and the windows are large. Afternoon sunlight warms the space where a dozen odd people wait for their names to be called. 

It has a relaxed feel to it. There are patterns on the chair cushions. Conversations in the corner. It doesn’t have that awful, lifeless, sterile feel you’ve been trying to avoid since you were ten. 

When you give your name to the receptionist, she immediately ushers you towards the small hallway of exam rooms. Glancing towards the half full waiting area, a flicker of surprise crosses your features. Professor Jung must have really pulled some strings for you. 

You follow her to room number six, offering a tight smile when she says the nurse will be with you shortly. 

Glancing around the small examination room, it looks how you’d expect. There’s a layer of paper beneath the table you sit on, and it crinkles loudly every time you shift your weight. There’s a computer in the corner, two low stools, and a handful of medical tools whose name you know about half of. 

A handful of posters cover the walls. Reminders about good handwashing hygiene, dates for the latest flu shot, a list of symptoms for upper respiratory infections. There’s nothing unusual, but you can’t quite get your body to relax fully. 

Before long, you hear a quiet knock on the other side of the door. The nurse that enters introduces herself before settling onto one of the stools in front of you. 

Glancing down at her clipboard briefly, she looks up to you with a perfunctory kindness in her eyes. “What brings you in today?” she asks. 

“My professor suggested I come, actually.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Anything in particular bothering you?”

You take a deep breath in. Part of you is still itching to just brush her off, but you came all the way here. Might as well be honest. 

“I’ve been having headaches,” you admit. “They don’t usually last long, but they’re… intense. Sometimes they make me dizzy, too. Or nauseous. I haven’t vomited or passed out, but I’ve come close a couple of times.”

The nurse nods, reaching for the stethoscope. “How frequent are these headaches?”

“It depends,” you nod. “Usually no more than once every couple of days, but it’s been happening more often for the past few weeks.”

Pressing the stethoscope against your sternum, she instructs you to take a deep breath in. Exhale. 

She jots something down on her clipboard. “When you have these headaches, what do you usually do to treat them?”

“Take a Tylenol,” you explain. “Maybe lay down for a while if it’s really bad.” Most of the time, you just grit your teeth through it, but that doesn’t seem like the right answer.  

“Would you describe the pain as manageable?” she asks, picking up another tool. This one, she presses gently into your ear. 

“Usually, yeah.” You think back to your lecture today, the spinning in your head. “Sometimes it’s really intense, but it passes pretty quickly.”

She takes a step back from you, recording another note on her clipboard. “Do you have any other symptoms, anything strange that you’ve noticed since the headaches started?”

“Not really,” you shake your head. 

“Are you sure?” she presses. “No night sweats? Fever chills? A clammy forehead?”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “It’s really just the headaches that are bothering me. I actually have to get to work soon. Is there any—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the nurse frowns. “You’re running a bit of a fever, and your heartbeat is slightly irregular. I’d like to check a few more things. Draw some blood and do a chest x-ray, at least.” 

“Is that really necessary?” You don’t mean to be so curt, but the sudden shift in tone has panic starting to claw at your throat. “Midterms are soon, so I’ve been a bit more stressed than usual. I’m sure it’s just that—”

“Regardless,” she interrupts, not unkindly, “it’s best to be sure.”

So you acquiesce. Push up your sleeve with no resistance so she can draw a vial of blood. Don’t mention your upcoming shift as she guides you to the x-ray imaging room. 

The more rooms she leads you to, the more tests they run, the more a sense of unease begins to build in your stomach. 

Not because you’re worried you’ll be late for work. Not because you’re thinking of your to-do list or an upcoming midterm. 

Because for the first time, you’re beginning to wonder if your headaches aren’t quite as benign as you’ve dismissed them to be. That’s the thing about spending so much time focused on everyone but yourself. You never stop to consider that something could actually be happening to you. 

You’re sure it’s just paranoia. Lingering trauma from all your previous time spent in hospital rooms at your brother’s bedside, but whatever it is, you can’t seem to shake it. 

After another handful of minutes, she gives you the final update. There were no abnormalities detected in any of the x-rays. The blood tests will take a bit longer to process, but they’ll call you within three days. 

Until then, you’re to take it easy and come back immediately if you notice worsening headaches or any other symptoms. 

With a nod, you gather your bag again. Walking past the receptionist, you offer her a tight smile. Glancing at your phone, you check the time. You still have a little over an hour before your shift. 

You should probably eat something, take a quick break before you’re on your feet for the rest of the afternoon, but that lingering feeling of dread in your gut makes both options seem unfavorable. 

Instead, you force your feet to come to a standstill. Not caring that you’re still in the middle of campus, surrounded by other students passing you by, you screw your eyes shut. 

You take a deep inhale. Hold it. Count to five. Exhale. 

You’re fine. You’re just fine. You have to be. 

If you play your cards right, you’ll graduate in two semesters. Sunoo will finally have the restaurant of his dreams. Your parents can enjoy a true retirement. 

You’re better than this. Stronger than this. A couple of fucking headaches are not going to ruin everything you’ve worked for.

You’ve survived worse, and you’ll survive this too. No matter how many sleepless nights and skipped meals and bottles of Tylenol it takes. You’ve worked too hard to watch it all go down the drain now. 

Again, you tell yourself, you’re fine. 

Even in the privacy of your own mind, you can’t quite tell if it’s a lie or not. But at the end of the day, you suppose it doesn’t really matter. 

You’re so close. Fine or not, you know what you need to do.  

…..

Three days later, you’re pouring over your insurance law notes in a library study room when the vibration of your ringtone breaks the silence. 

Checking the caller ID, you hesitate for only a moment before answering. 

Inconclusive, the nurse from the university health center tells you, and you hate that answer more than you expect to. You’ve spent the last three days more anxious than you care to admit, and this only adds fuel to the fire. 

According to the nurse, there are some abnormalities in your blood test. Namely in your blood count. Proper diagnosis is outside the scope of the university health center, but they’ve written you a referral to the nearest hospital proper for further testing. 

It’s called Saint Mary’s. It’s pretty close. Should only take you about thirty minutes on the bus.

Mentally, you scramble. You’re not sure what tests they’ll need to run or how much they’ll cost, but you’re sure the answer isn’t free. Your finances are already tight, and part of you wants to just ignore the nurse’s advice and hope that whatever’s causing irregular numbers will resolve itself. 

But the sheer anxiety of it all is killing you. Maybe the hospital can get you set up with some sort of payment plan. If your rent increase isn’t too high, then you can mitigate this with some extra shifts at the cafe. 

It’ll be fine. Your headaches haven’t been nearly as debilitating for the last three days. Visiting the hospital will give you the peace of mind you need to push through these last few semesters. 

So you make time in your schedule the next day. Erase a study session from your planner and replace it with the hospital’s name. 

Pull out the exact change for the bus fare and sink down into a window seat, pulling your headphones over your ears as you watch the city begin to pass you by. 

It strikes you then, just how little of your surroundings you’ve explored these past two years you’ve been in university. You can hardly remember the last time you stepped foot off campus for something other than a visit back home. 

It feels strange, seeing so many buildings and parks and places so close to you and realizing just how unfamiliar they all are. 

The hospital is only a handful of stops away. You exit the bus just as quickly as you got on, and then you take a deep, steadying breath. 

The process is nearly identical to your university health center. They ask for your name and identification, but this time, they direct you back to the waiting room. It’s the bad kind, this time. The type of sterile, lifeless room that makes you want to run back out the front door the way you came. 

Thankfully, you’re not left to wait long. 

This nurse is kind, too. She asks for your name and gives you hers. The testing they conduct is more extensive now. You’re shuffled from one machine to another, listening as they explain the purpose for each one without really processing anything they tell you. 

And then, when it’s done, they send you to a private room. Inform you with a tight smile that the doctor will be with you shortly. 

You sit alone for long minutes, waiting. You tap your fingers against the top of your thigh, a steady rhythm that grounds you to reality and allows you to escape it in short bursts. 

The doctor enters quietly, introduces himself. You don’t remember his name. You hardly remember yours. 

It’s difficult to focus on anything he says. The ringing in your ears is back, now. Even stronger than before. 

You only gather bits and pieces of what he tells you. But it’s enough. 

Three months. The universe must have a strange, sick sense of humor. Must love the vertigo induced by the worst sort of deja vu. Must revel in the irony of doling out death sentences. 

Three months. 

Sat in an uncomfortable chair in the dead center of a sterile, lifeless office, the doctor pushes his glasses a little further up his nose. Then, he repeats himself with just as little fanfare. 

You have three months to live. 

It’s only an estimate of course, but he’s seen this kind of tumor before. A rare genetic mutation.

Genetic. Of course.

You should have been tested, ten years ago. But money was so tight, and everyone’s attention was on Sunoo, and it just never happened. You slipped through the cracks, along with the identical malignant gene mutation you share with your younger brother.

Yours is small still, just behind your heart. That’s why the x-ray didn’t pick it up. But the MRI today did. It’s why your blood count is all over the place, why your heartbeat is arrhythmic.

It’s why you’ve been having headaches, why you’ve come dangerously close to fainting multiple times in the past few weeks. 

Three months. It may just be an estimate, but no matter how you look at it, it’s not a lot of time. It’s no time at all. 

Grief, pure, raw, aching, hits you with the force of a tsunami wave. 

The realization strikes you, in the middle of the doctor’s office, that you aren’t going to do it. Any of it. You aren’t going to graduate. You aren’t going to see your parents retire. You aren’t going to give Sunoo the restaurant of his dreams. 

No, instead, you are going to die. 

You can already feel it. Sunoo was the exception to the rule, the anomaly. He may have survived this once, but he was always meant for better things. He had the care he needed, got the treatments that brought him back to life even if they bled your family dry. 

Your parents, even if they wanted to, couldn’t do that again. They barely scraped by the first time. And even if they could, you wouldn’t let them. The guilt of it all would be too unbearable. Maybe even a fate worse than this. Your own savings are laughable. Not anywhere near the amount needed for something of this magnitude. 

When the doctor asks if there’s anyone he can call for you, you shake your head. You won’t burden your family with this. Not yet. Not for as long as you can. The weight of their worry would only make it worse. 

He looks at you with pity, then. With sorrow. You hate them both. He writes you a prescription for a pharmacy’s worth of medication, tells you that these will ease the worst of your symptoms but that you shouldn’t expect to be fully functional for more than a month or so with medicine alone. 

He gives you the list of treatment plans and watches as you half heartedly pretend to look them over. The bold faced font seems to mock you. The pictures of smiling families and spring air that you’ll likely never see again.

All of the treatments have fancy names, medical terminology you don’t understand. Glancing over the list, the only thing you see is dollar signs. Money you don’t have. 

When you ask for time before making a decision, the doctor advises against it. Reminds you that time is of the essence, that you’re lucky they caught the tumor now before it progressed further. 

That waiting longer is nothing but a death sentence. 

You thank him and tell him you’ll be in touch shortly. You can’t tell if he knows you’re lying through your teeth. 

The bus ride back to campus passes nearly the same as the journey here did. Again, you sit by the window, pulling your headphones over your ears. The buildings you pass blur into an undistinguishable mix of colors and shapes you realize you’ll never get the chance to parse between, to sort through. 

The ride to the hospital felt like an opportunity, a reminder that there was so much of the world left for you to see. The journey back feels like a prison sentence. The taunting fear that outside the tiny bubble you’ve built for yourself, the rest of the world will remain a mystery to you forever. 

When you reach the stop for your university, you stand, thanking the bus driver as you exit. 

He looks almost surprised at your gratitude, pleasantly shocked someone remembered him at all. 

And then you walk, not in the direction of your apartment, but instead towards the cluster of buildings that make up the School of Business. It’s evening now, and students are far and few between. 

There’s an unseasonal chill to the air, and you pull your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders. You walk until you reach the edge of the campus, the place where a singular, half hidden bench sits just out of view. Sinking down onto it, you let it absorb the weight of your body. Pray that it will hold steady as you unleash the weight of your grief. 

For a moment, you just sit. Your emotions feel out of reach, untouchable in some part of you that’s been locked away for too long you can’t remember how to get there again. 

But eventually, you find them. It starts slowly, a detached feeling of loss, of mourning, before the floodgates open. Before long, you’re sobbing. Alone on the bench, tears stream down your face with little restraint as choked sobs catch in your chest, your throat. You’re nearly screaming at the sky, your entire body shaking with the force of it all. 

Above it, a question circles your mind. 

Why?

Why this? Why me? Why now?

You cry for so long you think you must surely be out of tears. There can’t be anything left in your body besides this horrible disease, this awful fate your own failing nervous system has sealed in stone. 

And then your sobs start to change. Until it’s not tears you’re choking on anymore, but laughter. Terrible, gut-wrenching, bone-cracking laughter at the sheer irony of it all. 

You’re not sure how long you sit there, caught somewhere in the crossfire of all your mixed emotions. But eventually, your sobs subside entirely. 

As the night begins to close around you, you’re left with nothing but the weight of reality, the gravity of truth. The disorientation of your world that’s been flipped on top of its head within the span of hours. 

Every impossible deadline, every bit of effort you’ve put into achieving all of your goals these past few years – it suddenly all feels so fucking useless. 

Every sacrifice you’ve made, every self-serving desire you’ve pushed to the side, buried beneath your commitment to your family, they all start to bubble to the surface one by one. Until you're left with something that tastes all too much like regret. 

You’ve never thought about it twice, your decision to pursue business for your brother. Ever since Sunoo’s miraculous recovery, his goals and yours have felt inseparable, like one, united thing. 

But now, alone on a campus bench with a knife hanging over your head, you think, for the first time in a long time, of that little girl who dreamed of being an astronaut. A singer. A scientist. 

You wonder what she’d say to you now. If she’d admire your determination, your grit. Or if she’d take one look at your business degree and simply think, how boring. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter now. She’s not here anymore. But you are. Even if only for three more months. 

You imagine telling her the truth, that shadowy version of you that the past has long since claimed. 

You part your lips. They feel dry against your breath, dehydrated from your sorrow. “I only have three months to live,” you whisper to the wind. 

You’re not sure how she’ll react. She’s only ten, after all. Death still feels like some abstract concept, you’re sure, not a finite reality. Time still feels malleable. Birthdays still feel far aways. Nights still feel endless. Dreams still feel worth chasing. 

Three months? She whispers back to you, tilting her head in thought. 

You nod. 

Okay, she whispers again. Then live for three months. 

It’s not that easy, you want to explain. I have plans, hopes, goals. Things I still need to finish. 

But maybe you underestimated her. She had her life taken from her too, after all. Maybe she understands your grief more than anyone else ever could. 

And no matter what you tell her, her answer remains the same. 

Live, she insists. For three months. 

So instead of crying or laughing or cursing the universe any longer, you reach into your bag, fingers closing around the spine of your favorite notebook. Pulling a pen out, you open to the next clean page. And then you start to write. 

…..

The back of Park Jongseong’s head is even more annoying than usual today. Has his hair always been this shiny? Even the fluorescent lights that wash everything else out only seem to make it richer, more luscious looking. 

You’re so wrapped up in debating how much pride you would lose by asking him what shampoo he uses that you almost miss the tail end of his argument. 

“Laying off unnecessary staff is the only way to remedy the situation,” he states. Plainly, firmly, as if his opinion is law. As if there’s no room for argument. “Of course the accounting error would have ideally been caught much earlier in the process, but if the company is already in secondary audits, it’s practically a losing battle. It’s best to just cut the losses and preserve what they can.” 

“An interesting perspective as always, Mr. Park,” Professor Jung nods from her place at the podium. Glancing around the lecture hall she asks, “Did anyone have a different interpretation? An alternative recommendation for how the company should proceed?”

Nearly every pair of eyes in the lecture hall turns to you. Even Professor Jung glances up at your seat, although she’d never admit if you called her out on it. 

But your hands remain planted firmly on your lap. Instead, you play dumb. Pretend that it’s strange of them all to assume you’d have something to say. Act as if you haven’t spent every single other class this semester countering every single one of his points. Today, you remain silent as you too glance around the hall curiously, as if expecting someone else to counter Jay’s idiotic analysis. 

Perhaps idiotic is too harsh. A better word might be obvious. That’s Jay’s problem, you think. He’s always had everything he needs. He’s never had to get creative, to think outside the box. He looks at a poorly balanced accounting book and thinks, “How would Dad handle this?” instead of “What would be the best solution for this unique situation?”

Even Jay himself, who sits nearly directly in front of you, tries to shift in his seat subtly enough to take a glance back at you. You don’t think you’re imagining the frown on his face when he finds you sitting silently, a mask of indifference on your face as you pretend to type another row of notes on your laptop. 

“Okay,” Professor Jung continues from the front after the silence extends a moment longer. “If no one else has anything to add, then we’ll look at our next case.” She changes the slide, showing a new set of sample data from year end accounting books. “Business A had a profit margin of roughly 6.2% in the third quarter of the previous fiscal year…” 

Her words trail off as you glance down at your nails. They’re pink. A pretty shade that you selected with spring flowers in mind, even though it’s just the beginning of fall. Call it nostalgia or stupidity, but spring has always been your favorite season. You’ll take it in any form you can. Besides, the shade is gorgeous against your skin. The tip of your ring finger even has a tiny cherry blossom painted on it. 

You smile, thinking of the nearly two hours you spent yesterday afternoon at the nail salon getting them done. You’d never been before, but the process was just as fun as you imagined. The nail artist was sweet, too. She graduated from your university just a few years ago with a history degree. Changed her mind a few months after earning her diploma, and after some time in cosmetology school, here she was. Running her own nail salon.

Changing her mind and seeing where life takes her. Not worrying about wasted time in the pursuit of a happy ending. It’s not jealousy, exactly, but something unpleasant pulls at your heart when you think about it.   

You get why she likes her job so much. You feel pretty, feminine. Love the way it feels when your nails tap against the screen of your phone as you type a message. Or click against your keyboard as you type your class notes. 

They weren’t cheap, though. Despite that, you’d only smiled and nodded when she suggested coming back in three weeks for a fill. You’d have to scratch out another study session to make time, just like you did for this appointment. Old habits may die hard, but no matter how hard you search, you can’t quite seem to find a part of you that cares. 

You’ve always wanted to get your nails done. Always wanted to be one of those girls that walks around with glowing skin and nice hair and new clothes and pretty nails that you fund with disposable income. It doesn’t matter if it’s frivolous or ridiculous or hopelessly girly.

You’ve spent years with jagged cuticles and short, plain, nails because it was practical. Because it saved you money and time and effort that you could spend studying or networking or planning for the future. 

When you finished at the nail salon, you imagined showing your ten-year-old self how they turned out. 

Very pretty, your past shadowy self told you, and the smile that spread across her face made it worth it all over again. 

Even now, Professor Jung’s voice fades to a pleasant blur in the background. You’re going through the motions more than anything. Pretending to write notes even as you alternate between tabs. One for your lecture and one for flight tickets to the nearest beach town that nearly every student at your university has been to at least once for a drunken spring break vacation. 

You’ve never dreamed of going, have never even been to the beach, but you think it might be nice. You can already imagine the feeling of sand between your toes. Of warm ocean water lapping against your skin. The sound of waves lulling against the shore. 

A pleasant seaside breeze rustling through your hair. 

The sound of Professor Jung wrapping up the lecture for the morning drags you back to reality. There’s no sunlight in the lecture hall, and there’s certainly no sea breeze.

There is, however, a reminder.

“Don’t forget about the Goldfellow’s annual charity gala this weekend. As upper division students, you’re all welcome to attend. It’s an excellent opportunity to network and share space with some of the top executives in our local community. If you do decide to attend, remember that it is a formal event and proper attire is expected.” At that, class is dismissed.

The Goldfellow charity event. Although a better label might be ‘a gathering of every silver spoon raised twenty-something within a fifty mile radius.’ You have serious doubts about how much charity is actually being done.

Then again, perhaps you shouldn’t judge. You’ve never attended the event yourself, after all. Usually you would jump at any kind of networking opportunity, but this one is different. Exclusive. 

The stipulation of proper attire has always made it dangle just outside your reach. Until now, it hasn’t bothered you much. You’re sure that most people are there for the ridiculous venue and open bar. And you use that to convince yourself that no real networking is done. 

Standing from your seat, you pull your bag over your shoulder. Glancing up, you find that Park Jongseong has yet to leave his seat, too. He is standing, though. And, even more alarming, he’s looking right at you. 

More specifically, his gaze is fixated directly on your hands, your fresh manicure, as if it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. 

Then, he looks up at you. “You’re quiet today.”

His tone is infuriatingly neutral. You can't tell if he’s mocking you or deliberately trying to incite your rage, but with Jay, you’ve made a habit of assuming the worst.

“Perhaps you should take notes,” you suggest, voice even.

Jay shakes his head. “If I have something to say, I’ll say it.”

“Well, do you?” you ask. “Have something to say, I mean. Or are you just determined to waste a few more minutes of my time?”

His mouth opens, closes again. This time, his already sharp jawline clenches into something lethal. As if he’s biting back words. Ironic, given what he just said. 

“I suppose I don’t,” he finally tells you. 

“Great,” you intone flatly. “Well, then.” And then you're pushing past him, all the way down the stairs to the door of the lecture hall. You’re not sure if he watches or follows or stays right where he is. You don’t look back, not even once. 

A handful of minutes later, you’re in the library. For nearly the first time since you began your degree program, however, it’s not class notes you pour over.  

Instead, you pull your notebook out from your bag. Your personal notebook. The same one from that night, alone on the bench, screaming at the stars and asking for advice from hallucinations of your younger self. 

Its pages are mostly blank. You don’t use it for much. Grocery lists, mostly. Occasional reminders that aren’t related to school. Over the past two and a half years, you’ve only managed to fill about twenty pages.

Turning to the last one, you half expect to not find what you’re looking for. Parts of that day still feel like figments of your imagination. 

But there it is. Looking back at you in your own neat handwriting.

Bucket List, it reads across the upper margin. 

You nearly snort. You suppose there was no need to get creative, but you really were putting things in blunt terms.

Kicking the bucket. You’re not sure where the idiom comes from, but you guess it doesn’t really matter. There are other things to focus on now. Namely, the neat, bullet point list beneath it.

Get my nails done professionally, the first line reads. You smile, glancing back down at your hands. With a satisfying stroke of ink, you write a checkmark through the hand drawn box next to it.

Done, you think.

Lip caught between your teeth, you scan over the rest of the list.

Get my hair cut and colored professionally

Buy a really expensive dress 

Go on a beach vacation

Ride in a convertible 

Kiss a stranger

And then at the bottom, the item you scratched out almost the second after you wrote it. 

See the Northern Lights

You remember the documentary you watched in elementary school, how magical the sky looked, all lit up in colors, glowing shades of green and blue. But it just isn’t realistic. Auroras haven’t been sighted in your city in, well, forever. And it’s not like you have the ability to fly to an Arctic country on a whim. 

So your list is complete with just six items, one already checked off. 

It’s a mismatched list. A short jumble of whatever random desires struck you in the moment. You can already think of things to add, to amend. 

But part of you hesitates. These were the first things you thought of that night. Your most selfish, vanity driven, purely inconsequential desires that you wanted to do just because. 

It feels wrong to edit them now. So you don’t. Instead, you push your planner to the side, ignoring your perfectly curated study schedule.

It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter if you’re the top scorer on the midterm or if you’re just painfully average. You’re not even sure you'll get the chance to take it. 

So instead, you open your laptop and search for hair salons in the area. You don’t filter them with the lowest priced options first. You just look. See which ones have a nice interior and friendly looking stylists. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re pressing on the ‘confirm booking’ button, despite the fact that the listed prices are nearly a quarter of your monthly rent. 

It doesn’t matter. You’ve never gotten your hair done. You’ve never even let yourself think about getting your hair done. 

But alone on the bench with the weight of your imminent mortality heavy on your shoulders, it was one of the things you wanted to try. 

Like your nails, it’s frivolous. Unnecessary. And that’s what makes it perfect. It’s something entirely for you. For no reason other than the fact that you simply want to. 

Glancing at the next list item, your mind starts to turn. A new hair style and an expensive dress deserve to be seen, after all. 

The Goldfellow charity gala is hardly your ideal party, but you’re not sure how many formal events you’ll be invited to in the next three months. This might be your only chance. 

Sifting through your emails, you find the invitation Professor Jung forwarded to all her students. And then, before you can overthink it, you RSVP yes. 

And then you start looking up department stores in your area.

…..

The dress you wear looks just as good when you put it on Saturday night as it did in the fitting room two days ago. 

It fits you like a glove, flattering your body in a way you didn’t even know was possible based on your experience with the clearance rack. And it’s satin. Has a beautiful, subtle shine and glimmers gorgeously under the soft chandelier lights. 

Walking into the charity gala, the man at the front smiled as he offered to take your coat for you. Didn’t look at you with pity or confusion or poorly hidden disgust. 

He just smiled. Like you belong here. 

For once, you actually feel like you do. At most networking events, especially the ones hosted by the upper echelon, you feel a bit like a toddler in her mother’s closet. Playing dress up with the big kids in a way that’s painfully obvious. 

But not tonight. Tonight, you feel pretty. Worth the second glances people are giving you. You understand it, why people with the resources go through so much trouble. Their attention feels good. You like the way people look at you like they want to know more. 

Settling further into the tastefully decorated convention room, you can picture it all, a life you could have had if you’d been born with money and ambition for this particular field. 

You’d be a charmer, you decide. The kind of girl that needs nothing more than a good dress and thirty seconds to have investors begging at her feet. A true conglomerate sweetheart that understands how the best of deals are made with champagne and well-timed fleeting glances. 

Kind of like the girl your eyes land on now. On the opposite side of the room, her long, dark hair shines under the low chandelier light. She’s gorgeous, and it’s not just because of the deep, red dress that favors her.

Even from a distance, even at a glance, you can tell she comes from money. She carries herself with that kind of grace, that self-assurance that wealthy people always have. Like the room belongs to her.

Whoever she’s talking to seems to agree. It’s a man, you can tell. He has his back to you, but you can imagine his expression easily enough. His eagerness. The way he hangs off her every word, hoping she’ll deem him worthy of her time a little longer. 

You watch for another moment, until he turns. It’s his side profile you see now, and it’s unmistakable. Jay. 

Of course. You want to roll your eyes. 

The two of them are perfect together. A match made in heaven, or maybe a CEO’s board room. 

Either way, it has you adjusting your dress, a bit uncomfortably. All of a sudden, it starts to feel like an illusion again.

One hair cut, one expensive dress. You’re still playing dress up. You just did a better job this time. The truth is that you can wear whatever you want. It will never be enough to make you belong here. Not really. Not in the way they do. 

The next time a waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes, you don’t hesitate to reach out and grab one. 

Taking a long, slow sip, you allow yourself one final look at Jay. At the girl he’s with. He laughs at something she says, and she puts her hand on his arm. 

You pretend like there isn’t something unpleasant starting to swim in your gut. 

And then you make yourself busy. It is a networking event, after all. 

The first person you find is another girl from your class. She hardly recognizes you, and you can’t quite decide if you like that or not. The champagne is starting to form a pleasant, light sort of haze in your mind, and you feel like you can’t be bothered by anything. 

You speak for a minute before moving on. Before long, you start to lose track of all your conversation partners. Another boy from your class. A recent graduate. A startup leader who’s always looking for interns to join his team.

One conversation bleeds into the next, and your glasses of champagne do the same.

The lights start to feel warmer, or maybe that's just the proximity of bodies. Either way, your cheeks are flushed when the waiter passes again. 

Reaching out, you replace your empty glass with a full one. But you never get the chance to bring it to your lips. 

A hand suddenly encircles your wrist, plucking the champagne flute from between your fingers. 

“Hey—” you begin to protest, but a glance upwards stops you dead in your tracks. The hand around your wrist, the champagne thief, is none other than Park Jongseong.  

He’s looking at you with something furious in his gaze. “What is wrong with you?” 

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. And then— “What’s wrong with you?” you return. “I was drinking that.” 

You try to reach around him for your stolen champagne, but he’s faster. He steps to the side, effectively blocking your path. You hate to admit it, but he looks good. 

Of course he does. This is his domain, after all. It comes naturally to him, you’re sure, the styled hair, the spotless suit that’s been tailored to perfection. 

Across from you, he’s looking too. You watch as he swallows, throat bobbing with the action. 

Just like in the lecture hall, his gaze makes you fidget, brings back your previous uncertainty tenfold. 

You’re hoping he’ll get lost, but Jay does the opposite.

“I don’t know what sorrows you’re trying to drown,” he intones flatly, “but a charity event hardly seems the place to do it, don’t you think?”

“I’m not drowning anything,” you argue. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “It’s only my second glass.” Another lie. 

His lips pull into a thin line. “It’s at least your third.” 

God damnit. 

You roll your eyes. “What are you, my father? I’m not even drunk.”

“And it’s probably best we keep it that way.”

“There is no we.” Your eyes narrow. “I can handle myself and my alcohol. So give me back my champagne and go back to flirting with whatever oil tycoon’s daughter you were talking to earlier before she thinks I stole you from her.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features, and you curse your misstep. It appears he wasn’t the only one keeping tabs tonight. 

“I wasn’t flirting—”

“I don’t care what you were doing. Champagne.” You nod towards it pointedly. “Now.”

Jay makes no move towards the glass. Instead, he just looks at you for a moment. Assessing. “You’re acting strange these days,” he finally says. He scans you again, all the way down to where your hemline brushes against your heels. “And you look different. Your hair…”

You roll your eyes again. “Yes, well you’ll be delighted to know that even scholarship students have the privilege of getting a haircut sometimes.”

“What?” he blinks. “I didn’t even know you were—” he shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s not just that. The color is different.”

Your hair, the hair you were so terribly fond of less than five minutes ago, you suddenly want to rip out of your scalp. “Try not to faint from the shock,” you say, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “but we do occasionally splurge on a box of hair dye, too.”

“In class, too,” he presses, ignoring your sarcasm. “You’re quiet. I mean, the other day in Professor Jung’s, you didn’t even counter my suggestion for mass layoffs from that sample data set.”

He really has some nerve. Some sheer fucking audacity. “Believe it or not, my sole purpose in life is not to correct every one of your idiotic takes in class. I think I’d run out of oxygen if I had to do that.”

“You had no problem doing it before,” he points out.

“And now I’m not. Shouldn’t you be relieved?” Champagne momentarily forgotten, you take a step forward, praying your argument will be final enough to get him to leave. “I mean, the way I see it, you should be thanking me. Everyone else is way too scared to go against you because of your family name. Now that even I’m silent, the entire lecture hall is officially your echo chamber to conquer.”

“I don’t want an echo chamber,” he shakes his head. “You’ve always had good, I mean, interesting ideas,” he amends. “You made me have to think harder, approach problems in a new way. It’s made me a lot better at analysis.” 

You thought you had all but run out of rage, but that comment incites a new flame you hadn’t realized was still there. 

“Well I’m terribly sorry that I can’t be your stepping stone to becoming a better analyst anymore,” you say, eyes narrow as your tone goes dangerously low. “I suppose you’ll just have to do it on your own now.”

“Wait,” he protests as he realizes how you interpreted his words. “That’s not what I meant—”

But you’re over it. Over this conversation. Over this event. And most certainly over him. 

“To be completely honest, Jay, I’m not really interested in hearing about what you meant. In fact, the only thing I really want is to have my champagne and some peace and quiet again. So, I’m just gonna just take my glass back, and you can shove whatever you meant by that right up your—”

He steps to the side again, this time just as your fingers are closing around the stem of your glass. Knocking into your wrist, he sends the contents of your glass flying, spilling down the front of his ridiculously expensive suit. 

It’s his fault, technically, but even with your renowned flippance on finances, you don’t want to be responsible for footing that dry cleaning bill. 

“Shit,” you breathe. He just stands there for a moment, shellshocked. Useless, you think. 

“Here,” you open your purse, pulling out the wad of napkins you keep stashed in case of accidents just like this. He takes them from you wordlessly as you search for more. You’re sure you have another handful somewhere in your bag. “It’s a light liquid, so it should be okay. Just dab at it gently, and then—”

You look back up, the words dying on your lips. 

Because Jay is not dabbing gently at the stain on his suit jacket. In fact, he doesn’t seem concerned with the spill at all. Instead, he’s intently examining one of the napkins you gave him, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Confusion flickers across your features. Did you accidentally give him a napkin that was already stained with something? Is there a weird brand name written on it? 

“What?” you ask. “Why aren’t you—” you look at the paper in his hands again. With a sinking feeling in your gut, you realize that along with the napkins, you handed him something else. Something you never intended for anyone else to see. 

Panicking, you reach for it. Jay is quicker. Holding it above his head, he keeps it firmly out of your reach. Even in your heels, your fingers can’t quite close around it. 

“___,” he says your name. His voice is entirely too close to your ear. Stopping your struggle for a moment, you look at him. Involuntary, you let out a small gasp at the sudden proximity. As if you’ve been burned, you take a half step back. 

Looking at you with his hand still stretched above his head, he asks in a low tone, “Why do you have such a weird bucket list? And why do you carry it around in your purse?”

“It’s not a bucket list—”

“It literally says ‘Bucket List’ at the top.”

God damnit. Why did you write that?   

“It’s nothing. Just give it back to me—”

He continues to dangle the paper just out of reach. “Does someone have a hit out on you or something? Do you terrorize students in all your classes and now one of them is finally taking revenge?” There’s a playfulness in his tone, but you don’t miss the concern hiding there, too. Even if he tries to disguise it. 

“You know,” he presses on, “‘She’s smarter than me and I hate her for it’ isn’t a legally mitigating circumstance for murder. You can tell the authorities if someone’s acting like it is.”

“No one’s trying to kill me.” In your panic, you almost miss his mangled attempt at a compliment. 

“Then why are you acting like you’re going to die?” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, that you swear you nearly feel the world slip from underneath your feet. 

He doesn't mean it. There’s no way he actually means it, but it sobers you in a startling way. The thought that Jay, someone you’ve only come to know through contempt and competition, can read you like an open book. 

“I’m not—” Your words suddenly feel like chalk in your throat. You’re no stranger to lying, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to say it. Not with the weight of his gaze, with the weight of your diagnosis, pressing against you from all angles. 

You feel it again, that sickening and all too familiar sensation. It starts as a sharp, localized pain, just above your left eyebrow. You wince. Your breath is suddenly a difficult thing to catch. 

In front of you, Jay’s posture eases slightly. You’d be able to grab your list again now, surely. If only you could get your limbs to cooperate. 

Pain spreads quickly, first through your head. The ringing in your ears is back, too. That high pitched sound you can’t seem to shake as your vision starts to swim. You feel unsteady on your feet as nausea begins to roll in your stomach. 

Beneath you, your legs feel useless. Made of jelly, feeble, about to buckle under your weight. You sway slightly, hand coming to your forehead as you try to think through the pain, through the haze. 

You can’t collapse. Not now. You have to stay standing. You have to be okay. 

“Woah,” Jay says. It’s lost somewhere amongst the high pitched frequency in your ears. Your pathetic bucket list lies discarded on the table behind him as he reaches forward, as if to steady you. His hands never find you, though. They just linger awkwardly in the space between your bodies, still half outstretched. “You okay?”

You try to answer, try to brush him off and grit through your teeth that you’re fine, but it feels different from before. The nausea, the worst of the dizziness should be passing by now. Your consciousness should be coming back to you, not fading into darkness the more you try to cling to it. 

“Hey,” you think he says. Gently, so gently, and you can barely hear him, can barely distinguish words from one another. “Hey, why don’t you sit down. I’ll get you some water or something, and—”

You don’t hear the end of his suggestion. With one final breath, your last tie to consciousness is severed. You feel your body teetering, before you start to slump forward. You think you feel it then, the warmth of his hands on your skin. The weight of your body against the soft fabric of his suit instead of the unforgiving surface of the hardwood floor beneath you. 

Your head rests against his chest. Even as your consciousness fades, you can feel his heartbeat, the way it pounds beneath your cheek. You think you hear him call out, loud at first and then louder. There’s desperation in his voice as he begs, pleads for help. 

With warm hands against your skin, and your pulse ringing loudly in your ears, the world around you fades entirely until there’s nothing but darkness. 

…..

Squinting, the only thing you can make out is light. It’s bright, too bright. The sudden influx of light only makes the dull ache against your temples more pronounced. Blinking slowly, you try to ease away some of your confusion. 

You’re not in your bedroom, that much you know for sure. Eyes opening fully, your surroundings begin to take shape. The ceiling above you is tiled, lined with fluorescents. Turning your head to the side, you see two chairs. A bedside table. A vitals monitor. 

You’re in a hospital. 

Trying not to panic, you push at the bed beneath you, moving your body into an upright position. The monitor next to you doesn’t seem to appreciate your effort. The second you sit up, it starts beeping incessantly, flashing a warning sign you’re not sure how to interpret.

A handful of seconds later, the door bursts open, a nurse flying in. 

“You’re awake,” she assesses. “Good.” Hands pressing against your shoulders gently, she urges you back to a laying position. “You shouldn’t try to sit up for at least a few minutes. Your body is still a little out of sorts right now.”

A little out of sorts. That’s a mild way of putting it, you suppose. 

“I…” you trail off, still a bit dazed. “Which hospital am I in?”

The nurse frowns at you, sympathy in her eyes. “You’re in Saint Mary’s, sweetheart. My name is Hana. I’ve been overseeing your care since your boyfriend brought you in yesterday evening.”

“My… boyfriend?” you echo.

“Mhm,” Hana nods. He should be back any minute. I’ll let him know you’re awake. He stayed here all night, you know. You found a good one,” she winks. Scanning the vitals machine, she adds, “You seem to be pretty stable now, but you took quite a fall last night. You’re lucky he was there to catch you. The doctor will want to speak to you again and get a final prognosis, but I think you should be free to go before the end of the day unless we find anything new.”

“Okay,” you nod, still a bit stuck on the word boyfriend. “Thank you…” you trail off, not able to remember the name she gave you. 

“Hana,” she finishes helpfully. 

You nod again. “Thank you, Hana.”

Just as she turns to leave, the door to your room opens again. This time, it’s Jay that comes tumbling in. Like Hana, he seems to have been in quite a hurry, if the shallowness of his breath is anything to go by. 

His eyes lock on you. You have the sudden urge to fidget under his stare. 

“They told me you woke up,” he states. In the middle of your hospital room, he looks more unsure of himself than you’ve ever seen him. His hands, usually folded neatly or busy with work, hang awkwardly at his sides. 

His hair is mussed. It still looks good, of course, but it’s messier than you’ve ever seen it.

He’s still wearing his suit from last night, from the gala. It’s not so pristine now. He’s removed the jacket, for starters. And the champagne stain still spreads across the front of his white shirt, more obvious now that it’s dried. 

His collar is askew, the top button undone by what appears to have been frantic hands.  

You wish you were here under different circumstances, so you could truly revel in the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Park Jongseong looking disheveled. 

“She’s awake,” Hana confirms. “Vitals look good for now.” Looking at you again, she points to the red button on the table beside you. “Press that if you need anything.” Glancing between you and Jay, she ends with, “I’ll give the two of you some privacy.” She winks at you again, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to correct her assumptions. 

But then she’s gone. It’s just you and Jay. 

“You told them you’re my boyfriend?” You arch an eyebrow.  

Jay shakes his head. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

“But you let them assume.” 

“It was either that or they called your family.” At the mention of them, something cold and sharp pierces through your gut. 

Still, you bluff, “What makes you think I don’t want them to call my family?”

“Do you?” He calls it. “I can go tell Hana right now.” His gaze narrows, once again assessing you like you’re a particularly stubborn spreadsheet. “But I don’t think you want me to do that. In fact, I don’t think you’ve even told your family you’re sick at all.”

You freeze. “Why would you assume that?”

“Am I wrong?” he challenges. 

Your silence is confirmation enough. 

“I knew it.” He laughs in disbelief, looking at the ceiling for a moment before he returns his gaze to you. “That’s so like you. You know, I get not telling your family when you have the flu or some weird infection you picked up from a party you shouldn’t have gone to, but Jesus Christ, ____. Cancer?”

Your body goes cold at the word. He knows. Jay knows. 

His anger is confusing. And, you think, entirely unfair. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I exactly chose to have it.” 

“No, but you did choose to drink. You know, the doctor told me he specifically warned you about the side effects of alcohol with your medication.”

“That has to be a HIPAA violation. I should sue for dubious ethics—”

“Then I hope every doctor you come across has ‘dubious ethics’ so they can get someone else to help keep you alive,” he exasperates, volume rising, “since you don’t seem very interested in doing it yourself.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You must have misheard him. There’s no way he actually has enough audacity to say that to you. But this is Park Jongseong you’re talking about. 

Of course he does. Of course he fucking does. 

Your voice is low when you enunciate with an unnatural level of precision, “Excuse me? What did you just say to me?”

Jay has a mind of his own. “I mean, seriously, what the hell were you thinking—”

This time, you won’t let him finish. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you don’t know the first thing about me or my family or my situation. I know you’re used to walking into a room and having your opinion matter more than everyone else’s, but you don’t get to do that here.” Your chest is heaving now. You’re half afraid your vitals monitor is going to start beeping at you again. But you’re angry. “This is my life. My burden to bear. Thank you for helping me get to the hospital safely. Truly. But that doesn’t give you the right to dish out your opinion unsolicited.” 

Across from you, Jay takes a deep inhale. Releases it. 

His eyes scan your face. He sees the anger there. The resentment. He drags a palm across his forehead, and on his next exhale, he says, much more quietly, “I’m sorry.” You can hardly believe your ears. 

“What?” You have to make sure. Surely you heard him wrong. 

But he says it again, more audible this time. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You’re right. I’m just… confused, ____.” He’s looking at you again, in that way that you hate. Like he’s trying to see all the way down to your bones. “I can’t figure this out at all. I mean, the ___ I know fought tooth and nail for every class assignment, no matter how small. You practically ran yourself into the ground every exam season since freshman year. I’ve never met anyone who works as hard, who tries as hard, as you at anything. And that was for test grades. And now… this is… this is your life. And I may not know everything about you or the situation, but from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve just accepted it. I’ve never seen you go down for anything without a fight, and now I’m supposed to believe that you’re just gonna let death take you?” He shakes his head. “It’s just not you.”

“It’s different.” You shake your head. You don’t expect him to understand. The last thing you want to discuss with a conglomerate heir is family finances. So you’ll tell him in vague terms. “Assignment grades, test scores, those are things I can control. The outcome is directly related to my effort. This is… different. There’s something broken in my body. It doesn’t play by the rules, and it doesn’t care about the effort I put in. No matter what I do, it’s just broken.”

“But the doctor mentioned treatment plans. He said there were options to consider—”

“Not for me,” you shake your head. “Those options aren’t things I can do.”

“But why?” he presses. “This is your life. Even if there’s only a small chance, isn’t anything worth trying?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. It’s more honest than you planned to be. But his searching gaze, his rising desperation, have you feeling vulnerable. “I don’t know if it’s the right choice. If I’ll regret it. But it’s still my choice, and this is what I’m choosing now.”

“So what?” he pleads for a bit of understanding. “You just stick it out for a couple of years and then say goodbye to everything?”

“Three months,” you correct. 

“What?”

“The doctor estimated I have about three months left. I suppose it’s a little less now,” you amend. “It’s already been nearly a week.”

“Three m—” His voice breaks on the last syllable, eyes wide where they meet yours. Something releases in his body. The breath that was holding him upright. He deflates. “That’s not— You won’t even graduate. You’ll hardly finish the semester.”

“I know,” you nod. You’ve had time, albeit not much, to process some of your grief, your shock. Watching it play out across Jay’s features in real time is jarring, to say the least. “That’s why I made that stupid list I accidentally handed you at the gala. I know it’s not exactly a good bucket list, but they’re things that I want to do. Things that will make the next three months feel meaningful.” 

He just stares at you for a moment. “I… you’re so calm.”

“Believe me,” you smile ruefully, “I’ve had my fair share of tears and screaming and throwing things. But none of it changes anything.” You look away from him now, eyes on the window. “I don’t want to spend the next three months angry. Not at myself or anyone else or the universe.”

You feel his eyes against the side of your face. He won’t say anything in response. Won’t give any sort of acknowledgement or approval to your acceptance. 

Instead, he tells you, “You have to stay away from alcohol.”

At that, you roll your eyes. “Cut me some slack. You tell a girl she’s got three months to live and you don’t even let her drown her sorrows in a glass of champagne?” It’s meant to be a joke. Or at least a bit lighthearted. Something to diffuse to stifling tension. 

Jay doesn’t seem to appreciate the punchline. 

“Do you know how fucking terrified I was when you collapsed like that?” His voice is low, urgent. Your gaze meets his again, and there’s something desperate in his eyes. “I’m serious, ___. No alcohol.”

The gravity of his tone hits somewhere deep within you. Even if it’s only fleeting, even if it wasn’t intentional, it’s nice to think for a moment that someone else shares this burden with you. That there’s another soul in this world that understands what’s happening, that cares about the choices you make and their effect on you. 

“Okay,” you breathe, voice small. “No alcohol.”

“Good,” Jay nods. His relief doesn’t feel fabricated, not when you watch some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. “Okay,” he nods. “Hana mentioned that the doctor will want to talk to you again. He should be stopping by soon. I’ll wait for you, and then I can drive you back to campus.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You shake your head. “I can just take the bus—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he cuts you off. “I’m already here.”

“Okay,” you nod. You could argue further, but you have the feeling it would be useless. Suddenly, you’re the one feeling unsure of yourself. “Thank you,” you tell him, more a force of habit than anything. 

Silence stretches between you, both of you avoiding direct eye contact. 

As you look around the room, a question strikes you. “I know that this is Saint Mary’s but which ward am I in? It looks different from before.”

“Ah,” Jay nods. “That’s because you’re not in a ward.” Confusion flickers across your features. He’s quick to explain, “This is a private room.”

“A priv—” You nearly choke on your words. You don’t even want to imagine the hospital bill you’re currently racking up. “I didn’t request that.”

“I know,” he says, either oblivious to your panic or ignoring it. “I did.” 

“You…” You try not to let anger be your primary emotion, but it’s difficult in the moment. “Jay, I can’t afford a private room.”

At that, he only looks surprised. “What are you talking about?” He balks. “You don’t have to… I wasn’t going to ask you to pay.”

“Of course I’m paying,” you argue. “You think I’m going to let you cover my hospital bills?” 

“You’re not paying me back,” he shakes his head. 

“Don’t do that,” you warn as soon as you see something dangerous start to enter his gaze. “I might be sick and I might not have money, but you don’t get to pity me.”

At that, he looks genuinely surprised. He’s quiet for a moment. And then, soft but firmer than you expect, he says, “I don’t pity you. I don’t, can’t even begin to understand you, but I don’t pity you. Not today, not ever. My family donates regularly to this hospital,” he explains. “They offered to put you here as soon as I said my name. There’s nothing to pay back.”

“Oh,” you say. Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. And then, just because it feels due, “Thank you.”

Jay looks at you for a moment, expression unreadable. “You can thank me by actually listening to what the doctor says this time. And then by following his advice.”

“I will,” you nod.

“Seriously. Medication side effects are no joke. You have to—”

“I will,” you repeat, firmer this time. 

“Okay,” Jay accepts. “Good.”

As if on cue, you hear a quiet shuffling outside your door. Muffled voices exchanging words, feet turning towards the entrance. The doctor must be here. 

Jay hears it too. He looks at you one last time and instructs, “Behave. And listen.”

Something about the way he says it has your spine feeling rigid. “I already told you I will—” 

The knock interrupts your protests as the doctor enters the room. It’s the same middle-aged man you saw the last time you visited Saint Mary’s. The one who gave you your diagnosis. The one who told you you have three months left to live. 

You don’t remember his name now. Doctor…

Your eyes land on his name tag. That’s right. Doctor Kim.

He looks at you now with an expression that’s hard to decipher. Not pity. Not sympathy. Now that he knows you have someone willing to come to the hospital for you. 

You wonder if he’s curious about it now, the reason you told him you had no one to call before. 

It’s impossible to tell. Doctor Kim’s expression is unreadable. He’s a malignant tumor specialist, after all. He’s used to giving out terrible news, to putting even the worst of circumstances in plain terms. 

Jay greets him before excusing himself. He reminds you he’ll be waiting, when you’re done. And then, he's gone. 

At first, Doctor Kim rechecks your vitals, jots down a couple of notes. And then he says, “I can’t lie, Miss ____. I was hoping the next time I saw you, we’d be discussing treatment plans.”

“Ah,” you intone. You try to keep your voice light, but you can’t quite look at him when you say, “I’m sorry to disappoint.” 

“Champagne, was it?” He pulls a stool up next to your beside and sits. There’s no judgement in his voice, not even the frustration that Jay had. He’s just confirming the facts, but that somehow feels even worse. Like you’ve disappointed him. 

“Only a few glasses.” 

“A sip of alcohol is enough to trigger serious side effects with the medication you’re on. You’re lucky all you did was lose consciousness. You’re very lucky someone was there to catch you. If you had fallen, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. If you were able to talk at all, that is.”

The gravity of his words hit you with full force.

“What?” The syllable is small, breathy.

Doctor Kim sighs. “Perhaps the gravity of the situation was not fully conveyed at our previous meeting. I’ll be more clear now. Miss, ____, your body isn’t able to heal itself right now. Your blood cells, even the healthy ones, are deteriorating rapidly. If you fall, if something breaks, if you cut your finger and it becomes infected, the three month estimate I gave you becomes much shorter.”

There’s no ringing in your ears, but his words feel muffled, like you’re listening underwater. 

He continues, “That’s why my primary treatment plan includes a specialized, targeted version of chemotherapy that can—”

You shake your head. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re not interested in what, exactly?” he asks. “Living?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Can’t quite meet his gaze. “Am I free to go?”

“You’re stable for now, but I’d like to keep you one more night if—”

“Is that a yes?”

He sighs. “If you insist on going, then I won’t force you to stay.”

“Thank you, doctor. I’ll be more careful.” 

He has more to say, you’re sure of it, but the room remains silent as he helps detach the monitors from your body. 

And then that’s the end of it. 

The drive back to campus is quiet, mostly. Jay has some old classic rock album on shuffle, but he keeps the volume low. Lets you look out the window and doesn’t say much. Doesn’t expect you to either. 

The truth sits heavy between the two of you now. 

It interrupts your plans, shatters the mirage you’d constructed. 

For the last week, you’ve imagined your death and the moments leading up to it as a solitary endeavor. You know you’ll have to tell your family eventually. But you have to time it right. If there’s any hope, they’ll insist on treatment. Even though it would mean losing the threadbare pieces of their lives that they’ve managed to scrape back together. 

You told Professor Jung that your health checkup went well, told Kaia that the two hundred dollar rent increase coming next year was something you still needed time to think about. 

You’re prolonging it. Delaying it. Death is your dirty little secret. Well, was. 

The evidence of that currently has his eyes trained on the road ahead, knuckles slightly pale against the steering wheel. 

And that presents a problem. 

As you approach the outskirts of campus, you break the silence. “Please don’t tell anyone,” you request. 

Jay sighs. Resigned, like he expected this. “Does anyone know?”

“No,” you shake your head. 

“Your family?”

He already guessed in the hospital, but you confirm it again now. “I’ll tell them when the time’s right.”

“When it’s too late, you mean.” He’s stealing glances at you now. You school your features into something neutral as he does it again. Reads you like a damn open book. Predicts even the darkest of your plans with ease. 

“It’s complicated,” you argue. You’re not sure why you feel the need to justify your choices to him. 

“How so?” he presses.

You deflect. “It’s a long story.”

Jay won’t give it up. “I have time.”

You’re quick, too. “Yeah, well I don’t.”

He doesn’t get it at first. “What? What urgent plans could you possibly have on a Sunday afternoon?”

You’re silent for a moment, just giving him a look while you wait for the ill timed joke to sink in. 

“Oh,” he finally says, slow on the uptake. And then he’s glaring. “That’s not funny.”

“I think it is.” You shrug. 

“Do you really? Or is it just easier?”

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“It is easier,” he repeats, “to treat it all as some big joke? Something meaningless? To pretend like your life doesn’t matter to you, like none of this scares you?

You’re quiet for a moment. Silent, while the wake of his words settles around you. It extends a bit too long, and despite all the boundaries he’s already broken today, he worries he’s overstepped. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I—”

“Of course I’m scared,” you whisper. In the passenger seat of his car, the admission feels like defeat. You feel like you’re on that bench again, by the business buildings. Only this time, you aren’t alone. “Jay, I’ve never been more fucking terrified in my life. Death is so… unknown. I’m scared it will hurt. I’m scared that it won’t, that I’ll feel nothing at all. I’m scared that three months will be over before I have the chance to do anything that matters, and I’m fucking scared that I won’t even actually get all the time the doctor estimated. When I close my eyes and try to sleep, I see my parents. My little brother. I imagine them seeing me like that – pale and stiff and wrong – and they just keep—” Your voice breaks. “They’re always crying. And then it’s not just fear anymore. It’s guilt too. I made them feel that way. I couldn’t just stay alive for them. It was my fault, and deep down, maybe they resent me for it, too.”

“Then why—” He whispers, voice cracking too like he’s the one who’s suffering. “Why won’t you get help? Why won’t you tell them?”

“Because believe it or not,” you whisper back, “I think it would be worse if I did. I watched them lose everything, give everything up once. I can’t ask them to do it again for me. The guilt would eat me alive. I can’t be that selfish.”

“And this isn’t selfish? Making their choice for them?”

You shake your head. “It’s my turn to make a sacrifice.”

“Are you insane?” He’s louder now, as if sense can be forced into your head with volume. “Love isn’t some transaction you pass back and forth. You’re lying to yourself,” he accuses. “You’re not telling them because you already know what they would do. They’d do anything for you. It doesn’t matter if they’ve been through hell before. They’d choose to do it again. Always. So put your guilt aside for a second and let people that love you take care of you when you need it.”

He’s dangerously close to striking a vein you don’t want him to find. His arguments are making too much sense, eroding the decisions you thought were set in stone. You need him to stop. “You don’t get it—”

“Because you won’t tell me anything!” His palms splay against the steering wheel now, open in frustration.

“I don’t have to!” You’re loud now too. “I barely know you. It’s not like you would even begin to understand, anyway. You were born with the world at your fingertips, but in case you need a reality check, that’s not what life is like for the rest of us—”

Jay switches into the left lane so suddenly it cuts through your words. Thrown by the force, you grip the armrest for support. “What are you doing? You’re about to miss the turn—”

“I hope,” his voice is low now. Steady, controlled but just barely. “That I’m misunderstanding you.”

He waits until the light is green, then he spins the car through a U-turn. 

“Jay, what are you doing? I need to go back to campus—”

He’s done hearing your excuses. “Are you telling me this is about fucking money?”

In the passenger seat, your blood runs cold. Shit. Shit. You said too much. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you said I wouldn’t understand. Because of my family. Their resources. Their money.”

“I did not say that,” you argue, but it’s futile. Weak to even your ears.

“You implied it.”

“So what,” you scoff. “I’m done talking about it. Like I said, you wouldn't get it. And why did you turn around? Where are you even going?”

“I’m taking you back to the hospital.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. 

“What?” For the second time, your blood runs cold. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” He says it like it’s obvious. Like nothing you’ve said in the past few hours has gotten through to him. “So you can tell the doctor you changed your mind and start treatment.”

You’re panicking now, pulling at your seatbelt. “I didn’t change my mind,” you protest. “I’m not starting treatment—”

“And I’m not gonna drive you back to campus and act like everything’s okay. I’m not gonna sit here and watch you die.”

His words hang in the air, the implication obvious. He has the money, after all. Probably won’t even notice it’s missing. You hate the way it makes you feel small, like you owe him something. Like he’s doing this out of some misplaced sense of obligation.

Your voice is barely audible. “You told me you didn’t pity me.”

“I don’t,” he reaffirms. “This isn’t pity.”

Your words bite, even more than you mean for them to. “Well, I’m not a fucking charity case either.”

“Then it’s not charity.” He shakes his head. “It’s a deal.”

“A deal?” you echo. “What deal could you possibly make with me—”

“Let me finish first in our class,” Jay says, and it catches you entirely off guard. “In all of our remaining courses and overall class rank,” he clarifies. “Let me take first.”

You scoff. “You don’t need me to do anything for that.”

“I do,” he insists. “You and I have been neck and neck since our first year. Competing against you, there’s no guarantee.”

“That’s hardly an equal trade,” you point out. “I can’t even imagine how much money—”

“It is for me.” His jaw tightens. “If I don’t rank first, my father won’t officially initiate me as a shareholder. I won’t have any position or power in the company. And he’s not fond of second chances. I won’t have an opportunity to remedy my mistake later.”

At that, you turn to face him fully, surprise coloring your features. His eyes are still on the road, but you’re sure he can feel that way you scan his side profile, the tense set of his jaw and shoulders. 

You can’t get a read on him, on what he’s thinking. Does it humiliate him to ask? Is he even telling the truth? You can’t imagine someone in your family ever treating you so coldly, but the sudden tension doesn’t seem fabricated. 

You know you’d be stupid not to agree. You don’t need to rank first to keep your scholarship, and that accolade won’t mean much past graduation. You glance at him again. Well, at least not for you. 

And regardless of the consequences, you’d get a fighting chance. Something akin to hope blooms in your chest. You haven’t let yourself feel it, not since that first night. It’s almost addictive now, like water in a desert. You stop yourself just before you start scooping mouthfuls with your bare palms. 

“I can’t—”

“Please,” he whispers. It’s not an argument now. Not a debate. He’s begging you. 

And that’s what does it. Unties the last knot of your resistance.  

You’re quiet for a moment longer, and then—

“Okay,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. Jay keeps his gaze forward, but you watch a flicker of relief ghost across his features. 

“I have two conditions,” he tells you. 

It’s so like him, you think. To get his way and then ask for more. 

“You’re really gonna push it? I could change my mind, you know.” But you won’t. Not when you’ve already tasted water from the oasis. Not when hope is already curling deep within you. Not when you could live. 

Jay calls your bluff, too. “First, you tell your family.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” he adds. “But within three days.”

You want to argue, to protest. But they’ll want to come see me. They’ll have to take time off work, away from the restaurant. And the transportation costs will be too high. 

Jay beats you to it. “I’ll cover any related costs that you let me. I’ll help you hide it, too. Pretend it’s part of a donation program or a special fund for university students.” 

It’s generous. It’s so terribly considerate that it makes your head spin. You can’t linger on it too long without feeling uncomfortable. 

Instead, you say, “Fine. What’s the other condition?”

“Your bucket list.” Jay nods to your purse that rests on your lap. You realize he must have returned it while you were unconscious, the list you accidentally gave him last night. “You still spend the next three months checking everything off.”

“What?” you frown. You weren’t expecting that. “Why?”

“Treatment is hope,” he explains. “Not a guarantee. You took the time to write it, so you should see it through.”

Part of you hesitates. If you’re really going to do this, if you’re really going to live, then you’ll need every last penny you’ve saved. Sunoo will need it. Your parents will need it. 

But you suppose you can take a sleeper train to the beach to avoid hotel costs and find some old convertible with a cheap rental fee to drive around for an hour. And kissing a stranger doesn’t exactly cost anything. 

Suddenly, the thought of Jay reading that particular list item has heat rising in your cheeks. It’s probably too much to pray he’s forgotten about it. 

But you’ve left enough of your pride in his car and at his feet. 

For a moment, you imagine what this feels like for him. What it would be like to give out such an impossible amount of money so easily. To have a father that gives ultimatums that could change the trajectory of his entire future in an instant. 

And then you think of you. Of the simple truth you’ve been dodging and denying and ducking from since reality slapped you across the face a week ago. 

You don’t want to die. 

You think of that little girl. The one who wanted to be an astronaut, a lawyer, a singer. She wouldn’t want you to die, either. 

And like Jay said, this isn’t a guarantee. But it is hope. 

For you. For Sunoo. For your parents. For her. Maybe, you think, even for Park Jongseong, who's been slowly edging further and further past the speed limit for the last five minutes. 

“Okay,” you tell him, looking out at the buildings you pass. You still don’t know most of them, but there’s another word there now, and it makes all the difference. 

Yet. 

You don’t know most of them yet. 

So you seal your fate with one last word. “Deal.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

TO BE CONTINUED...

[freakcliff]

Narnia text posts 3/one gazillion

[zannolin]

susan's little smile and quiet "thanks" when father christmas gives her the horn fucks me UP man like she's been so snarky and sensible and defensive the entire movie (even making that comment about "whatever happened to 'battles are ugly affairs'?" when he gives her the bow and quiver just seconds before) and then he looks at her and he sees her and he says here is a way to get help when you need it, no matter what. and you can see clearer than you've ever seen it that susan is scared. susan is so fucking scared. she's trying so hard to Be An Adult, to be the responsible one, the smart one, the one who has her head on straight. her mother told her to be a big girl and she's doing her damndest but she's just a kid! she's a scared kid and she has no one but her siblings to turn to and edmund's gone and lucy's so small and peter, bless him, is peter, so she's got to keep HIS head on straight too, and there's a war back home and a war here and she's supposed to fight in it, and everyone keeps calling her queen and telling her she's got some great and violent destiny, and susan pevensie is scared. and nobody really gets or acknowledges that, i think, until father christmas meets her gaze and gives her the horn. the horn and the quiver. her own sort of shield. does anyone else think about this. can anybody hear me. HELLO.