𖦹 화양연화 @prodbypjm - Tumblr Blog

Oct 6, 2025

𝛏 whyd you only call me when you're high? ⊂ 01 ⊃

minors DNI with this series. series masterlist.

𓂃 PAIRING : weed-enjoyer!jimin x retired-smoker!f!barista!reader

CHAPTER SUMMARY — 💨

you didn’t plan on staying long — just another party, another bad decision. but then there’s jimin on the balcony, smoke on his lips and trouble in his smile. one drag turns into one kiss, and before you know it, you’re breaking all your own rules.

﹙ CONTENT ﹚emotional tension, weed use, party setting, reluctant attraction, slow-burn setup, mutual curiosity, consent-focused intimacy, soft corruption arc beginnings, subtle vulnerability, messy desire, buildup (no smut yet)

ৎ⠀⋆⠀🍃 TRIGGER WARNINGS : mentions of drug use (weed), casual intimacy, implied unprotected sex (don't be like them!!), emotionally avoidant behavior, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mild objectification through gaze/remarks, swearing, alcohol mention, self-sabotage . . (tba)

WC : 12k

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⊹˚ sylvi says . .

haii guys!! i feel bad for making u wait THREE months just for the first part—im so sorry. i hope to get part two out as soon as possible, wont make any promises this time though 🥹 anyway all of that aside, im so happy to finally be able to release this, tumblrs been acting up lately..so lets just hope none of that happens in the future. this also might have some errors, if so, please reach out and tell me. that's all 4 now, i hope u guys enjoy CMWYH!!

the hum of your fan is the only sound thats grounding you. is it on the verge of driving you insane after listening to it all day since your shift? maybe.

outside, the city buzzes faintly through thin walls—a distant car horn, a siren somewhere too close for comfort. your room is devastatingly dim. the light from your laptop screen casts a soft glow over your features, illuminating with a half-loaded shift schedule that you forgot to close after work.

the cursor blinks—waking you from your daydream—taunting you about your calendar next week.

four closing shifts. one opener. one double.

you sigh, dragging your finger across the trackpad just to do something.

you're a barista. you'd expect any person that works at a cafe would like coffee, right? that they'd be relieved whenever they a whiff of it?

wrong.

you don't even drink caffeine anymore—never did in the first place. yet the smell clings to your skin. it's raked through your hair, threaded into your clothing. you swear that you can smell freshly brewed espresso in your sheets.

you come home from work everyday—happy to finally lay down and get away from all that shit. you sleep to escape your dreaded reality, though all you escape to is the repeated dream of customers that have the nerve to indirectly insult you. customers that rap their orders that could be qualified as essays, and expect you to get it all down in 5 seconds.

you think about quitting almost everyday. but quitting means looking for something else. and looking for something else means pretending you care.

and right now, you barely have the energy to exist.

the only reason you're here right now is most likely because of your cat,

your half-empty cup of cold tea sits abandoned beside you. the condensation rings it consistently leaves on your desk caused the wood to lift up.

you're not sure how long you've been staring outside your window, the casual bump of your neighbors bed frame against the wall reminding you how boring your life is—how boring you are.

a sigh slips from your lips for the umpteenth time, your fingers nearly slamming your laptop shut. the silence felt heavier than usual, like something was about to happen, or maybe you were just hoping something would.

chaeyoungs offer pops right back in your head as you slump against the cold surface of your desk.

"___! come to me and hoseok's one year anniversary, i know parties aren't your thing..but it's something to prevent you from being cooped up in that place all day. i promise it'll be fun—i already told everyone you were coming! it would be a bummer if you didn't show up, right? see you there!" chaeyoungs voice leaked from your phones speakers, she hung up before you could reply. it sounded like she was telling you to come instead of asking, and well, she knew it worked everytime.

you already told her no twice yesterday, once this morning. she didn't acknowledge any of your words.

your stomach sinks a little when you check the time: 8:36 pm.

it's too early to sleep, too late to cancel real plans you never made. you think about running a bath, maybe making use of the hundreds of cup noodles in your kitchens cupboard. you think of texting someone you shouldn't.

you don't do any of it.

instead, you grab your worn-out hoodie that was thrown over your bed frame and drag it over your head without much thought. an action you've done multiple times before, a habit you want to break, but never cared enough to.

you tell yourself that you won't be going to that party, that you've matured enough to prefer having a quiet life—without weed and alcohol. yet something in you is urging you to get up and prepare to leave as you curl in the warm embrace of your bed.

your phone buzzes.

chae 🍒

8:41 pm — im outside!!

8:41 pm — get your ass down here before i drag you out of that hell hole myself 💕

you blink at it. then again to try and convince yourself that it's an empty threat. then—you just stare.

a part of you considers ghosting her entirely. turning off your phone, crawling under your sheets, and spending the rest of the night doing literally anything else—like sleeping, or staring at the ceiling, or reading the same line of a book until it means nothing. all of those sound more appealing than standing in someone's house surrounded by drunk people and vape clouds.

you don't even have time to type out an excuse before another text comes in.

chae 🍒

8:42 pm — i brought you that lychee soju you like

8:42 pm — if ypu think i'm playing rn im not.

you let your head fall back against the mattress with a light thud.

you want to get out of this hell hole like chaeyoung said, but not just to end up at a party. you used to live for big crowds, weed, and one night stands. but now? you can't even drag yourself out of your apartment, only doing so whenever you need to get groceries or need to clock in for work.

what a contrast.

"fucking bribery," you mutter, dragging your hands across your face as you groan.

your phone buzzes again, this time with a call. you emotionally brace yourself as you grasp the device in your hand.

"don't you dare," you snap the second you pick up.

"then walk your little legs down these flight of stairs and maybe i'll rethink it," chaeyoung says cheerfully, you can practically visualize her smile through the phone. "now move, im freezing my ass off out here!"

"im not coming there just to not enjoy it. i already told you no—three times."

you can hear her chewing gum through the grainy speaker, "yea, and i ignored you each time. we both know you weren't gonna stick to it." she groans, "look, i didn't go to three stores just to drink alone while hoseok runs around playing golden retriever. i need backup!"

you rise from your bed, staring at your reflection through the mirror. your hoodie is wrinkled, mascara smudging your eyes. you looked exactly like someone who had no business being out on a friday night.

you grimace at your appearance, flopping back down onto your full-sized mattress. "im not in the mood," you grumble.

"you never are. thats kinda your brand at this point."

"not a selling point, chae."

"im not trying to sell you. i just wanna hangout." there's a pause, an awkward one. and then a quiet, "youve been weird—like..weirder. not like your usual 'don't talk to me' thing. like—sad-weird."

that lands harder than it should. you hate how good she is at seeing through you, even when she's coated in lip gloss and making half-hearted jokes. under all the party-girl and social-butterfly nature—chaeyoung genuinely knows how to care.

you run a hand through your hair, contemplating your decision for the third time.

you hate how she good is at getting you to agree.

"..what kind of party is it."

you can hear her vocally light up through the phone, letting out small squeaks of joy. "the messy kind—duh."

"awesome.." you mutter, half-sarcastic, half...well sarcastic.

the girl snorts, "full access to the house, no parents, good music, and hoseok invited almost everyone. you'll hate it."

"maybe i shouldn't come then?" you tease, a light smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

"im just joking!"

"..well not really—but i'll be there! and i brought you soju," chaeyoung adds in the last part again, just a little something to convince you if you aren't fully already.

your eyes dart to the digital alarm clock that sits next to a small nightlight on your bedside table.

you have work at noon tomorrow.

you internally swear to yourself that you'll be home before 2 am.

you won't drink, smoke, or do anything that you know would end up with heavy consequences.

fuck it.

you fall back down onto your bed, sighing.

"give me ten minutes," you say flatly.

"i knew you'd fold!" chaeyoung nearly yells through the phone, causing you to pull the speaker away from your ear with a slight wince of annoyance. "you're such a fake introvert!"

"shut up—no im not!"

"you love me!"

"whatever lets you sleep at night."

"bring a jacket!"

click.

the call ends, the weight of what you had just agreed to finally washing over you. you whinge, forcing yourself to sit up straight, your mouth pressed into a thin line.

you stare at yourself in the mirror, pulling your denim jacket over your shoulders, buttoning halfway up and shrugging off one shoulder.

you threw on a black body-con mini dress, black tights, and black combat boots with long white socks that barely peeked over your shoes. the jacket was only there to cover up, to feel a tinge of comfort around the place. it was enough to fit in, not enough to draw conversation or attention—which is a good thing.

you close your vanity drawer, ignoring the makeup and sponges that littered the space.

you pause for a second before opening it once again, two lighters staring right back at you.

staring at the dusty metal, you think about those times where life felt—livable.

when you and chaeyoung were switched, you used to be that social butterfly.

you shut the drawer.

you haven't smoked in months

you aren't starting again tonight.

probably.

the ride is short, but it feels long, tense in that i hate everything and she knows it kind of way.

chaeyoungs blasting some aggressive bass-heavy remix that sounds like it was made by a dj who's never known peace, it gives you an idea of what to expect for the party.

every beat rattles through her speakers, she sings along to the vocals that you can barely hear through the instrumental like she's preforming for a crowd. at this point, every person you drive by that stares at the car, probably wondering what kind of idiot would be playing loud ass music at night, she is. her nails flash under the dashboard light—chrome silver, most likely fresh.

you're slouched in the passenger seat, spacing out the window with one leg tucked under another, denim sleeves pulled over your knuckles. you've been picking at the fabric near your wrist for the last five minutes.

"you're gonna unravel that thing if you keep going at it," she mutters as the vehicle comes to a stop at a red light, scanning you briefly. "and you just had to wear black, hm?" chaeyoung turns down the volume just a bit to hear you.

"i didn't know we were dressing for coachella," you murmur, your gaze remained outside the window as the car started up again. the city blurs past in neon streaks and brake lights.

she scoffs, "it's a party, not a funeral, ___. i told you it was me and hoseoks anniversary, and there'll be people—hot ones."

"even better, drunk strangers," you retort.

"gosh, you're so dramatic. you act like im driving you to a cult!"

the way that people will be under the influence of alcohol, dancing to whatever's booming on the speakers like it's religious—yes, she practically is driving you to a cult.

you don't answer. you don't need to, she's already turning the volume back up anyway.

it's building inside you again—that quiet, slow burn of discomfort. not panic. not dread. (maybe dread.) just the steady hum of not wanting to be anywhere, not even in your own skin. it originates in your chest and sinks lower, wrapping around your ribs until breathing feels like a chore.

chaeyoung—blissfully unaware—keeps talking.

"i mean, just have a drink, vibe a little. kiss someone if they're cute—give them a little more if you want. you haven't made out in like..centuries."

you glance at her, holding back at rolling your eyes. "maybe i just don't want to."

"maybe you do. you just won't admit it," she hums, playfully.

you briefly shake your head, looking back outside the window. "i shouldn't have agreed," you sigh, closing your eyes at the feeling before opening them again.

"you didn't—i bullied you into coming."

"that doesn't make it sound any better, by the way."

she grins, "and yet here you are?"

you're not sure if she's right or if you're too tired to argue. either way, the thread between your fingers finally snaps. you let it fall to the floor mat, shoving your hands under your thighs.

the city lights start to blur into softer colors—streetlights glowing orange, traffic lights bleeding through the windshield. somewhere in the back of your mind, you're already planning your escape. one hour. don't get high. don't get close—maybe two drinks.

don't try to change.

just survive the night.

the house is loud before you even step out of the car, you can hear the music from the street—deep, pulsing, and just a little off-tempo like someone messed with the EQ too much. there's shoes piled by the front door. you swear you can see a silhouette of two people getting too comfortable in one of the windows on the second floor.

you're unsure if you're disgusted or jealous.

"would it kill you to smile?" chaeyoung chirps, adjusting her top as she steps out, shutting the drivers door with a light click. "we're at a party, not a funeral.

you duck your head while you pop out of the car, shutting the door with a larger force than how chaeyoung closed it. the vehicle slightly toppled due to the weight of your hand, causing you to wince in surprise and apology.

"it sure feels like one," you mutter, but follow her up the steps anyway, your boots softly clacking against the hard concrete.

inside, it hits you all at once.

movement, noise, and fuck—a gust of warm wind nearly causes you to stumble back outside. it's like stepping into something biotic thats breathing too fast.

the walls feel like they're pulsing with the bass, sticky with sound and sweat and that sickly-sweet staleness that only happens when too many bodies are packed and no one gives a shit about ventilation.

someone's spilled something in the entryway, you try your best to step around the mystery muck and convince yourself that it's not vomit.

there's a table to your left covered in half-empty bottles, tangerine peels, and disposable red cups stacked like a drinking game gone wrong.

the kitchen is glowing under tacky LED lights, and someone's already passed out on a couch nearby, mouth wide open, with glitter on their cheeks. it takes awhile to peel your eyes away from them, fighting yourself internally to not seem rude.

you used to be that person.

the air consists of cheap vodka, chocolate-flavoured vapes, body spray, and whatever perfumes clinging to the back of your throat like syrup.

you notice the chaos unraveling around you, and no one's saying shit. who would anyway? this is a party, not some cafe. crazy how things can be so normalized when everyone's in on it.

as chaeyoung leads you through the house, you pass by a bathroom. through the crack of the door, you can see a sliver of a humanoid figure hunched over the toilet—close enough for you to hear the retching and other disgusting noises of throwing up. the thought of it makes you shiver in disgust, a trail of goosebumps running down your spine.

there's a girl by the fridge yelling into her phone. a guy in a ski mask dancing like he's being electrocuted—he's not even dancing at this point..just...flailing around. the circle around him seems to be the only motivation for him to keep going.

you blink and try to absorb it all without letting it swallow you.

your grip on chaeyoungs wrist is almost violent, sticking onto her like a fucking lifeline.

she weaves through the chaos like she was born for this. her heels click against the hardwood floor, leaving a small mark everytime she abruptly stops to greet someone.

she turns around every few steps to make sure you're still behind her—if you're even alive at this point. she makes some attempts to slow down for your comfort, but it fades quickly cause she speeds up right after. she doesn't need to slow down—she belongs here. everyone seems to know her.

chaeyoung's in her element: tossing waves to people across the room, laughing too loudly when someone compliments her top, and judging hard whenever a guy leans in too close for comfort.

you trail behind her like a puppy with separation anxiety, denim jacket buttoned up halfway, left hand in your pocket. you feel like a wrong answer on the final page of a quiz. you don't know where to look. you don't want to be looked at, but the way you awkwardly greet random people when they stare at you for too long makes it hard.

the music is too loud. the air is too warm. your brains already trying to crawl out of your ears and escape. fuck—it's burning up in here.

someone bumps into you and doesn't say sorry.

you flinch, a feeble apology slipping from your lips. they either don't care, or you were too quiet for them to hear.

you think about turning around and leaving, telling chaeyoung that you seriously can't do this and you should hangout another time.

you should. you would.

you won't.

you were too lost in your own thoughts to realize that her wrist isn't around your fingers anymore. panicking slightly, your gaze darting around the packed place to find chaeyoung.

she's already halfway across the room, shouting hoseok's name like it's a spell. hoseok quickly turns from namjoon at the mention of his name.

chaeyoung was being deadass when she said that he invited everyone.

you see him before she does—his smile is always the brightest thing in any room. his arms are already open and welcome by the time she launched herself into his embrace.

you stand there like a deer in headlights, unaware of the people that quietly grunt in annoyance while you block their way.

there's nothing in your head, you don't know what to do with yourself now.

someone brushes past you, reeking of cologne and tequila. you barely dodge a girl holding two red cups like they're weapons, the bass rattling beneath your feet.

your back is pressed against the nearest wall, as far from the speaker as possible, and try to breath through the static in your head. you've been here for five minutes maximum, and you already feel like your skin doesn't fit right.

you don't drink or smoke anymore.

parties and people aren't your thing anymore.

you're just trying to be nice, what kind of friend would you be if you didn't show up to your best friends one year anniversary for fucks sake?

but right now, you feel like you showed up to the wrong place in the wrong version of yourself, and you're positive everyone can tell.

you swear that each and every person in this function are judging you, from slight glances that make your insides turn, to snickers that are loud enough to convince you that everyone's laughing at you.

your fingers start to shake. not from fear—just..overstimulation.

you need air. just for a second—just long enough to be able to breathe without choking on the scent of drinks and sweat.

chaeyoung talking about how the whole house was fair game tonight suddenly pops in your head after you've been desperately thinking of what to do.

she said that there would be no closed doors, no rules. so you start walking, striding through the sea of people like you've got something to prove. past the bodies, past the speakers, past the living room where someone's weakly attempting karaoke with zero shame. you head down the hall, fingers grazing the wall as you count doors like exits.

you aim for the very last room at the end of the hallway, avoiding the random glasses of soju and spilled cups like you were in subway surfers.

you pass by a mirror on the way and almost don't recognize yourself. the lighting is dim and strange, stretched in warm streaks that look like a sunset pressed against glass. you look washed out. bored. haunted.

you find yourself counting doorframes again. one, two, three—bathroom, storage closet, bedroom. you try not to snoop to hard, to not get your nose into business you shouldn't be interested in, despite chaeyoung's words directly clarifying that she doesn't care, but the noise behind you feels like it's crawling up your spine, causing you to feel guilt for no apparent reason.

you just need a quiet place to breathe.

a sigh of relief slips from your lips as your fingers grip the freezing metal of the door handle, a contrast to the warm knob attached to the entrance of the house.

you silently hope that you don't barge into that pair that you saw earlier hooking up in the window, taking a deep breathe to prepare yourself for what's to come.

the door was hardly cracked open, but you could tell it was quiet, cold—something that you needed right now.

you push it open just a teensy bit more, theres low amber light spilling from a crooked desk lamp, a bed that looks barely slept in, and a balcony door cracked open wide enough for chilly air to seep in.

there's no one.

or so you thought..

through the crack, you spot a figure outside. smoke curling through the air, the soft moonlight outlining the silhouette of their frame.

you pause in the doorway, eyes barely narrowing as you took in more details

you know that back. that profile. that lazy posture. the silver chain that graces his neck.

it screams jimin.

the ember of his joint glows faint in the dark. he's turned away from you, head tilted slightly to the side, exhaling slow and quiet like its second nature. his form is loose, relaxed, sharp around the edges. shoulder sloped, hoodie hanging off one side. there's a small tattoo behind his ear that you don't remember seeing before.

you're on the verge of backing out, closing the door and pretending that you never saw him.

but something holds you there, keeping you captive—luring you in.

you're divided by thinking that it's just because he's calm, and it's what you want right now, or because he's..attractive?

you've seen him before—once. maybe twice if you really think about it. you remember a party like this one, months ago. you were too annoyed to even catch a proper hearing of whatever people were muttering. hoseok introduced you in a passing. "jimin, this is my girlfriends friend, ___!" and vice versa.

you don't even remember if he looked at you.

you don't think you even spoke.

now here he is again. coincidence or punishment, again, you're torn between the two.

his lighter slips from his fingers, jolting the both of you from whatever spell you were under. him? most likely under the influence of weed, but you? you were entranced, unsure if it's the scent of dope or him.

be turns slightly, bending down to pick it up, slipping it into his pocket for safe keeping.

as he straightens back up, his eyes land on you. they don't widen, he doesn't flinch. he just stares for a second—blinks, takes another drag—and exhales like a girl barging in on him happens all the time.

then,

"need something?"

his voice is smooth, low, fairly husky, and slightly amused.

he doesn't seem to be mocking you like everyone else seemed to be.

you cross your arms over your chest, defensive by instinct. "just..escaping? i guess," you murmur, gaze failing to meet his.

"cool. glad we have something in common." he nods towards the door of the bedroom. "are you gonna leave or what? you're letting the noise come in, it's irritating," he deadpans, earning a scoff from you.

you step foot in the room, shutting the door behind you as you accept his challenge. it didn't take long for you to walk the distance between the entrance and the exit to the balcony.

you step out.

it's narrow, barely wide enough for the two of you to stand without brushing shoulders. the cold hits you in a slow creep—not sharp, just there, biting at your fingertips and the tips of your ears, seeping into the thin fabric of your sleeves and leaving lines of goosebumps on your skin. a thin trail of smoke drifts upward from where jimin leans, curling around itself like it's dancing to a song only he can hear.

the railing looks pretty old, metal chipped and rusted, paint peeling like bark. you run your fingers lightly over it without thinking—the texture flakes beneath your touch. the view from here is nothing special, just the back sides of neighboring houses, identical fire escapes, blacked-out windows glowing faintly with TV light. A half-lit billboard flickers at the edge of your vision, its busted screen blinking off and on like it's trying to stay alive.

it smells like weed and metal and the faint trace of dryer sheets from someone’s laundry below.

but it's quiet.

blessedly quiet.

there's no awfully loud DJ remix in your ears. no swarming bodies or half-shouted "shots!?" echoing from every corner of the room.

you inhale slowly. then exhale.

it’s not your kind of peace exactly, but it’s something.

you remain near the door at first, back angled toward the glass, arms folded tight like you're holding yourself together with pressure alone. you feel like an intruder here—like you walked in on something you weren't meant to see.

but he hasn't told you to leave, and thats enough.

he hasn't looked at you yet. not directly. but somehow, you can still feel it—the awareness of you sitting just beneath his skin, lingering in the shift of his shoulders, the angle of his jaw.

his voice breaks the silence like a ripple in still water.

"you don't look like the party type"

it's not a question. just an observation—a test.

you shrug. "im not."

simple, dismissive, true.

he hums in response, smoke hanging off the edges of his words. "friend dragged you?"

you glance out at the skyline, where the broken billboard flickers again like it's trying to signal you.

"pretty much."

you don't mention chaeyoung. you don't say that you didn't want to come, that you'd already said no, three times. you don't explain that this isn't your scene—that you used to be the one on balconies, holding joints, and talking shit into the wind like you had nothing to lose.

you don’t say it because you’re pretty sure he already knows.

he nods once, slow and subtle, like your answer was predictable—like it fits into the mold he's already building for you in his head.

like he knew that before you even opened your mouth.

a silence settles between you. not awkward or comfortable. you glance at him, wondering if he's gonna speak or not, then you wonder if you should say anything.

you shift your weight from one foot to the other, arms still crossed, jaw tight. you're afraid if you don't keep your jaw clenched, something you shouldn't say would slip out.

you can feel him beside you—warmth radiating faintly from his body even in the cool night air—but he hasn’t looked at you since the first glance. hasnt spoken. only moving whenever he wants to smoke.

he flicks the ash off the end of his joint with a practiced flick, eyes trained on the skyline like he’s watching something only he can see. it feels like you're not even there.

but you know better.

he doesn't offer it to you. doesn't gesture or ask.

maybe that's what makes you say it, the tension in your jaw slipping away.

"i don't smoke anymore," you blurt, voice a little too sharp to pass as casual.

you weren't going to say anything. it's not like you owe him anything. but the silence between you was too loud, and your body betrayed you again—always speaking before you have time to think.

jimin turns his head slowly, curiously.

his eyes meet yours for the first time—really meet yours and something flickers in them.

"i didn't offer," he says simply.

you scoff, rolling your eyes like that'll protect you from the heat rising up your neck. "just clarifying."

at least you're aware that he won't be asking you or forcing you to smoke.

but you hate how defensive it sounds. like you needed to prove something. like you needed him to know you’re better now, even if he doesn’t give a single shit either way.

he doesn’t press. only turning back toward the railing, brings the joint to his lips again, and takes a long, slow drag. his lips part, exhale curling around his mouth like fog, catching in the low light before vanishing into the night air.

then, almost too quiet to catch:

“shame—you look like you need it.”

your jaw clenches again.

it's not what he says—it’s the way he says it. cashal. observant. aimed right for the center of you with a kind of lazy precision. he doesn’t even look at you when he says it. he just drops the words between you like smoke, like bait.

it pisses you off.

and it works.

because you do need something.

you just don’t know if it’s the weed—or him—that’ll fuck you up worse.

you glare at him, the heat behind your eyes catching before it reaches your voice. your gaze traveled up and down his frame, eyes slightly narrowing in distaste.

“you don’t know anything about me," you scoff, stripping your sight from him.

despite not looking at the boy anymore, you can sense the smirk that crawls up his face—one that gets under your skin.

“not yet.”

there doesn't seem to be any kind of challenge in his voice, just lazy, cocky, too smooth for your liking.

you hate how he gets a rise out of you with little to no effort.

he turns back toward the skyline like the conversation’s already over, the few words you’ve exchanged were enough to draw a full map of your personality. he flicks the ash off his joint for the third time with the kind of grace that makes it look elegant instead of careless, and the embers drift down into the dark like dying fireflies.

you feel it again—that low, gnawing ache of being unmoored.

floating through this party like dead weight, not high enough to forget, not sober enough to hold your head above water.

the weed curling off jimin's lips creeps into your lungs like memory, stamping its mark in a way of saying, i know you can't resist.

for a moment, it’s like your body remembers before your brain can stop it—

the hum.

the haze.

the thrill of it.

you remember a time when you were always a little too fast, too loud, too bright. laughing so hard your ribs hurt, music blasting from busted speakers in shitty apartments you never stayed in long enough to memorize. rolling bills in bathrooms that smelled like bleach and impulse. lighting up at midnight because everything tasted better when it was illegal. watching colors melt into each other and calling it clarity.

it was chaos.

and for a while, it was better than feeling nothing.

but now?

now your feet are planted, your arms are crossed, and your chest is tight with the weight of restraint.

until it’s not.

you don’t remember deciding to speak. It just spills out of your mouth before your pride can stop it.

“give me a hit.”

you sound almost desperate, craving just a taste of that sweet high even if it's just for a split second.

he raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t comment. he just passes it to you without ceremony, fingers brushing yours. his skin is warm. dry. steady. like this is a ritual he’s used to performing—offering the fall to someone already on the edge.

the joint feels heavier than it should.

you know it doesn't belong between your fingers after all this time—that you shouldn't do this.

you stare at it for a beat too long before lifting it to your lips. you inhale, deep and steady, chasing something you’re afraid to name.

it burns.

not just your throat, but the edges of your resolve.

It rushes.

the second it hits, your head tips back, lungs rebel, and you cough—hard. the night air slices into your chest, and your eyes sting with the kind of regret that tastes like smoke and self-betrayal.

across from you, jimin watches with an expression that’s half amused, half knowing. his head tilts slightly. he doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth moves like he could if he wanted to.

“i told you,” he says, voice lower this time.

almost gentle.

you hate the way he says it.

like he knows you already.

you take another drag—shorter this time, without a second thought.

it settles behind your teeth like something familiar, a memory curling up at the base of your skull. you hold it in too long, then exhale through your nose, eyes half-lidded from the burn.

it's stupid, and you know it is.

you promised yourself this part was over. the part of you that needed substances to survive a night like this—the anxious version of yourself that thought comfort came in clouds of smoke and blackout playlists. the version that made promises at 2 am, and broke them by 7.

but now, as the tension in your shoulders loosens one vertebra at a time, and the night air starts to feel a little less sharp, a little more muffled, you can’t remember why you were so determined to stay above water.

you glance at jimin. he's still leaned back, relaxed in a way you’ll never be, watching you out of the corner of his eye like he’s waiting for you to crack.

you speak before he can read too much into your silence.

“do you always hang out here alone?”

he tilts his head slightly, blowing smoke out the side of his mouth. “only when the party’s boring.”

you scoff. “then why show up?”

he shrugs. “hoseok-hyung's my friend. i do my rounds, say hi, disappear.”

“so you’re like..a social ghost?”

that gets the faintest flicker of amusement from him. he turns to face you more directly now, elbow against the railing, joint dangling between two fingers.

“you're one to talk,” he says. “you look like you want to crawl out of your skin.”

you blink, a little too slow.

everything's slowing now, it feels like the air got thicker without warning. you arms have stopped hugging your body so tightly. the cold doesn’t bite as much. the music inside is just a dull heartbeat under your feet.

“yea, well,” you mutter. “i wasn’t planning on being here.”

jimin nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. his gaze drops to your hands, now resting against the metal rail, fingers twitching idly.

“are you always this tense?”

you let out a dry laugh. “only when I’m awake.”

he grins at that. the kind that doesn’t show teeth, just curves gently at the edge. not mocking—just… understanding.

there's a pause. the silence comes back, but this time it’s warmer—less like a void, more like a blanket.

you blink again. there's a buzzing at the edge of your hearing now. not unpleasant, but distant. your limbs feel lighter. your thoughts, slower, less sharp, less punishing. the usual ache behind your eyes fades into a soft, empty vibration.

it’s starting to work.

you close your eyes for half a second too long.

"are you gone?” jimin asks, voice softer than before.

your eyelids flutter open, your gaze landing back on the billboard, you shake your head.

too fast. you steady yourself with a hand on the railing.

“i'm fine,” you lie.

“you're high,” he says plainly.

“barely.”

"you're swaying.”

“i'm thinking.”

he chuckles under his breath. “must be deep thoughts?"

“they always are.”

you shouldn’t be enjoying this.

the quiet. the way his voice feels like something warm under your skin.

the slight rush in your chest every time he tilts his head at you like he’s trying to figure you out.

you glance over again, and this time, he’s already looking at you.

the eye contact holds, lingers, fizzes at the edges.

for the first time tonight—for the first time in a while, your shoulders are down. your hands aren’t clenched. your jaw isn’t locked tight.

you let out a long breath.

“why are you really out here?” you ask, suspecting that he isn't telling you something.

he shrugs. “same reason as you, probably.”

you tilt your head lazily. “probably? and what reason is that?”

“to feel less alone without actually talking to people.”

you blink at him. the joint is down to its last inch. he takes a final drag, then stubs it out in an empty glass flowerpot.

and then he looks at you again—not just casually, not just bored—really looks.

“i think we’re more alike than you’d admit,” he says.

you don’t answer.

a part of you knows that he's right.

you're not sure how long you've been out here, just basking in the oddly comforting silence. you're aware it feels dense—that it is dense, you've been aware ever since you stepped foot in his space.

you've glanced at him for the hundredth time tonight, checking if he's uncomfortable, if you should leave.

you're surprised that you even thought of checking on him, fifteen minutes ago, you could've watched him fall from the railing for all you cared.

the sound of your heartbeat in your ears has grown more prominent while you take more drags from the joint tucked between your fingers. the feeling is starting to settle in now—a low slow warmth that spreads behind your ribs and pulls the edges of the world out of focus.

you contemplate stealing another look at him. would you look insane if you did? after practically spending most of your time nearly ogling him?

yes, you would. but you were too high to care.

your eyes land on him one last time—this time, it's different.

he isn't focused on the skyline anymore, isn't looking like he's trying to count the amount of planes pass by overhead.

he's staring.

at you.

you slightly shift your weight from one leg to another—suddenly feeling self conscious of how close the both of you two stood together.

his eyes remain on you, just observing, it's almost unnerving the way it seems like he knows your whole life story just with a glance.

his gaze flickers to your mouth—just for a split second.

it's enough to make you crumble inside.

"you're quieter than i thought you'd be," you blurt out of pressure, attempting to address the tension.

there's no response other than a short hum.

"you clearly aren't."

you nearly cough out a laugh, too tired to pretend it's funny, too tired to somewhat put a show on for him.

from the way the corner of his mouth quirks up, you're convinced he already sees a show in this.

"i don't know anymore dude—i guess i just forgot how to shut up for some reason," you shake your head, turning back to the scenery before you. your arms are folded over the railing, forgetting about how rusty it is for now. the ash of your blunt is falling from the tip, flowing in the air and going to who knows where.

there's another beat of silence, you don't bother to try and fill it this time.

then—his hand brushes against yours as he turns back to lean against the railing.

barely.

not enough to count, nor be definite.

but it lingers.

your fingers twitch, trying to reach for something before your brain catches up. you know you should pull away, straighten back up again like you're trying to defend yourself from whatever image he's making of you in his head.

you want to do anything before you start something you're not in your right mind to do.

but instead,

you turn towards him, just slightly. letting your right arm fall and go limp beside you.

not enough to make it obvious, not enough to seem interested. but just enough to really look at him—properly this time.

the porch light above the balcony door casts a golden glow over his features, blurring the sharp edges, softening the lines of his face into something almost unreal. his profile is all calm shadows and quiet intensity—the slope of his nose, the lazy curl of his mouth, the way his lashes sit dark and still against his cheeks when he blinks slowly, like he’s in no rush to react to anything.

and that mouth—those lips.

you hadn’t really registered it before. not until now. not until you were standing close enough to see how plush they looked, how relaxed it stayed even when he was amused or annoyed or smirking just to be a dick. the way he spoke—deliberate, slow, like he wasn’t afraid of silences or the weight of his words. as if he meant everything he said, even if it was teasing or vague or low-key arrogant.

and then there was the way he didn’t speak.

the pauses. the quiet.

how he lets silence stretch between you like a wire strung tight—daring you to cut it, to break it, to say something first.

nothing about him is loud. not his voice, not his movements, not his presence.

but everything about him feels loud to you.

it's overwhelming—not in a dramatic, movie-scene kind of way, but in that slow, sinking feeling that you’re being watched back. not just looked at. seen.

and not just for the mask you’re wearing tonight—the quiet girl with crossed arms and a dry mouth and a half-hearted glare—but for whatever lives underneath it.

the old version of you, the one you thought that you buried under clean lungs, late shifts, and too much sleep.

you don’t like being seen like that.

yet you remain here, right by his side at this party, on this balcony.

your gaze trails down, lingers on the curve of his jaw, the way he holds his weight in his hips, all casual and unbothered. one of his hands is in his pocket now. the other brushes against the railing, fingers tapping in a loose rhythm you can’t place. he's not trying. not trying to impress you. not trying to flirt.

that’s what makes it worse.

because for some goddamn reason, that only makes you want to lean in.

and you hate it.

you hate how easy it would be to give in.

you hate that you’re not sure if it’s the weed, or the silence, or him—or maybe all of it at once.

you hate that your first thought isn’t I shouldn’t do this,

it’s what would his mouth feel like against mine?

your eyes meet, snapping you out of whatever spell you were under.

he stays still, stare boring into yours—almost challenging you to do something.

he waits.

you lean in closer, just an inch, not enough to make it seem like anything other than casual. you were testing the waters, your gaze lingering on his lips once again.

your mouth feels dry all of a sudden, and you're unsure if it's because of all the weed you've been smoking, or because you've internally been drooling over this man.

your tongue grazes your bottom lip before you can stop it—and you don't miss the way his gaze flicks there, following the movement.

the joint’s gone now, the high in full bloom—your limbs loose, thoughts fuzzy, but focus? sharp. sharper than it is while you're in your right mind. all of it is trained on the slope of his jawline, how soft his cheeks look, the stillness in his body that makes it look like he's waiting.

his eyebrow quirks up, challenging you.

that's all it takes for you to finally give in.

your mouth finds his—slow, tentative—curious, it feels like you’re tasting the question before you’re ready to ask it.

he doesn't hesitate to reciprocate the action, the half-burnt joint that used to be between his fingers was long gone now, most likely thrown off the ledge of the railing.

he's gentle, almost cautious, but sure in a way that makes your stomach pull tight. his lips move against yours like he’s studied how this should go—he knows not to push too hard, to let you set the pace. it's soft, deliberate, and maddeningly slow that spins you in a way that you crave more.

you tilt your head slightly, your nose brushing against his. he lets out a low breath—sighing against the feeling of your mouth—it ghosts across your cheek, warm, real and intimate in the quiet.

your hands find him—fingers curling into the edge of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto. kissing him feels like leaning too far over a ledge. like gravity might pull you the rest of the way if you don’t anchor yourself.

when your lips part—just barely—his tongue grazes yours.

it's feather light, you don't think you'd be able to feel it if you weren't high enough.

he tastes like weed and heat and something faintly sweet, something you can’t name but want more of. your heart stumbles—breath catching. and when you kiss him again, it’s less careful than before.

he responds in kindness—deeper now, warmer, the kind of kiss that slides under your skin and stays there.

one of his hands finds your waist, the other brushing the side of your jaw—his thumb barely there, a whisper of contact. It isn’t rough. it grounds you—pins you to this moment, to the weight of his body so close, to the press of his mouth and the way it coaxes yours open again and again.

there’s a quiet groan, muffled—maybe his, maybe yours. you don’t know you don’t care.

you’re losing track of time.

the cold doesn't seem to reach you, his body acting like a shield—a warm one. the noise that used to take up your headspace is gone, replaced with the feeling of his mouth against yours, the sound of his breath—the way his lips drag over yours like he's learning them.

but then, something shifts.

you can't pin point it, but it just..shifts.

jimin’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding, steady, coaxing you gently but firmly back into the bedroom and away from the cool breeze of the balcony.

the party is still somewhere downstairs, dim and blurred by distance, but it may as well not exist. the only sound that matters is the quiet shuffle of your footsteps and the shallow breaths being exchanged between kisses.

he backs you through the sliding door.

inside, the bedroom is barely lit—the same muted lamp in the corner that you saw while nearly invading jimin’s space casts everything in a warm glow. the door clicks shut behind you—unbothered to close the curtains, and the silence swells.

you give him a small look and his lips return to yours immediately—more focused now, he’s not just letting the moment unfold, but orchestrating it. his hands move to your hips, grip tightening just slightly, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.

you sit.

he follows, crowding you in, knees between yours, lips never leaving yours. he tilts his head just a little more to change the angle—deeper now, more controlled.

your hands fly back to him, grabbing at any sort of clothing just to keep him close. your left hand returns back to his hoodie, barely pulling him closer while your right hand cards through his hair.

he lets you—just for a moment.

then he pulls back.

just barely.

a breath’s worth of space separates your mouths, and you feel his exhale, hot against your cheek. your lips are still parted, chasing his before your brain catches up.

the grip you had on his hoodie tightens, tugging on it.

but he doesn’t lean in.

instead, he watches you.

your breath catches in your throat rather than him sucking it out of you.

his gaze drops to your mouth—red, swollen, open. then flicks up to your eyes, and stays there. he looks pleased, smug. not with himself—but with you. with how easily you’re coming undone under his hands.

your heart beats too fast.

your legs shift, tightening around his hips, trying to pull him back in, but he still doesn’t move.

“you kissed me,” he murmurs.

his voice is low, rasped, almost amused. lips so close to yours that they brush over them when he speaks, but he doesn’t close the gap.

you nod once—breathless, desperate. “you kissed me back.”

he hums. his thumb brushes along your jaw, slow and measured, the heat from the simple action travels down your spine like a current.

“just didn't expect that from you.”

he dips in again—finally—but stops just short of your lips, hovering. not quite touching. just close enough to make you ache.

you lean in, chasing him.

he pulls away again.

your breath stutters, frustration blooming hot under your skin, but it’s not anger—it’s want. he knows it. you see it in the flicker of his eyes, the subtle curl of his lips.

you're more than positive that he's doing this just to be cruel—positive that he knows you crave it, yet uses it against you.

chaeyoung’s words take over your thoughts once again, she was right that you haven't made out with anyone in a long time—cause fuck, you needed this man right now.

you're unsure how you got here, how you're in the back of a taxi while the world mutes around you, how you're humping jimin’s leg and the driver either doesn't seem to care or is just too tired to interfere.

you don't even remember giving jimin your address.

somewhere in that guest bedroom, your brain had already gone soft—fogged up by smoke and the taste of his mouth. you think he asked you something on the way down, low-voiced, casual, like it didn’t matter if you answered.

“where am I taking you?”

he’d said, lips brushing your ear, hand steady at your lower back like he owned it.

you blinked at him. “home..?”

and then, like an idiot, you told him.

you might’ve laughed after—half-drunk on the moment, half-aware of what you were letting happen.

“are you trying to stalk me?” you mumbled, an expression of mock concern and surprise on your face.

he smiled, his eyes crinkling into tight crescents that you're positive he can't see through.

“no promises.”

you don't care about that right now, all you can focus on is his touch.

his hand is laid on the surface of your thigh, the other propped on the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer with every second that passes by.

he's licking into your mouth with a newfound hunger, there's no innocence in this, you don't think there was in the first place. your tongue is rolling against his eagerly, the light squeeze that he gives your thigh sends sparks of need through your veins.

other than the faint music that's leaking from the speakers, all you can hear are the soft noises that slip from jimin—driving you to grind your core against his thigh just a little harder.

then—his hands land on your hips, gripping them and rocking you down onto his leg harder—faster.

he seems to be enjoying this.

well what kind of idiot wouldn't?

you gasp in his mouth and he swallows it gratefully—at this point you're not thinking anymore, just feeling. your breath hitches as you rock forward—uncoordinated—chasing the friction of his body against yours.

“you gonna finish just from this, pretty girl?” he smirks against your lips, voice husky in a way you can feel yourself shiver on him.

“fuck..keep talking like that and maybe i will,” you whine out—pulling back from his face. you can barely recognize your own voice in the moment, the haze of lust clouding your mind.

his fingers gently caressed the curve of your ass, giving it a light squeeze, “never knew you had such a dirty mouth.”

your eyes are shut tight, head thrown back at the sensation. you can feel your climax nearing, your movements stuttering for a split second.

jimin notices.

sinks back into the seat, letting go of your hips to tuck his hands behind his head, elbows jutting out on either side like he’s lounging in bed instead of in the back of a moving car. the posture makes his hoodie ride up slightly—not that he seems to care.

he doesn't speak, just watches you behind half lidded eyes, watching you lose yourself on his thigh.

he bounces his leg once, watching you move with it and fall back down. the action makes you shudder, you swear you can feel yourself closer to the edge—just once more roll of your hips and—

jimins hands shoots out from behind his head.

not to pull you closer or help you chase your high.

but to still you.

his fingers splay across your hipbone, firm, controlling. his thumbs press down, enough to make you aware of how obvious you're being.

you freeze embarrassment flooding your cheeks. your head shoots back to meet the drivers eyes, but he isn't looking back at you.

you thought it was because you were going too far, that the owner of the vehicle had noticed and was visibly uncomfortable—but none of that happened.

your gaze darts back to meet jimin's, your eyes are filled with confusion and a tinge of annoyance—he just prevented you from reaching your peak.

a smug grin is plastered over this bastards face. he's got you pinned, barely even trying. the taxi rumbles beneath you both, street lights flashing over his features in slow, golden pulses. he's too calm for someone who just had your tongue in his mouth two minutes ago.

“have some decency,” he murmurs like he didn't just makeout with you—only denying your pleasure for his own satisfaction. his voice is low, quiet, enough that the driver wouldn't hear, but it still cuts right through you.

your eyebrows furrow and you pout—something you'd never do unless you're high. “you’re such an asshole..” you try to still your hands which are still clenched in the fabric of his jacket like it's the only thing tethering you to earth.

he lets out a low chuckle, meeting your eyes—and he tilts his head with that same lazy arrogance you felt on the balcony, but now you’re on top of him, flushed and breathless and feeling everything too much.

“not my fault you can't wait until we get to your apartment,” he taunts, watching your reaction.

you try to glare.

it doesn’t land.

not with the way your hips twitch again—subtle, reflexive—against the leg he hasn’t let you grind on properly.

he notices.

of course he does.

he just smiles—that same quiet, devastating smile—and keeps his hand exactly where it is.

your fingers fumble with the keys to the building's front door—a full five seconds spent trying to figure out which one fits, and jimin's breath is hot against your neck the whole time. he laughs when you drop them, quiet and low, teeth grazing the space behind your ear like it’s funny. like you’re funny—as if you’re already his favorite joke.

he's pressed up against your back—not enough to hurt, enough to make you forget to lock the door behind you, and to let you feel the hard outline in his pants.

are you crazy for this? yes. you should've left him at that balcony alone and went to a different room, how are you gonna explain to chaeyoung that you just fucked jimin? you're positive she's gonna tease you about it, and the rest of jimin's little gang will also most likely make a big deal out of it.

but most importantly, how will you tell chaeyoung that you smoked weed again? after seven months, you gave in because of a boy you found slightly attractive. having a one night stand is already enough.

you barely even know him, never got the chance to once you pressed your lips against his. you're not as high as you were, but everything still feels slowed down and loud at the same time.

the door finally swings open and you both spill inside—clumsy limbs, breathless mouths, restraint left out on the pavement with the last of your self-respect.

the lobby is empty. sterile. too clean to be witnessing the way his hands are on you like this—fast, unafraid, like he’s been here before.

his mouth finds your neck before you even reach the elevator—lips dragging, tongue warm, teeth shy just to tease you. your jacket is slipping from your shoulders, his fingers are already under the fabric, finding your waist with a grip that's steadier than yours. you're barely holding it together.

and your hands?

god, your hands are trembling.

you tell yourself it’s the weed, or maybe the come-down. anything but him.

you don't want to admit it's because of him.

“jimin,” you gasp out, breath catching on the syllables as you turn to face him. your arms are around his shoulders, the only thing keeping you upright.

he hums in response—low, amused— like he didn’t hear you.

worse: he did, he just doesn’t care.

your fingers nearly miss the button to your floor, too focused on the feeling of his mouth against the nape of your neck.

he's kissing you like it's a habit

like you’re already his,

like he’s been waiting all night for this exact second.

his mouth moves against yours in short, greedy pulls, casually pulling your lower lip between his teeth.

he kisses like someone who doesn’t believe in second chances.

your back hits the mirrored wall of the elevator with a soft thud, and he follows, pressing in, hands curled into the fabric at your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

you want to slow down, to ask him what this is, if it means anything.

but you don't.

you're too desperate for touch, yearning for it all this time even if you weren't aware.

you're barely free from the weed—balanced on that thin line between “yes, i know exactly what i’m doing” and “i’m still doing it anyway, because i'm a little high.” just clear enough to realize how badly you want to be undone again.

you're slowly turning back time, turning back into your past self. the one who kisses strangers in public, the one who gets high just to feel something, the one who confuses lust with freedom and sex with silence.

but here you are.

again.

his hand finds the small of your back, the other cups your jaw, guiding your mouth to his like you’ve got nothing left to argue with—you really don't have anything left to argue with.

you tell yourself that this is easier than being left alone with your thoughts.

your back is flush with the wall now. the feeling of the cold metal is reaching you through the denim and the thick fabric of your dress.

he knee nudges between your thighs, softly rubbing against your core.

you grind down onto him, you let yourself do what you weren't able to in the taxi.

jimin laughs softly against your lips. “you didn't even lock the front door properly.”

you pull away for just a second to speak, so it doesn't seem like he has power over you.

you're convincing yourself that he isn't.

“shut up,” you manage to bark out.

“make me.”

and you do.

or at least, you try—mouth connecting with his again, teeth slightly clashing, lips sliding together like you’ve lost track of who you were ten minutes ago.

your fingers tangle in his hair—desperate, needy, more honest than you'd like to be—and the elevator hums to life beneath your feet. your keys remain hooked in your fingers. the metal jingling every time he tilts his head.

you're intoxicated from his touch to the point you can't remember if you pressed the right button or not, if you even know what floor you live on.

by the time the elevator dings, he’s dragging your coat off one shoulder, whispering something lewd against your collarbone—something you don’t catch because your brain is static, and your body is fire.

you should be ashamed.

you should be cautious.

you should be thinking about the consequences.

but all you care about is how long it’ll take to get to your bedroom.

the hallway hushes behind you, the walk to your door seems longer than usual.

you don’t get far.

jimin catches you halfway to your door, one hand braced against the wall near your head, the other skating down your waist like he’s learning you by touch alone. his mouth drags along your jaw, leaving warmth in its wake, and you tilt without meaning to—searching, yielding, already lost.

he unbuttons your jacket, tugging down on it and sliding it from your arms.

you barely register the hum of the elevator closing behind you, the soft creak of floorboards beneath your steps as you back toward your apartment.

his mouth is against your again, kitty-licking in your cheeks. you let yourself melt into the feeling, the warmth pooling between your legs is becoming obvious with the way you're clenching your thighs together.

he says something—your name maybe, or nothing at all—and you don’t respond.

you cant. not when he’s this close, not when your hands are nearly under his shirt and your thoughts are a tide pulling you deeper and deeper.

the key jams the first time. slips the second. he doesn’t offer to help.

he just stays behind you, a quiet heat, breath grazing the back of your neck.

the lock finally clicks.

the door flies open, banging against the wall and you both stumble in.

not graceful, not coordinated—just mouths, hands, gravity. like falling, but heavier. like the moment right before a crash.

your coat is gone, fisted in his hand. your keys scatter somewhere near the baseboard.

his hoodie hits the floor next.

you're pretty sure your self respect goes down with it.

shoes are half-kicked off somewhere by the front door.

you feel, but don't hear the door shut behind you both. you just know. the way the world outside is suddenly gone, swallowed up by the hush of your apartment. it's quieter here, but not calmer. there's tension in every step you take, every brush of skin. jimin’s hand hasn’t left your waist since the elevator.

your apartment is small. lived-in. the kind of space that folds around your habits and leaves quiet traces of you in every corner.

you hate this place, even though it's your so called home. it always feels empty, not physically—just empty. you've bought multiple types of furniture, lamps, shelves, a really cool coffee table—hell! you even bought another reclining chair that you thought would fit in your already stuffed living room. it's currently in your storage unit.

there's no real entryway—just a sliver of space between the door and the living room, separated by an old bookshelf you never finished filling. the light above the kitchen flickers when you pass it. you've been meaning to fix that.

your bag is still slumped against the side of the couch from earlier today. the coffee table is cluttered with things you haven’t touched in days—a half-read book facedown beside a chipped glass filled with iced tea. an unopened envelope. a pen without its cap. the remote balanced on top of a wrinkled blanket you couldn't bother enough to fold.

he weaves through the place like he doesn’t notice any of it.

like the clutter doesn’t interrupt the mood. like this isn’t the first time he’s stepped inside someone’s life mid-unraveling.

he stays close as you guide him down the hall, fingers toying with the straps of your dress, tracing the skin there like it belongs to him. his breath fans against your neck as you reach for the door to your room, and this time you’re too aware of how fast your pulse is beating. of how close you are to letting go.

you fumble the doorknob.

his hand settles on your hip again, firmer now.

not rushing. just reminding.

and underneath it all is the faint scent of fucking coffee.

you're certain that you hate coffee

it clings to everything: the cushions, the curtains, the worn rug beneath your feet. stale, soft, a little bitter—soaked into the bones of the place.

you used to live through it without caring, but now it’s all you can think about. It’s in the air between you, caught on your sheets, living in the corners of your room like secondhand smoke.

you wonder if he notices.

if it’s sinking into his clothes the way it’s already sunk into you.

he's close again—impossibly so—breath skimming your shoulder, fingertips slipping beneath the fabric of your dress like a question he already knows the answer to.

you don’t stop him.

you don’t want to.

by the time you reach your bedroom, your pulse is thudding in your ears. every step feels louder than it should, like your body’s making too much noise for the quiet of your space.

the door opens with a soft creak.

you step inside.

he follows without pause, like he was already familiar with the layout. his hand leaves your waist just long enough to close the door behind him, but the space between you doesn’t last. not even a second. he's right there again, shoulder brushing yours, gaze flicking around the room once—just once —before it returns to you.

your room is the same as you left it, cast in a low amber wash from the lamp on your nightstand. the kind of lighting that hides things—uneven stacks of laundry in the corner, the dust along your windowsill, the way your desk’s still a mess from earlier.

you hadn’t planned on this.

you never do.

four-month-old sheets. the makeup products that litter your ‘work’ space. curtains drawn shut like you were preparing to shut the world out.

now he’s inside it.

jimin nudges the door closed with his foot, slow and sure, and the quiet click of it latching echoes louder than it should. his hands tighten around your waist, trailing downwards, unhurried, fingers brushing over the curve of your hips, down your thighs, coaxing you backward until the edge of the mattress presses behind your knees.

you need him—this, more than you thought you did.

he stays standing for a second, watching you from above, breath even but eyes too focused. focused in a way that’s heavier than you’re ready for.

your hands twitch in your lap. you try to breathe normally, but your chest won’t listen. the room hums with quiet—city buzzing outside, pipes creaking faintly above you, the shallow hitch of your inhale when he shifts closer.

bed.

skin.

him.

everything around you feels loaded. messy. warm. handsome—pretty.

then his hands find your knees with that quiet kind of confidence he carries like second nature.

his palms are hot where they settle—broad and certain—and they push gently outward. your thighs part under his touch.

your breath fastens as he slots himself between your legs, weight balanced on his knees while hovering above you. he isn't touching you—not really. his hands are planted on the mattress near either side of your body, but you can feel his thumb barely rubbing against your waist.

the hem of your black dress has ridden up slightly, tights stretched taut against your legs. his eyes flick down—once, barely noticeable—but you feel it like a burn. the fabric is soft, but your skin is buzzing under it, aware of every inch he isn’t touching yet.

his chain is dangling above you, catching the dim light. for a second, all you can think about is wrapping your fingers around it and yanking him down.

your gaze fails to meet his, too nervous that you'll see something that snaps you out of the moment.

his eyes drag over your face, steady and impossible to interpret. he notices your mouth too—how your lip is caught between your teeth, how you’re trying so hard not to look impatient.

one of his hands lifts. just his fingertips, only brushing the hem of your dress this time. not pushing it up, but just resting there, right on your thigh.

“last chance,” he whispered, reminding you that this is real. he takes a short breath in before speaking again, reassuring you, “tell me to leave, and i'll walk right out that door.”

there's a sharp feeling in your chest, the realization that this isn't some kind of game. this a real person you're talking to right now, not chaeyoung,

fingers curl into the front of his shirt. you tug him down until his chain hits your collarbone and his breath ghosts over your lips.

“then don’t give me the chance,” you whisper.

with that—you're tugging him down by the collar, fingers curling in the cloth the way his does in the sheets.

his tongue slides into your mouth eagerly, tilting your head with his free hand to give him more access.

he smells like smoke—most of it covered under cheap cologne you'd think a teenage boy would be using. no matter the quality—it hits you all at once, dizzying you just like weed.

his fingers push up the hem of your dress, pooling it around your waist. the air hits your skin, cold, sharp, but his touch follows immediately, replacing it with something warmer.

he pulls away to drag his mouth down your throat, open-mouthed, slow. the sound that escapes you isn’t pretty, but it pulls a quiet exhale from him—something close to a groan, something he doesn’t try to hide.

his fingers hook the waistband of your panties, pulling them and letting go just to see you squirm when the fabric snaps back onto your skin.

“stop that,” you mutter, breathlessly

“stop what?”

“teasing me.”

he chuckles, shaking his head as he places a kiss on your collarbone. the boy pulls back, sitting on his knees while he fumbles with the zipper of his pants.

“if you think that's teasing, you must've been touch-starved for way too long,” he claims with a smirk, his gaze running up your body for a little too long before meeting your eyes once again.

you'd laugh if your throat weren’t tight. because he’s right—and you hate that he is.

he looks breathtaking in the dim light, the warm glow from your lamp painting his skin in soft amber, catching on the silver of his chain, the small rise and fall of his chest.

you wouldn't admit that though.

the moment he finally unzips his pants, he shoves them down his thighs with a grunt, unbothered to take them off completely. he slots himself between your legs again, close enough for you to see the tent in his boxers, leaving little to your imagination.

the image of it paints your face a pretty pink, causing your body to shiver in anticipation.

“cute,” he murmurs.

you tune his words out, unable to focus on anything but his touch, the tips of his fingers leaving traces of fire as he slides your underwear down.

and when he leans in again—just enough for his breath to ghost over your jaw—your heart does something strange.

it doesn’t speed up.

it aches.

your fingers intertwine in his hair again, a measly attempt to ground yourself in the moment.

you realize, somewhere between one breath and the next, that this isn’t about the weed. or the loneliness. or the way he makes you forget how empty your apartment feels.

it's about how easily you let him in anyway.

and that maybe, this time, you won’t be able to blame it on being high.