₊˚⊹ welcome <33 i created this solely for fun and as a way to escape my millions of responsibilities as a college student, so feel free to message me, send requests, or just say hi—i can’t promise super quick updates (i am absolutely drowning in work/exams daily), but i CAN promise to always try my best to get to everything eventually!
aside from the obvious (writing), i love music, politics, journaling, true crime, thrifting, dance, social justice, random wikipedia spirals, etc. most of my posts will feature ateez, but i'll also write for p1harmony, enhypen, txt, and bigbang, as well as others like harry potter, the marauders, marvel, love and deepspace, the maze runner, teen wolf, alice in borderland, anime, an insane amount of kdramas, and much more!
just a reminder, this is an 18+ blog. the content here will range from sfw to mostly nsfw, and will include heavy/triggering themes. please always check the warnings before reading! with all that being said... welcome! i'm so happy you're here and please never hesitate to reach out. i promise i am not scary <3
₊˚⊹ masterlist. recent work. reqs and taglist open!
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 14.2k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet, so i hope you enjoy! translations are at the end again :)
Usually, in the Language Center, there are no more than four pairs of students hunched together over their notes, their voices barely rising above a murmur as they practice verb conjugations. There might be a lone student or two tucked into a secluded corner, cramming for an oral exam or a vocab quiz, whispering phrases under their breath. At the front desk, the receptionist taps gently at her keyboard, offering polite, muted greetings to anyone who walks through the doors. Every Thursday evening, without fail, you're greeted with the same peaceful, studious hush.
So it's pretty jarring when you hear shouting from inside before your hand even touches the doors.
"...a mistake! I want to speak to the department head right now!"
You push the doors open, blinking at the sudden burst of yelling. The figure looming over the polished dark wood of the front desk is so agitated that he doesn't even turn around at the sound of your entrance.
"I'm one of your best tutors! Who the hell would file a complaint about me?" the man demands, slamming his palm down hard enough to make the receptionist flinch.
You stop short as the doors swing closed behind you. You recognize that voice.
James is aggressively waving a crumpled piece of paper at the receptionist, his face flushed an ugly, blotchy red. You quickly sidestep, ducking behind a leafy potted monstera plant in the corner of the lobby. Pretending to be deeply fascinated by the damp soil in the pot, you peer down into it, fighting a losing battle against the grin tugging at your mouth as you listen to their conversation.
Hongjoong actually got him fired. The thought makes a laugh bubble up in your throat. You can practically picture the flush creeping up his neck if you called him out on it. The quiet, stuttering man who had nearly tripped over his own feet on Sunday morning had turned around and executed an administrative kill, thanks to his position.
But, if James happens to glance over and catch sight of you standing here, arriving right on time for your typical Thursday evening session, you’re pretty sure it wouldn’t take much for his brain to connect the dots.
"I already told you, honey, the department head isn't here today," the receptionist says, her usually kind voice cooled by a dose of exasperation. "There's nothing I can do for you."
"You can't just fire me without a meeting!" James sputters.
"You'll have to email HR." She offers him a strained smile of apology.
He lets out a frustrated groan, raking both hands through his hair before hitting the desk one last time. You shrink further behind the broad green leaves of the plant as he storms across the lobby, shoving through the doors with enough force that they bang loudly against their frames behind him.
When he leaves, the peaceful quiet returns.
You wait a full three seconds before stepping out from the foliage, brushing a tiny speck of dirt from your sweater as you make your way over to the front desk.
The receptionist looks up from her monitor at the sound of your footsteps. She lets out a frayed breath, though a tired, polite smile still finds its way onto her lips when she recognizes you.
"Hi, ____. Sorry about that," she sighs, nodding toward the front entrance. "He’s been demanding to see the department head for twenty minutes. I told him she’s not here, but he wouldn't listen."
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, forcing your expression to remain neutral. "Did something happen?" you ask, playing dumb.
She glances around the empty lobby before leaning in slightly closer. "He got terminated this morning. I don’t know all the details, but rumor has it that someone filed a formal complaint with a mountain of documentation about professional misconduct."
You try your hardest to look appropriately shocked, even as your chest swells with warmth.
The receptionist shakes her head, waving a dismissive hand as if to brush the unpleasant scene out of the air. She types a quick note into her keyboard before smiling back up at you.
"Anyway, Hongjoong is already waiting for you. Go on inside."
You give her a bright, fleeting smile back and turn down the corridor. The walk is short, but every step sends butterflies fluttering through your stomach. It’s not a bad anxiety, though—it’s the thrill of anticipation.
This is the first time you're seeing Hongjoong since Sunday morning, when he kissed you goodbye at his front door, causing you to bolt from his apartment like a flustered idiot.
You haven't exactly been silent since then. Your phone has been buzzing with a steady stream of texts over the last few days, though you've both been dancing around the heavy stuff. Mostly, you’ve been ironing out the logistics of keeping whatever this is a secret, considering it's a direct violation of the university's rules:
You: Are you sure you're okay with risking your job?
Hongjoong: More than okay. I barely get paid anything, anyway.
You: Well, that's good. Because I may or may not have already told all my friends about you.
Hongjoong: ...Yeah. Me too. I texted my friends back home the second you left my apartment.
Beyond sneaking around, your conversations had drifted into safer territory. Both of you lamented about how finals were only a few weeks away and how fast the semester had slipped through your fingers. You thanked him for single-handedly saving your Korean grade, though you could've used some of that help with Econ. He confessed that he hates working for the university and that you were the only reason he actually looked forward to his tutoring shifts.
Conspicuously absent from all that talk, however, was any label.
There hasn't been a single text addressing whether the weekend's events mean you're officially together now. You’ve quietly allowed yourself to assume that you are. Honestly, in your mind, a confession that sincere seems way too meaningful to devolve into some casual "tutor-tutee-with-benefits" arrangement. Hongjoong admitted he had real feelings for you, and you gave yours right back.
Isn't the only logical next step to date each other?
When you walk in, Hongjoong is already there, as promised.
He’s sitting at your usual table by the window with a few sheets of paper neatly stacked and two pens perfectly aligned next to his open notebook. He’s wearing a thick navy sweater with sleeves long enough to swallow his hands as he types at his laptop. His black-rimmed glasses sit high on the bridge of his nose, though they keep slipping lower each time his head tilts down.
At the sound of your footsteps, his head snaps up. The moment his eyes find yours, a tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he quickly suppresses it. Picking up his pen, he begins to tap it against the spiral of his notebook as he checks the clock on the wall.
"It's 5:01," he notes, though the strictness in his tone is ruined by the teasing glint in his eyes. "I don't think you've ever been late before."
You pull out the chair across from him and place your bag on the floor, getting the recording app ready to go. "I'm sorry," you reply, an unapologetic smile playing on your lips. "I was here on time, but there was a lot of commotion in the lobby."
The pen pauses mid-tap. Hongjoong blinks. "Huh? What was going on?"
You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your face innocent. "I don't know. It sounded like someone may have gotten fired?"
Hongjoong chokes on his own spit. He sputters out a cough, his face flushing as he clears his throat, refusing to meet your gaze.
"Oh. Uh," he wheezes, hectically adjusting the stack of papers that are already perfectly straight. "That's... huh. Wonder what that's all about." He clears his throat again, his hands floating nervously over his materials before he slides a sheet of paper across the desk. "Well. I, uh... I have the dialogue ready to go."
You bite down hard on your lip to keep from laughing out loud. and reach out to pull your copy of the dialogue toward you.
This week’s scenario, it seems, is a customer ordering at a restaurant and a waiter taking their request.
Hongjoong gives a subtle tilt of his chin toward your phone, the silent cue to start recording. You tap the screen.
"주문하시겠어요?" he asks right away. Are you ready to order?
Somehow, though he's talking about something as mundane as ordering food, your brain links the cadence of his syllables to the only other Korean you’ve heard recently: everything he said to you on Saturday night. A hot blush climbs up your neck. You clear your throat, desperately trying to find your place on the page.
"저는 순...두...부...찌개 주세요," you stumble. I'll have the sundubu-jjigae, please.
"순두부찌개," Hongjoong corrects. He reaches over to tap the pause button on your screen, knowing you'll want to restart. "It's a soft tofu stew. Make sure to emphasize the double consonant on the 찌개."
"순두부... 찌개," you sound out slowly, watching the shape of his mouth and trying to mimic the movement.
He gives an approving nod. "Good."
You restart the recording and take it from the top. You try your best to focus on the ink printed on the page, but your mind keeps drifting. You can't stop the memory of those lips against your collarbone, or the low, raspy way his voice had sounded in the dark of his bedroom. Yet here he sits, tapping his pen, acting every bit the polite, professional tutor you've known all semester.
But the longer you sit across from him, the harder it is to place that innocent image over the man you now know.
"제 친구는 불고기하고... 냉면? 먹고 싶어 해요," you struggle, tripping over unfamiliar characters. My friend wants to eat bulgogi and naengmyeon.
"냉면," he corrects again, leaning over slightly to point at the vowels with the tip of his pen. "It's a cold noodle dish."
As he says it, he glances up through his lashes, and your eyes lock. You watch the shift in his gaze as it involuntarily drops from your eyes down to your lips. He swallows hard, forcibly dragging his attention back to the sheet of paper before clearing his throat. A telltale dusting of pink rises from his collar, and below the table, his knee starts bouncing.
You realize with a suppressed, giddy smile that he's struggling to focus just as much as you are.
"Try it again," he says, his voice suddenly a little thicker. "From the beginning."
You run the dialogue two more times, trying your best to ignore the charged air between you. By the fourth take, you nail the pronunciation perfectly. A smile finally breaks through Hongjoong's tight expression as you hit submit on the recording.
Then, with the dialogue out of the way, you fall into a painfully awkward silence.
Hongjoong shifts in his chair, a hand coming up to needlessly adjust his glasses. He looks at you, then quickly at the clock, then back at his hands.
"So," he starts, the syllable coming out a little too high before he clears his throat. "What else do you need help with this week?"
You swallow. Over text, it had been so easy. Safe behind a screen, you could banter with him, tease him, and bravely joke about him risking his job for you. But here, face-to-face, sitting less than three feet apart, there's nowhere to hide anymore. The sight of him suddenly makes you embarrassingly tongue-tied.
"I... don't really know," you admit, dropping your gaze to the table. "I, um, haven't been paying much attention in class this week."
Hongjoong tilts his head, a single eyebrow arching. "No? Why not?"
He asks it innocently enough, but when you finally dare to look up, there’s a faint, knowing glint in his eyes. He knows why. You’ve done the exact same thing to him. For the past few days, he’s been occupying all the space in your mind, leaving no room for any grammar rules.
You feel another flush creeping up your neck and purposefully keep your mouth shut.
Though he tries his best to hide it, a pleased grin spreads across Hongjoong's face. He reaches out and casually snaps his notebook shut, gathering his pens and setting them neatly on top—except for one, which he keeps, twirling it idly between his fingers.
"Well," he says, hesitating for only a moment, "If there's nothing else... we could always pack up early and, uh... take the session to my room."
Your eyes widen. "Hongjoong!" you hiss, darting a nervous glance around the room at the other students.
He blinks, following your line of sight before twisting in his chair to look behind him, confusion flickering across his face. "What?"
"And what exactly do you intend to do in your room?" you whisper, your face burning.
Hongjoong just stares at you for a long, blank second before he realizes what you thought he meant. A breathless laugh slips out of him as he fumbles with the pen in his hand, nearly dropping it onto the table. The tips of his ears turn pink as he hurriedly sets it down in a neat line with the others. "Uh... watch a K-drama. Or something. For listening practice. Literally... take the session to my room."
"...Oh."
You practically melt into your chair, your blush spreading until it sets your ears on fire.
Hongjoong presses his lips together, but the corners of his mouth keep twitching upward. He clears his throat, dragging his notebook a few inches closer even though it's already directly in front of him. His fingers fidget with the edge of the cover, tapping it once, then twice.
"So that's where your mind went?" He tosses his pens into the front pocket of his bag, glancing up at you through his glasses. His eyes are bright with poorly concealed amusement, though the pink still lingers at the tips of his ears. "I'm still your tutor, you know."
"Yeah, well," you scoff instinctively, the embarrassment making you reckless. "Now you're also my—"
The word dies on your tongue instantly.
Boyfriend.
You were about to call Hongjoong your boyfriend.
Your mouth goes dry. You still haven't talked about labels. You haven't discussed what this actually is, or what either of you even wants it to become. What if he thinks you're moving too fast? What if he doesn't see it the same way? What if he laughs, or worse—goes quiet and starts putting distance between you again? What if "boyfriend" is too much, too childish, or too soon?
The teasing drains from Hongjoong's face as he watches you freeze. His hand pauses halfway to his backpack's zipper, and he slowly lowers his arm back to the table, the awkwardness in the air suddenly turning heavier than before.
He studies you. His eyes track the panic that is undoubtedly written across every inch of your face. You brace yourself for him to awkwardly change the subject, to clear his throat and remind you that you can't talk about these things in the Language Center, or—worst of all—to tell you that you're rushing things.
But instead, Hongjoong swallows hard. He drops his gaze to the table, his fingers tracing the spiral binding of his notebook. When he finally looks back up at you, the nervousness in his eyes catches you by surprise.
"남자친구?" he murmurs, soft and hesitant.
You blink, your panicked brain failing to translate the syllables. You stare at him, your mouth slightly parted.
Your obvious confusion seems to make a tiny, incredibly anxious smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Reaching back into his bag, he pulls out a pen and clicks it open. He flips his notebook open to a page crowded with old notes and points his pen at the blank margin.
"Separate the components," he instructs gently. He writes two blocks of Hangul on the blank space, pointing at the first one with the tip of his pen. "남자."
"남자," you repeat, your voice shaking slightly. "Man."
He nods. "Or, depending on the context... boy." He slides his pen to the second block of characters. "친구. You know this one, too." He looks up from the paper, searching for your reaction. "남자친구."
Your breath catches. "Boy... friend?"
Hongjoong nods once, quickly. His hand tightens around his pen, and he looks at you as though he's genuinely scared you're about to reject him.
Is he crazy? you think, affection blossoming inside your chest. Does he actually think that's not what I want?
You need to reassure him. You need to erase that anxious look from his face. And, thankfully, your brain obligingly supplies the exact grammar structures he’s spent the past few months drilling into you, ready to be used for exactly that purpose.
You sit up a little straighter, drawing in a deep breath. You point a finger across the table at him.
"홍중은," you start, visualizing the sentence piece by piece in your head, just as he taught you to do. Subject. Topic particle. Modifier. Noun. Copula. "내... 남자친구예요."
Hongjoong is my boyfriend.
Hongjoong’s eyes widen behind his glasses.
You turn your finger back to point at your own chest, racking your brain for the vocabulary word for 'woman' or 'girl'.
"그리고... 저는," you continue, quieter now, carefully assembling each syllable and praying your vocabulary is accurate. "홍중의... 여자친구예요."
And I am Hongjoong's girlfriend.
Hongjoong stares at you, utterly stunned, as his brain processes the slightly clunky—yet completely correct—Korean sentences you just formulated entirely on your own. Slowly, a blindingly bright grin spreads across his face, so wide and genuine that his eyes crinkle. A breathless little laugh escapes him as he looks at you like he can't quite believe what he just heard, his cheeks turning a soft, beautiful shade of pink.
"응," he breathes, the syllable almost entirely lost to a soft, emotional laugh. Yes. "잘했어... 내 여자친구." Good job... my girlfriend.
You hold each other’s gaze in complete silence for a long time. You can feel your own expression stuck somewhere between relief and shock. Across the table, he's still looking at you as if you’ve said something irreversible in the best possible way.
Girlfriend. Boyfriend.
Such simple words, and still they send a stupid, unmistakable rush through you. It makes you feel a little ridiculous, honestly. You've dated before. You've had a boyfriend before. You've known what it's supposed to feel like.
But you've never felt anything like this.
Hongjoong's eyes drift, just briefly, toward the clock on the wall, and a new spark lights up his eyes.
"Actually," he murmurs, suddenly snapping his notebook shut. "I have an idea. Pack your stuff. We're leaving."
You blink, caught off guard as he's already sliding the notebook into his bag and swinging it over his shoulder. "Leaving? Leaving where?"
"Just follow me," is all he says. A grin pulls at his lips before he turns away.
You scramble to stuff your own supplies into your bag, chasing after him into the quiet hallway. "Seriously," you say with a surprised, breathless laugh, scurrying to keep up with his quick pace as you pass through the lobby together. You both flash an automatic, slightly guilty smile at the receptionist, who merely arches an amused eyebrow over her monitor as the two of you blow past her desk. "Where are we going?"
He doesn't answer until you push through the front doors and step out into the evening air. The cold hits you hard, but it's not nearly as brutal as it could be. Winter may have technically arrived, but tonight, it’s mild enough that the sweater on your shoulders is enough to keep you warm.
Hongjoong finally slows his steps, easing his pace just enough for you to catch up before matching his stride beside you. Without a word, he veers sharply to the side, heading around the back of the Language Center. "Do you remember when you said you hadn't tried much Korean food?"
You nod as you blindly follow him. Of course you remember; that was the very first time you'd left a session together like this—the night of Yunho's birthday party.
"And do you remember what I told you?"
You search your memory, thinking back to those earlier, allegedly platonic conversations. "You said you'd cook for me."
"Right."
You don't realize where he's leading you until the pavement opens up into the parking lot behind the Language Center, the marker of the very edge of campus. Hongjoong slips a hand into the pocket of his navy sweater and pulls out a set of keys. He presses a button, and a red sedan a few rows down answers with a flash of headlights.
"I was a little too nervous to fulfill that promise before." He stops walking, turning to face you fully. The streetlights around you catch the sudden, shy pink in his cheekbones. "But now that you're my... my girlfriend..."
Your stomach does a little flip at the word. It somehow sounds even better coming from him in English.
"...I figured tonight is a pretty good time to finally do it," he finishes, a sheepish smile settling on his mouth.
He walks you over to the passenger side of his car, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. Reaching out, he pulls the door open and holds it there, gesturing for you to get in. "Come on," he says softly. "Let's go shopping."
You slide into the passenger seat, eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he closes the door behind you. The interior is nothing like you expected—each seat is wrapped in gorgeous custom red leather that's just a shade deeper than the car’s exterior, clearly designed by none other than himself.
As you reach over your shoulder for the seatbelt, you catch a glimpse of the backseat.
It's a mess.
Loose sheets of notebook paper are scattered everywhere—pages crowded with crossed-out lyrics, others filled with pencil sketches of clothing designs, some half-crumpled like he’d tossed them back there mid-thought. But, remembering how quickly he'd hidden those papers in his bedroom, you politely snap your attention forward. You're curious, of course, but you're not ready to pry into his world just yet.
A second later, the driver's side door opens, and Hongjoong drops into the seat beside you, starting the engine. He shifts the car into reverse and hooks his right arm over the back of your headrest, twisting his torso to look out the rear window as he eases the car out of the spot.
You swallow hard, forcing your eyes to stay on the dashboard.
As he looks back, though, he notices the disaster he left in the back. His mouth twists into a grimace before he straightens, shifting the car into drive and facing forward again.
"Sorry about the mess," he mutters. "I really need to clean back there."
"It's okay. I didn't even notice."
As he pulls out onto the main road, his phone automatically syncs with the car's Bluetooth. The speakers crackle to life, dropping straight into the drumbeat of the second verse of Dani California, presumably where he left off when he was listening alone earlier.
Hongjoong's hand hovers over the volume dial with uncertainty. He glances sideways at you, looking a little nervous. "Is this album okay? You said you like the Chili Peppers, right?"
"Are you kidding?" you grin, leaning back into the red leather seat. "Dani California is one of my favorite songs of all time."
Hongjoong wordlessly smiles at that, his thumb tapping the steering wheel controls to restart the track from the very beginning just for you. When his attention drifts back to the road, he gives a faint shake of his head, an incredulous little smile playing on his lips.
"완벽해," he exhales under his breath, so quietly you almost miss it.
He clearly doesn't expect you to understand it. But he must have forgotten that it was one of the very first adjectives you ever learned, back when you were still hopelessly stumbling through basic vowels in week two.
Perfect.
Hongjoong just called you perfect.
Your heart does an embarrassing somersault in your chest, but you press your lips together, biting down gently on your smile, deciding to keep that translation to yourself.
The rest of the ride passes in a comfortable silence, filled only by Stadium Arcadium. Neither of you is quite brave enough to actually sing out loud yet, but every so often, you catch each other silently mouthing the lyrics and nodding along to the guitar. Each time it happens, you trade the same shy, embarrassed smile across the center console before quickly looking away.
Hongjoong drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the divider. His fingers tap out the complicated drum fills, and you find yourself watching his hand from the corner of your eye longer than is probably considered normal. You can't help but wonder—will you eventually reach the point where he's comfortable enough to lace his fingers through yours at a red light, or to casually rest his palm on your thigh without a second thought?
Not yet, you remind yourself, suppressing the anxious flutter that follows. Too soon. But the future possibility makes you smile nonetheless.
Roughly twelve minutes later, Hongjoong hits his blinker, pulling the sedan into the cramped asphalt lot of what looks like a small, family-owned Korean grocery store.
He cuts the engine, silencing Charlie right in the middle of the chorus. Before you can even reach for the buckle of your seatbelt, he’s already shoving his door open and climbing out of the driver's seat.
You pop your own door open, swinging your legs out into the cold air and shutting it behind you just as he rounds the hood of the car. He stops dead in his tracks, looking a little defeated when you meet him at the bumper.
"I... was going to open that for you."
You laugh softly while shaking your head. "I can handle opening a door on my own, Hongjoong."
"I know you can," he replies, his lips twitching into a wry little smile. "But I still wanted to do it."
He gestures for you to follow, leading you toward the storefront. He pulls open the door, and a tiny brass bell chimes cheerfully overhead, announcing your arrival. You step inside, taking in the cozy interior. It's much smaller than a standard supermarket, but much cleaner and more organized. To your left, an open, brightly lit cooler hums, packed full of fresh cabbage and bundled scallions. Straight ahead stand rows of tall fogged-glass refrigerators, while the wooden shelves to your right are stocked with Korean labels you can't quite read.
Right at the front of the center aisle sits a wire rack stacked with black shopping baskets. Hongjoong steps toward it, reaching out to loop his fingers under the top handles.
"홍중아? 너니?"
A high-pitched voice suddenly calls out Hongjoong's name from the back of the store. You both pause, turning just in time to see a petite older woman in a floral apron hurrying out from behind the cash register. Her face instantly breaks into a delighted smile, and she throws her arms wide as she practically jogs down the aisle toward you two.
Hongjoong’s posture straightens at once, a faint wash of pink covering his cheeks, but he doesn't pull away as she wraps her arms around his waist in a tight hug. He pats her back, bowing his head respectfully. "네, 저예요."
You giggle as you watch the scene, understanding his Korean. Yes, it's me.
The woman pulls back, giving his arm a fond pat before her bright eyes lock onto you. She gasps dramatically, her hands flying up to cup her cheeks.
"어머, 이 예쁜 아가씨는 누구니?"
Hongjoong clears his throat, his hand nervously rubbing the back of his neck. "제 친구예요. ____."
The older woman stops. She looks at Hongjoong, then looks at you, and then turns back to Hongjoong, her eyebrows inching up toward her hairline. She wiggles them at him, and though you don't understand her words, you can tell she's teasing him about you.
"친구라구? 여자친구 아니고?"
The pink on Hongjoong's cheeks deepens to a burning red. He laughs, a flustered sound, before ducking his head. "네, 제 여자친구예요. 한국어 공부하고 있어요."
You stand perfectly still, unable to parse the rapid-fire speed of the conversation. But that last part... the vocabulary is basic enough, the grammar familiar enough, that your brain stitches the translation together on a slight delay. Yes, this is my girlfriend. She's studying Korean.
Before you can react, the woman gasps again, her eyes widening in some unknown realization.
"아, 그 애야? 네가 말하던 그 학생?"
Hongjoong's head snaps up. He shoots a panicked look in your direction, and despite the language barrier, you can tell with a curious laugh that he's hoping your comprehension skills aren't advanced enough to catch what she just said.
He whips his attention back to the woman, nodding quickly, his voice hushed. "네, 네… 맞아요…"
The woman doesn't take the hint. She claps her hands together with glee, turns her head toward the stockroom, and yells at the top of her lungs: "여보! 홍중이 여자친구 왔어!"
Both you and Hongjoong flinch. His shoulders hike all the way up to his ears, mortified.
As the joyful patter of her footsteps fades toward the back, Hongjoong slowly turns to face you.
"I'm sorry about that." Despite his embarrassment, a fond smile tugs at his mouth. "That's Mrs. Yoon. She and her husband own this place."
Your heart melts a little at the sweetness of their interaction. "She seems to really like you."
"She... yeah," he admits, his voice softening as he looks around the cramped, colorful aisles. He takes a half-step closer, dropping his voice to a private murmur. "I came here on the very first night I moved from Korea. My English was just as good as it is now, but I was too overwhelmed to try to go shopping all by myself on the first night."
You look up at him, your chest aching as you picture a far more nervous version of Hongjoong standing lost in this same aisle.
"They were unbelievably kind to me," he continues, his eyes warm with the memory. "They took one look at me, realized how homesick I was, and wouldn't let me leave until they cooked a plate of hot food in the back to help me settle in. I think I've come here every weekend since."
"Hongjoong, that's... really sweet," you breathe.
He shyly shrugs with one shoulder, shooting you a sheepish glance. "Yeah, well. Just a heads up... they don't really speak much English. So I hope you're ready for some real-world listening practice."
Right on cue, the stockroom doors swing open. An older man emerges next to Mrs. Yoon, balancing a large cardboard box overflowing with fresh produce on his hip. He sets it down on a nearby crate, wiping his hands on his apron before his welcoming eyes land on the two of you.
His face lights up with a knowing grin. "홍중아, 이 애가 그—”
"네, 네, 제 학생이에요, 네," Hongjoong interrupts quickly, loudly talking over the older man before he can finish whatever embarrassing sentence he was about to say.
Mrs. Yoon laughs, turning her sparkling eyes to you. When she speaks, she deliberately slows her cadence, enunciating every syllable with a gentle, encouraging tone.
"안녕! 한국어 공부해요? 홍중이랑 같이?" Hi! Are you studying Korean? With Hongjoong?
Your eyes widen. Her phrasing is so clear and simple that you don't even have to translate it in your head—the meaning clicks into place naturally. You’ve never had a spontaneous, real-world conversation in Korean outside of your tutoring sessions before, so you're nervous, but you give a shy, eager nod anyway.
"안녕하세요…" you start, your voice likely a little too quiet. "네, 한국어 공부해요." Hello... Yes, I study Korean.
Mrs. Yoon gasps, clapping her hands together, delighted by you. She turns to her husband and Hongjoong, gesturing wildly in your direction. "어머, 한국어 진짜 잘해요!"
Luckily, you recognize that phrase. She's really good at Korean. A blush spreads across your cheeks, and you bravely supply the appropriate, polite response. "감사합니다." Thank you.
When you glance over at Hongjoong, he's beaming at you with pride.
Mr. Yoon chuckles, leaning his weight against the produce box. "홍중이 좋은 선생님인가 보네요."
You furrow your brow, carefully dissecting the sentence structure. You aren't entirely sure what the grammatical ending signifies, but you catch the core vocabulary loud and clear. Hongjoong. Good. Teacher.
"네," you agree, looking right at Hongjoong with a smile. "홍중이 좋은 선생님이에요." Yes, Hongjoong is a good teacher.
If it were physically possible, Hongjoong's face turns an even brighter shade of red, but his smile only grows larger and prouder.
Mr. and Mrs. Yoon both let out a collective endearing coo at the two of you. Mrs. Yoon looks you up and down, her eyes crinkling with fondness. "아이고, 진짜 예쁘다! 우리 홍중이 복 받았네."
You don't know what the second half of that sentence means, but you definitely caught the word pretty in the first. You shyly shake your head, lifting a hand to humbly deny the compliment, but Hongjoong speaks first.
"아, 네…" he murmurs. He looks down at you with an affectionate gaze. "제가 더 복이에요."
You don't know the translation, but the sincerity in his tone makes your knees feel weak. Both of the older shop owners laugh happily at his words.
Mr. Yoon tilts his head toward the aisles. "데이트 준비하러 온 거예요?"
You grin internally, thrilled that you recognize the English loan word and the future tense. Did you come to prepare for a date?
Hongjoong nods. "네, 제가 요리해 줄 거예요." Yes, I'm going to cook for her.
"자, 둘이 가서 쇼핑하고 와," Mrs. Yoon says cheerfully. She grabs one of the black shopping baskets off the rack and shoves it into Hongjoong's chest.
"네, 감사합니다," Hongjoong replies, graciously taking the handles and giving them both a polite, respectful bow. Thank you. "잘 다녀올게요."
Mrs. Yoon begins to physically shoo the two of you toward the produce section, waving her hands in a sweeping motion as she calls out to you: "잘 다녀와, 예쁜 아가씨.”
You freeze, looking up at Hongjoong in confusion, silently asking for a translation.
He clears his throat, tightly gripping the plastic handles of the shopping basket. "She said to come back well. Meaning, enjoy your shopping."
Mrs. Yoon instantly stops shooing. She plants her hands on her hips, points a stern finger right at Hongjoong, and says, "아니, 뒷말도 번역해 줘!"
Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut. He lets out a sigh as his ears burn again. His voice is barely above a murmur as he translates, "...Pretty girl."
Your face instantly flushes. You quickly turn back to the older woman, bowing your head to hide your goofy smile as you timidly say, "감사합니다." Thank you.
Mrs. Yoon beams, offering one last delighted laugh before happily shooing the two of you away so your first official date can finally begin.
The quiet drone of the refrigerators is suddenly the only sound left as you and Hongjoong wander slowly down the first aisle side by side. The heat from Mrs. Yoon’s teasing is still burning on your cheeks, and neither of you quite dares to look at the other yet. Instead, you both fix your attention on safer things: the squeak of your shoes against the floor and the swing of the shopping basket in his hand.
It's technically a date. An official one, even if the real date is supposed to happen later, back in his apartment when you actually start cooking. And right now, it's that officialness that makes everything feel a little awkward.
Hongjoong stops halfway down the aisle and scans the crowded shelves. He bites his lower lip in concentration, hunting down a specific label, while his free hand is stuffed deep into his pocket.
"So..." you begin. You clear your throat, trying to sound casual as you watch him squint up at the top row. "What are you going to make for us?"
"Tteokbokki. Spicy rice cakes," he answers, finally spotting what he's been looking for. He reaches up, grabs a vacuum-sealed bag filled with cylindrical white rice cakes, and drops it into the basket. He turns to look at you, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. A shy, self-deprecating smile touches his lips. "I'll be honest with you... I'm not the greatest chef in the world. So it might not be the most gourmet Korean food you'll ever have, but..." He pauses, his nervous gaze softening a little. "It was my favorite meal my mom made for my older brother and me when we were kids. So it's probably the one thing I won't completely mess up."
You smile a little to yourself. He's trying so hard to make this perfect.
"Well," you say, offering him a goofy grin, "I've never had it before. So even if you do mess it up, I won't know it's bad."
That pulls a laugh out of him. "Actually, that makes me feel much more confident."
"Good," you reply lightly. "The bar is on the floor."
Still smiling, he nods for you to follow and leads you a few aisles over.
He stops in front of the dried goods section. First, he picks up a stiff sheet of dried kelp, then a vacuum-sealed package of flat fish cakes, tossing both into the basket. He crouches slightly, reaching down to the lowest shelf and pulling out a clear plastic bag filled with hundreds of tiny dried silver fish that rattle softly as he lifts it.
You pause, eyeing the bag with suspicion as he holds it up. "Are those anchovies?"
"Yep. Dried," he says simply, dropping them into the basket.
Your nose wrinkles unintentionally.
Hongjoong bursts out laughing. "Don't look at me like that!" he grins, leaning against the shelf. "We need them to make the base for the broth. It's the traditional way to do it." He shrugs a little. "More importantly, it's my mom's way."
You glance back down at the bag of fish, then slowly lift your eyes to his very amused face.
He grins. "You don't trust my mom?"
"I trust your mom. I don't trust fish that still have their eyeballs attached."
"You know, you're more difficult to shop with than I thought you'd be," he says. He turns his head to scan the next shelf, but you see the corners of his eyes crinkling as he fails to hide his smile. "The fish are staying. Now we just need an onion and the stuff for the sauce. Have you ever had gochujang?"
"I think so. Is that the sauce you put on bibimbap?" you ask, stepping closer to peer at the array of jars and bottles he's looking at.
He nods. "It's used in a lot of dishes. Fermented chili paste." He reaches out and points to a stack of small, rectangular red tubs, grabbing one and adding it to the basket.
"We'll also need soy sauce, some minced garlic, a little bit of sugar..." he murmurs, half to himself, collecting the ingredients one by one. Finally, he picks up a large bag filled with a coarse red powder. "And this is gochugaru. Korean chili flakes."
He pauses, glancing down at the bag. His mouth twitches like a thought just occurred to him. "It's perfect," he says, eyes brightening. "We went from listening to the Red Hot Chili Peppers to buying real red hot chili peppers."
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh. "Oh my god. You joke like a dad."
His ears immediately turn pink. "...I thought it was funny."
When a small giggle slips out, you abruptly turn toward a row of sesame oils to hide it.
Unfortunately, you're too late. A delighted grin breaks across his face. "So it was funny."
"It was not," you insist, though your smile says otherwise.
"Mm. Whatever you say," he chuckles as he guides you around the corner and into the next aisle.
You weave past a tall, misted cooler displaying a dozen different varieties of tofu. Hongjoong slows beside it, his eyes sweeping over the neatly stacked containers. He lets out a soft, wistful sigh.
"Have you ever heard of doenjang jjigae?" he asks.
You shake your head, stepping up to stand beside him.
"When I think of home, that's what I think of," he says, staring at the shelf with a nostalgic look in his eyes. "It's a stew made with tofu, soybean paste, vegetables, meat... It's comfort food. Whenever my brother or I had a bad day at school, my mom would already have a pot boiling on the stove by the time we got home to cheer us up."
"Did your mom cook for you a lot?" you ask softly.
He nods, reaching over to a nearby bin to evaluate a yellow onion. Finding a good one, he drops it into the basket. "All the time. She didn't work after she had us, and she always loved to cook, so our meals were always made from scratch. I was a really lucky kid."
You tilt your head teasingly. "And you missed out on the cooking gene yourself?"
That earns you another laugh from him. "Oh, definitely. Completely skipped me. My brother got it, though. Bumjoong." He glances at you with a little competitive smile. "But he's a terrible singer. So I beat him in something."
You grin as he takes you down another aisle, the basket swinging between you.
"Do you miss them?" you ask more quietly. "I don't know if I could even imagine being an ocean away from my family for so long."
He slows, his hand resting on the handle of the basket. "I do," he admits honestly, his tone bittersweet. "Especially my brother. We fought all the time, but he was my best friend back home. But... even though I'm not really speaking to him right now, Seonghwa is the best friend I could have here. He makes the distance a lot easier. Usually."
You bite down on your lower lip guiltily, uncomfortable with the reality that you're part of the reason why he isn't speaking to someone who usually makes being away from home feel a little less lonely.
You pivot as he stops in front of the fresh fruit display. Hongjoong picks up a clear carton of strawberries, inspecting them from all angles. You eye the carton, trying to figure out how they could factor into a spicy rice cake dish.
"What made you want to come here for school, then?"
"I came here when I was pretty young," he says, still focused on the strawberries. "My family took a trip over here, and I decided I liked it." Finding the fruit to his liking, he sets the carton in the basket, nestling it beside the rice cakes.
You raise your eyebrows.
"For dessert," he clarifies, a little shyly, before turning his attention back to your question. "Plus, I knew that if I wanted to seriously pursue music and fashion, there'd be a lot more opportunities to build industry connections here."
He turns to look at you as the two of you slowly begin to make your way toward the checkout counter. "What about you?" he asks curiously. "Your plans for the future? I remember you saying during our first couple of sessions that taking Korean wasn't your first choice."
"It wasn't," you admit, nodding at the floor as your foot nudges a stray piece of cardboard to the side. You hesitate for a moment, then look back up at him, catching his eye with a shy, reluctant smile. "But... I'm glad I ended up having to take it."
Hongjoong's steps slow. "Why's that?"
"Because I met—"
You.
It's right there, right at the tip of your tongue. You catch yourself right in time, your brain screaming at you to filter yourself before you let your thoughts tumble out unsupervised. What is wrong with you? Play it cool. "Um," you recover quickly, stammering. "Because I met my best friend in that class. Yunho."
Hongjoong nods slowly, but he breaks eye contact, staring at the rows of bottled green tea in the refrigerated display case instead of you.
"Right," he murmurs.
A beat passes. His fingers start to tap lightly against the side of the shopping basket.
"Is that..." he hesitates, "the only reason?"
You glance down at the floor again. Maybe you’re not the only one still trying to figure out if this is real. Maybe he needs reassurance just as much as you do.
"Well," you say quietly, embarrassed. "I'm... um. I'm really glad I met you, too."
Hongjoong’s head turns toward you, and when you finally gather the courage to meet his eyes, the sight of his expression makes your breath catch. His entire face has softened.
"It... it might not have been your first choice," he says, choosing his words carefully, "but I'm really, really happy you took it, too."
Then he smiles. And this time, you're able to return it without blushing.
You resume your slow pace forward. The silence between you feels a little less awkward now. It makes you feel brave enough to offer up a piece of yourself, too.
"I lied earlier, by the way," you confess after a moment. "In your car."
Hongjoong blinks. "What do you mean?"
"I noticed the mess in the backseat," you tell him, and he lets out a surprised laugh, like he wasn’t expecting you to bring it up again. You continue with a smile, "It actually made me a little nostalgic. I used to live in a clutter of loose papers just like that. For the longest time, I was convinced I was going to be an author."
Hongjoong pauses near the endcap of boxed teas, completely attentive to you.
"I was obsessed with writing," you continue, tracing the edge of a tea box with your finger, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I can't even tell you how many notebooks I burned through in middle and high school. I had all these ideas—novels I thought I'd finish, chapters I thought would turn into something real... I thought for sure it was my future. That was always the plan."
Hongjoong listens without interrupting. "What changed?" he asks quietly.
"Reality, I guess," you say with a shrug. "The older you get, the more the practical side of the world forces its way in. I looked at the financial instability of a creative career..." You pause, wincing as you remember who you're talking to. "No offense."
Hongjoong just shakes his head once. "If anyone understands that fear, it's me."
You relax slightly. "I panicked, I guess. Studying International Relations and planning to go to law school someday is safer. I'm still able to work with words, with language, just... in a much more stable way."
You watch Hongjoong's eyes search yours carefully. Something changes on his face, his jaw setting hard. His lips part like he's on the verge of telling you something he didn't plan to say out loud. Your pulse quickens as you wait, but right before the words can escape, he stops himself. Whatever it was dissolves before it can form into words; you see it in the way his throat works and his shoulders ease.
When he finally speaks, the hardness in his eyes has softened into sincerity.
"I think the legal system has more than enough writers," he says quietly. "But the world could definitely use a novelist like you."
A rush of flustered heat floods your face, and you quickly fix your attention on the basket in his hands.
"Maybe someday," you whisper. You trace the toe of your shoe against the floor, your buried dream suddenly feeling closer to the surface than it has in years.
You can feel Hongjoong's eyes staring at the top of your head. A second later, you hear the faint, ragged breath he lets out above you, but you can't quite decipher all the things it means.
"Come on," he murmurs at last. "Let's go check out."
He slides the plastic handles of the shopping basket to his left hand, leaving his right unoccupied. When you finally lift your head to start walking, his palm finds the small of your back hesitantly, giving you the chance to move away if you want to.
You don’t.
He doesn't let go as he guides you out of the aisle. His thumb traces a tiny subconscious circle against your spine through your clothes so lightly you wonder if he realizes he's doing it. He leans a little closer as you walk, dipping his head until his soft hair grazes near your temple.
"I really did mean what I said," he says quietly. "However long it takes... whenever you're ready to write that first chapter, I promise I'll be the first in line to read it."
He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his eyes warm and free of any teasing. His hand remains on your back, gently guiding you.
You glance up at him, your helpless smile mirroring his own as the last remnants of your nervous tension dissolve into the grocery store air. It's not until you round the corner and reach the front register—where Mr. Yoon is waiting with a knowing grin—that Hongjoong finally lets his hand slip away.
But the imprint of his touch lingers, a quiet promise that leaves you feeling, for the first time in what feels like forever, completely seen and understood.
The stiff, scratchy rims of the two huge brown paper bags in your arms dig uncomfortably into your chin as you blindly navigate your way into Hongjoong's apartment. You can barely see where you're going over the tops of them, but from the muffled grunts beside you, Hongjoong isn't faring much better. He's balancing his own two overflowing bags on one leg as he clumsily tries to hook his heel around the edge of the front door to pull it shut.
He lets out a frustrated puff of air as the door finally clicks into the frame. "Just—" he pants, blindly nodding his head in the general direction of the kitchen. "You can dump everything on the island."
You carefully waddle your way over to the kitchen, dropping the bulky bags onto the island with a sigh of relief. Hongjoong follows a second later, unceremoniously thudding his own load down next to yours.
"I don't understand why they refuse to use regular plastic bags," he complains, rolling his shoulders to work out the stiffness. "These things are so—"
"Need any help with those?"
Both of your heads snap toward the smooth, amused voice floating over from the living room.
Seonghwa is sitting on the sofa with one long leg crossed elegantly over the other, his phone resting in his hand. He’s dressed stylishly in a black button-down and tailored dark pants, clearly preparing to head out for the night.
When his eyes land on you, his lips curve into a charming smile. "Hello, angel."
Hongjoong's entire posture instantly stiffens. Without so much as a syllable of acknowledgment, he whips his head back toward the kitchen island and aggressively begins yanking ingredients out of the paper bags.
Not knowing what to do, you offer Seonghwa an awkward wave.
Seonghwa slips his phone into his pocket and stands up, looking amused by his roommate's silence. He saunters over to the kitchen, leaning his hip against the edge of the granite counter right next to where Hongjoong is unpacking the groceries.
"So," Seonghwa hums, his eyes flicking curiously between the two of you. "What exactly are we making here? Is this an official date?"
Hongjoong forcefully sets the carton of strawberries onto the counter. He says nothing.
It's silent for a full five seconds. You glance sideways at Hongjoong, who is stubbornly refusing to look up from the vacuum-sealed bag of fish cakes in his hand, and realize he isn't going to answer.
"Um," you chime in hesitantly. "He's just... making us some tteokbokki."
Seonghwa’s gaze slides back to you, his smile turning flirtatious. "You know, I happen to be a much better chef than Hongjoong. I could always stay and help."
Hongjoong finally drops the fish cakes and shoots a glare at his roommate. "Weren't you going out tonight?"
"I was." Seonghwa doesn't break eye contact with you. "But I'd happily cancel my plans for a pretty girl."
Heat floods your cheeks.
Hongjoong's eyes narrow into a scowl. He jerks his chin toward the door, his jaw ticking as he goes right back to unpacking. "Seonghwa. Get out."
Seonghwa throws his head back and laughs. "Okay, okay, I'll let you have your little date," he concedes, holding his hands up. He pushes off the counter, gracefully swipes his jacket from the back of a barstool, and scoops his keys off the entryway hook.
He takes a few leisurely steps toward the door before pausing, casting one last mischievous look over his shoulder.
"If his food tastes terrible, angel, you know my number," Seonghwa says, shooting you a wink. "I'm always more than happy to take you out and treat you to a real dinner."
Hongjoong’s ears burn. He slams the bag of dried anchovies down onto the granite, finally raising his voice. "Get out!"
Seonghwa's delighted laughter echoes down the hallway as he slips out the front door, letting it click shut behind him.
Once his footsteps finally fade down the hall, Hongjoong clears his throat, a rough and embarrassed sound.
"Anyway," he mutters to the countertop. He grabs the crumpled brown paper bags and tosses them into the recycling bin to keep his hands busy. Then, still looking a little flustered, he turns his attention to his sweater, rolling the sleeves up past his forearms.
You watch as he walks over to the living room, heading straight for the shelves lining the far wall. His fingers trace over the spines of his record collection before he yanks out a specific, familiar sleeve—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust.
A smile tugs at your lips. You love Bowie.
"This is probably my favorite album of all time," Hongjoong says, glancing over his shoulder to catch your reaction. He carefully slides the black vinyl out of its cover. "Or at least top three. Thriller and Purple Rain might beat it, depending on my mood."
He sets it on the turntable, dropping the needle. A moment later, the crackle of vinyl fills the apartment, followed by the slow, building drumbeat and opening piano chords of Five Years. He adjusts the volume knob, dialing it down so the music settles into an atmospheric hum in the background before walking back over to the kitchen.
He rests his hands on the granite. His ears are still a little pink as he looks at you.
"And by the way…" he says hesitantly, finally addressing Seonghwa’s parting shot. "Tteokbokki is very much a real dinner. I won't mess it up too badly. I promise."
You let out a soft laugh. "Well, even if it goes wrong... I don't mind ordering pizza."
A grin breaks across his face.
"Good," he says, eyes crinkling. "But let’s try not to ruin it first. We'll start with the sauce. It should be pretty easy." He gestures toward the lower cabinets. "You can grab any bowl from that drawer under the counter while I get everything organized."
You step back and pull the drawer open, your eyebrows lifting in surprise. Given the state of both his room and his car—and how he just unpacked the groceries—you're pleasantly shocked to find the inside meticulously neat, with every pot and pan stacked perfectly.
Not knowing exactly how much sauce you’ll be making, you pull out a medium-sized metal mixing bowl and set it onto the island.
"Perfect," Hongjoong hums. He steps right beside you as he pulls a wire whisk from a ceramic holder. He slides all the necessary ingredients across the granite, lining them up neatly next to your bowl: the red tub of gochujang, a clear bag of sugar, a bottle of soy sauce, a small jar of minced garlic, and the bag of red gochugaru flakes.
He confidently—perhaps a little too confidently—reaches for the large bag of gochugaru. He tips it over your metal bowl, and a frankly terrifying avalanche of chili flakes pours out, forming a massive peak at the bottom. He follows this up by scooping a mountain of minced garlic right on top of it.
You raise your eyebrows, eyeing the bowl with concern. "Shouldn't we... um... use a measuring cup? Or a spoon? Or something?"
He freezes. The wire whisk in his hand pauses mid-air. "Right. Yes. No." He stares into the bowl for a moment, then clears his throat. "No. It's more authentic this way."
However, the confidence in his voice wavers as he squeezes a glob of gochujang into the bowl, followed by splashes of soy sauce and a haphazard dusting of sugar.
You look at the dark red paste skeptically as he begins to whisk everything together. His arm moves a little more quickly than you think is necessary.
"Are you sure that's not too much spice?" you ask, leaning away from the bowl.
"Positive." He stops whisking, dips his index finger directly into the thick, sticky mixture, and scoops up a dollop. "Try it. I promise I washed my hands."
You bite your lip and dip your own finger into the bowl. You bring it to your mouth.
For a second, you're both quiet, standing perfectly still as you process the taste.
Then it hits.
Both of your faces contort simultaneously. The spice ignites in the back of your throat, and you instantly start coughing into your elbow as your eyes flood with involuntary tears. Beside you, Hongjoong lets out a strangled wheeze, spinning around and ripping open a cabinet to grab a glass. He shoves it under the faucet, cranking the cold water on full blast.
He thrusts the overflowing glass into your hands first. You eagerly gulp down the ice-cold water, laughing through your tears before handing it back to him, your fingers brushing against his in the exchange. He downs the rest of the glass in three desperate gulps, his chest heaving as he leans back against the sink.
"Delicious," you manage to tease, wiping your watering eyes. "Very authentic."
Hongjoong turns off the faucet, his entire face now matching the shade of the chili flakes.
"I thought I could eyeball it," he mutters, grabbing the mixing bowl and dumping the biohazardous sauce straight down the drain. As he scrubs the metal clean under the running water, he shoots you a sheepish look over his shoulder. "I don't remember the exact measurements my mom used, but... I think it was maybe a little less gochugaru."
"You think?" you wheeze, grinning, and he sends you a playful glare before turning his attention back to wiping the bowl clean.
Once the second, perfectly measured, much safer batch of sauce is successfully mixed, the two of you move on to the stock.
Fortunately, this seems to be the one part of the recipe Hongjoong actually knows well. He reaches into the plastic grocery bag and pulls out a large, stiff sheet of dried kelp, handing it over to you alongside a damp paper towel.
"Just give it a gentle wipe down to get any dust off," he instructs, leaning in to watch as you take it. "But don't scrub it too hard. See that white powdery coating? My mom always told me that's what gives it its flavor, so we want to keep as much of it on there as possible."
You raise your eyebrows, genuinely impressed. "So you do have a little bit of knowledge in the kitchen."
"I have my moments," he grins proudly.
As you set to work on wiping down the kelp, he reaches for the other bag on the counter—the dried anchovies. He glances at you from his spot by your side, probably remembering how you'd wrinkled your nose at them in the grocery store.
"Uh... you might want to look away for this next part."
You pause your wiping, looking up at him. "Why?"
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small handful of the silver-gray, desiccated little fish, holding them up. "Because before they go into the pot, I have to snap their heads off and pull out all their organs."
"What?" you say, instinctively taking a sudden step backward until your hip hitches against the lower cabinet. "Are you being serious?"
Hongjoong's eyes light up with amusement as he nods his head.
"Watch," he says, stepping a little closer into your space, picking up a single anchovy to demonstrate. "It's really not as gross as it sounds. You just... pop the head off like—"
Snap.
He presses down a little too hard on the brittle fish carcass, and instead of a clean break, his fingers pinch the tiny body at an awkward angle. The silver tail shoots out of his grip, catapulting through the air and smacking loudly against the wooden cabinet door—right beside your head, barely an inch away from your right ear—before bouncing off and clattering onto the floor.
The kitchen plunges into silence.
Hongjoong freezes, his hand still suspended in mid-air, holding nothing but a detached anchovy head. His eyes are wide with shock as he stares at the exact spot on the cabinet where the fish landed, then slowly, horizontally turns his head to look at you, his mouth hanging slightly open.
"I—I'm sorry," he stammers out, tossing the fish head onto the counter. He reaches towards you, his hands hovering by your face like he wants to cup your head or check your hair to see if the fish actually hit you but is too flustered to touch you. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to—it just slipped, the texture is really brittle—"
"Hongjoong." You blink slowly, looking from the cabinet down to the sad little fish tail on the floor, and then back to his horrified face.
The shock on your own face lasts for only another second before you start laughing. You drop the damp paper towel onto the counter, covering your mouth with one hand as your shoulders shake with uncontrollable giggles.
The moment Hongjoong realizes you're laughing and not angry, his panic drains out of him. He lets out a breathless, embarrassed laugh of his own, dropping his hovering hands and using one to rub the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, though a smile is breaking across his face now. "To be fair... I said it wasn't gross, not that it wasn't dangerous."
That makes you laugh even harder. You lift a hand, pointing at the opposite end of the island. "New rule. You're working from the other side until every single fish is safely decapitated."
He chuckles, immediately moving to obediently scoop up the bag of anchovies before sliding around the perimeter of the island, putting a safe distance between the two of you. He drops the bag down on the far side, grinning at you across the expanse.
"Is this safe enough?"
"I think so," you smile, picking your piece of kelp back up. "As long as you're careful."
"I will be," he confirms softly. His eyes meet yours, warm with fondness, the tips of his ears still tinged pink as he reaches into the bag and lifts out a fresh fish.
The two of you fall into a comfortable rhythm for a while. When you both finally finish your respective tasks, you toss your cleanly wiped-down kelp and his perfectly beheaded anchovies into a saucepan of water, setting it on the stove to simmer.
While Hongjoong watches the pot, waiting for it to boil, you turn your attention to the cutting board. You grab the onion, preparing to chop it up into the thin slices he mentioned earlier. You try to be careful, but the knife feels a little too big and unwieldy for your grip. It's awkward in your hand, and when you press down, the blade wobbles dangerously against the smooth skin of the onion.
"Wait, hold on," Hongjoong says suddenly.
Before you can even ask what you're doing wrong, he's already moving, stepping directly behind you.
The sudden proximity makes your heart skip a beat. You can feel his chest hovering a mere hair's breadth away from your back as he reaches out, his calloused hands sliding over yours. His fingers wrap gently but securely around your own on the handle of the knife.
"I'll be honest, I don't know the actual professional way to hold a knife," he murmurs shyly. "But I do know that you're going to hurt yourself if you keep doing it your way."
A nervous giggle escapes you as his hands completely engulf yours. He adjusts your grip, his thumbs working to uncurl your tight fingers.
"Keep your thumb and index finger resting right here, on the base, so that it doesn't slip," he instructs softly, his breath brushing the shell of your ear. "See?"
Your throat suddenly feels dry. You nod dumbly, your eyes locked onto the sight of his hands resting over yours. Gently, he guides your wrist down, pressing the blade cleanly through the onion. Together, you create perfect, even rings, your body finally relaxing against his.
When the onion is completely sliced, the knife comes to a rest against the cutting board.
But Hongjoong doesn't move. He stays exactly where he is, his hands still covering yours, his breathing mirroring your own against your back, like he doesn't want to move away.
Eventually, after a long moment where the crackle of the vinyl record in the living room is the only sound in the apartment, the loud bubbling from the stovetop shatters the quiet as the pot begins to boil over. Hongjoong clears his throat softly and steps back to pour the stock through a strainer.
As soon as his warmth leaves you, you have to remind your lungs to start breathing again.
"Alright," he says, a slight, telling breathlessness lingering in his voice as he pours the strained stock into a fresh pot. "Now we just dissolve the sauce and throw everything else in. It should only take about three minutes, I think, but we should keep a close eye on it anyway.”
He scrapes the paste into the liquid, stirring until the broth turns red. You step closer to him, using the flat of the knife to slide the pillowy rice cakes, fish cakes, and your perfectly sliced onions directly into the pot.
As the mixture begins to simmer, the acoustic opening of Lady Stardust drifts into the kitchen from the living room. Quite a few tracks have spun through while the two of you were prepping, turning the initial quiet of the apartment more cozy. You lean back against the counter, contentedly watching the steam rise from the stove. Hongjoong rests his elbows on the counter right next to yours, mimicking your stance. Your arms brush, and neither of you pulls away.
"I have a question," you say, eyes still fixed on the bubbling pot.
"Go ahead."
"What kind of classes do you have to take for your major?" you ask, turning your head slightly to look at him. "Do you even have regular, sitting-at-a-desk classes, or is it just... projects?"
He chuckles at the change of topic. "No, ____, I have real classes just like everyone else," he says playfully. "Today, for example, I spent four hours straight in Garment Construction and Sound Design. But trust me, it's not all fun and creative freedom. I still have to take my requirements. Like Physics tomorrow at eight in the morning."
"Really? I get that for Architecture students, but what does Physics have to do with making clothes?"
"Way more than you'd expect, surprisingly," he explains, turning his body toward you a bit more. "Gravity and compression go into understanding how different fabrics drape and stretch with a human body. And choosing the right materials for structural pieces is all thermodynamics."
"Oh," you murmur, a little awestruck. "They should get rid of required classes. I would do anything to get out of Econ."
He laughs, his eyes sparkling. "Every time we talk about school, you manage to bring up your Econ grade."
"Because it's my only B!" you exclaim with an annoyed shake of your head. "It makes no sense. How am I doing better in Korean than in an actual necessity for my future career?"
"I don't know. Do you have a tutor? It must be because you have a really good one."
You look up at him, the witty retort dying on your tongue as you see the humor in the way he's looking at you. Your eyes lock, shining under the warm kitchen lights.
"Yeah," you say, holding his gaze with a smile. "I think it might be that."
Suddenly, a loud bubble bursts at the surface of the pot, shooting a bright red droplet of sauce straight through the air. It lands with a splat right on the apple of Hongjoong's cheek.
He flinches, a curse slipping out in Korean—아씨!—as the sauce on the stove continues to bubble wildly.
Hongjoong scrambles to grab a wooden spatula from the counter and twists the burner knob all the way down to low heat. He vigorously stirs the thickening mixture to keep it from burning against the bottom of the pot, letting out a sigh before finally looking over at you sheepishly.
"I... I think it's still okay," he says.
You glance down at the slightly messy, splattered stove, and then look back up at the bright red dot of sauce currently painted on his cheek. Your heart swells as a smile spreads across your face.
"I think it's perfect."
Hongjoong’s grin breaks out immediately, relief softening his whole face. He quickly grabs two shallow ceramic bowls from the upper cabinet and spoons the steaming tteokbokki into them. It definitely looks a little messy—the thick red sauce clings stubbornly to the inner rims—but the spicy aroma filling the kitchen smells incredible.
He picks up both bowls, balancing them carefully in his hands, and jerks his head toward the living room. "Come on."
You grab a pair of forks and follow him. Assuming the two of you are going to eat at the island, you pause by the barstools, but he walks right past them. You keep moving, figuring he's heading for the couch, but he bypasses that, too. Instead, he drops down onto the thick, plush rug, crossing his legs comfortably in front of the low coffee table.
You sit down beside him, tucking your legs beneath you, glancing around the living room with a puzzled smile. "Are all the chairs in this apartment broken?"
He lets out a soft chuckle, setting your steaming bowl down in front of you. "Whenever my mom made this for me and my brother growing up, we never used the kitchen table. We'd grab our bowls and sit on the living room floor so we could watch TV. Now it feels weird to eat it any other way."
Your chest swells, and you gladly accept the invitation into his childhood tradition, leaning a little closer to his side. "I like it," you say. "It's cozier down here."
Before picking up his fork, Hongjoong slides over on his knees to the record player. Ziggy Stardust has spun to a crackling finish, so he rummages through the smaller stack of vinyl on the coffee table's lower shelf. He pulls out a sleeve washed in purple.
"Since we already listened to one of my all-time favorites," he says, glancing back at you while he sets Purple Rain onto the platter, "we might as well play another."
He drops the needle, and as the dreamy synths of the opening track bleed into the room, he slides back over to his spot next to you. He doesn't start eating right away; he rests his elbows on his knees, watching you intently as you prepare to take your very first bite.
You blow on a steaming rice cake and pop it into your mouth. Instantly, your eyes go wide.
The texture is unlike anything you've had before—pillowy and soft but with a satisfying chew—and the flavor is a perfect balance of savory, sweet, and spicy. Against all odds, it isn't burned in the slightest.
"Wow," you mumble around the bite, your face lighting up. "Hongjoong, this is actually really good."
He smiles softly, satisfied, as he finally reaches for his own fork. "Told you it was a real dinner."
As the two of you eat, your eyes wander past the coffee table to the shelves lining his wall, taking in his music collection.
"You have so many," you note quietly, tracking the neatly arranged spines. "Is the whole wall organized by genre?"
"Genre first, then chronological order by release date," he nods, tapping his fork against the rim of his bowl. He tilts his chin toward the smaller stack under the coffee table. "Those are the most important ones, though."
Between bites, he eagerly flips through the stack, proudly showing them off. One by one, he points out the covers—Purple Rain, a vintage pressing of Space Oddity underneath Ziggy Stardust, and Michael Jackson's Thriller and Bad—before sliding his fingers down to a few modern Korean albums, including MADE by BIGBANG.
"I spent months saving up in high school for some of these," he tells you. "I dragged my brother to a thousand sketchy record stores all around Seoul, trying to hunt them down. The MADE one was impossible to find. There are barely any vinyl versions of it. And this one—this one was actually signed..."
You listen quietly while he talks, mesmerized by the way his eyes are shining. You barely even look at the records he's holding up; you sit there, eating your tteokbokki, completely transfixed by his passion for music.
"And there's this one," he says, pulling out Kendrick Lamar's To Pimp a Butterfly. He pauses, his thumb tracing the cover. He clears his throat, and suddenly, his confident enthusiasm falters.
Carefully, he sets the record down onto the rug and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He taps the screen a few times before turning the phone towards you. On the display are two digital concert tickets for Kendrick's upcoming stadium tour.
"I actually managed to snag two tickets to see him next month," he says, his voice suddenly dropping a little lower. He pushes his glasses up his nose, his eyes darting nervously between his bowl and you.
"I... I originally bought them thinking I'd force Seonghwa to come with me, but he isn't even really a fan. If you are... I mean, if you'd want to... would you maybe want to go with me? It could be a—" He hesitates, then says it anyway. "A date. If you want."
"Yes," you say immediately, before your brain can even attempt to play it cool. "I would love to go with you."
His shoulders sag with relief, and then he smiles, looking happier than you've ever seen him.
For a moment, neither of you says a word. You sit together on the rug, turned toward each other, both wearing the same giddy smiles.
Suddenly, Hongjoong blinks, sitting up a little straighter as he remembers something important. "Oh! Right—dessert."
You let out a soft laugh as he scrambles to his feet. "The strawberries?"
"Yeah," he says, walking backward toward the kitchen so he doesn't have to look away from you. "I just need to melt some chocolate for them. Stay right there. It'll only take a second."
"Are you sure you don't need supervision?" you tease, eyeing the kitchen warily.
"I've got it under control this time," he insists, already reaching for a small saucepan and a bag of chocolate chips. "I promise I won't burn anything."
From your low vantage point on the floor, you can’t quite see what he’s doing, so you push yourself up and climb onto the couch. It gives you a perfect, unobstructed view into the kitchen, where he adjusts the blue flame on the stove with a ridiculous level of concentration.
As you settle into the cushions, your eyes catch on the stack of records he had left scattered across the floor. You reach down, flipping through them until your fingers settle on the cover of Michael Jackson's Bad.
"Hongjoong?" you call out over the music.
He turns his head, a wooden spoon poised in his hand. "Yeah?"
You hold up the vinyl. "I'll give you five dollars if you can guess my favorite Michael Jackson song."
Hongjoong stops stirring, his eyebrows lifting. He turns from the stove, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter as a confident smirk spreads across his face.
"Well, since you picked up Bad instead of Thriller, I'm guessing it's a track from that era," he says thoughtfully. He taps his chin with the handle of the wooden spoon as he analyzes you. "My first instinct for most people would be The Way You Make Me Feel. But not you."
You tilt your head, not giving anything away.
"You said you like Hendrix, which usually points to someone who likes expressive, improvisational guitar work rather than sounds that are too structured. And when we were listening to Bowie, you mouthed nearly every word to Moonage Daydream. That track is glam rock. Big, theatrical, layered production, kind of psychedelic." His eyes narrow slightly in thought, but he’s smiling now. "So you don’t really go for clean pop structure. You like something with a little more edge. A strong bassline, distorted tones, maybe a darker vocal delivery."
You stare at him, chin resting on your arms over the back of the couch, completely awed by how easily he just read your mind. "You're right. How did you...?"
He laughs softly. "I know you think we music majors just sit around and mess with buttons all day," he teases, "but I really do know my stuff, ____. More importantly... I know you've got great taste. That's my second favorite track on the album."
"Really?" you ask, your heart giving a small flutter at the way he says your name. "What's your first, then?"
"Smooth Criminal."
"Ah. Just like everyone else," you tease him.
He lets out a bright laugh, but it fades into something gentler as he looks at you sprawled comfortably over his couch, completely at ease in his space, talking about music with him.
But then, the sweet smell of cocoa suddenly turns bitter.
You sniff the air, your nose scrunching. "Hongjoong... are you watching the chocolate?"
His eyes go wide. "Oh no—"
He spins around just as a thin ribbon of dark smoke starts curling from the saucepan.
He rushes forward, waving his hand through it and dragging the pot off the heat. A long silence follows as he looks into the scorched chocolate stuck to the bottom.
"I'll... I'll just buy us a carton of ice cream next time."
Ten minutes later, the smoke has cleared, and the two of you are back on the living room floor, listening to The Beautiful Ones as the Prince record plays through.
Between you rests a humble setup: the plastic carton of freshly rinsed strawberries, and a very sad little bowl holding the tiniest amount of salvageable melted chocolate he managed to rescue from the perimeter of the pot.
You pick up a large, ripe strawberry and dip it into the shallow puddle, managing to coat it in maybe three microscopic drops of chocolate before lifting it to your mouth. You try to keep your expression as you take a bite.
But the moment your eyes lock with his, a snort escapes both of you, and you dissolve into a fit of laughter together.
The laughter gradually mellows out, dissolving into a deeply comfortable quiet as you listen to the music, your knees brushing—a gentle, continuous point of contact on the rug—as you both finish off the very last of the tteokbokki and the remaining strawberries.
"So," you ask, propping your chin up on your palm to look at him properly. "Is Smooth Criminal your actual favorite song, or just your favorite on Bad?"
"Just on the album," he answers, leaning back against the base of the couch. "My favorite song has been Billie Jean since I was a little kid." To prove his point, he suddenly dips his head, a playful, quiet croon escaping him: "Billie Jean is not my lover..."
It's so incredibly dorky and endearing that a giggle bursts right from your chest.
Emboldened by your reaction, Hongjoong completely opens up.
"Actually, I'm currently mapping out a project to cover it," he explains, immediately sitting up straight. "I want to strip down the bassline and rebuild the whole song with a more modern synth-pop vibe..."
You sit there on the floor, entirely content to watch him. His eyes are sparkling, his hands moving animatedly as he explains the production layers. He is entirely in his element, so uninhibited, so intensely passionate about what he does that it physically pulls you in. You don't even realize you've completely tuned out the literal meaning of his words until his rambling slowly trails off.
He stalls mid-sentence, finally catching the way your eyes are locked onto his face, and a furious flush instantly rushes up his neck.
"What?" he asks, suddenly self-conscious. He reaches up with a slightly trembling hand to adjust the frame of his glasses, breaking eye contact. "Do I... do I still have sauce on my face?"
He begins wiping at his cheek with the back of his hand, looking so flustered that you can't help but laugh softly. Shaking your head, you close the small distance left between you on the rug.
"No," you murmur. "It's chocolate."
And then, before your logical brain can catch up to what your heart is doing, you lean the rest of the way in and press your lips gently against his.
The kiss is brief, sweet, and impulsive. You pull back almost immediately, just far enough to look into his wide eyes, and whisper a teasing, "Got it."
Hongjoong freezes. He blinks at you, stunned, his hand still suspended nervously by his cheek.
A mortified blush explodes across your face as you realize you just kissed him without thinking. Your mouth parts to stammer out an apology, to pull away—
But a gigantic, goofy grin breaks across his entire face.
Before you can twitch to move away, his hands shoot forward, wrapping around your waist. With one tug, he pulls you straight into his lap.
You let out a startled squeak. Your hands fly up to clamp onto his shoulders to steady yourself as your knees settle on either side of his hips.
"You can't just do that," he mumbles, his face burning, though he's smiling so wide his eyes are nothing but happy little crescents behind his glasses.
"Why not?" you ask, your heart racing as you gaze down at him.
"Because I've been working for the last hour trying to create the perfect, romantic moment to kiss you," he admits, his eyes dropping to your lips. "And you just completely stole my thunder."
A breathy giggle escapes you.
Hongjoong tilts his chin up, closing the distance between you. This time, the kiss is slow and deep, melting away the rest of the world until Prince's vocals are lost in the warmth of Hongjoong's hands pressing into your waist and the touch of his lips moving against yours.
When he finally pulls back, he refuses to let you go far. He keeps his hands locked on your waist, resting his forehead against yours, both of your breaths coming a little heavily.
"좋아해," he whispers.
Your heart swells, a shy smile touching your lips. "I know that one," you murmur, your fingers tangling into the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. "I like you, too."
A quiet smirk plays on his lips as he looks up into your eyes.
"아니," he corrects gently, his thumb reaching up to softly trace the line of your cheekbone. "많이, 많이 좋아해, ____아."
I like you very, very much, ____.
Hongjoong doesn't give you the chance to reply. He only smiles, his arms tightening around your waist as he pulls you down to kiss you all over again—without hesitation, without nervousness, without any of the uncertainty that once followed every almost-moment between you—until the two of you are completely lost in each other right there on his living room floor.
At the beginning of the semester, you could barely stumble through introducing yourself to him without your cheeks burning with embarrassment. Now, with his laughter melting against your lips and soft, breathless Korean confessions slipping so naturally between each kiss, you think this might be the most fluent you've ever felt in anything.
translations:
홍중아? 너니? Hongjoong? Is that you?
어머, 이 예쁜 아가씨는 누구니? Oh my, who is this pretty young lady?
제 친구예요, ____. She’s my friend, ____.
친구라구? 여자친구 아니고? A friend? Not a girlfriend?
아, 그 애야? 네가 말하던 그 학생? Ah, that girl? The student you were talking about?
네, 네… 맞아요… Yes, yes… that’s right…
여보! 홍중이 여자친구 왔어! Honey! Hongjoong’s girlfriend is here!
홍중아, 이 애가 그— Hongjoong, is this the—?
네, 네, 제 학생이에요, 네. Yes, yes, she’s my student, yes.
홍중이 좋은 선생님인가 보네요. Hongjoong must be a good teacher.
아이고, 진짜 예쁘다! 우리 홍중이 복 받았네. Oh my, she’s really pretty! Our Hongjoong is so lucky.
아, 네… 제가 더 복이에요. Yes… I’m the lucky one.
자, 둘이 가서 쇼핑하고 와. Here, you two go shopping and come back.
아니, 뒷말도 번역해 줘! No, translate the last part, too!
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 12.3k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. it's so crazy to me how many people have read this. thank you all for the lovely comments and feedback, you really are my motivation to write :)
The first thing you register while waking up is the warmth of Hongjoong's body wrapped around yours.
Your lashes flutter as you blink against the morning sun shining through his thin curtains, the room slowly coming into a hazy focus. The sheets are still tangled around your legs, and Hongjoong's arm is still draped across your waist, holding you against his very bare, very warm chest.
You tilt your head back against the pillows so you can steal a glance at him. He's still fast asleep.
Without his glasses and the constant awkward tension he usually carries himself with, his features look a million times softer. His dark hair falls in a sleep-tousled mess across the white pillowcase, and his lips are parted ever so slightly as his breath fans over the top of your head.
For a moment, the same thought that flickered through your mind yesterday slips back again: maybe this really is a dream.
You stare at him, trying to wrap your head around the fact that this is real. Your tutor—the man who spent months sitting across from you at a table, correcting your pronunciation and quietly watching you over stacks of textbooks—is currently asleep beside you, holding you tightly in his arms.
Closing your eyes, you let yourself bask in the warmth of him for a few minutes longer. Eventually, though, as the fog of sleep continues to lift, your brain begins to catch up to the rest of you.
What time is it? A lethargic flutter of panic kicks in. You hadn't planned on staying the night—let alone falling asleep tangled up with Hongjoong.
You carefully shift, trying not to disturb him as you scan the sunlit room. Your gaze snags on the nightstand. There, resting right beside his carefully folded glasses, is your phone, tethered to a white charging cord.
A frown pulls at your brow. You definitely didn't plug your phone in. The last time you saw it, you were burying it in your purse while walking into the restaurant with Seonghwa. Come to think of it, you don't even know where your purse is.
So how did your phone end up hooked up to Hongjoong's nightstand?
You shake the thought away, blaming your bad memory on the overwhelming events of the night; maybe you'd fished it out at some point and forgot. Whatever the case, you're just glad it isn't dead.
Wiggling loose from Hongjoong's grip takes some cautious maneuvering. You carefully stretch an arm across his body, holding your breath as the skin of your inner arm brushes against his chest. After snatching your phone off the nightstand, you quickly settle back into the mattress.
You tap the dark screen. 9:27 a.m.
You wince. If you and Seonghwa had gotten back around nine last night, what time did you finally pass out? You and Hongjoong must've talked for at least an hour before you drifted off. You can't even remember who fell asleep first. Either way, you slept far longer than you intended. Considering you hadn't planned on sleeping here at all.
But it isn't the time blinking back at you that makes your stomach drop. Your lock screen is exploding with notifications—dozens upon dozens of unread messages from San, Yunho, and Yeosang.
San [7:46 PM]: Update?
San [8:11 PM]: Hello??
San [8:30 PM]: Why aren't you answering??
San [8:31 PM]: Are you still with him??
San [8:45 PM]: It's been an hour
San [8:45 PM]: I'm getting worried
Yunho [9:14 PM]: I didn't want to bother you but San is starting to freak me out
Yunho [9:14 PM]: Are you okay??
San [9:42 PM]: 2 hours
San [9:42 PM]: What the fuck is going on???????
Yunho [10:39 PM]: Just tell us you're safe, please
San [11:22 PM]: WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU
San [11:22 PM]: You said you'd be home by 11
San [11:58 PM]: ????????????????????
Yunho [12:31 AM]: Does this mean the plan worked?
Yeosang [12:55 AM]: I don't want to interrupt in case things are going well, but I'm getting worried too. Where are you?
San [1:03 AM]: ????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
San [8:45 AM]: So you never came home
San [8:46 AM]: Hope you're still alive
San [8:46 AM]: Although you apparently don't care enough to let me know either way
Yunho [9:02 AM]: ____?
Yeosang [9:05 AM]: These fuckers woke me up at 9 to check on you. You'd better have had the best night of your life.
You gnaw on your lower lip, scrolling through the panicked texts your friends left you. You feel guilty for leaving them hanging. You probably should've updated them at some point, though your mind had been a little too occupied to even think about your phone.
"Your friends seem a little worried."
You jump, a small gasp slipping from your lips as you whip your head around.
Hongjoong is awake. Sometime during your scroll, he'd shifted closer, his chin now resting near your cheek as he unabashedly reads your phone screen right over your shoulder. His dark eyes are half-closed and languid with sleep, but what really sends a chill down your spine is his voice. His gravelly morning rasp is so attractive that a furious blush rushes to your cheeks.
You stare at him, suddenly at a loss for words. You're in bed with your tutor. His bare chest is pressed against your arm. The blankets are tangled around your bodies, doing nothing to hide the fact that neither of you is wearing a single piece of clothing.
You quickly hit the power button, dropping your phone onto the mattress as you let out a shaky laugh. "Do you always read people's texts over their shoulders?" you ask, your voice a little breathless.
Hongjoong's lips curve into a lazy smile. He lets his eyelids shut again, his body shifting against yours beneath the covers.
"Only when I like them," he murmurs.
Your heart does a pathetic flip. Is he too tired to realize what he's saying, or is he just shamelessly flirting with me now?
Another buzz vibrates against your palm, and you glance down. A new message from Yunho has popped up at the very bottom of the thread.
Yunho [9:28 AM]: If you're alive, meet us in 30 at the café.
You tap the notification. The keyboard immediately glows on your screen, but your thumbs hover uselessly over the letters. What are you even supposed to reply? You aren't necessarily comfortable with typing out, Sorry, I'm naked in my tutor's bed right now, I might need a little more than 30 minutes.
"Go ahead," Hongjoong's sleep-heavy voice rumbles softly against your ear, letting you know he'd read that text, too. "Tell them you'll be there. I don't want your friends worrying about you."
You bite your lip, hesitating for a second before finally typing out a quick response.
You [9:29 AM]: I'll be there. And I'll explain.
You lock the phone and toss it blindly onto the mattress again.
The bed dips as Hongjoong shifts, pushing himself up to sit. The duvet slips low, pooling right at his waist as he grabs his glasses from the nightstand. As he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress to stand, you immediately avert your eyes, suddenly too shy to look at his bare body in the daylight. You stare very intently at the texture of the pillowcase while he rustles around, quickly stepping into a pair of grey sweatpants and pulling a dark hoodie over his messy hair.
Once he's dressed, he looks around the room. His gaze lands on the discarded sweater he'd taken off you last night, lying in a heap near the door.
"Uh," he clears his throat, breaking the silence. You peek up at him. "You... you can borrow some of my clothes. I know all you have here is, uh, that dress."
"Oh... yeah," you agree, a bashful smile touching your lips. "That would be... great. Thank you."
He gives a tight nod and moves toward his large sliding closet. As he pulls the door open, you catch a flash of your own reflection in the mirrored panel. Heat instantly floods your face. You tear your eyes away from the glass, your mind too embarrassed by the vivid memory of what you watched happen in that very mirror last night.
Oblivious, Hongjoong shuffles through a row of hangers before pulling out a white hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants. When he turns back to you, some anxious tension has returned to his shoulders.
"I, um..." he trails off, looking down at the fabric in his hands as he walks back over to the bed. "I actually made this one myself."
He flips the hoodie around to show you. Your eyes widen at the beautiful design sprawled across the back: a stunning painting of a dragon intertwined with dark outlines of different flowers. It perfectly matches a smaller logo—labeled K.HJ—embroidered onto the pocket of the sweatpants.
"And these sweatpants are a little too small on me now," he adds quickly, rambling to fill the quiet. "So they should work for you."
You smile as you reach out from under the covers to take the bundle. "I, um... Yeah, this is perfect. Thank you."
Clutching the soft, fleece-lined fabric to your chest, you sit up just a bit against the headboard. You hesitate, mentally preparing to drop the blanket and get out of bed—but then you freeze. You have nothing on underneath it.
Hongjoong is just standing there, hands in his pockets, watching you with a soft, unreadable expression. He blinks at you when you don't move.
It takes his sleep-fogged brain exactly three seconds to realize why you haven't gotten up.
His eyes snap wide as a red flush crawls rapidly up his neck and paints the tips of his ears. "Right! Sorry!" he stammers, spinning around on his heel so fast he nearly trips over his own feet. He aggressively shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose and busies himself with picking up the scattered mess of clothes on the floor.
Swallowing back a laugh at his flustered reaction, you quickly slip out from under the covers. You pull on the black sweatpants and drag the thick white hoodie over your head.
You look down at yourself. The hoodie is definitely oversized—the long sleeves consume your hands completely, and the hem drops well past your hips—but it doesn't look entirely ridiculous.
You step away from the edge of the bed, feeling swallowed up by the fabric as you shift your weight awkwardly in the center of the room. The plush carpet beneath your bare feet reminds you of yet another glaring problem: you don't have any shoes. Your heels from last night are currently abandoned somewhere in either the kitchen or Seonghwa's bedroom. You can't remember.
Hearing the soft rustle of clothing, Hongjoong finally turns around.
At first glance, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes do a slow sweep over you, taking in the sight of his custom designs draped over your smaller frame. Whatever nervous tension he was carrying melts from his shoulders, replaced by an affectionate smile. For a long moment, he watches you without a single word.
Then his gaze drops lower, landing on the floor.
"Oh!" he says, blinking as he realizes you're standing barefoot on his carpet. He immediately pivots back to his closet. "I have some old pairs saved that don't fit me anymore," he explains, his voice picking up a quick, nervous cadence again. "I was going to rework them into new designs, but I haven't had the time to get started on anything. I can give you a pair."
While he rummages through the lower shelves, you catch a sliver of your reflection in the partially open mirrored door. You reach up to quickly tame your hair, but your hands stall.
You look like an awkward, ruined mess. Your hair is tangled, your makeup is washed away, and there are dark circles of exhaustion under your eyes. As you tilt your head, the collar of the oversized hoodie slips down your shoulder, exposing the bruises mottled across your collarbone and tracking up the column of your neck.
You inwardly begin to panic as you realize you're about to walk into a public café to face Yunho, San, and Yeosang looking like this. You hurriedly grab the drawstrings of the hoodie, yanking them taut to bunch the thick collar higher up under your chin, praying the fleece will be enough to hide the damning evidence of the night you had.
But as your eyes flick back to the mirror for one last check, your hands slowly pause on the strings. Despite the messy hair, despite the exhaustion... you somehow look like you're glowing. You have a giddy brightness about you that you haven't seen looking back from a mirror in months. You look happy.
"Try these," Hongjoong says as he stands up, pulling your attention away from the glass.
He slides the closet door shut, turning around with a pair of white sneakers. You notice a sleek, hand-painted black line curving across the side that matches the hoodie and sweatpants you're wearing.
You step backward, perching yourself on the edge of the mattress, and reach out to take the shoes from him.
But Hongjoong doesn't even seem to think about handing them over. He drops to his knees on the carpet right in front of you.
Your whole body freezes. You watch, completely stunned, as he gently wraps his hand around your left ankle, lifts your foot, and effortlessly slides the sneaker over your heel. He seems so focused on the task that you don't think he even realizes the intimacy of what he's doing.
"These shoes are really a perfect match to your outfit," he murmurs in a casual rumble as he pulls the laces tight and ties them into a neat little bow. He reaches for your right foot, repeating the same steps. "I actually had this pair in mind when I was painting that hoodie last month. And I'd already made those pants a few years ago. They're simple, I know. But I made sure they're extra comfortable."
You stare down at the crown of his tousled hair, your heart racing as his warm hands brush against your ankles.
"There," he says softly, giving the second bow a final tug. He tips his head up to look at you from the floor, his eyes crinkling warmly behind the lenses of his glasses. "It's nice to have the full outfit on someone other than myself. Especially since those shoes are too small for me now. Let me see."
He stands up, offering his hands to you. You take them without any hesitation, letting his grip pull you up from the mattress.
You stand in front of him as his eyes rake over the finished outfit from head to toe. The soft smile on his lips slowly stretches into a look of pride.
"Keep it all," he says, his eyes finally flicking back up to meet yours. "It looks perfect on you."
You glance down shyly before meeting his eyes again. "Thank you," you whisper, a helpless smile breaking across your face.
He doesn't let go of your hands just yet. You stand there together in the quiet room, his thumbs absent-mindedly stroking the backs of your knuckles as he admires you.
Then, quite suddenly, Hongjoong’s brain seems to turn back on.
He blinks, visibly snapping out of his daze. A dusting of pink returns to his cheeks as he abruptly drops your hands and shoves his own deep into his pockets. He clears his throat loudly, looking anywhere but you as a bout of awkwardness takes over.
"So," he says, aggressively adjusting his glasses with the back of his wrist. "You can, uh... follow me."
He turns on his heel and marches out of the bedroom, leaving you with both a wide-open door to follow him out of and a massive smile hidden in the oversized collar of his hoodie.
Your new sneakers pad softly against the hardwood as you follow him out of his bedroom and into the open living space. You glance down the short hall toward Seonghwa's closed bedroom door. For a moment, you almost become a little self-conscious—were you too loud last night? Did he hear everything that happened in Hongjoong's room?
But the thought dissolves instantly. It doesn't really matter whether he heard or not. You'd been making the same sounds for him just ten minutes earlier.
Lost in thought, you nearly plow straight into Hongjoong, who has frozen dead in the center of the kitchen. You catch yourself just in time, rocking back on your heels to avoid colliding with his back.
You peek around his shoulder, following his rigid gaze questioningly.
Sitting right in the middle of the kitchen island is a neat, organized pile of your belongings. Your blue dress is carefully folded on top of your coat. Your purse sits beside it, your discarded heels lined up parallel to the edge. The sight of your bra and panties—supposedly tucked beneath the dress, but glaringly visible against the dark fabric—makes you blush.
Hongjoong's jaw is clenched. Without a single word, he abruptly pivots and stalks down the hallway toward Seonghwa's room. He grabs the handle, shoves the door open with unnecessary force, and peers inside.
You watch his sharp gaze sweep around the interior for a moment before he lets out a breath, fixing the glasses that slid down the bridge of his nose.
"Hongjoong?" you ask tentatively, your voice echoing. "What's wrong?"
He yanks the door shut and walks back over to you, his eyes still locked on the pile of your clothes. "He's not here," he mutters. He doesn't say anything else.
"Oh," you breathe out, not really knowing what else to say.
You both stand there in an awkward silence, staring at the neatly folded clothes.
You know for a fact your dress was abandoned on the floor of Seonghwa's bedroom. You have no idea where your coat, purse, or shoes ended up, but you know your phone was inside your bag. Yet, when you woke up this morning, your phone was charging on Hongjoong's nightstand.
If Seonghwa was the one who collected your clothes and arranged them in the kitchen... did he also bring your phone inside Hongjoong's room?Did he push the door open and slip inside while the two of you were fast asleep, completely naked and tangled together in bed?
A weird mix of conflicting emotions washes over you. It's an insanely intrusive, bizarre boundary to cross. But at the same time... wasn't it part of what he promised? He'd pushed Hongjoong to his breaking point, engineered the perfect way to get him to confront his feelings, and then silently packed your bags, charged your dead phone, and vanished so you wouldn't have to face the awkwardness of the situation in the morning.
You can't tell if you want to avoid Seonghwa for the rest of your life or buy him a thank-you gift.
Before you can dwell on it any longer, Hongjoong is moving again. He turns and marches right back down the hallway, this time in the opposite direction—back to his own bedroom.
You blink, standing awkwardly by the marble island in his hoodie. A glance at your phone screen reads 9:46 a.m. You still have time, but what is he doing now?
A long minute later, he reappears, carrying a sleek, black canvas tote bag in his hands, one that you could imagine yourself using as an everyday bag. Without a word, he steps up to the island and begins gently picking up your clothes. He transfers your coat and dress into the bottom of the tote, careful not to ruin the neat folding. You notice his cheeks turn bright pink as he tucks your underwear away, and you have to bite your lip hard to trap the embarrassed squeak threatening to escape. He drops your heels and purse in last, making sure everything is concealed and secure.
Your heart flutters uncontrollably. He's doing it again. He's taking care of you without even thinking twice about it. Rather than letting you endure the humiliation of carrying yesterday's clothes through the crowded campus, he's making sure your dignity remains intact.
He takes the thick straps of the bag into his hand.
"I can keep these here," he says quietly, staring down at the bag, "If you don't want to carry them with you."
You shake your head even though his eyes are lowered. "It's okay. Since everything's packed away, I'll be fine."
He nods and steps closer, holding the straps out to you. You reach out, your breath hitching as your fingers brush against his knuckles. The electricity from his touch shoots straight up your arm.
"T-Thank you, Hongjoong."
He looks at you, his eyes tracing your features. His lips part slightly, and for a second, he looks like he wants to say something else. You hold your breath, waiting. But he presses his lips into a tight line and gives you a small nod instead, turning toward the entryway.
You slowly trail behind him, silence falling over you yet again as you reach the front door.
Hongjoong shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants, rocking back on his heels awkwardly.
"Do you..." he starts, pulling one hand free to rub the back of his neck. "Do you want me to walk you there?"
You shake your head, another warm flush rising to your cheeks at the offer. "It's okay," you reassure him softly. "The café is only a five-minute walk from here." What you don't tell him is that you desperately want to spare yourself from having to deal with your friends' interrogation while the prime subject of their questioning is standing right next to you.
He nods slowly. "Okay."
"Okay," you echo, offering a small, incredibly awkward smile.
You both stand there, staring at the scuff marks on the hardwood floor. Neither of you makes a move toward the doorknob. It’s painfully obvious that you don't actually want to separate—it feels like there are a thousand more conversations that need to be had—but as you shift your grip on the canvas tote, the screen of your phone lights up in your hand.
9:50 a.m.
"I should go," you say, tearing your eyes up from the floor. "I don't want them worrying any more than they already are."
Hongjoong nods again, but he still doesn't step aside.
"____?" he asks quietly.
"Yeah?"
He pauses, taking a steadying breath before he speaks. "I, uh, I know last night was a little... unconventional," he begins awkwardly, the words slightly stilted. "But... I had a really good night with you. Really." You feel your breath hitch as he meets your eyes. "And I meant everything I said. Every word. I just... I want to make sure you still feel the same way in the daylight. That you don't regret any of it."
You feel your heart melt into a puddle at your feet. Regret it?
"Hongjoong, I..."
Is it too much to say that you've been waiting for this very moment for months? To admit that you had buried your feelings so deep, completely convinced that he would never look at you twice? That you genuinely believed the world would end before he ever crossed the line and confessed that he felt the same way?
Yeah. Probably too much.
"I don't regret a single second of it," you say instead, your voice thick with emotion as you offer him the warmest smile you can muster. "I promise."
The way his shoulders relax and the way that adorable eye-crinkling smile finally returns tells you he's relieved.
"Then... I'll see you on Thursday," he says softly.
Your smile widens. "Yeah. I... I'll see you then."
It's so ridiculous, so incredibly awkward, standing in his entryway like two teenagers at the end of a first date. But then, Hongjoong steps forward, lifting his hand to your jaw. His touch is a little shaky, his fingers slightly trembling as he gently tilts your chin up toward him. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.
It’s sweet and hesitant, completely different from last night, but it still sends butterflies straight to your stomach all the same. When he pulls back, your face is practically on fire. You drop your gaze, avoiding eye contact as it fully hits you.
This is real.
Hongjoong just kissed you goodbye.
You confessed to each other.
The feelings are entirely mutual.
"I—um—yes. Thursday. I'll see you then. Bye," you squeak out.
Before he can say anything else—or laugh at your flustered panic—you quickly reach out, yank the front door open, and flee into the hallway, flashing him one last pathetic, nervous smile before pulling the door shut behind you.
You stand frozen in the empty hallway, your back pressed flat against his door. You squeeze your eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath as you force your heart to calm down. You mentally scold yourself for acting like such a nervous idiot, and yet... you absolutely cannot wipe the massive, goofy grin off your face.
You linger there for a lot longer than you should, basking in the giddy aftermath of it all, when a muffled noise from the other side of the door catches your attention.
It's the faint sound of a phone dialing.
You blink, holding your breath, pressing your ear against the door to listen. Who is Hongjoong calling only a minute after you left?
"Hello?" his voice filters through the wood of the door.
You flinch in surprise. His tone is suddenly authoritative and polite—the exact one you're so used to hearing during your sessions.
"Yes, good morning. I'm calling to speak with the supervisor regarding one of the tutors at the Language Center. His name is James Yang..."
His voice begins to trail off, growing fainter as his footsteps carry him deeper into the apartment.
Your jaw drops. A second later, you have to clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle a giggle.
Shaking your head with a helpless laugh, you finally push yourself off the door. You adjust the strap of the tote bag on your shoulder and turn down the hall, wondering how the hell you're ever going to explain everything that happened in the last twelve hours to your friends.
The second you open the door to the café, the cheerful little chime of the overhead bell sends three heads snapping toward the entrance in unison.
Yunho, San, and Yeosang are huddled together around a small circular table in the far back corner, each already nursing their own drink. The absolute second they spot you, their eyes do a collective scan of your entire appearance—your messy hair, the oversized clothes, and the bag on your shoulder.
You quickly break eye contact, your cheeks burning, and drag your feet over to their table. Pulling out the fourth chair, you swiftly kick the bag beneath the table, praying that they don't try to look inside it.
"Holy shit," San breathes out sarcastically, leaning back so hard his chair creaks. "You're alive."
You roll your eyes as you drop into the seat. "Okay, I'm sorry I didn't update you guys. But to be fair, I only remember saying I'd text you if something went wrong, not if things went right."
"Well, excuse the hell out of me for wanting to make sure you didn't get—"
"San. Calm down," Yeosang cuts in, his voice as flat and calm as ever. Without even looking up, he slides a sweating plastic cup across the table and into your hands: a freshly made iced chai.
You flash Yeosang a grateful smile, wrap your hands around the cup, and take a long sip of your favorite drink. Yunho reaches over, gently patting your arm.
"When you didn't reply at all, San assumed that the plan—if that's what we're calling it—didn't work out," Yunho explains, his tone cautious but curious. "He convinced us that you ended up sleeping with Seonghwa last night."
You whip your head toward San, eyes narrowing. "Seriously? Why is that the first thing you assume?"
"Because you didn't tell us anything!" San exclaims, throwing his hands up in defense."You didn't even explain the whole thing! You kept saying you 'trusted him,'" he says, his air quotes so aggressive he nearly knocks over his drink, "but everything you told me sounded exactly like Wooyoung 2.0! What was I supposed to think?"
You open your mouth to argue, but Yeosang interrupts you before you can get a word out.
"Which is why, when we didn't hear from you, we naturally assumed the worst." He takes a slow sip of his black coffee, his eyes drifting past your shoulder. "But he's been working since before we even got here. So clearly, our theories were a bit off."
He gives a subtle, pointed tilt of his chin toward the front counter.
You slowly turn your head, following the trajectory of Yeosang's gaze across the bustling café.
The blood drains from your face.
He's here.
Seonghwa is stationed behind the front counter, dressed in the same black apron as Thursday, casually wiping down the espresso machine. He looks infuriatingly normal, unbothered, as if the events of last night hadn't occurred at all.
But as if sensing your stare, the white rag in his hand stalls. He lifts his head, and his eyes scan the entirety of the crowded room before slamming directly into yours.
Even from twenty feet away, you catch the involuntary hitch of his chest, a fleeting crack of surprise breaking through the polite customer service facade. He clearly didn't expect to see you here. Meanwhile, you're mentally cursing yourself for not even considering the possibility that he could be working today.
Time seems suspended as his eyes drop, sweeping over your seated figure. He takes in your outfit, recognition flashing in his eyes; you know he's seen Hongjoong wear the same clothes before. But his gaze doesn't linger there. It climbs upward, stopping on the thick collar you've bunched so defensively high up your chin.
He knows exactly what you’re trying to hide beneath that hoodie. He knows the precise shape and placement of every single mark decorating your collarbone and neck... because half of them belong to Hongjoong, and the other half belong to him.
A hot prickle of nerves races across your skin. Feeling dangerously exposed under his watch, you shakily reach up, tugging the neckline just a tiny bit higher against your throat.
As he watches you, the corner of Seonghwa's mouth twitches into a smirk. Before anyone else in the building can catch your secret exchange, he dips his head down, hiding the curve of his lips behind his dark curtain of hair as he turns his attention back to the espresso machine.
Hoping that your cheeks don't look as scorched as they feel, you drag in a sharp breath. You tear your eyes away from the counter, forcing yourself to turn back to the small table—where Yunho, San, and Yeosang are still sitting there, their eyes boring holes into you, silently waiting for an explanation.
"Well... yes, you were wrong," you murmur, looking around the table to meet their expectant stares one by one. "The plan worked."
Yunho chokes on his iced Americano, coughing into the crook of his elbow. A small smile spreads across Yeosang's face as he gestures pointedly at your outfit.
"So, I take it those are Hongjoong's clothes you're drowning in?" he asks.
San blinks, his brain taking an extra second to connect the dots. When the implication finally clicks, he slaps both palms flat against the tabletop. "Wait! Weren't you wearing a dress when you left? Where did—"
"San!" you hiss, your eyes going wide as you furiously wave your hands to shush him.
You dart a glance back over your shoulder, terrified that his booming voice carried all the way to the front counter. Seonghwa is still facing the espresso machine, his back turned to your table, but from this angle, you can clearly see the outline of a smirk playing on his profile. He's absolutely listening to every single word.
"Shut up!" you whisper-yell, turning back to glare at him.
"Okay, ignore San," Yeosang says quietly. He leans in closer, resting his forearms on the table. "Tell us what actually happened. Because clearly, Seonghwa didn’t sweep you off your feet like we thought he did."
Your face instantly burns. You quickly drop your gaze and take a long sip of your iced chai just to give yourself something to do besides react. You are absolutely not going to tell them that Seonghwa did, in fact, sweep you off your feet, far more than they could ever imagine. You already know you're going to have trouble explaining everything that happened between you and Hongjoong—adding a second man into the mix, especially one they already don’t trust, would be too humiliating. And you have a feeling none of them would take it very well. Not after what happened with Wooyoung. Especially not when that man is standing barely twenty feet away and very obviously trying to listen to your conversation. All of it—the threesome, the blurred lines, the madness of last night—is a secret you will be taking straight to your grave.
"Yes, San, these are Hongjoong’s clothes," you say carefully, keeping your voice in a hushed, controlled whisper. "And... yeah. Seonghwa played his part exactly like he promised he would. He flirted with me until... until Hongjoong couldn't take it anymore."
All three men exchange glances.
San speaks up first, his tone still dripping with suspicion. "So I don’t need to go over there and deal with him like I wanted to with Wooyoung?"
You let out a breathless laugh. "No, San. I told you, I trusted him. And it turns out I was right." I think, you add internally.
"Do you wanna elaborate on what 'Hongjoong couldn't take it anymore' means?" Yunho prompts, leaning forward to join Yeosang.
You clear your throat awkwardly. Your eyes dart toward the counter one last time before dropping to the condensation dripping down your cup. Filtering this story on the fly is going to be difficult.
"Well... he got pretty jealous seeing us walk in together," you start, carefully omitting the minor detail that Seonghwa had his hands roaming all over your body at the time. "We were in their apartment, obviously, so he... he took me to the only private place there. His room."
You pause, peeking up through your lashes to gauge their reactions. All three men are leaning over the tiny table, listening to you with total, undivided attention.
You let out another soft, embarrassed laugh, nervously wiping away the droplets on your cup. "And then... yeah. His jealousy made us finally confess to each other, and, um... one thing led to another, and—"
"Come on, don't give us that!" Yunho interrupts, reaching across the table to give your shoulder a light shove. "Don't give us that 'one thing led to another' bullshit."
"Yeah, no skipping to the end!" San agrees while nodding. "We've had to deal with months of you figuring out your feelings for this guy. How did you do it? What did he say?"
You bite your lower lip, self-conscious. It was one thing to live through the confession, but repeating the details out loud in a crowded café with his roommate a few feet away is an entirely different story.
"Um... well," you murmur. "He confessed that he’d been trying to stay professional since the day we met, but that he’s... basically always had feelings for me."
Yunho’s face lights up with a beaming grin. "Just like we all told you."
"Just like I told you," Yeosang corrects, taking a sip of his coffee. You and Yunho both roll your eyes.
"Yes, yes, whatever," you push on, requiring a monumental amount of mental gymnastics to skip over the fact that this whole confession was triggered by a threesome. "I confessed the same thing. I told him about all the little moments that made me think he liked me, and I finally admitted that I’d been avoiding my own feelings, too. As you all know."
"As we know way too well," San nods.
You ignore him. "He said he avoided me after we kissed because he realized he couldn’t ignore his feelings anymore. He was scared of crossing the line because it meant things could never go back to being simple."
"Well, no shit," Yeosang deadpans.
Yunho kicks him under the table.
"Ow!" Yeosang glares at him, reaching down to rub his shin, but you just laugh.
"Yeah. No shit," you agree, nodding. "And then, I... I think I told him to stop pretending I’ve only ever been his student, then."
Yunho's grin widens. He rests his chin on his hands, fluttering his eyelashes at you mockingly. "Aw, look at you with the rom-com lines."
Your face flushes hot, and this time, you're the one who kicks Yunho under the table. "Do you want me to keep telling you the story or not?"
"Keep going," all three of them demand in unison.
You huff, adjusting the sleeves of the hoodie. "Fine. So, I think that's where he really opened up. He said a lot about how... how English isn’t enough to explain his feelings."
Yeosang clicks his tongue in approval. "Very poetic. Fitting for how you two met."
San nods solemnly. "This is great material if you ever wanna write a book, ____. Seriously."
"It'll be a bestseller," Yeosang agrees with him.
You practically slam your iced drink down on the table, glaring at them. "You guys really suck."
"Sorry, sorry," San apologizes, though he’s sporting a massive, shit-eating grin that says he isn't sorry at all. "Anyway. So that’s it?"
"No, no, no." Yunho shakes his head, wiggling an accusatory finger at you. "Where’s the rest of it? That sweet little conversation doesn't explain how you ended up looking like that."
Yeosang chuckles. "Right. Where did the new clothes come from? More importantly, where did your old ones go?"
You clamp your mouth shut, your eyes suddenly finding the melting ice in your cup incredibly fascinating.
"Um..."
All three of them lean in closer.
You swallow hard, dropping your voice to a barely audible and highly reluctant mumble. "I think I might've said something along the lines of... if English isn't enough, he needs to show me in a language we both know."
Yunho practically spits his Americano back into his cup as San and Yeosang completely lose it, barking out loud, echoing laughs.
"You said what?" San howls, bending over the table.
Panic erupts in your chest instantaneously. You whip your head toward the front counter, but thankfully, the space is empty; Seonghwa must've stepped into the back room, temporarily out of earshot.
"Shut up!" you whisper-yell, shushing them as your face burns with the heat of a thousand suns. "You’re so annoying! I know it sounds stupid out loud! But it sounded really, really good in the moment!"
Yunho is biting his lip so hard it might bleed, trying his best to hold back his laughter, though his shoulders are shaking uncontrollably. "I really think you should listen to San’s advice and write that book," he says, completely deadpan, hiding his smile behind his hand.
"Okay. Fine. Laugh all you want," you huff, crossing your arms over Hongjoong's hoodie. "I’m never telling you guys a single thing about my life ever again."
Yeosang finally gets his laughter under control, though his grin remains. "Hey, don't be mad. I'm sure Hongjoong loved it."
"Oh, he definitely loved it," San snorts, wiping a literal tear from his eye. "He probably kissed you right after you said that, didn’t he?"
You pause, biting the inside of your cheek as you stare down at your hands. The dizzying memory of Hongjoong pressing soft kisses over the bruises on your neck —of him guiding you to the edge of his bed—flashes behind your eyes.
"Well...." you drag the word out, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "Not exactly."
"Not exactly?" Yunho asks, one eyebrow shooting up to his hairline.
You look up at them, your smirk growing. "But since you made fun of me, I am officially done talking."
Immediately, a chorus of protests erupts around the table.
"Oh, come on."
"Seriously?"
"You can't just leave it there!"
You shake your head stubbornly, sipping your chai with a maddeningly calm expression until they finally groan and give up. They settle back into their chairs, taking disgruntled sips of their own drinks as the banter finally lulls.
"So... what about after?" Yunho asks, his tone turning a bit more serious. "You guys... talked about things, right?"
"Of course we did," you nod, your finger tracing the condensation on your cup once again. "I mean, he talked about how nervous he is. He’s never actually been in a relationship before."
You glance instinctively back toward the counter. Seonghwa has reappeared from the back room, taking an order from a new customer.
"Seonghwa actually told me that Hongjoong has never really had a crush before," you add quietly, looking back at your friends. "So... I just told him that it’ll be okay to make mistakes. Both of us will inevitably screw up. And that we'll figure things out together."
Yeosang pauses, studying you carefully over the rim of his cup. He slowly lowers it to the table. "Does that mean he was a virgin?"
Your shoulders tense. Right. You'd almost forgotten about that part.
"Um... yeah," you murmur, your fingers tightening so hard around your cup that the plastic loudly crinkles. "He was."
The three of them blink, a complicated look passing between them.
"Did you..." Yunho begins carefully, his voice gentle. "Did you guys talk about that? About your pasts?"
You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper. "...Yeah."
San asks, "So you told him about Wooyoung?"
Your heart drops to your shoes. "San, for the last time, keep your voice down!" you hiss, immediately whipping your head toward the front counter. Thankfully, Seonghwa has his back completely turned to you, occupied with steaming milk for a customer's latte. You turn back to the table, leaning in so far that your chest presses hard against the edge. "Seonghwa knows that Wooyoung and I had a thing, but he doesn't know we actually—" You cut yourself off, the damning word lodging in your throat.
Yeosang stares at you, clicking his tongue. "So you didn't."
You grimace, shame burning hot at the base of your neck. "No. I didn't tell him."
Yunho’s eyes widen. "You lied? You told him you were a virgin?"
"No!" you whisper-yell, shaking your head. "I didn't say that! I just... I told him my first time was with my ex. In high school."
San and Yunho exchange a loaded look.
"____, why the fuck would you lie about that?" San asks. He remembers to lower his voice this time, but the judgment in his tone makes you flinch nonetheless.
"That’s not something to lie about when you really care about someone," Yunho says quietly. "You know that."
Yunho’s words twist in your heart like a serrated knife. The guilt you'd desperately tried to suppress comes rushing to the surface.
"I know," you say quietly. "I know it's bad. But you guys don’t understand the context of the conversation. He had just finished confessing that he was terrified of his feelings for me. How was I supposed to look him in the eye and explain that while he was agonizing over his feelings for me, I was actively sleeping with someone else? That while I literally had feelings for him, I still chose to let someone like Wooyoung touch me?"
The three of them fall silent.
"Besides, I'd already lied to him about Wooyoung before," you press on. "The night I slept over at his apartment, I told Hongjoong I was out with Yunho. I lied after that, too, when he accidentally saw a text from Wooyoung on my phone. I swore he was just a friend. And there are probably other little lies I don’t even remember telling him."
San frowns at you, confused and disappointed. "But why would you lie about all of that in the first place? You weren’t dating. You didn't owe him an explanation back then."
You let out a shaky sigh, running a hand through your tangled hair. "I know I didn't. But it still felt wrong. I... I think it was because, deep down, I already knew I had feelings for him. So doing anything with Wooyoung felt wrong... like I was cheating on a crush. I felt guilty about it. I didn’t want him to find out."
You look at your three best friends, your eyes silently pleading with them to understand the corner you'd painted yourself into.
"And then I just couldn’t take it back. I dug the lie so deep. If I told him the truth last night, he'd realize I lied to his face in the past. And he’d know I slept with someone else while I supposedly liked him. Can you imagine how terrifying it would be for him to hear that? A guy who’s never even had a real crush before? A guy who just trusted me with his literal first time?"
You look away from them, staring blankly at the wall. This is your own fault, and you know it. But what else could you have possibly done on the spot?
The table falls into silence as the three of them process everything you've said.
Yunho eventually lets out a conflicted sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t know, ____. You always do this. You choose the safety of a lie over just being vulnerable and telling the truth. I think—no, I know—you're afraid of Hongjoong seeing you differently. But if he really cares, it’s not like he’d suddenly stop liking you over this."
You look at him, his words making your stomach twist, and you shake your head. "I don't know if that's true, Yunho. Put yourself in his shoes. Imagine this: you finally, finally tell Mingi how you feel. He looks at you and says he likes you, too. But, then, right in the middle of this beautiful, vulnerable moment, he casually mentions that he was fucking someone else just two weeks ago while claiming to be obsessing over you."
Yunho frowns, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I mean, I obviously wouldn’t be thrilled about it, but—"
"And," you cut in, your voice sharpening, "you’re also a virgin. Mingi is your first time. You have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, you have no idea how to navigate these overwhelming new feelings, you are entirely inexperienced, and the guy you just poured your heart out to was letting someone else touch him just days ago because 'it didn’t actually mean anything.' Honestly, Yunho, think about it. How would you feel?"
Yunho opens his mouth, his brow furrowed in immediate protest, but no words come out. He slowly closes his mouth, looking away.
"I get why you lied," Yeosang says quietly after another few moments. "I know I'd be freaked out if I were in his position. It's human nature to want to protect his feelings and keep the peace, especially right after a major confession." He pauses, his lips tightening into a thin line. "The only problem is the corner you've backed yourself into. Because now, you have two options: never let him find out and deal with the guilt for the rest of your life, or tell him the truth and risk him never trusting you again."
San vigorously shakes his head, refusing to accept Yeosang's bleak pragmatism. "What? No! ____, I think you seriously have a lying problem. I'm telling you, he wouldn’t have stopped liking you. Are you all crazy?"
Yunho sighs, his shoulders slumping. "Well... honestly, San, when you put it in the context of Mingi... I don't know. I’d be pretty devastated."
You nod miserably, the confirmation making the pit in your stomach sink even lower.
"You just... fuck, ____. You should’ve told him the truth from the very beginning," Yunho says, shaking his head. "Before the lie got this deep."
"I know," you murmur, picking at the cuff of the sweatshirt. "I’d love to go back and change things, but I can’t. It felt like such a harmless little white lie at the time, and now..."
You trail off.
Yeosang tilts his head slightly, folding his arms across his chest. "Well..." he says slowly, like he's piecing together a puzzle. "You're dating now, right?"
The gears in your brain suddenly halt.
You blink at Yeosang. "Um..."
Across the table, San and Yunho both go still.
"____," San says slowly, squinting at you. "You are officially dating, right?"
"We... we never actually talked about that," you realize, the color slowly draining from your face.
"Huh?" Yunho and San ask in baffled, incredulous unison.
"You didn't talk about it at all?"
"You went all the way and didn't once stop to establish what you actually are?"
"No, we didn't," you realize, dropping your face into your hands in embarrassment. "Not that I remember!"
You might actually be an idiot, you chastise yourself, dragging your hands down your flushed cheeks. What are we? Are we dating? Am I his girlfriend? What does he think we are? Is he stressing about the same thing right now?
"Okay, relax," Yunho says, realizing your thoughts are spiraling. He reaches over to pat your arm. "You'll talk about it. You guys had an emotionally exhausting night. It makes sense that the technicalities slipped your minds. Don't stress about the label right now."
"I was just asking," Yeosang continues calmly, ignoring your minor crisis, "because strategically speaking, you should wait to tell him the truth about Wooyoung until after you’re officially dating."
San narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. "Why?"
"Because," Yeosang explains, "if you tell him the truth right now, in this undefined gray area, his logical thought process will be: She lied to me, she's not a good person to date, so I’m going to cut my losses and back out before I’m fully invested.' But... if you wait until you're officially locked into a committed relationship, leaving you requires a full breakup. Which he’s way less likely to initiate."
Yunho stares at him, appalled.
"What the hell, Yeosang?" San yells, shoving his shoulder roughly. "So your plan is to trap him in a relationship?"
"It's not that I want to trap the poor guy," Yeosang defends himself, scowling at San, "but I'm fully on ____'s side with this. It's the best solution for her."
"My roommate's a sociopath," Yunho mutters under his breath, looking at him like he grew a second head.
You slowly sink forward, burying your burning face back in your folded arms and groaning into the dark. If Yeosang's manipulative hostage-situation of a strategy is genuinely the best option you currently have... you're probably fucked.
Suddenly, the argument at the table dies.
You lift your face from your folded arms, blinking at the abrupt silence. "What happened—"
You cut yourself off. Yunho, San, and Yeosang are all staring wide-eyed and mute at something directly behind your chair.
Before you can even turn your head, an arm reaches over your shoulder, gently setting a ceramic plate piled high with four warm croissants directly into the center of the table.
A cold sweat breaks out across the back of your neck. You know that hand. You even know the way those long fingers feel against your skin.
You swallow hard and slowly turn your head.
Seonghwa is standing right behind your chair, the scent of roasted espresso and his familiar cologne immediately enveloping you. He’s smiling politely at your friends, acting as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
"We didn’t order these," you say stubbornly, pointing at the pastry plate to distract from your quickening heart rate.
He just smiles, his eyes dipping down to meet yours. "I know. Sunday is free croissant day."
"I’m here almost every Sunday. That has never been a thing."
His smile shifts, the corners sharpening. "It’s a new policy. Instituted by me."
As he speaks, his gaze drops from your eyes, landing squarely on the collar framing your neck. You squirm under his scrutiny, and you swear your skin is burning where his eyes linger.
Seonghwa watches your nervous movement with a subtle smirk before turning his attention across the table to Yunho.
"I remember you from the bar that night."
San scoffs loudly from his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. Seonghwa doesn't even spare him a glance, his attention remaining politely on Yunho.
"I wanted to apologize for being so rude," he continues smoothly. "I was dealing with an irritable roommate. Though I didn’t know it at the time, he was actually just irritable over this one."
He tilts his head down toward you, the affection in his voice unmasked. You flush, sinking a full inch lower in your chair.
Yunho blinks, quickly recovering to offer a friendly, if slightly wary, smile. "No worries. I get it. She wasn’t exactly the easiest to deal with that night, either."
You kick Yunho's shin again under the table. He barely suppresses a wince, but he maintains his strained, polite smile.
Seonghwa’s eyes drift over to San, completely unfazed by the rather unfriendly glare San is currently aiming at his head; clearly, despite what you said, San still doesn't trust him.
But Seonghwa doesn't seem to care. He turns his attention back down to you.
"Did you take my gift, angel?"
You feel every eye at the table snap directly to you. You realize that to your friends, Seonghwa had just been playing a role last night to make Hongjoong jealous. There's no reason for him to be using a pet name like angel anymore.
You gulp hard. "Oh... um," you stammer, thinking back to this morning. "I didn't see it when I left."
Seonghwa hums, but he doesn't sound surprised. "It was on the kitchen island. Both of them were."
A chill runs down your spine. He means both of the records. But... you honestly don't remember seeing them there this morning. You didn't see Hongjoong pack them into your bag, either.
Seonghwa’s gaze drifts downward past your lap until his eyes land precisely on the spot where you had kicked your bag beneath the table earlier.
"Are you sure you didn't pack it in your bag?"
You stare up at Seonghwa, your mind racing. You could just brush him off and insist you didn't pack it, but the way he’s looking at you—head tilted, eyes gleaming—tells you that for some reason, he isn't going to just let this go. He wants you to check, like he somehow knows you didn't pack it yourself.
And if you refuse, you’re only going to look ten times more suspicious in front of Yunho, San, and Yeosang.
"Fine. But I know I didn't," you mutter, breaking eye contact.
You lean down, your fingers blindly grappling for the straps of the tote bag. You hoist it up and rest it squarely on your lap. Careful to keep the contents angled away from the others as best you can, you pull the opening wider.
You nudge your heels and purse aside, digging through the bag—only to freeze when the first thing staring back at you, draped across the top of your crumpled dress, is a scrap of lace. Your panties.
Above you, Seonghwa shifts. You don't even need to look up to know his eyes have dropped straight into the open bag, the only one at the table with the advantageous height and angle to see what's inside. A second later, you hear it: the quietest exhale of amusement slipping past his lips.
You quickly shove the lace beneath your dress, your cheeks blazing. Trying to look casual, you plunge your hands deeper into the bag, searching for the square of a vinyl sleeve—even though you're certain you won't find it.
But suddenly, your fingers graze something solid. You freeze, your brows knitting in confusion as your fingertips trace the flat edge. You watched Hongjoong pack your coat first. There hadn't been anything underneath it. Gripping the corner, you pull the object free from the depths of the bag.
You find yourself staring down at the sleek cover of the G-Dragon record. Hongjoong’s gift.
You blink, confused. Immediately, you shove your hand back into the bag, digging around the bottom, checking the side pockets, and shifting your clothes around. But you find nothing else.
"It's... it's not here," you say slowly, bewildered. Looking up at Seonghwa, you lift the single record resting in your lap. "Just this one."
Did Hongjoong pack his own record and intentionally leave Seonghwa’s behind? You're certain you didn't even see him put One of a Kind in the bag. When did he manage that?
You worry that Seonghwa might be offended, but instead, he laughs.
"Unbelievable," he chuckles, shaking his head. There’s not a trace of anger on his face—if anything, he looks delighted. "How territorial. Well, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."
You bite your lip at his choice of words. Yunho and San exchange another baffled look across the table.
"Territorial?" San echoes. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Seonghwa finally pulls his eyes away from you to glance at San. The smirk on his lips softens in a way that feels patronizing.
"Just an inside joke," he replies politely. Then, his eyes drift back to your neck. Or, more accurately, the collar of the hoodie covering it. "I suppose this means his... possessiveness didn't end when I last saw you?"
Before you can even process what he's doing, Seonghwa reaches out.
You suck in a breath as the soft tips of his fingers brush gently against your neck. His index finger hooks right beneath the hoodie and lightly tugs it down as he checks for any new marks Hongjoong left when the two of you were alone. The movement is small, but it’s more than enough. The fabric shifts, exposing the skin just above your collarbone.
A collective intake of breath snaps around the table.
You slap your hand over your neck, yanking the collar back into place, but the damage is already done. In that split second, Yunho, San, and Yeosang all catch a crystal-clear, front-row glimpse of the dark purple bruises and deep red bite marks scattering your skin.
San’s mouth falls open. "Holy shit, ____."
Yunho covers his mouth with his own hand, his eyes ricocheting between you and Seonghwa. Even Yeosang's eyes widen as they fix on the spot you're now shielding with your hand.
Seonghwa ignores it all, taking a step back from the table, calmly smoothing his hands over the front of his apron.
"Hm. I was right," he says mildly. "Well, enjoy the croissants."
He offers the three stunned men a parting nod before slipping in a quick wink in your direction. He turns, unbothered, already moving to take care of the growing line of customers at the front counter.
The silence at the table stretches for five agonizing seconds as all four of you watch Seonghwa calmly stroll back behind the counter and greet the first customer in line.
San, who is absolutely bewildered, points an accusing finger at your throat. "What did he do to you?"
"Please shut up," you hiss, horrified by Seonghwa's audacity as you practically strangle yourself with how hard you're clutching the collar around your neck.
"____, you're telling me your tutor did that? Hongjoong left all of those on you?" Yunho asks in disbelief.
"I—well—yes," you choke out, your face burning.
It's not a complete lie. Hongjoong did leave most of them. They simply don't need to know that a few of those marks belong to the very man who just purposefully put them on display.
Was that supposed to be some sort of power move? Or was he genuinely curious if Hongjoong was just as rough alone as he was with his best friend in the room?
"Wow," San says, shaking his head in both horror and respect. "I mean... I knew the quiet ones were supposed to be crazy, but damn."
You let out a distressed squeak, dropping your forehead onto the table. "I'm actually begging you to stop talking about it."
"Okay, fine, then let's talk about the other thing. What the hell was that?" Yeosang asks, his eyes darting back to Seonghwa over your shoulder.
You peek up at him through your arms. "What was what?"
"Seonghwa," Yeosang states plainly. "Why is he calling you 'angel'? And what was that about a gift?"
San points at him in agreement. "Right! I was gonna ask that. Why was he talking to you like you're his girlfriend? And what the fuck did he mean by Hongjoong being 'territorial'?"
You sit up, smoothing down the hoodie as you force your brain to work in overdrive.
"Oh, it was all just part of the plan," you say, waving a dismissive hand as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I told you, we had to push Hongjoong over the edge. Seonghwa just... went all out. He bought an IU record to give me as a 'gift' right in front of Hongjoong to set him off."
You gesture down to the other album still resting in your lap. "And it worked! Hongjoong got so jealous that he gave me a record of his own. He... well, okay, this is a little embarrassing, but he packed this bag for me this morning. He was the one who put all of my clothes inside, so I'm guessing he sneakily left Seonghwa's record behind in the process. That's why he was laughing. It proves his strategy worked."
Yunho frowns. "Okay, that makes sense, but... Hongjoong isn't here right now. So why is Seonghwa still using pet names and touching your neck?"
You swallow the massive lump in your throat. "I think that's just how he is," you say honestly, leaning into the half-truth. "It's like when I met him at the bar. He's just a natural flirt. He’s riding the high of last night, and he probably thinks it's fun to flirt with me in front of you guys."
Yeosang raises a highly skeptical eyebrow. "He certainly seemed to enjoy the theatrics of it."
"But how did he know you had those marks?" Yunho presses, not settling for your excuses.
You open your mouth, but your brain can't think of something fast enough. "I... um..."
"Well, he was standing right above her, so he could probably see the edge of them from his angle," Yeosang suggests reasonably.
Yunho slowly nods at this.
"Or he heard them through the wall last night and figured there was some damage left over," San offers with a wicked grin.
You gulp. "For the last time, please shut up, San."
The three of them go quiet, chewing on your scrambled explanation. You hold your breath, your nails digging into the skin of your palms, hoping they don't ask any more questions.
San eventually lets out a loud scoff.
"That guy is a total weirdo," he declares, crossing his arms and glaring toward the counter. "A Grade A, narcissistic weirdo. I don't like him."
Yunho sighs, finally accepting your logic as well. "I mean... it's a little weird to keep the act going when Hongjoong isn't here, but... I guess it makes sense."
"Right," Yeosang agrees, though his observant eyes linger on your flushed face for a second longer than the others. "He made the plan work. That's all that actually matters."
You let out a slow breath, relieved.
"Besides," San adds, his grin returning as he gestures to your covered neck. "It worked really well. I'm curious, does it hurt to turn your head?"
"San!" you hiss, burying your face back into your hands as he laughs.
Yunho lets out a long sigh, reaching across the tiny table to affectionately ruffle your hair. You weakly swat his hand away.
"You're a mess," he says. "A good mess, but still a mess. Go home. Take a long shower. Get some more sleep."
"Yeah," San agrees, standing up and grabbing his empty cup. "Home. Where it's impossible for you to ghost me."
You nod, offering them a tired but genuine smile as the three men gather their things to head back to the dorms. You shove the record back inside the bag and sling it over your shoulder, following them across the café, toward the exit. But as Yeosang holds the door open for you, the chime of the overhead bell makes your feet suddenly stop.
You look back over your shoulder. Seonghwa is behind the counter, swirling a dollop of whipped cream onto a customer's latte.
Something invisible roots you to the floor. You have a hundred questions for him burning a hole in your chest, demanding answers. Was the plan always to sleep with me? Did you know Hongjoong would react that way? Did you know he'd let you touch me, too, instead of dragging me to his room right away? Was any of what you said to me real, or was it all just part of the act? Are you truly someone I can trust, especially now that I'm involved with your best friend?
But as you stare at his perfectly composed, unbothered profile, you realize there's probably no point in asking him any of those things. Seonghwa is smart with his words. He could answer a hundred abstract questions without ever actually handing you a single shred of the truth.
If you're going to ask him anything, it needs to be something he can't charm his way out of. Just to give yourself at least a tiny bit of clarity.
Yeosang pauses in the doorway, realizing what's going through your mind. Though he may not understand why you can't leave without talking to Seonghwa, he meets your eyes and gives a slow, barely perceptible nod.
"We'll wait for you outside," he murmurs, his voice low enough that Yunho and San don't catch it. You give him a grateful smile as he lets the door close between you.
Taking a deep, calming breath, you turn around and walk straight up to the counter.
You wait for Seonghwa to hand the drink off to the customer, lingering silently at the register. The second the cup leaves his hand, his eyes instantly flick to you. A slow, teasing smile spreads across his lips.
"Back for another croissant?" he asks, wiping his hands on a towel as he walks over, leaning a casual hip against the counter. "I have to warn you, I'll need to start charging you for them."
You don't smile back. You lean in closer so no one else in the building can hear you.
"Did you come into his room?" you ask, skipping the pleasantries. "While we were sleeping?"
Seonghwa doesn't flinch, his smile unwavering.
"Your phone was dead," he says simply. "I found it next to your purse in the living room when I was collecting your things. I thought you’d want to be able to text your friends when you finally woke up."
"And you just... walked in while we were sleeping?" you whisper. The image of Seonghwa, fully dressed, quietly turning the handle to Hongjoong's bedroom, standing in the dark, watching the two of you tangled up in the sheets—exhausted from the aftermath of what he started—feels like a strange invasion of nearly all your boundaries.
"I assumed you'd prefer a fully charged battery over total privacy. Besides, I'd already seen everything. I didn't realize you'd still be so shy."
You stare at him, dumbfounded. He doesn't feel an ounce of guilt. In fact, he looks proud of himself.
"And about my gift," he continues, seamlessly pivoting the conversation as he offers a polite nod to a new customer entering the shop, signaling he'll be right with them. "I’ll get it to you eventually, angel. Don’t worry. Joong left it in our apartment on purpose, I imagine. He's always been a bit of a sore loser when it comes to sharing his things around the house. I suppose I should’ve known that possessiveness would translate to you, too."
Sharing. You flinch at the reminder of what the three of you had done only a handful of hours ago.
"I know you're his now," Seonghwa murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips, then back to your eyes. "And I'm truly happy about that. You really are good for each other. He's my best friend, and naturally, I want the best for him."
He slowly reaches out, his knuckles grazing the fabric of the hoodie covering your collarbone. Covering all the marks he left on you.
"But I still hope you don't forget about me," he says, his voice a mesmerizing, dangerous whisper. "You can try to hide it beneath his clothes, but we both know the truth of what happened last night, angel."
He pulls his hand back and stands up straight, smiling down at you.
"Have a good rest of your day, ____."
You watch silently, rooted to the spot, as he turns to greet the new customer—a stressed-looking student buried under a heavy pile of textbooks—with an easy, relaxed smile.
You can try to hide it beneath his clothes, but we both know the truth.
You don't have any idea what kind of man Seonghwa actually is. Maybe he really did fall for you. Maybe he's jealous that you so clearly prefer Hongjoong over him. Maybe he's trying to manipulate you into believing that because he was the one who pushed the boundaries last night, he now owns a permanent, secret piece of you. Or maybe you're misinterpreting everything; maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe he’s just a bored man who enjoys harmlessly flirting with his best friend's crush. Maybe this was his victory lap: he helped Hongjoong confess, and he got to have a little more fun teasing you before finally stepping back.
Your grip on the bag tightens as you watch him finish up with the customer. Yes, the lines got unimaginably blurred. Yes, you let him touch you, yes, it was intoxicating, and yes, it's a secret you'll guard with your life. But at the end of the day, Seonghwa was only ever the means to an end.
Hongjoong was always the goal. It was Hongjoong's bed you woke up in. It's Hongjoong's record sitting safely at the bottom of your bag. It's Hongjoong's clothes you're wearing. You didn't do any of this for Seonghwa. No matter what mind games his roommate is trying to play, your heart belongs to Hongjoong.
Squaring your shoulders, you lift your chin. You turn your back on the front counter, and this time, you don't look back at the man working behind it.
You push your weight against the door, stepping out into the bright late-morning sun, where Yeosang, San, and Yunho are waiting for you.
They're already a few paces ahead, seamlessly falling back into their usual banter as they argue about where to go for some actual food after they take you home.
You follow a couple of steps behind, slowing your pace and eventually coming to a halt on the sunlit path as a vibration buzzes from inside your bag. You dig out your fully charged phone, tapping the screen. One new notification is waiting for you.
Hongjoong: I meant to tell you earlier—get home safe. Let me know when you're back.
The dots at the bottom of the chat appear, disappear, and reappear three separate times before the next text finally comes through.
Hongjoong: I'm already counting down the hours until Thursday.
A smile spreads across your face, warming you from the inside out. In a matter of seconds, all the residual anxiety and tension from Seonghwa melt away.
You: I will. And me too.
You hesitate before sending a second text.
You: :)
"Hey! What are you doing back there?"
You look up. San is standing a few yards down the path, walking backward as he yells to you, making a show of shivering dramatically. "Come on, it's cold! Walk faster!"
"Relax, I'm coming!" you call back.
You quickly pocket your phone, hurrying to catch up with the three of them.
As you fall into step beside Yunho, you realize that though you're surrounded by three of the loudest men on campus, your mind is finally quiet. For the first time in weeks, there's no confusion. There's no lingering doubt about where you stand, what Hongjoong is thinking, or whether you're just projecting your own desperate feelings onto your tutor.
The lines have been completely crossed. You aren't just his student anymore. You don't think you ever really were.
And even though you've finally gotten exactly what you wanted, somehow, Thursday's session still can't seem to come fast enough.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 12.0k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm a little nervous about this one so i hope you enjoy!
chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, rough sex, finger sucking, dacryphilia, choking, biting/marking, praise kink, degradation, hair pulling, throat fucking, mirror sex, bondage, overstimulation, spanking, edging, daddy kink (oppa), creampie, jealous/possessive behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
Hongjoong's bedroom is dead silent.
You stand frozen in the middle of the carpet, drowning in the oversized fabric of his sweater, eyes locked on him. He hasn't moved in two full minutes. His hand is still clamped around the doorknob. He's breathing heavily, his bare chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as his gaze stays fixed on some empty point on the wall across the room.
The intense heat from just moments ago—the heat between all three of you—is gone. In its place is this suffocating silence that's already made your stomach plummet. You feel like you have whiplash. One second, everything was burning and impossible to think through; now, everything just feels cold. You suddenly have the awful realization that you just did something you can never, ever take back.
"Hongjoong...?" you ask quietly, your voice shaking from the anxiety of not knowing what's coming next.
He doesn't respond. For a long moment, he just stands there, staring at that same spot. Then, slowly, his fingers loosen from the doorknob. He pulls his hand off the metal and drags it through his messy hair, pushing the sweaty strands out of his face.
"You... you can sit."
His voice is flat. Drained of any trace of what happened between you just a few minutes ago.
Your knees practically buckle, and you drop onto the couch before you even realize your body has moved. The cushion dips beneath your weight as you pull your legs together, your fingers twisting nervously around the hem of his sweater.
He still won't look at you. You can't tear your eyes away from him, though every second of it makes the knot in your stomach twist harder. Your anxious gaze runs down his bare chest. Every muscle is pulled taut under the dim light of his bedroom. Seeing your normally composed tutor like this—half-naked and visibly tense—feels surreal.
What just happened? How did the plan derail so fast? It was supposed to be a fake date with Seonghwa to make Hongjoong jealous. To force a reaction. In a way, you guess it worked. But it was never supposed to escalate that far.
Or... was it? Was this Seonghwa's plan all along? Was trusting him a huge mistake? You chew on the inside of your cheek, terrified. Is Hongjoong regretting it? Is he furious with Seonghwa for pushing things too far? Is he disgusted with you for surrendering to it so easily?
Finally, he turns his head.
You brace yourself, preparing for the anger you're certain is coming.
But it isn't anger staring back at you.
It's shame.
Hongjoong pushes himself away from the doorframe and walks toward the couch. He doesn't sit beside you; he claims the farthest cushion possible, leaving a wide stretch of space between you. He leans forward, elbows dropping onto his knees. You don't dare move. You hardly dare to breathe.
When he finally speaks, his voice is rough.
"I'm sorry."
The word knocks you off balance. Sorry?
You stare at him, your lips slightly parted as a dozen different responses pile up on your tongue, stacking up behind your teeth—but none of them make it out. You look at the empty stretch of couch between you. He's sitting so far away. Just five minutes ago, there wasn't a single millimeter of space between you, his skin burning against yours, his hands all over your body. Now, he's closed himself off again.
Does he regret touching me? you wonder, a cold ache settling in your chest. Does he really believe it was that big a mistake? The cruelst, most insecure part of your mind whispers an even worse fear: Did he even want me at all, or was he just doing it to 'win' against Seonghwa?
You swallow hard, forcing your paralyzed vocal cords to work. "Why..." Your voice cracks. You wince and try again. "Why are you sorry?"
Hongjoong's hand reaches up to grip the back of his neck, roughly massaging the tense muscles there before he exhales. He still refuses to look at you. His eyes stay glued to the carpet.
"I'm your tutor."
Your stomach sinks.
You gaze at the side of his face, your heart breaking completely.
Your tutor.
As if the last thirty minutes could be reduced to a single line of professional misconduct.
When you don't answer, he shakes his head faintly.
"I crossed a line, ____," he says quietly, your name slipping from his mouth like it hurts to say it. "I'm sorry."
You sit perfectly still on the edge of the cushion, your mind scrambling to understand what he means. What exactly is he trying to say? That it was all just a lapse in judgment? That tearing you away from his best friend, crashing his mouth against yours, fully claiming you—that all of it was nothing more than a mistake he wishes he could undo?
A stinging heat builds behind your eyes.
You drop your gaze before he can see it, staring down at your lap instead of his face. Your fingers tremble as they curl into his sweater, tugging the sleeves down until they swallow your hands.
"Did you..." you start, hating how small you sound. You force yourself to finish the question, even as your words threaten to shake apart. "Did you only do it because... he was there?"
Hongjoong flinches.
His head snaps toward you, making you jump. For the first time since the door shut, he actually looks at you, and the devastation in his eyes makes you crumble.
"Is that really what you think?" he asks. A bitter sound escapes his throat, not quite making it to a laugh. "You think I don't know what the two of you planned?"
Your eyes go wide.
Before you can even question how he knew, he abruptly pushes to his feet. He turns away, crossing the room in a few long strides, pacing the short length of the opposite wall.
"I didn't do it because he was there." You hold your breath as you watch his shoulders tense, the words forcing their way out of his mouth. "I did it because I couldn't stop myself anymore."
Your heart stops. You track the rigid line of his spine, your focus dropping to his hands at his sides. They're trembling.
"I've spent every Thursday sitting three feet away from you," he says through gritted teeth, "pretending I don't feel anything while I watch you trip over your pronunciation again and again. Acting like I'm just doing my job. Then I go home and sit on that couch, staring at the wall, wondering what's wrong with me for feeling this way about my own student."
Slowly, reluctantly, he turns back to face you. When his eyes finally meet yours again, they look even more shattered than before.
"Your plan worked," he breathes, looking at you from across the room. "Seonghwa pushed me, and I used it. I let the jealousy take over because... because..."
His voice falters. He breaks eye contact, turning his head toward the wall, his jaw locking so hard a muscle jumps beneath his skin as he refuses to finish the sentence.
The room goes still. You can't speak. A tremor runs through your entire body from where you sit, paralyzed on the couch. You hadn't forced this out of him. You hadn't asked for a confession. And yet, he's unraveling anyway, pulling apart every boundary he just tried to rebuild.
"Because I'm weak," he finally forces out. The words are quick, tossed aside with a self-deprecating ease, but the sentence doesn't land right. You can tell that it isn't what he originally intended to say. "I knew what you two were doing. From the moment you told me he 'answers your texts,' I realized the whole thing was a game. And I still let myself lose, because..."
He trails off again. For a second, it almost seems like he might actually say what he means this time, but he doesn't. His head turns toward you, but the vulnerability from a second ago is now hidden.
"Was a game all it was to you?" he asks, his gaze pinning you to your spot on the couch. "You and him... laughing about how easy it was to make me lose my mind for you?"
You quickly shake your head. Everything is spiraling, going wrong. Another hot wave of tears blurs your vision as the words tumble out.
"No, Hongjoong, I—"
"Why are you still here?"
His voice slices through yours.
The words snap your mouth shut. You stare at him, stunned. You don't recognize this exposed, unstable version of Hongjoong at all—he's nothing like your careful tutor or even the possessive man you first met thirty minutes ago. He takes a step toward you, and though it isn't much, the distance doesn't quite feel controlled anymore.
"You got what you wanted," he continues, deadly quiet. "You pushed, and you made me snap. You made me say those... those things back there." He looks away like the memory is something he can't stand to hold. His voice breaks. "What... what else do you want from me?"
You can't move. A tear slips free, falling silently down your cheek.
He knows. He knows what you want from him without you ever having to say it out loud. And still, he won’t give it to you.
His eyes catch the tear tracking down your skin, and suddenly, all the anger drains out of him at once. He stops in his spot near the edge of his bed, no longer pacing. His eyes drag over you, absorbing the wreckage piece by piece. The tear sliding down your cheek. His oversized sweater swallowing your body. Your bare legs tucked defensively beneath you. And finally, the bluish-purple marks he left scattered across your neck.
He stares at the evidence of his loss of control. Slowly, he lifts a shaking hand, readjusting his glasses as he exhales through his nose.
"Look at you," he says quietly. His voice isn't angry anymore. "You're a mess because of me."
You look up at him through your blurred vision, your heart doing a confused flip. There’s nothing in him you can read clearly right now, no emotion that stays still long enough for you to make sense of. He holds your gaze for one excruciating second longer before a sigh leaves his lips, and he turns his head away to stare elsewhere, shutting you out.
But watching him look away again finally breaks you.
Before you even fully register what your body is doing, you're lifting your arm, using his sleeve to wipe your damp cheek. You push yourself up from the couch on unsteady legs.
"It wasn't a game to me, Hongjoong."
Your legs are shaking so badly you feel like you might collapse, but your exhausted voice finally finds its footing.
"Is that really what you think?" you ask, forcing him to listen even if he refuses to look. "That I'd let Seonghwa touch me like that... that I'd let you do what you just did to me... as a joke?"
Hongjoong's jaw locks tight, his chest heaving as he desperately tries to pull his walls back up.
"Then why?" he grits out after a moment. "Why him?"
"Because you weren't doing anything!"
The words spill out of you, all the months of agonizing tension, mixed signals, and silent pining finally reaching their breaking point.
"You ignored me for an entire week!" you snap, your frustration bleeding into every syllable. "You disappeared and left me with some shitty backup tutor because you were too scared to show your face after kissing me!"
Hongjoong's head whips back toward you, startled. His lips part, a defense already forming on his tongue, but you refuse to let him speak.
"I was there. I sat across from you every week, too," you continue, shaking. "I tried so hard not to feel anything. I fought it just like you did. But I couldn't help it. I tried to understand what you were thinking, what I meant to you... But every time I thought we were getting somewhere, you went right back to being professional."
He swallows hard, blinking rapidly as he forces his expression into something unreadable.
You keep going.
"But then... everything," you breathe out, your hands still balled into fists inside the sleeves of his sweater. "Offering to help me outside of our sessions. Asking for my Instagram. Replying to my story. The design. The songs. All the little things told me I wasn't imagining everything. All of it confirmed that you feel the same way I do."
Hongjoong doesn't interrupt. His eyes are guarding whatever thoughts are in his mind, making it impossible to tell what's breaking through and what he's still holding back.
You take a step toward him, your legs no longer shaking now that you're finally letting it all out. "You invited me to your apartment, Hongjoong. You kissed me on Monday! And just ten minutes ago, you—"
You cut yourself off as your throat tightens so painfully that you can't even force the rest of the sentence out. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.
"It wasn't a game," you say again, quieter. "I was desperate. I wanted you to stop avoiding me. I wanted you to admit what you feel—to me, and to yourself." You lift your chin, gathering every last ounce of strength you have to lock onto his eyes. "I don't care that we crossed a line tonight. I just want you to be honest with me." You pause, your voice wavering. "I just want you to tell me how you feel."
He's quiet for a long moment. The breath he'd been holding in eventually escapes him as he turns his body fully toward you, his shoulders squared yet unsteady.
"You said I was scared?" he asks shakily. "Yeah, ____. You're right. I'm terrified of how easily you make me forget every rule I've ever made for myself."
He reaches out before he seems to fully think about it, his hand lifting to cup your cheek. Without meaning to, you lean into the empty space between you. But before his skin can make contact with yours, he catches himself. His hand falls back to his side, his fingers curling into a tight fist against his thigh.
"I didn't ignore you after Monday because I didn't feel anything," he confesses. "I ignored you because I felt too much."
Your heart flutters involuntarily as you listen.
"I... I don't know why, but since the first time I saw you, I’ve been thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t have. And Monday... Monday was when it stopped being something I could only imagine." His throat bobs as he swallows. "Ever since then... every time I've thought about you, I’ve had to stop myself from walking over to your dorm and doing exactly what I did tonight."
You suck in a sharp breath. His gaze drops slowly to drag over your body once more, taking in the sight of you in his sweater, standing in the middle of his bedroom.
"And now you're right here," he says, the words rough. "In my room, wearing my clothes, telling me you actually wanted this." That bitter, breathless sound escapes him again. "Do you have any idea what you're doing to me, ____? Do you really want me to tell you the truth? The truth is that if I actually tell you how I feel... you'll never be just my student again."
You hesitate as you realize what's happening. Though trembling, you take another step forward, leaving only one step left between you, forcing him to look down. Close enough that there's nowhere left for either of you to hide. You study his face instead of answering straight away, absorbing the desperation written plainly across his features.
"Then stop trying to make me just your student," you whisper. "Because I haven't felt like 'just your student' since you brought me that strawberry Milkis all those sessions ago."
Hongjoong quickly looks away. A string of muttered Korean spills from his lips—words spoken too hastily and quietly for you to hear.
But when he looks back down at you, the final wall has crumbled. The look in his eyes is nothing short of devastating.
"I've never done this before, ____," he says, his voice so quiet that you have to lean closer just to hear it. "I don't know how to be someone who... feels things like this." His hands flex at his sides, his fingers curling before releasing helplessly. "I don't even understand it myself. When I'm around you, everything changes. I get nervous. I get jealous. I say things I could never bring myself to say in English."
His gaze drops, lingering on your lips with a hunger that makes your skin prickle before snapping back to your eyes.
"In Korean, it's easy. I can say whatever I want because I know you won't understand. I can tell you exactly how much it hurt watching you walk into my apartment with someone else tonight." He searches your eyes nervously. "But if I say it in English..."
He pauses, trailing off, caught between hesitation and longing.
"If I say it in English, then I can't pretend I didn't mean it. You... You'll finally know the truth," he whispers. "And the truth is... I don't have the words in your language to explain how badly I want you. English is too small. It doesn't come close to the way I've been thinking about you for months—about how you could be more than just my student. Every lesson, I've been forcing myself to stay professional, to keep that table between us... but there isn't a single word in the English language for what you do to me."
You look up at him, your heart swelling as the reality of what he's admitting washes over you.
"Then stop trying to find the words," you whisper.
You take that final, inevitable step, closing the last inch of distance between you until your chest is nearly brushing his bare skin.
"If English isn't enough... then show me. You've been teaching me how to speak for months, Hongjoong. Now, teach me how you feel."
The vulnerability in his eyes makes it almost impossible to breathe out your final words.
"Teach me in a language we both know."
Hongjoong doesn't move.
He stares down at you, letting the silence stretch until it feels heavier and somehow louder than the desperate challenge you just threw at him.
For a moment, you worry he's about to step back again. That you pushed him too far.
But you're wrong.
This time, he doesn't rush. There's no desperate grasping hands, no reckless clash of teeth like before.
He slowly leans in closer.
Both of his hands reach for you. There's a faint, barely-there tremble in his fingers as they hook under the hem of your sweater. His knuckles graze the sensitive skin of your hip, sending shivers over your body.
"Then pay close attention," he says, his voice shaking. You see something shift behind his eyes as his grip on the fabric tightens. "Arms up."
You obey without hesitation, lifting your unsteady arms above your head.
He slowly draws the sweater up your body. He lets the thick fabric drag along your skin, brushing up your stomach, over your ribs, and catching on the curve of your chest before slipping over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind him without even looking. It hits the floor with a soft thud.
The cool air of the bedroom hits your bare skin, making you shudder. But Hongjoong doesn't close the gap between you just yet. He remains motionless, his eyes tracing the length of your body, drinking you in as though he's committing the sight of you to a forbidden memory. When his attention settles on the faint, blooming bruises across your collarbone and the curve of your neck, his eyes darken.
His hands lift again. His fingertips are warm when they find you, the calloused roughness of his skin brushing along the line of your collarbone. The pads of his fingers glide upward, trailing the delicate bone of your neck until his palms bracket your jaw. He tilts your face up, his thumbs swiping over your cheekbones, forcing your eyes to meet his.
"Look at me," he says softly. He leans in, the hot, shaky flutter of his breath brushing over your lips. "You want me to show you how I feel? Then look at what you do to me."
His thumbs drag across your face one last time before his hands descend. They trace the pulse at your throat, over the slope of your bare shoulders, trailing down your sides until his fingers splay across the small of your back.
He pulls you against him.
A gasp leaves your lips as your skin meets his. But what completely knocks the breath out of you is the frantic beat of his racing heart against yours. And lower, pressing against your bare stomach through the thick cotton of his sweatpants, is the hard, undeniable proof of his arousal.
He doesn't need to explain it with words. You can feel exactly how desperately he wants you.
Hongjoong bows his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His nose brushes right over the marks left behind by his and Seonghwa's earlier battle—but this time, he doesn't use his teeth. His lips part, and he presses a tender kiss directly over the darkest bruise on your collarbone.
The wet heat of his mouth sends your hands drifting up of their own accord, your fingers weakly curling into the muscles of his shoulders just to keep yourself standing.
"Breathe," he murmurs against your skin. He kisses another mark, his tongue swiping soothingly over the damaged skin. "천천히." Slowly. He leaves another lingering kiss, mapping the shape of your throat as he begins to walk you backward. His grip on your lower back is firm, guiding your legs step by step across the floor. You don't even look behind you; you surrender to his lead, trusting the pressure of his palms on your waist as he soothes every last bruise he left before.
The backs of your knees hit the edge of his mattress.
You expect him to follow you down, to pin your wrists to the sheets and hover over you like he did earlier. But instead of letting you fall back, Hongjoong's hands slide from your waist to grip your bare hips. He holds you steady as he sits you on the very edge of the bed.
Without breaking eye contact, Hongjoong lowers himself, dropping to his knees right between your parted legs.
Slowly, he lifts one hand, his fingers hooking around the frames of his glasses and taking them off, reaching blindly to the side to set them on his nightstand. Without them, his gaze is piercing—the look of a man who has finally found the courage to take what he's wanted for months.
"Open wider," he instructs quietly.
You let your knees fall further apart. He shifts closer, slotting his broad shoulders perfectly between them. His eyes drop. He takes in the sight of your bare cunt completely exposed to him, his pupils blowing wide as he breathes you in.
He leans forward. You suck in a soft gasp as you feel his breath fan over your already soaked core. Your hands grip the edge of the mattress behind you.
"Shh," he murmurs, the sound vibrating right against your most sensitive flesh. "괜찮아." You're okay. "This isn't like before. I'm going to take my time."
His tongue drags up the length of your slick slit in one long stroke.
A choked whine tears from your throat. Your hips jerk forward on instinct to chase the friction, but Hongjoong's hands immediately clamp down on your thighs, his thick fingers digging in to lock you in place, denying you any say in the pace.
"움직이지 마. Don't move," he reprimands, looking up with an eyebrow raised. "Hwa got to taste you before I did. That doesn't seem fair, does it?"
You shake your head, your voice lost.
"No," he hums, massaging your hips with his thumbs. "It's not. So now, I'm going to fix that."
He dives back in, and suddenly every nerve in your body is electrified. He's methodical, his tongue rubbing circles and lapping at your folds with a torturous rhythm. He learns your body inch by inch: which stroke makes your walls clench, which angle makes your hands grip the bedsheets tighter, and how much pressure drives a whimper out of you. It's overwhelming. It feels so good you can barely stand it, the pleasure building so heavily your head falls back.
Hongjoong stops abruptly.
"____."
Your name is spoken sharply enough to snap your head forward. Your eyelids flutter open, finding his lips glistening with your juices from his place between your legs.
"내 눈 피하지 마," he growls, his grip on your hips hard enough to bruise. He pauses, watching your pleasure-hazed brain struggle to translate, and repeats it in a low English rasp. "Don't look away from me."
"I... it feels..." you stammer, your mind too far gone to form a sentence.
"I know." His eyes are gleaming at how undone you already are for him. "Why do you think I didn’t let you look at Hwa when he did this? Why do you think I made you keep your eyes on me while he had his hands all over you?"
You stare at him pathetically, your nails leaving little indents in the bedsheets.
"Because I'm the only one I want you to see when you break."
He leans in again, and keeping your eyes on him while his mouth absolutely wrecks you is impossible. He sucks hard on your clit, sending a blinding rush of pleasure through your core. You cry out, your legs shaking uncontrollably. Every time you try to squirm away from the intensity, his grip on your hips tightens, reminding you of what he instructed.
"Please," you beg, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. You're already so sensitive from before. He's quickly pushing you past your breaking point. "Hongjoong, I can't—"
"You can," he breathes against your wet skin.
To make matters worse, he slips two thick fingers deep inside you, stretching you open as his tongue continues to lap at your clit. You moan, a tear spilling over your cheek.
The sight of you crying makes his lips curl.
"That's it, cry for me," he groans, thrusting his fingers in and out of your tight pussy while his mouth devours you. "Show me you wanted this just as bad as I did."
Your mind is too far gone to even think of asking him to slow down. The combination of his degrading praise, the fullness of his fingers, his relentless tongue, and his hungry eyes watching your every twitch pushes you over the edge.
You sob his name, your body bowing off the mattress as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls fluttering and clenching around his fingers. You try to clamp your shaking thighs shut around his head, but he holds you open as he swallows down every last drop of your release until your body finally stops trembling.
When he finally pulls back, his face is a mess of your arousal. You're a wrecked, teary mess on the edge of his bed.
Your tears won't stop falling. The overstimulation, the humiliation, the months of waiting for this very moment—it all spills out of you in choked breaths. You try to turn your head, lifting your shaking hands to shroud your face, overwhelmed by what's just happened to you.
But Hongjoong's hands wrap around your wrists, easily pulling them away. He pushes forward, his body caging you in as he rises up over your thighs, forcing your back flat against the rumpled sheets. He hovers over you, his knees settling on either side of your hips.
"Don't hide from me," he murmurs huskily, releasing one wrist just in time to wipe away a fresh tear rolling down your cheek. He watches you with dark, hungry eyes, absolutely intoxicated by you. "씨… You're so pretty when you cry for me. Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to make you look like this?"
You whimper, and a smile of pure disbelief creeps onto his lips.
"So responsive," he whispers. He brushes your hair out of your face, his touch gentling. "You're such a good listener. You always have been."
Your heart flutters as his praise melts the last of whatever's left of your brain.
He slowly lifts his hand. The strong scent of your own arousal hits you right as he brushes the damp pads of his middle and index fingers against your bottom lip.
"Open," he commands.
Your teary eyes meet his as you just barely part your lips.
"You made such a mess," he purrs. His thumb presses down on your chin to gently force your jaw open wider. He slides the two wet fingers into your mouth, his eyes turning pitch black as they come to rest on your tongue. "Clean them for me. Taste how sweet your cunt is."
You let out a muffled whine, your cheeks burning crimson as you obediently close your lips. You swirl your tongue around his fingers, sucking the slick taste of your own climax directly off his skin.
A low groan vibrates deep in Hongjoong's chest. He watches your mouth work, his jaw clenching as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your mouth, making you suck on him to the same rhythm he just used on your cunt.
He slowly withdraws his hand, letting his wet fingers drag over your swollen bottom lip. A thin thread of saliva strings between his skin and your mouth for a split second before it snaps.
Hongjoong studies your flushed, thoroughly ruined expression one last time before he pushes himself off the mattress. He stands tall at the bedside, his eyes locked on yours as his hands drop to the waistband of his sweatpants. In one impatient motion, he shoves them down his thighs and steps out, kicking the fabric aside to join the discarded sweater on the floor.
You’ve seen his length already tonight, but seeing him like this—right in front of your face, with his entire focus pinned solely on you—is entirely different. He isn't ridiculously long, but he's overwhelmingly thick; the mere sight of his girth makes your pulse jump into your throat.
"이리 와. Come here," he orders. He points to the edge of the mattress, right in front of where he's standing. "On your knees."
You scramble forward, your thighs sliding over the rumpled sheets until you reach the very edge. You gently drop to your knees in front of him, the height difference forcing you to crane your neck back just to look up at his face.
He strokes his length, looking down at you silently with a dark, expectant gaze.
You part your trembling lips, leaning forward to take him into your mouth. You whimper softly, your tongue swirling tentatively around his tip. But as you try to sink down further, you can't. He's just too thick; you can barely wrap your mouth around his girth, your lips and jaw stretching uncomfortably. When you try to force a deeper swallow, you choke, pulling back with a wet gasping sound to catch your breath.
Hongjoong's eyes narrow. Before you can recover, his hand reaches into your hair. His fingers tangle deep into the roots at the back of your head, his grip tightening into a fist against your scalp. A startled moan breaks from your lips, and the moment your mouth opens, he pushes his hips forward, using his grip on your hair to guide his thick cock past your lips.
"Is this the best you can do?" he murmurs, holding your head exactly where he wants it. "You played all these little games tonight, begging for my attention. Now you finally have it, and you can't even suck me off properly?"
A stifled whine breaks around his length, tears pricking your eyes from the stretch of your jaw.
"You're usually such a fast learner," he grunts, his hips rolling forward to push himself deeper down your throat. "Prove you can follow instructions. Stay still."
You try to relax your throat, forcing yourself to swallow down the mass of him as he sets a meticulous pace into your mouth. The lack of oxygen makes your head spin. The overstimulation from your orgasm rushes back tenfold, twisting into a throbbing ache between your legs that makes you desperate for his touch all over again.
Needing any kind of relief, your trembling hand drops from his thigh, reaching down between your own legs. You press your fingers against your aching clit, desperate to rub away the maddening tension building in your core.
You don't even get to swipe your fingers once.
Hongjoong's free hand snaps down, his fingers wrapping around your wrist. He yanks your hand away from your center so fast you nearly gag on his cock.
"Did I tell you to touch yourself?" he asks coldly. He pulls your arm up, forcing your hand to press flat on the mattress beside your knee. "Keep your hands on the bed."
He thrusts forward, burying himself to the hilt and holding his length against the back of your throat for three long seconds. You choke, tears spilling out of your eyes, before he finally pulls back to grant you a second to drag a breath through your nose.
The strict denial shatters you. The empty, pulsing throb between your thighs is torture.
"Please," you gasp wetly against his slick skin, another sob tearing from you. "Hongjoong, please..."
"Please what?" he demands, his fingers tightening in your hair, forcing your teary, flushed face to tilt back up toward his.
"Please fuck me," you beg, looking up at him with wide, wrecked eyes. "I need you inside me again... please, Hongjoong, just fuck me."
His eyes flare at the sound of your begging. He stares down at you while a smirk cuts across his face. He releases his punishing grip on your hair, his hands dropping to your shoulders as he hauls you up from your knees.
"일어나." Get up.
He pushes you further back on the mattress, but he doesn't lie you down. Just across from the bed stands the same headless mannequin from Monday, draped in a half-finished suit jacket and blocking the view of the wall. Without ever taking his eyes off you, Hongjoong reaches behind him and shoves the mannequin aside. The base scrapes loudly against the floor, revealing the sliding closet door behind it.
The entire door is a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror.
You choke out a panicked sob as you catch sight of your reflection. You look ruined. Your hair is a mess, your lips are swollen and slick with his precum, your chest is heaving, and the dark bruises from earlier stand out starkly against your flushed skin. You look desperate, practically begging for him to touch you, and seeing that hunger on your own face is just too humiliating to bear.
"Please... no," you whisper, your heart dropping to your feet as he sinks onto the bed behind you.
With an embarrassed sound, you bring your shaking hands up, once again burying your face in your palms as you try to twist your head away from the glass.
Hongjoong snatches your wrists, yanking them down.
"봐." Look.
You try, but the shame is too much. The second his grip on your wrists relaxes, you squeeze your eyes shut and duck your chin to your chest, trying to escape your own reflection.
An exhale leaves his lips. "좋아," he says simply, his tone chillingly calm. Fine.
Before you can react, he wrenches both of your arms firmly behind your back. You squirm, trying to pull away, but he easily traps both of your wrists in one hand. With his free hand, he reaches down over the edge of the bed, grabbing a leather belt from a pile of discarded clothes underneath.
Anticipation spikes in your chest. "Hongjoong—"
"You wanna keep hiding your face?" he cuts you off calmly as he loops the leather around your wrists. You squirm harder, wriggling your fingers helplessly, but he pulls the strap taut and fastens the buckle, locking your hands securely together against your lower back. "You asked me to fuck you. We're both going to watch exactly what that looks like."
He moves closer behind you, his chest pressing against your bound arms. His hand comes around to grip your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks as he forces your head up. He makes sure you stare straight ahead, your humiliated eyes locking with his unblinking ones in the reflection.
"You lost your hand privileges when you decided not to follow directions," he murmurs right against your ear, his gaze pinning you down through the glass. "You don't get to hide anymore."
He pushes you forward. Unable to catch yourself with your hands bound, you stumble clumsily, your knees hitting the mattress as your upper body bends forward. The angle forces your hips up into the air and arches your back, leaving your chest completely bared and exposed to the mirror.
The leather belt pulls your shoulders back, thrusting your chest out and painting a graphic picture of your submission. Behind you, Hongjoong settles into place on his knees. In the reflection, you watch his hungry eyes track the movement of his own hands as they grip the soft flesh of your hips tight enough to leave more marks.
"Look up," he says.
You force your teary face up, locking your eyes on the glass just as he aligns his thick length with your soaking entrance. He doesn't prep you or tease you with a slow entry; he knows you're ready to take him. He drives his cock forward in one thrust, sinking into you fully.
A breathless moan tears from your throat. Your toes curl into the mattress, your calves cramping from the unbelievable stretch of him. He's so impossibly thick, filling the empty ache inside you so perfectly that your eyes involuntarily roll back in your head.
A sudden resounding smack echoes through the bedroom.
The stinging slap of Hongjoong's hand against the side of your ass jolts your eyes wide open, making you cry out.
"쳐다봐," he snaps, his eyes burning holes into your reflection. Look at me. "Eyes on the mirror. Don't you want to watch me take what we've both been imagining for months?"
You whimper pathetically, forcing your gaze back to the glass just as he pulls his hips back. You gasp at the wet, embarrassing sound of him sliding out before he thrusts into you again.
The visual is somehow more intoxicating than the physicality. You watch his torso collide with your smaller frame, seeing the throbbing mass of his cock stretching your folds open before disappearing inside your cunt over and over again. He sets a deep rhythm, burying himself completely with every thrust, making sure you witness every single second of it.
The loud smack of his hips connecting with yours echoes relentlessly through the bedroom. Every single time Hongjoong drives his hips forward, your bound hands shift against your lower back, making your face flush in humiliation as you watch his cock bury into you through the mirror. The fullness, the stretch, the lack of control—it all builds into a sensory overload that fries your brain.
Fresh tears spill over your lower lashes. You let out another sob, your knees trembling. "Hongjoong, please—it's too much, it's—"
"Too much?" he murmurs, though his tone lacks any real sympathy. In the reflection, you see the satisfaction in his eyes as he watches your tears fall. "I thought you wanted me to teach you how I feel. Are my feelings too much for you to handle?"
He slows his pace anyway, his hands sliding from your hips up to your waist. With one tug, he pulls your torso upright, straightening your spine until your bare back is pressed against his chest.
The sudden shift in angle forces his cock to angle upward inside of you, hitting a spot so deep you let out a high, piercing moan. Because your hands are bound, you have absolutely zero balance. You slump back against him, your trapped wrists resting uselessly between your lower back and his stomach, leaving you reliant on his frame to keep you from collapsing.
Hongjoong keeps his left arm wrapped tightly around your waist, locking you against him. His right hand comes up to your face, his fingers wrapping around your jaw with strict pressure to keep your head perfectly straight.
"Pay attention," he breathes against your ear.
He begins to thrust again in the new, upright angle. With every thrust, his length drags against your sensitive walls, but the angle completely misses your aching clit.
You squirm desperately, your wrists twitching as you try to adjust your hips, practically whining to get the external friction you need so badly to tip you over the edge again.
Hongjoong's arm flexes around your waist, his bicep tightening to keep you in place, denying you the angle you're begging for. "가만히... 있어," he reprimands between thrusts, his grip on your jaw tightening enough to keep your tear-stained face glued to the glass. Stay still. In the mirror, his jaw is clenched, his muscles flexing with every powerful thrust as he fucks you, his gaze locked on your reflection.
"Look how pretty you are when you listen," he praises darkly, his hips snapping forward, shaking your entire body with the force. "그래서 네가 내 최애 학생이야."
You cry out as he hits that deep spot again, your mind too hazy to even try to translate it.
"이해 안 돼?" You don't understand?
You shake your head helplessly.
He grunts, calming his thrusts for a split second as he leans closer to your ear. "I said..." He thrusts again, hard and deep, his thumb slipping past your parted lips to press against your tongue. "This is why you're my favorite student."
You moan on his finger as he continuously hits that same, devastatingly deep spot, unable to hide your face from him. It's becoming too much again. The relentless pressure is building a fiery tension in your lower stomach, even as he denies you the external friction you crave.
Your whines turn frantic, and you suck harder on his thumb as your head falls back onto his shoulder. Your inner walls begin to flutter and clench around his cock as the intensity of the overstimulation pushes you right to the very edge.
"P-Please, Hongjoong, I'm gonna—" you cry out, your voice muffled by his thumb. Your thighs tremble as you squeeze your eyes shut, chasing the release that's about to crash over you.
In the mirror, Hongjoong's eyes narrow as he feels your walls rapidly contracting around his cock. The realization that you're about to climax flashes across his features.
"아직. Not yet," he groans, abruptly pulling out. You whine at the sudden loss, but he doesn't give you a second to breathe. His hands drop to your shoulders, spinning your body around before lowering you flat onto your back.
He quickly unbuckles the leather belt and throws it to the floor, granting you a split second of false hope that your hands are finally free. But instead, Hongjoong keeps his hold on your wrists, dragging them above your head and pressing them into his pillows, binding you in his grip once again. His knees cage your trembling thighs as his large frame hovers over you, his free hand trailing down your body.
"Please," you whisper, your hips squirming to settle the ache between your legs. "Please, I need—"
"You need what?" he asks while aligning himself with your entrance again, letting the thick head of his cock brush against your swollen folds, but refusing to push inside. "Ask properly." He presses the tip just barely past your entrance to tease you. "Remember what I taught you. Use the right title. Who am I to you? Who's taking care of you right now?"
You shut your eyes, his strict teasing burning through your foggy mind. You desperately search through your vocabulary, your mind landing on the one word you knew you'd never use unless you destroyed every last boundary between you. "오...오빠," you stutter, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Please, 오빠... please let me cum..."
Another satisfied grin spreads across his face as he lightly pats your cheek. "잘했어." Good job.
He brings his hips forward, burying his length deep inside your soaking cunt. You moan as your walls stretch to accommodate him all over again. The second he bottoms out, his hand shoots up, wrapping firmly around your throat. He doesn't squeeze hard enough to cut off your air, but the pressure of his fingers pins you securely to the mattress.
"Look at me," he commands, pressing his thumb against your racing pulse.
You look at him through your blurry vision. "오빠!" you cry out, feeling him starting to lose control, his jaw locked tight as he thrusts deep into you. "Please, 오빠, I wanna... I wanna..."
He leans down, his body pressing you deeper into the sheets. His lips finally crash into yours, hungrily tasting the flavor of your mouth. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours to explore inside. You moan into his lips, feeling his hard cock twitch and pulse inside of you as he gets closer to his own climax.
He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing wetly over your jaw and down to the crook of your neck, where the bruises still stain your skin.
"We left... such a mess on you earlier," he breathes against your collarbone between thrusts, his tone dripping with possessiveness. "Let me fix it."
He presses open-mouthed kisses right over the worst of the bruising, soothing the abused skin, but the softness doesn't last for long. His teeth graze your neck, finding an unblemished patch of skin right above your collarbone. He bites down—not hard enough to break the skin, but with enough stinging pressure to make you gasp out loud—and sucks hard. He leaves a fresh mark of his own, ensuring it overshadows the others.
"내 거야," he murmurs against the new bruise. Mine. "You won't let him touch you again, will you?"
You shake your head quickly, tears spilling into the tangled mess of your hair. "No," you cry helplessly, your hips rising to meet his thrusts. "I—I promise! Only you... please, I—I'm so close—"
His fingers flex around your throat, tightening as his pace turns deeper. He looks down at your wrecked, desperate expression, his eyes dark.
"좋아," he praises against your ear. Good. "Show me you belong to me. Cum for me, 자기야."
The permission shatters you. You scream his name, your back arching off the mattress as a violent orgasm tears through your body. Your inner walls flutter wildly, clamping down viciously around his cock.
Hongjoong's eyes roll back into his head the second he feels your tight pussy milking him. "씨발," he hisses. "미치겠네... 너무 꽉 조여..."
Breathless curses tear from his throat as he shakily thrusts into you three more times, chasing your climax with his own. He lets out a final groan, burying himself to the absolute hilt and holding his hips against yours as he finally spills deep inside of you, filling you with hot, heavy pulses of his cum.
Your desperate sounds slowly fade, leaving only the ragged ones of your shared breathing to fill the room.
Hongjoong hovers above you for a few lingering seconds as he rides out the last of his high. Slowly, the tension begins to drain from his muscles. He pulls out softly, and the sudden loss leaves you shivering against the damp sheets. Instead of pulling you with him, he collapses onto his back on the empty side of the mattress, staring at the ceiling as he gasps for air.
You slowly untangle your trembling limbs, your body feeling utterly spent and beautifully boneless. Your hazy brain can't even begin to process what just happened.
For a few long minutes, neither of you says a word.
Eventually, Hongjoong is the one who breaks the silence.
"So..." he breathes out, his voice hoarse.
You swallow, your throat dry and aching from screaming his name. "So..."
Another stretch of silence passes. You turn your head on the pillow to look at him. His eyes are impossibly wide, locked in a dead stare at the ceiling above. You watch the strict dominance that just possessed him completely evaporate into a dawning panic.
You can practically see his brain rebooting, the realization of every single boundary he just demolished crashing down on him at the same time.
"Are you okay?" he blurts out suddenly, his head snapping to look at you. "Does anything hurt? I wasn't too... I mean, I know I was..." He cuts himself off, his hands coming up to aggressively rub at his face. "Do you want water? You probably need water. I should get you water."
"Hongjoong, no," you say weakly, barely able to move. "I'm okay."
He doesn't look convinced. He sits up frantically, his hands patting blindly at his nightstand until his fingers find the metal frames of his glasses. He hastily shoves them onto his face, blinking through the lenses, and immediately pushes them up the bridge of his nose.
He quickly readjusts them.
A second later, he readjusts them once again.
His panicked gaze lands on you after his eyes adjust. He takes in your wrecked expression, the mess of the bedsheets, and the bruises he left all over your neck and collarbone. He swallows hard.
A cool draft from the air conditioner suddenly hits your bare skin, and you shiver.
Hongjoong sees it immediately. "Are you cold?" he asks, already moving to scramble off the bed. "I have sweatpants. Or a hoodie. You can have the sweater you were wearing earlier, or a clean one, I have plenty—"
"Hongjoong," you interrupt gently, stopping him before he bolts to his closet. "I'm cold, but don't worry about clothes. I'll just get under the blanket."
"Right. Yes. The blanket. Okay."
He practically dives to grab the thick, crumpled duvet from the foot of the bed. He tugs it upward, clumsily trying to drape it over you to cover your body. In his frantic attempt to make sure you're tucked in and comfortable, he leans over you, his hands braced on either side of your shoulders as he smooths the blanket up to your chin.
Suddenly, he freezes.
You're staring up at him, and he's staring down at you. It's the same position as earlier—him hovering over you, trapping you beneath him—but now, it's so much different. It's not strict or possessive; it's intimate, it's gentle, and it's overwhelmingly vulnerable. The spiraling panic in his expression slowly melts away as he looks at you. This time, the silence between you shifts to something soft. Warm. You watch his eyes trace your features, a quiet debate noticeably flashing behind his lenses.
He swallows again, his throat bobbing. Then, slowly, he leans down. He presses a gentle kiss to the very center of your forehead.
He lingers there for a moment, letting out a shaky exhale against your skin, before he pulls back. He finally collapses into the space beside you, pulling his half of the duvet over his own bare waist.
Your heart flutters as the quiet settles over the room again. You turn your head to look at him, and he looks significantly calmer, the nervous tension finally draining out of his shoulders.
After a few more silent moments, he speaks again.
"____?"
"Yeah?"
A pause. You watch his nervous hands fidget with the blanket.
"I know I said a lot of things earlier," he begins, his voice incredibly soft and sincere. "And I know I told you that I wanted you. But I need you to know... it wasn't just about tonight."
He turns his head on the pillow, his eyes locking on yours.
"I like you," he confesses quietly. "I think I have since our very first session. I spent a long time trying to convince myself that I was just being a good tutor by offering you private lessons, but the truth is... I just wanted to be near you. I wanted to get to know you better. I know it's wrong of me. I know it's completely unprofessional. But I don't think I can hide from it anymore. I... I really like you, ____. I always have."
Slowly, an uncontrollable grin breaks across your face. Your heart swells so violently it aches, all the anxiety and desperate pining of the last few months completely washing away in an instant.
When you don't say anything, Hongjoong's newfound confidence visibly falters. His eyes dart over your features nervously, mistaking your silence for hesitation.
"Say something," he adds, his voice pitching up with a hint of that earlier panic. "Please."
Your grin only widens. "I like you, too, Hongjoong," you whisper softly. "I have since the first time I saw you."
The relief that washes over his face is instantaneous. His tense posture completely dissolves, and finally, a smile breaks through, pushing his cheeks up and crinkling the corners of his eyes behind his lenses.
He shifts closer, hesitating for only a second before sliding an arm under your pillow to pull you closer to him. He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, incredibly sweet kiss, a silent promise that the games, the jealousy, and the professional boundaries are finally, officially gone.
His bedroom feels entirely different now. You lie tangled together beneath the duvet in a warm, comfortable silence. Hongjoong is flat on his back with you tucked against his side, his arm wrapped around your bare waist. Your head rests against his chest, and beneath your cheek, you can hear his steady heartbeat. His free hand is buried in your hair, his fingers lazily mapping the shape of your scalp in soothing circles.
It's domestic. It's romantic.
You can't believe it's actually happening.
Am I dreaming? you wonder, tracing a mindless pattern over his ribs with your index finger. Did I fall asleep at dinner with Seonghwa, and this is just the desperate fantasy my brain came up with? You try to reconcile the gentle man currently playing with your hair with the man who just completely ruined you in front of a mirror. He was so effortlessly dominant, reading your body's reactions with accuracy that you assumed only came from years of experience.
"Hongjoong?" you ask softly, breaking the quiet.
His fingers pause in your hair. "Yeah?"
You hesitate, your hand flattening against his chest. "I know you said earlier that you... um, never felt like this before... but then... how were you so..." You trail off, biting your swollen bottom lip as heat rushes to your cheeks. You can't even say it out loud without feeling another pulse between your thighs. "...so, um... in control?"
You feel his entire body freeze beneath you. A sudden, surprised chuckle rumbles against your cheek.
"I... I've been thinking about it. How it would go. How... how I would do it. A lot," he admits, his voice shy and extremely embarrassed.
You blink, pulling back a little, your brow furrowing slightly. "Thinking about it... like, in general? With others? Or..."
Hongjoong shifts before you can finish the thought. He props himself up on one elbow, the duvet falling lower on his waist as he looks down at you. You shift too, looking up at the sudden, breathtaking devotion in his eyes.
"____," he says so quietly and seriously that your heart skips a beat. "Think about all the covers I posted. All the songs I've been writing. All the clothes I've designed in the past few weeks."
He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a tangled strand of hair out of your eyes and tucking it behind your ear.
"All of it was for you. You're my muse." He lets his hand drop to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing over your lips. He looks at you like you're the only thing in his room—the only thing in his entire world. "Even my fantasies are made for you."
His confession sends a fierce blush rushing straight to your cheeks. You bite your bottom lip, shyly breaking the intense eye contact.
Your sudden bashfulness seems to break the spell. Hongjoong blinks, realizing what he just admitted. A matching flush creeps up his neck, painting the tips of his ears red. He drops his hand from your jaw, his gaze nervously darting down to the tangled duvet at his waist.
"I meant what I said earlier, though," he murmurs as his fingers pick nervously at a loose thread on the blanket. "I... I've never actually done any of this. I've never slept with anyone before."
Your chest aches with how much affection you feel for him in this moment. "I know," you say softly, trying to reassure him.
Hongjoong completely freezes. His head snaps up, his eyes going wide behind his glasses.
A second too late, you realize that probably wasn't the best thing to say.
"You knew?" His voice cracks as he starts to panic. "Was it obvious? Did I... did I hurt you? I knew I shouldn't have been so rough... I'm sorry. I just—I got so caught up in you, I didn't mean to hurt—"
"No! No, Hongjoong, wait," you stammer, quickly pressing your palm against his chest to stop his spiraling. "You didn't do anything wrong! I mean... yes, you were... um... rough. But..." You swallow hard, feeling your face heat up all over again. "...I liked it."
Hongjoong blinks rapidly at you. "You did? I mean, I figured you did by the way you were... uh..."
You both blush again as he trails off, deeply embarrassed. You simultaneously avert your eyes.
"Yeah," you mumble, suddenly finding his collarbone incredibly fascinating to look at. "I... I liked it when you told me what to do. When you kept pushing me, even when I said it was too much. And... I really liked it when you talked to me in Korean. Especially when I didn't understand. It all... it felt like..." You trail off, avoiding his eyes, struggling to find the words.
"Like... tutoring?" Hongjoong offers quietly, his voice a little shaky.
You blush even harder, nodding against his skin. "Y-yeah. Like tutoring," you whisper.
An awkward, incredibly flustered silence falls over the two of you.
But then, Hongjoong slowly looks back down at you. His expression is confused, his panic receding just enough for logic to kick in. "If I wasn't doing anything wrong... then how did you know?"
You bite your lip, wincing apologetically. "Um... Seonghwa told me."
Hongjoong goes incredibly quiet. He sucks in a hissing breath through his teeth and abruptly looks away from you, his gaze snapping back up to the ceiling.
"Hongjoong?" you ask tentatively, shifting a little closer to him, suddenly remembering the fear you shared with Seonghwa right before dinner. "Are you mad at him? Are you... mad at me?"
He lets out a breath, his eyes closing for a brief second. "I'm not mad at you," he says, his voice tight. "I know... I know I haven't really been fair to you. I've been running from my feelings for months, and you were getting tired of waiting. I get it." He pauses, his jaw ticking again. "But Hwa? Yeah. I'm mad at him. He barely even knows you. What makes him think he has the right to tell you these things? To take you out to dinner? To do... everything he just did with you?"
You know exactly what he means. You think back to everything that happened between the three of you. Now that your brain is finally clearing from the heavy fog of pleasure, the questions start filling your mind.
"If you were, um, this jealous..." you begin hesitantly, "why did you let him stay with us? Why didn't you just bring me here in the first place?"
He goes quiet again, staring blankly ahead.
"Because I was scared," he admits, the bitterness bleeding out of his voice. "I was so jealous. It was killing me to watch him touch you, thinking about what would happen if I let the door to his room close without me in it." He finally turns his head, his eyes shimmering with insecurity. "But... I wasn't ready to be alone with you like this. I was so nervous, ____. I didn't... I didn't think you'd want me anymore if you knew I had no idea what I was doing."
Your heart softens. You shift your body, propping yourself up slightly to look at him better, hesitating before sliding your hand up to cup his cheek warmly.
"No, Hongjoong. Of course not," you say, meeting his gaze directly. "If anything... I wanted you even more when I found out I'd be your first."
Hongjoong's breath hitches. He searches your face, looking for any sign of pity or deceit, but all he finds is honesty.
You watch the last remnants of his anxiety melt away. While a part of him is undoubtedly still furious with Seonghwa, the relief that washes over his face is clear. You knew you were his first. And you still wanted him.
He turns his head, pressing a soft, shy kiss to the center of your palm, which makes you smile. For a few minutes, you both rest there. He holds you close as the quiet of the room wraps around you both.
But you know Hongjoong well enough by now to know that his brain is never quiet for this long. Now that his lack of experience is out in the open, you can practically hear his thoughts racing at a million miles an hour.
"Have you..." he starts, his voice hesitant as his fingers trace absentmindedly over your waist. "Have you dated a lot of guys?"
"No," you answer honestly, letting your hand slide from his cheek as you settle your head back against his chest. "Just one, really. I dated a guy in high school."
"How long did it last?"
"Almost a year," you recall with a small shrug. "It was the typical high school romance. We went to prom, studied together, hung out with the same friends... it wasn't anything crazy."
"Why did you break up?" he asks. "Did you end it, or...?"
"Yeah, I broke up with him."
"Why? What did he do wrong?"
You let out a tiny, amused exhale at his interrogation. "It wasn't that he did anything wrong," you explain. "He didn't cheat on me or anything like that. I just... I knew we weren't going to last. The spark wasn't there. It just wasn't right."
"Oh," Hongjoong murmurs. He nods slowly, his thumb resuming its strokes against your side.
You look up at him as he bites his lip. He goes quiet for a long moment. When he finally looks at you, his eyes are suddenly wide and terrifyingly hopeful.
"Have you..." he swallows hard. "Have you ever... done this before?"
Your entire body freezes.
Wooyoung.
The name crashes back into your mind. The memory of lying in different, tangled sheets in a different man's arms just a few weeks ago suddenly comes rushing back. You hadn't thought about that night in so long, but now...
Your heart rate spikes. How on earth are you supposed to answer this? How can you look at Hongjoong—who just confessed everything to you, who was terrified you wouldn't want him because he was a virgin—and tell him the truth? How can you admit that you lost your virginity to someone like Wooyoung?
And worse—how could you possibly explain that it happened so recently? While you already had feelings for Hongjoong? While he already had feelings for you?
Hongjoong tilts his head, his thumb stopping on your waist again. "____?"
You take a deep breath. If you confess the truth now, it wouldn't just be about losing your virginity recently. He'd realize that you recklessly let a guy like Wooyoung fuck you while actively falling for someone else. Worse, he'd realize that you're a liar. He'd know how easily you looked him in the eye that day in the library café and lied about celebrating Yunho's birthday, when in reality, you were going to Wooyoung's place. He'd immediately piece together that session in the library when he saw Wooyoung's name pop up on your phone, remembering when you brushed it off and said he was just a friend.
The web of lies is already too tangled. If Hongjoong found out the truth now, he'd be heartbroken, yes—but he'd also despise you.
"I..." Your voice trembles slightly. You force yourself to swallow the lump of guilt lodged in your throat. You avert your eyes, unable to meet his hopeful gaze. "I have. Once."
You feel his chest fall as his shoulders drop just a fraction. When you briefly dare to peek at him, the light in his eyes has dimmed slightly as he realizes you aren't each other's firsts.
"How... how long ago?" he asks, his voice a little quieter. "How old were you?"
The dread gnaws at your insides, making you feel physically sick, but you have no choice. You can't let him find out about Wooyoung.
"A few years ago. I was seventeen," you lie, forcing your voice to stay as steady and casual as humanly possible. "With my ex."
Hongjoong stares at you for a long moment. You know he notices your averted eyes and your sudden stiff posture, but maybe because of his total lack of experience, or because he's so caught up in his own feelings, he misinterprets it. Maybe he assumes you're just shy. Maybe he thinks you feel guilty for talking about an ex in his bed.
Either way, he lets out a breath, accepting your answer with a visible sense of relief. Even though you weren't a virgin like him, your first time is safely locked away in the past. It isn't a threat.
"Okay," he murmurs softly. "Okay. Thank you for telling me."
You close your eyes, accepting his relief while your stomach twists into anxious knots. Your secret is successfully buried. Wooyoung will no longer play any role in your feelings for Hongjoong.
But as Hongjoong pulls you closer, you realize that you can never, ever take this back. Not even an hour after finally confessing your true feelings to the man you want, you've already built your foundation on a lie.
You try to focus on the warmth of his skin and the steady sound of his breathing, forcing your racing heart to slow down. You shove the guilt into a dark corner of your mind and lock it away. But as the quiet drags on, you can feel the energy in his bedroom shift. The relief that had briefly settled over his features begins to morph back into that tight, nervous tension. He stares up at the ceiling, chewing on his lip.
"I'm sorry for asking so many questions," he murmurs, letting out a sigh. "I'm just... I'm terrified of making a mistake."
You lift your head from his chest. "Hongjoong—"
"I don't know what I'm doing, ____," he interrupts softly. "I'm used to knowing all the answers. But this... these feelings, you... It's all completely new to me. I'm scared that I'll do something wrong and mess this all up."
You shift closer, a small, affectionate smile spreading across your face.
"Hongjoong," you say quietly. "You probably are going to make a mistake."
He blinks, startled, not expecting you to be so blunt.
"And I will, too," you add, your voice softening. "We're going to mess up. We're going to overthink things, we're going to be awkward, and we're going to get stupidly jealous. But it's normal to not be perfect. You don't have to be my tutor right now. There are no right answers for this. We're just going to figure things out together."
You can feel the anxiety unspool from his muscles as he exhales.
"Figure it out together," he repeats softly, testing the words on his tongue. "Okay. Yeah. I can do that."
You grin, tracing a teasing circle over his collarbone. "I promise, things will figure themselves out. As long as you actually show up for tutoring from now on."
He winces, dropping his forehead against your shoulder to hide his face.
"I'm sorry about last time," he mumbles, his warm breath tickling your skin. "I was such a coward. I just... I didn't know how I could do it. Seeing you across from me, smelling your perfume, staring at the lips I kissed a few days ago... I panicked just thinking about it." He turns his head, shifting so that he's looking down at you again as a frown pulls at his lips. "But I was so anxious the entire time. I was so jealous that another guy got to sit there and listen to you talk so innocently in his native language. And now that I know how rude he was to you... Well, he'll be lucky if I don't contact the Language Center tomorrow to have him fired."
You let out a startled laugh. "Fired? Hongjoong, he was probably just in a bad mood because he had to work on a Thursday night. It's okay."
"It doesn't matter. It's his job," he argues. "I told him exactly what to say to you, and exactly what you'd say back. And he still messed it up. Clearly, they need to replace him." He pauses, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Maybe I'll recommend Hwa. He can meet a different girl to take out to dinner."
You shake your head, completely endeared by how petty and sweet his jealousy is. "But Seonghwa just got that new job at my favorite café."
"Right. I forgot he did that." Hongjoong rolls his eyes toward the ceiling, his jaw ticking. "The café is your favorite?"
You nod.
He huffs, muttering under his breath, "저 씨발새끼 일부러 그랬네."
You blink. "What does that mean?"
Hongjoong quickly turns his frown into a smile. "I said I'll be sure to drop by often to see both of you, then."
A warm, fluttering sensation settles in your chest at the thought. "Okay. I'd like that."
He pulls your waist a little closer then, letting out another deep, contented breath as he settles against you.
"So," you continue, raising an eyebrow. "You won't skip tutoring this week?"
"I'll be there," he promises. His expression softens as he reaches out, gently running his fingertips through your tangled hair. "I won't ever miss it again. Even if it kills me to sit across that table from you and pretend I'm not thinking about what we just did."
A warm blush spreads across your cheeks at his words, your heart doing a happy flutter.
Hongjoong chuckles, his eyes dropping to your lips. He leans in, his voice dropping to a quiet rasp. "지금은 너무 떨려서 여자친구 해 달라는 말을 못 하겠지만, 곧 할게. 약속할게."
You blink up at him, a helpless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. "Now what does that mean?"
Hongjoong's grin widens. He pulls you against his chest, completely closing the distance to press another sweet, lingering kiss to your lips.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are shining with adoration.
"You'll have to wait until our next session to find out."
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, nipple play, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, praise kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, overstimulation, dual stimulation, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 12.1k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. all translations are at the end :)
chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, threesome (f/m/m), p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, oral sex (f and m receiving), fingering, rough sex, finger sucking, spit kink, choking, biting/marking, nipple play, praise kink, hair pulling, overstimulation/dual stimulation, creampie, voyeurism/exhibitionism elements, jealous/possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
Your heart is already lodged somewhere high in your throat when Seonghwa pushes the door open.
With a shaky breath, you quickly consider the possibility of turning around and pretending you forgot something in the car. But Seonghwa’s hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside before your nerves can convince you to run.
The apartment is warm, and the savory smell of something clearly meant to be cooked for hours—slow-cooked beef, herbs, onions, and vegetables—overwhelms your senses. Garlic, too, though whoever used it had been a little too generous. You scrunch your nose.
Seonghwa notices and a quiet laugh escapes him, and he pats your back once as if you’re a child caught making a face at their vegetables. "I'll go a little easier on the garlic next time," he murmurs fondly under his breath.
You blush, embarrassed that you reacted at all, your heart now beating even faster than before. But the clatter of a ceramic lid being set down on a countertop makes your head snap to the kitchen.
Hongjoong is standing near the island, his back half-turned toward the door, leaning slightly over the slow cooker as he presses the buttons on it with increasing irritation. He's dressed in a slightly oversized sweater and a pair of loose gray sweatpants. His dark hair is a soft, messy disaster, sticking out in every direction like he’s been running his hands through it all night.
He hasn't noticed you yet.
"형, 슬로우쿠커 고장난 거 같아," Hongjoong calls toward the doorway without looking up. His finger jabs another button. "아무것도 안 됐어. 시켜 먹어야 할 것 같아."
You obviously don’t understand the words, but you can tell from the way he's squinting at the crockpot that something isn't working.
Seonghwa lets out another quiet chuckle behind you and nudges the door shut with the heel of his shoe. He guides you further into the apartment.
"It's okay, Joong," he says, switching to English for you to understand. "My date and I ended up eating out."
Hongjoong jumps so violently that he knocks the side of his head straight into the cabinet above him.
"아씨—!" he curses as he recoils, wincing hard and clutching the side of his head. The wooden spoon in his other hand lifts defensively as though it might somehow help. He rubs the sore spot with a tight grimace. "I forgot you were bringing back a—"
He turns around.
The rest of the sentence never quite makes it out as his eyes finally land on you.
Whatever casual annoyance had been resting on his face disappears instantly, wiped away by a shock so visceral it freezes him in place beside the kitchen island.
Hongjoong goes perfectly still.
"...date." He says it like he's asking a question. Like the word doesn't fit the reality he's looking at.
His eyes—usually so carefully averted around you—are wide and completely unshielded.
His stare moves over you slowly, cautiously, like he doesn’t quite trust what he’s seeing. It lingers on the low neckline of your velvet dress, your lip gloss glinting faintly when you swallow, and your hair falling over your shoulders. But his confusion only lasts for a second before his gaze hesitantly drops lower. His eyes lock onto the place where Seonghwa's hand disappears behind you.
For a moment, he just stares blankly at it. Then his face shifts again. The confusion gives way to something harder to read.
A sudden twist of guilt coils in your stomach, and you have to fight the instinct to pull your body away from Seonghwa. Hongjoong looks completely out of place in his own kitchen. You want to run across the room, to explain, to apologize, to do anything that might soften the look on his face. But Seonghwa's fingers flex against your spine, stopping you before you can move.
"We went to omakase," Seonghwa says smoothly, shattering the silence that settled over the room. He's totally nonchalant, not even bothering to glance at his best friend. Instead, his attention stays on you, an adoring smile playing on his lips that would look innocent to anyone else. His fingers slide slowly from your back, tracing along your dress before wrapping confidently around your waist. With an easy tug, he pulls you closer. "Have you ever been, Joong?"
Hongjoong doesn't answer. He doesn't even look at Seonghwa. He goes silent, his eyes lingering on the place where Seonghwa’s hand is currently pressing into the velvet at your waist.
When his gaze finally trails back up to your face, the confusion is gone. His usual shyness is nowhere to be found. His face begins to twist: his expression tightens, contorting into strain. Your body squirms in Seonghwa's grasp.
"No," he says. His voice is short, clipped at the edges with a coldness that sends a shiver sliding down your spine. "I haven't."
You can't look away from him. Your pulse pounds in your ears as you stand there, still as stone. It worked, you realize in a panic. Oh my god. It actually worked.
"Well, it was incredible," Seonghwa says with a satisfied sigh, pretending not to notice the tension. He leans in closer to you, his face just a few inches from yours. "Wasn't it, angel?"
Hongjoong’s entire body goes rigid, his eyes snapping to his roommate as he registers what he called you. As you stare at him, you see his knuckles pale, draining of color as his hand clenches hard enough to strain the wood.
"It was," you manage to agree, your voice slightly breathless. You finally force yourself to look away from Hongjoong, swallowing hard as you turn your attention to the man holding you. "I'd never had fresh flounder like that before tonight."
"I knew you'd love it," Seonghwa smiles. He reaches up with his free hand, his knuckles brushing gently against your cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
The silence that follows suffocates you. Hongjoong doesn't say a word, doesn't try to break it, but you can still feel his gaze on you.
"Ah, I almost forgot," Seonghwa says at last, finally dropping his hand from your waist. "I have a gift for you."
You blink, caught off guard. He never mentioned anything about a gift. Still, you force yourself to play along. "What?" you say, a small, nervous laugh slipping into your voice. "Hwa, you—you shouldn't have..."
At the sound of the nickname leaving your lips, Hongjoong’s eyes narrow from across the kitchen.
Seonghwa catches your eye and offers a tiny, barely-there wink before stepping away from you, walking backward toward the hallway.
"Wait right here, angel," he says. He turns and disappears. A second later, you hear the click of his bedroom door opening.
And just like that, you're left alone with Hongjoong.
The air in the kitchen feels like it's been sucked out of the room. You stand awkwardly in the space between the living room and the kitchen, staring down at the toes of your expensive heels, suddenly terrified to lift your head. But you can feel him—his attention locked on you.
You've seen Hongjoong nervous before. You've seen him shy, overly careful with his words. You've seen him anxious, fidgeting with his glasses when he doesn't know what to say. And you've seen him strictly professional, retreating behind politeness when things drift into something past simple tutoring.
But as you finally gather the courage to lift your chin and meet his eyes across the room, you realize you have never, ever seen Hongjoong like this.
He looks away first, staring down at the granite as he slowly lowers the wooden spoon and sets it down beside the crockpot.
"So," he starts, his voice rough and a little nervous as he continues to avoid eye contact. One of his hands drifts across the counter absently, his fingers tracing the island's edge before tapping twice against the granite. "You and Seonghwa..."
He trails off. He doesn't finish the sentence. It's not even really a question, but as he slowly lifts his eyes back up at you, the look in them makes it very clear that he's waiting for an answer anyway.
You force your chin up, holding his gaze, though the nerves make your palms feel sweaty. But you refuse to ruin the plan by revealing how terrified you are. "I saw him on Thursday," you say, your voice somehow remarkably steady. "When... when you weren't at tutoring."
Something passes over his features before he straightens his posture again, pulling his shoulders back.
"How are you feeling, by the way?" you add carefully.
Hongjoong catches your tone right away. He stares into your eyes for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw shifting as he clenches it.
"I..." He looks down briefly, both hands gripping the edge of the granite. "I feel a lot better now."
You swallow, forcing the tightness in your throat down as you nod. "You must've been sick for a while," you push back, remembering Seonghwa's words: don't let him off the hook. "I never heard back from you on Monday night."
Hongjoong doesn’t reply. His fingers curl tighter. You know he's smart enough to realize what you’re doing—he has to suspect, on some level, that you and Seonghwa are playing a game with him. But Seonghwa's acting had been flawless, and the doubt is clearly gnawing at Hongjoong. There's no way for him to prove whether this date was real or not. For all Hongjoong knows, the way you and Seonghwa had just been holding each other was real.
He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looks away for a second, visibly fighting to calm his simmering anger. When he looks back at you, his expression is different—contained. Carefully redirected.
"How..." he starts before clearing his throat to buy himself a second. "How was the substitute?"
Of course, he retreats to academics. But that's fine. This is the chance you were hoping for, the chance to make him feel what his absence did. Disappearing wasn't harmless, and it left you dealing with the consequences.
"He told me," you say carefully, "he didn't ever have to dumb things down for his other students like he did for me."
Hongjoong's face drops.
"What?" he says, shock crossing his features with a subtle guilt following close behind. "He said what?"
Though you still feel bad about the plan, a bit of satisfaction slips in anyway.
You don’t repeat yourself. "I ran into Hwa after I left," you say, making sure to emphasize the nickname. "I was pretty upset, and he... he helped me." You pause, watching Hongjoong’s face contort through a million different emotions as the realization starts to set in. "Then he bought me a drink. Told me the only cost of it was to go on a date with him."
Hongjoong is silent, staring at you. You can see his mind racing behind his eyes.
"And you..." he says quietly, his breath unsteady. "...you agreed?"
You nearly hesitate before you nod. "I did."
You refuse to break eye contact, even though your hands are shaking so badly you have to grip your bag to hide them. You don't give him anything more than that.
You can actually see his restraint starting to break: his shoulders have gone rigid, his mouth has tightened into a line, and his hands are still braced against the counter. And yet... he still says nothing.
You begin to get more nervous with every ticking second. Why isn't he reacting? Seonghwa had been so certain that by now, you'd force somethingout of Hongjoong—he'd finally make a move, protest, or at least make some kind of jealous comment. Instead, you're left with nothing but that complicated, unreadable look.
"You look..." Hongjoong finally speaks, his voice lower than before. His eyes drag hesitantly down your body, taking in the careful way you put yourself together tonight—the dress in his favorite color—before gliding back up again. "...dressed for it."
You try your best to fight off your blush.
"I am," you reply, though your voice wavers with a slight tremble that makes you want to kick yourself. You pause, trying to smooth it over. "It was... fancy. Hwa is... definitely a gentleman."
You can see his tongue poke hard against the inside of his cheek as he bites something back.
"How so?"
"He answers my texts."
The moment the sentence leaves your mouth, you almost slap a hand over your mouth. Shit.
You didn’t mean to be so direct. The plan had never been to corner him outright. You and Seonghwa had explicitly talked about this: you have to play the game smoothly, beat around the bush instead of throwing your feelings straight at him. Otherwise, he might panic and run away again.
But it's too late. The words are already out there. And from the way Hongjoong stills, you know he understood them perfectly. He understands just how much his silence hurt you.
Hongjoong looks completely stuck, his mouth opening slightly like he's about to defend himself, but no sound comes out.
Before he can pull a single word together, you both hear the sound of footsteps.
Seonghwa steps back into the kitchen, either oblivious to what just happened or perfectly pretending to be. He’s holding a vinyl record, a small, silver bow taped to the plastic sleeve. He steps right into your space again, his arm sweeping confidently around you as he holds the gift out.
"Here you go, angel," Seonghwa says warmly. "Since you’re picking up Korean so quickly, I wanted to give you something to help you practice."
You blink and take the record. It’s IU’s A Flower Bookmark.
"Oh," you breathe out, surprised by the actual thoughtfulness of it. "Seonghwa, this is—"
But Seonghwa leans in until his lips are practically brushing your ear. You blink again; this wasn't the plan. You explicitly agreed to keep all the fake-flirting at a normal volume so Hongjoong could hear every last word of it. But Seonghwa's voice drops to a murmur meant only for you.
"Listen closely to track five. Meaning of You," he whispers, the warmth of his breath sending an unexpected shiver down your neck. "The lyrics reminded me of you."
Your heart does a strange stutter. You look up at him, your eyes wide. He’s looking back at you with a softness that isn’t just convincing for Hongjoong; it feels real to you.
Is he... still acting?
His hand resting purposefully on your waist, the genuine care in his eyes—it suddenly doesn't feel like a game anymore. The butterflies erupting in your stomach are unmistakably real.
You blush deeply, looking down at the record to hide the confusion written all over your face. "Thank you, Hwa," you murmur shyly. "It… it means a lot to me."
For a moment, it’s just the two of you, locked in a soft, quiet orbit.
"그건 그녀가 좋아하는 음악 종류조차 아니야."
All of a sudden, Hongjoong's voice shatters the moment.
You both snap your heads toward him.
Hongjoong has finally let go of the counter, but he isn't looking at you. His glare is fixed on Seonghwa; whatever he said was clearly meant only for his roommate to understand.
Seonghwa, however, doesn't flinch. In fact, his grip on your body tightens. He meets Hongjoong's glare with a cool, nonchalant calm.
"그건 네가 뭘 안다고 하는 소리야?" he replies.
You discreetly nudge his arm with your elbow. "Seonghwa, what—what are you saying?" you whisper, your hands tightening around the IU vinyl. This was definitely not part of the plan. You don't understand a word they're saying, and the energy in the room has shifted around you. "I don’t understand."
He doesn't answer you. He isn't even looking at you anymore.
Hongjoong suddenly pushes off the kitchen island, his eyes locked on Seonghwa as he stalks past the two of you, heading straight for the large display of records in the living room.
"선물 줄 거면," Hongjoong says, his back to you as his fingers aggressively flip through the stack of records next to his player, "적어도 그녀가 좋아하는 걸 줘."
You look up at Seonghwa, silently pleading for him to translate, to help you figure out what on earth is happening. But Seonghwa’s jaw is set, his eyes tracking his roommate with an impassive face.
Finally, Hongjoong pulls a sleeve from the stack. He turns around, marching straight back over to you. He stops much closer than he usually allows himself, invading the little bubble you and Seonghwa had built.
Hongjoong holds the record out to you.
"You said you liked GD," he says, his voice entirely different now in English. It's quieter, yet rougher around the edges, stripped of his usual composure.
You hesitate, your heart racing. You look into his eyes—searching for your tutor—but he's barely there. Slowly, you reach out and take the vinyl from his hands. You look down at the cover.
One of a Kind. G-Dragon.
"Listen closely to track four. That XX." He pauses, swallowing hard. His eyes dart down to Seonghwa's hand on your waist before dragging back up to meet yours. "It's..." Hongjoong suddenly hesitates. "It's my favorite."
The apartment plunges into silence as you lose your breath. You can barely feel Seonghwa beside you anymore. All you can see is Hongjoong.
You know this song. It's been one of your favorites for years—besides, you remember stalking Hongjoong's Instagram, scrolling all the way to his very first post: a grainy video of him covering it. You know exactly what the lyrics say.
What does that bastard have that I don't?
Your heart flutters.
Why can't I have you?
Right now, Hongjoong is standing in front of you with everything he's been too afraid to say out loud completely bare in his eyes. He's confessing to you, right here, right in front of Seonghwa... but as your fingers grip the edges of the G-Dragon record, a frustrated ache blooms in your chest.
If you can do this through lyrics, you think, staring back into his eyes, why can't you just say it to me with your own words?
But Hongjoong doesn't seem interested in seeing if you understood the message.
His eyes move to Seonghwa. It's a silent standoff, and you swallow nervously as you feel the air shake with all the things the two men aren't saying out loud. You clutch both records to your chest, feeling caught in the crossfire of a battle you don’t even understand.
Eventually, Seonghwa is the one to break it.
"Thanks for checking the crockpot, Joong," Seonghwa says. His voice is perfectly polite, but there’s a dismissiveness to it that leaves no room for argument. "But I think you could give my date and me some privacy now."
Good, you think, the breath trembling as it leaves your lungs. Back to the original plan. Whatever just happened between the two of them with the records, Seonghwa is steering the ship back on course.
Hongjoong falters. The intense look in his eyes fractures. He looks at his best friend with an unreadable expression.
"Right," Hongjoong says after a long moment. "I won't bother you. I'll just be in the kitchen."
It’s an absurd statement, considering the kitchen and the living room are essentially the same open space. But Hongjoong turns on his heel anyway,retreating back behind the island.
He yanks the plug of the crockpot out of the wall with unnecessary force. Picking up the wooden spoon he had abandoned earlier, he aggressively starts scooping out the ruined, slow-cooked beef, dropping it piece by piece into the trash can.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. You wince at the sound of the ruined dinner hitting the bottom of the garbage bag. Technically, he's giving you privacy—but his rigid back and the tense line of his shoulders make it painfully obvious that it's still very much the three of you in the room.
Taking advantage of the fact that Hongjoong’s back is turned, you tilt your head up to look at Seonghwa. You hug both the IU and G-Dragon records even tighter to your chest, leaning in close so your voice won’t carry over the aggressive scraping of the wooden spoon.
"Seonghwa..." you whisper, your brow furrowed with anxious confusion. "What just happened?"
Seonghwa looks down at you. The sharpness he had just directed at his best friend melts away instantly, replaced by a relaxed ease. He lowers his head, closing the distance between you until his lips are just a breath away from your ear.
"Don't worry about the specifics," he murmurs. A satisfied undertone coats his words, almost comically at odds with the tension floating around the apartment. "It’s going exactly how I thought it would. He’s getting jealous."
You dart a quick, nervous glance past Seonghwa's shoulder. Hongjoong is practically stabbing the inside of the crockpot now.
Seonghwa's hand resting on your waist flexes slightly to pull your attention back to him. He pauses, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking onto your eyes with a burning focus.
"But," he continues, "he still needs a little more of a push." The corner of his mouth ticks up. "Do you trust me, angel?"
You stare up at him, uneasy. Do you trust him? At this point, you really don't even know anymore. The lines between what's real and what's fake are blurring so fast you feel like you're losing your footing. Seonghwa's touch feels a little too warm, his acting a little too convincing, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach do another complicated flip.
But as another loud thwack echoes from the kitchen, you can't deny the truth: his plan is working. Hongjoong is breaking. He's undeniably at war with his emotions, fighting back the jealousy of seeing you on a date with his best friend. If you ever want Hongjoong to finally admit his feelings, you know that you have to see this through to the end.
Right now, Seonghwa is once again the only hope you have.
You swallow down the lump of anxiety in your throat.
"I do."
Seonghwa’s lips curve.
"Good. Then it’s time to improvise."
He doesn't waste a single second. Without warning, his volume rises, leaving the whispers behind.
"Did I tell you how beautiful you look in this dress, angel?" he asks, his voice carrying effortlessly across the open floor plan. He drops another wink just for you. "Blue really is your color. My favorite, too."
You flush, a sudden heat rushing to your cheeks. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the immediate reaction from the kitchen: the furious scraping stops. Hongjoong’s shoulders tense, his back still turned to you both.
"You've only mentioned it about twenty times, Hwa," you giggle, trying to keep your voice playful despite the nerves eating away at you.
Seonghwa laughs. He moves both of his hands to your waist, his grip firm as he turns your body fully toward him.
"But you know what I haven't mentioned yet?"
You raise an eyebrow, your breath hitching as he pulls you closer. Is this really necessary? you think, glancing over to the kitchen. Hongjoong is facing the other way—he can’t even see how closely Seonghwa is holding you.
"What?" you ask, your voice betraying a tremor.
"Our dance."
Your eyes immediately dart toward the kitchen to see if Hongjoong heard him, but before you can even catch a glimpse of your tutor, Seonghwa's hand slides up your neck. Two of his fingers hook gently under your chin, guiding your face back to his.
"Eyes on me," he murmurs under his breath before speaking louder. "You owe me, angel, remember?"
You stare up into his eyes. So... this is it? Another dance?
But... Isn't this "improvisation" too similar to the original plan?
"I..." You want so desperately to look back at the kitchen, to gauge if Hongjoong is finally about to snap, but Seonghwa's thumb sweeps a distracting path across your jawline, demanding your full attention. You force the words out. "Of course I remember."
Caressing your cheek, he says softly, "Then follow me, angel. Let me finally have my dance with you." He pauses, letting a beat of silence stretch. "In my room."
Your heart stumbles over itself. The look Seonghwa is giving you right now is far more dangerous than anything you’ve seen from him all night.
Panic begins to claw at the edges of your mind. It's nearly exactly what you discussed, but for some reason, it feels wrong. Is this still part of the plan? Or is this "improvising" not for Hongjoong's sake at all?
Before you can really process what's going on, Seonghwa’s fingers slide down your arm, lacing through yours. He gives your hand a gentle tug, softly taking the vinyls out of your hand and placing them on one of the living room tables before leading you down the hallway.
He doesn't look back at the kitchen. He doesn't check to see if his plan worked. He walks, his grip on your hand warm, pulling you further away from the living room and closer toward the door of his bedroom.
Your breath gets trapped in your throat as the panic finally sets in, every step feeling like you are crossing a point of no return.
This isn't supposed to happen. Hongjoong's supposed to stop you. Hongjoong's supposed to—
The loud clatter of wood hitting the floor freezes both you and Seonghwa in your tracks.
"걔 네 방에 안 가."
Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot upward in surprise as he whips his stare behind you; clearly, he hadn't anticipated Hongjoong actually speaking up.
You instantly spin around. Hongjoong hasn't moved from his spot in the kitchen, his back still turned to you, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping the edge of the counter. His shoulders are locked, and his voice is so low and commanding that it makes goosebumps flare over your skin.
And yet still, you have no idea what he just said.
Seonghwa pauses in his spot halfway down the hallway. He stares at the wooden spoon discarded on the floor.
"Relax, Joong," Seonghwa says slowly. "It's just a date."
"그럼 다른 여자랑 사귀어."
Hongjoong finally turns around. The look on his face makes your breath catch in your throat. He's staring at Seonghwa with the most cutting glare you've ever seen.
Your brain scrambles, desperately sifting through the flashcards and tutoring lessons, trying to decipher what was just said. 그럼... then. 여자...woman. 사귀어... was that 'to meet'? No, that was 만나요. You mentally kick yourself as you realize you can't quite piece it together.
Seonghwa meets Hongjoong's furious glare with total stillness. He lets the silence stretch for what feels like an hour before he speaks again.
"왜? 내가 데이트하자고 했어. 걔가 좋다고 했어."
You feel yourself starting to panic. You don't understand a single syllable of Seonghwa's words. He's talking too fast, too aggressively. You look frantically between the two men, completely lost. Why is he doing this? Seonghwa promised he wouldn't speak in Korean; the whole point of the plan was to let Hongjoong—and you—hear everything.
"굳이 걔한테 물어볼 필요 있었어?" Hongjoong practically growls, abandoning the kitchen island and stalking toward the hallway until he stops just a few feet away from you. His voice drops into a furious whisper. "다른 사람도 많잖아."
"왜 네가 신경 써?" Seonghwa shoots back.
Hongjoong's jaw locks. Seonghwa takes a purposeful step closer to his bedroom door and wraps his hand around the handle.
You freeze, your heart plummeting into your stomach as your mind screams at you. Why is he actually trying to go inside? Hongjoong is right here! He's stopping us! Isn't this what the goal was? Why isn't he letting up?
"너 걔 좋아해서?"
Seonghwa's thumb rests on the latch.
Hongjoong freezes. The anger in his eyes fractures, breaking into something painful. When he speaks, his anger is quieter.
"알잖아, 나…" He swallows, his voice nearly breaking. "나 걔 좋아한다고."
Seonghwa goes quiet. You stare at him, begging for him to tell you what's going on, but he simply watches his best friend with an unreadable look, the tense air thick enough to choke on. Then, slowly, he pushes the handle down. The door clicks open.
"그럼 영어로 말해."
Hongjoong goes dead silent. He doesn't move a muscle. He stands there in the hallway, his eyes wide and panicked, staring right at Seonghwa. And when he doesn't speak... Seonghwa doesn't wait.
He steps backward into the dark room, his hand tightening like a vise on your waist, and spins you inside with him.
It's so sudden that you gasp, stumbling as the world blurs around you.
The room smells just like Seonghwa's cologne tonight, shadows draping over his bed and desk, but you can't focus on any of it. Your head is spinning. You don't know what was just said. You don't know what is happening. All you know is that you put every ounce of your trust into Seonghwa's hands, and as you stand trapped in the dark of his bedroom, it suddenly feels like a horrible decision you can't take back.
Through the half-open doorway, Hongjoong is rooted to the floor of the hallway. His hands are balled into fists so tight his knuckles are trembling.
"왜 이런 짓을 한 거야?" Hongjoong asks, his voice thick.
But Hongjoong isn't looking at his best friend anymore.
His eyes shift directly to you.
He looks at you standing in the middle of Seonghwa's bedroom, dressed in the beautiful blue dress you picked out just for him to notice. His gaze drops to Seonghwa's hand, still resting possessively on your waist, before trailing back up to your wide, terrified eyes. You stare back at him, silently pleading. Please, your eyes beg him. Say something. Do something. Before it's too late.
Seonghwa’s hand slides up your back.
"못 해?" he murmurs, staring straight at Hongjoong. "그럼 내가 데려간다."
Seonghwa pulls you by the waist and twists your body so you're fully facing him. The shadows of his dark bedroom cloak him, painting the focus in his eyes even more intense than before.
He leans down until his mouth is hovering right over your ear.
"Angel," he whispers, his voice so low it’s hidden from the man in the doorway. "I need you to keep trusting me."
Trust him? Your chest heaves as you take shaky breaths, looking up at him with wide eyes. You cannot trust this man. You don't even know what game he's playing anymore, or if it's even a game to him at all. Every instinct in your body screams at you to shove him away, bolt past him, run out of the apartment without looking back. It's over. It didn't work. If Hongjoong is willing to stand there and watch you get dragged into his best friend's bedroom without intervening, then nothing will ever force him to confess.
But before you can pull away, you turn your head.
Hongjoong is still there, framed by the warm light of the hallway, perfectly still. It's as though he forgot Seonghwa was even there. His eyes are still locked entirely on you.
The anger from a moment ago has drained away, leaving his face devastatingly blank, but his gaze is so heavy it feels like it's just the two of you in the room. You can't hear Seonghwa breathing beside your ear. You can't hear anything at all. Hongjoong isn't leaving; he hasn't retreated to his room or turned his back. He came after you.
It has to mean something, you realize, your breath trembling. He wouldn't still be standing there if he didn't care. You stare into his eyes, and Seonghwa's words echo in your racing mind: He just needs a little more of a push.
You tear your gaze away from the doorway, looking back up at the man holding you. Taking a final shaky breath, you give Seonghwa a single, imperceptible nod.
The moment you signal your surrender, his hand yanks you against his chest. Another quiet gasp escapes your throat. His free hand comes up, his long fingers sliding against your skin to cradle the back of your jaw, tilting your face up to his.
There's no hesitation. No gentle, questioning brush of lips.
"Angel..." he murmurs, the word ghosting across your lips as he leans in.
He crashes his mouth against yours, like he's been starving for this exact moment all night. Your mind goes white. The apartment, the plan, the man in the doorway—it all dissolves, shrinking down to nothing but the heat of Seonghwa's mouth and the bruising pressure of his hands holding you captive.
His thumb strokes across your cheekbone as he deepens the kiss, parting your lips. The arm banded around your waist tightens, crushing the velvet of your dress until there is absolutely zero space left between your bodies.
Suddenly... you've forgotten why you're here.
Without realizing you're even moving, your fingers fly up, clutching desperately at the front of his shirt. That tiny, breathless surrender seems to snap something. He groans quietly as his hand slides from your jaw to the nape of your neck, his grip tightening as he angles your head and kisses you deeper, savoring the taste of you. Your head spins, the lingering anxiety burning away into a heady, intoxicating fog as you melt entirely against him, lost in the overwhelming softness of his lips—
"그만."
Seonghwa freezes. His long fingers go still against your jaw, his warm breath hovering just a millimeter from your swollen lips. Your eyes flutter open, the haze of the kiss shattering as your brain struggles to process the growl that just ripped from the doorway.
Seonghwa’s eyes flick over your head. The shift in his demeanor is instantaneous—the seductive warmth vanishes, replaced by a calculating gleam. Slowly, he lets his hand fall away from your face.
Only then do you dare to turn your head.
Hongjoong steps over the threshold, and the sight of him makes you suck in a breath. He doesn't look like your tutor anymore. His chest is heaving with erratic, shallow breaths, his dark hair is a mess, and his eyes are practically burning holes into you behind his glasses. There's no confidence radiating from him; only desperation.
But instead of letting you go, Seonghwa’s arm wraps tighter around your waist. He pulls you backward, away from Hongjoong, into his chest so hard you stumble.
"I thought I said to use English, Joong," Seonghwa says, locked on the man stalking toward you.
Hongjoong closes the distance in a few strides, stripped of all usual caution. He stops just inches away from where Seonghwa is gripping you. He's so close. You look over his body, seeing the faint tremor in his shoulders, the adrenaline running through his veins making him vibrate. His face is twisted into a bitter smirk, but there's absolutely no humor in it—it's pure jealousy.
"손 떼," Hongjoong whispers. His voice shakes on the first syllable.
Seonghwa lets out a slick smirk of his own. Instead of obeying, his hand slides from your waist to the curve of your hip. "She didn't seem to want me to stop."
Hongjoong’s eyes snap down to you. He takes in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest, your lips still swollen from his best friend's mouth. A noise escapes his throat. He reaches out. His hand trembles before his fingers touch your skin, tracing the line of your jaw, his rough, urgent touch completely lacking Seonghwa's smoothness.
"You... You're too smart to be playing games like this, ____."
Your lips part on instinct. Your lungs refuse to give you air. You're frozen, pinned between the desperate need for the man you've been agonizing over for months and the desire for the man caging you against him.
"Tell me..." Hongjoong says lowly, ignoring Seonghwa now. "Did you want him to kiss you?"
You can't speak. When you don't answer, Hongjoong’s jaw locks so hard you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His hand suddenly tightens, his fingers digging into your cheeks as his eyes fixate on your lips—the exact spot where Seonghwa just kissed you.
"씨발…" he growls under his breath, his chest rising and falling. "박성화, 죽여 버릴 거야."
He stares at your mouth for another second, and when you let out a quiet whimper at the pain of his hands on your face, whatever tether was holding him back snaps.
Hongjoong's eyes blaze as he tips your face up and crashes his mouth against yours.
There's nothing gentle or practiced about it; his kiss is angry, unplanned, a collision of teeth, his tongue forcing past your lips, violently trying to wipe away every mark of Seonghwa from your mouth. He pants against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he kisses you like he can't stop himself. His hand slides into your hair, gripping tightly as he pulls you closer.
Butterflies twist violently in your stomach. You melt into the brutal, uncoordinated heat of it, leaning closer into him as your own tongue rises to meet his crazed pace. Your thoughts finally go entirely, blissfully blank, overwhelmed by the feeling of him finally, finally taking what he wants, leaving you with only one thought echoing in your head:
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes—
But while Hongjoong is kissing you breathless, his hand sliding down your jaw to wrap a desperate grip around the front of your neck, Seonghwa doesn't just back away.
His fingers begin trailing up your sides. The metal tab of your zipper is suddenly pulled down the length of your spine. A breathless little gasp spills straight into Hongjoong’s mouth. You instinctively arch your back away from Seonghwa’s hands, accidentally pressing your chest against Hongjoong.
Hongjoong breaks the kiss with a ragged breath. He's panting, staring down at you darkly. His lips part, his throat bobbing like he’s trying to drag the words out of it, but nothing comes out. He’s mute, his hand gripping your neck and keeping your face tilted toward him, his eyes blown wide.
"It’s easy, Joongie," Seonghwa taunts from behind you. He tugs the zipper all the way to the base of your spine, but he doesn't slide the dress off your shoulders just yet. You feel him lean down, his fingers gently brushing your hair out of the way. His lips press a kiss against your shoulder. "Three words. Just like this."
Seonghwa slowly trails open-mouthed kisses along the line of your shoulder blade. His hands grip the curve of your hips tightly as he works his way up the column of your neck. Your eyes flutter shut. The contrast of Hongjoong's panicked energy and Seonghwa's slow worship is intoxicating. Your head threatens to fall back against Seonghwa's chest, stopped only by the hold Hongjoong still has on your neck.
Seonghwa's lips reach the shell of your ear.
"I like you, angel."
He gently takes your earlobe between his teeth, nibbling just hard enough to send heat straight down to your core. A helpless whimper slips past your lips.
At the sound, Hongjoong’s eyes snap from your mouth up to your eyes. "Don't make sounds like that for him," he grits out. His fingers flex, his grip on your neck tightening, a reflex that only draws another involuntary whimper from your throat.
Seonghwa chuckles between soft, wet nibbles down the side of your neck. "Why shouldn't she?" he murmurs. "I'm the one making her feel like this."
As he speaks, one of his hands slides up from your hip. It grazes your stomach, inching higher and higher until it rests over your chest. Through the loosened fabric of your dress, his hand cups your breast, squeezing gently, kneading the sensitive flesh as his teeth graze your collarbone.
"Tell him how good you feel," he whispers against your skin.
"I... I..." you stammer, your mind melting as your eyes flutter shut again. Seonghwa hums, prompting you to go on. "I... I feel so good, Hwa..."
You feel his satisfied smirk press into the skin of your neck. Without warning, Seonghwa opens his mouth and sucks fiercely at the sensitive sweet spot beneath your ear, pulling a loud, breathy moan from your lips.
Your hands flail blindly, desperately needing to latch onto something in the overwhelming pleasure. One hand reaches back, your fingers tangling into Seonghwa's dark hair.
Your other hand lands squarely on Hongjoong's shoulder.
Then, beneath your palm, you feel it—his entire body quivering.
"그가 널 기분 좋게 해줄진 몰라도," Hongjoong mutters as his eyes bore relentlessly into yours. You don't understand the words, but the way his fingers tighten at your throat makes you gasp. "네가 원하는 건 나라는 거 알아."
"이젠 아니야," Seonghwa nearly groans in response. He ignores the lethal warning in his roommate's eyes, sliding his other hand up your stomach to join the first. He kneads both of your breasts through your dress, his hips slowly pressing into your backside as he sucks harder at your neck. "나랑 보낸 밤 이후로는."
"이 자식," Hongjoong hisses through his teeth. His eyes flick past you to the bed behind Seonghwa before his jaw tightens, his free hand sweeping your hair off the other shoulder, baring your skin as he forces your chin higher. "그럼 내가 누군지 다시 깨닫게 해줄게."
He crashes his lips against yours again, but this time, it's somehow even rougher, angrier, more possessive. The hand at the front of your throat squeezes, using the leverage to pull your body forcefully forward, trying to wrench you out of Seonghwa’s hold.
Seonghwa refuses to let you go. His hands tighten, working needier and hungrier over your chest.
Hongjoong breaks the kiss, his lips trailing a hot, frantic path across your jawline and down to your exposed collarbone. You're trapped. You're pinned between the bodies of two men, your mind numb as they devour both sides of your neck simultaneously. You whimper as Hongjoong's teeth scrape against your skin.
It's too much. Your knees start to buckle, your head spinning. A desperate sound tears from your throat. "H—H—"
"It's Hwa, angel," Seonghwa groans wetly against your skin, his thumbs brushing over your peaks.
"Hongjoong," the other man grunts, a demanding correction. He doesn't bother to release your neck, his mouth moving up the column of your throat, leaving messy marks everywhere his lips touch.
He trails up your jawline until his mouth finds your ear. He bites down on the cartilage, pulling at it with his teeth, an aggressive nip that makes you gasp. Then, you feel the wetness of his tongue laving over the bite.
He pulls back just an inch and whispers.
"침대 위에서."
Finally, you can make out what he's saying.
On the bed.
You freeze in place, panting. Goosebumps erupt all over your flushed skin. Behind you, Seonghwa’s movements halt, his hands still resting on your chest.
Before you can even process the command—before your weakened legs could possibly follow it—Hongjoong takes matters into his own shaking hands.
He grabs you by the waist, his fingers digging into your sides, and forcefully yanks you out of Seonghwa's arms, pushing you backward.
The back of your knees hit the mattress, and you fall onto Seonghwa’s bed.
Your head bounces softly against the pillows, but you don't even have a second to catch your breath. Hongjoong follows you down. He cages you in, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of your hips as he hovers over you, his dark, frantic eyes tracing the lines of your heaving body.
"눈 나만 봐."
Hongjoong's command is sharp, but there's a catch in his breath underneath it, like he's forcing it to be firm.
There are just enough vocabulary words in that short sentence for your brain to translate through your haze: Eyes. Me. Only. Look. Keep your eyes on me.
You obey without a single thought, wide-eyed and breathless, staring up at him as he hovers over you.
"알겠어?" Do you understand? Hearing that strict tone coming from Hongjoong's lips sends a rush of heat to your core on the spot. You nod quickly, incapable of forcing any words past your throat.
He reaches down, his hand still visibly trembling as his thumb comes to rest against your cheek. He caresses your skin softly, like he's still afraid to touch you. "Smart girl," he praises quietly.
As his thumb softly brushes across your cheekbone, the panic in his eyes seems to stall. He looks dazed, like it's finally registering in his brain that he has you here, beneath him, yielding to him.
"존나 예쁘다," he breathes out.
So fucking pretty.
You stare at him, your whole body catching on fire at the realization that your tutor is talking about you—talking to you—like that.
His thumb slowly slides from your flushed cheek down to your mouth, brushing roughly over your bottom lip. Almost like it's second nature, your lips part. A tiny, disbelieving smirk starts to tug at the corner of his mouth—the reaction of a man who can hardly believe what he's seeing, learning what he's allowed to do in real time. His thumb slips past your parted lips, coming to rest heavily on your tongue.
Without thinking, you close your lips around it and start sucking softly.
Hongjoong sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes darken, filling with lust from watching you take him into your mouth. The last threads of his composure finally melt away as he stares down at your wide, doe-like eyes.
"I’ve been staring across that table for so long," he says, his voice wrecked, his free hand sliding from your jaw to grip the side of your neck. "Wondering if I’d ever actually get to touch you the way I imagine."
His fingers flex against your pulse point, feeling how fast your heart is racing for him. He smirks, knowing you won't understand what he says next.
"오늘 밤… 내가 항상 원했던 거, 가질게."
You blink up at him, sucking softly as you try your hardest to translate, but it's no use.
Hongjoong's smirk widens as he pats your cheek at the attempt.
"진짜 아름다워."
Seonghwa's whisper cuts in from beside the bed. He steps closer, looking down at you. You glance up at the two men hovering like predators above you, the sight stealing your breath so suddenly that you nearly choke around Hongjoong’s thumb.
Seonghwa’s eyes are gentle yet simmering with desire, his gaze tracing the lines of your body like you're something he’s been imagining he’d only ever see in a dream. But Hongjoong... Hongjoong is staring at you with pure possessiveness. Your usual awkward, hesitant tutor is completely dead and gone, replaced by a man pushed so far over the edge by jealousy that he's finally brave enough to take what he wants after months of denying himself.
Hongjoong’s gaze drops to your mouth, completely enraptured by the wet, soft sound of you sucking on his thumb. Slowly, his dark eyes glide down your body, tracking the heavy velvet of your dress where it clings to you.
"이 드레스 예쁘네," he says lowly, his voice becoming raspy as his eyes lock onto the curve of your chest. "내가 좋아하는 색깔." His trembling hand slides from your neck, his fingertips tracing the fabric. "이런 드레스 더 만들어 줄게."
You have no idea what he's saying, but your eyes widen even more when he slowly slides his thumb out of your mouth. It slips past your lips with a quiet, wet pop.
Without breaking eye contact with you, Hongjoong nudges Seonghwa sharply with his elbow. "벗겨."
Your breath hitches. A vocab word. Take it off.
Seonghwa scoffs, bristling at being ordered around in his own bedroom. He reaches down, his fingers tracing the exposed line of your waist where the zipper is wide open, and mutters defiantly. "내가 때가 됐다고 생각하면 이거 벗길게."
Hongjoong barely reacts. His dark, blown-out eyes flick to his roommate. "그녀를 기분 좋게 해주고 싶지 않아?" he asks quietly. "벗겨."
Seonghwa doesn't look at him, but a soft sigh escapes his lips. He reaches down, his fingers sliding gently through a strand of your hair.
"You really are beautiful," he murmurs. He smirks down at you, but the look in his eyes is gentle. "Relax for me. I'll make you feel good."
Hongjoong’s own smirk returns as Seonghwa slowly starts slipping the dress off your shoulders.
"네가 그녀를 기분 좋게 해줄 순 있어," Hongjoong says as his eyes rake over your bared skin. "하지만 걘 나를 봐."
Seonghwa drags the fabric down over your chest, fully exposing the lace of your bra. His hands slide to your waist, giving your sides a gentle tap to prompt you. You shakily arch your back off the mattress, allowing him to slide the dress completely down your hips and off your legs. He smiles softly as he folds the velvet neatly before setting it gently on the floor.
You're left in nothing but your bra and panties, exposed under the heated gazes of the two fully clothed men above you.
The dress barely touches the floor before both men move.
Hongjoong's shaking hands dart out, his fingers wrapping tightly around both of your wrists. With one swift movement, he pins your arms above your head against the mattress.
But Seonghwa refuses to be shut out.
While Hongjoong pins you down, Seonghwa moves to the foot of the bed, stepping between your legs. His hands trace unhurried paths up your bare calves and over your thighs, pushing your knees apart, spreading your legs. He leans down, pressing unbearably soft, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His hands slide up to cup your hips while his thumbs trace over your panties.
A shaky gasp escapes your throat. Your back naturally arches off the mattress, reaching for Seonghwa’s hands, your head instinctively turning as you try to get a glimpse of what he's doing between your legs despite Hongjoong pinning you down.
The needy whimper you let out for the other man makes Hongjoong's eyes flash.
"나만 보라고 했지," he snaps.
Before you can even process the demand, Hongjoong dips his head, and his mouth crashes against your collarbone—right over the exact spot Seonghwa had kissed so gently before Hongjoong pushed you to the bed. But where Seonghwa is careful and teasing between your legs, Hongjoong is losing control entirely. He sucks and bites at your skin, leaving his own bruised marks in his wake.
You moan softly, your hips helplessly bucking up into Seonghwa's hands.
You feel a wet heat pool between your legs as Hongjoong pulls back. He stares unabashedly down at your chest, at your breasts hidden beneath your bra.
He shifts his weight, releasing one of your wrists. He uses his free hand to cover the cup of your bra, his fingers squeezing you roughly through the fabric.
"I try so hard to be professional," he confesses, his voice still trembling as that same hand slides around to your back, pulling another subconscious arch from your spine. "But when you're sitting there... looking at me with those eyes while I'm trying to tutor you..."
He trails off, biting down hard on his bottom lip as his eyes drag down your trembling body. His fingers hook around the clasp of your bra.
"You make it impossible to remember why I shouldn't touch you."
With one rough, impatient tug, he unclasps your bra. Your breasts immediately spill out into his waiting hand, and he yanks the delicate lace away, tossing it carelessly onto the floor.
At the same time, Seonghwa's fingertips hook around your panties. He drags the thin material down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your shivering skin, until he slides them over your ankles and drops them softly to the floor next to your dress.
His hands trace back up your calves and over your knees, spreading your legs wider. A rush of air hits your skin, and the realization crashes over you: you're completely, fully exposed beneath them. Naked, trembling, and entirely at their mercy.
Hongjoong's eyes are consumed by the sight of your bare chest. His hands cup your breasts, kneading the soft flesh with a trembling grip. He watches the sight of his own hands on you, swallowing hard before breaking his stare and smashing his lips against yours again.
His kiss is messy and urgent. He trails his open mouth down your jaw, sucking another harsh mark into your neck, before working his way down to your chest. As his mouth reaches your breast, he traces soft, wet circles around your nipple with his lips. Without warning, he flicks his tongue over the sensitive peak.
A surprised moan tears out of your throat.
Hongjoong pauses, looking up at you through his suddenly fogged-up glasses. He quickly rips them off and throws them somewhere on Seonghwa's beside table, a smirk pulling at his lips as he keeps dragging his tongue over the peak, his other hand roughly kneading your other breast.
"Sensitive, 자기야?"
Before you can even gasp out an answer, he closes his lips and sucks hard. You moan, squeezing your eyes shut, hands balling into the bedsheets as you become overwhelmed by his touch. He suddenly pinches your other nipple between his fingers, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your already dripping core.
"눈 나만 봐," he repeats, his fingers pausing their torment.
He waits, refusing to move another inch until your fluttering eyelids snap open.
"좋아," he praises, his voice shaking. Good.
He sucks even harder. He squeezes and rolls your nipple between his thumb and forefinger with such rough, possessive desperation that you cry out, your back arching high off the mattress to press yourself deeper into his mouth. “Hongjoong—”
While Hongjoong is fully claiming your top half—kissing, licking, and sucking bruises all over your chest—you can’t see what Seonghwa is doing; you can only feel him. He presses impossibly soft kisses against the inside of your knee. Flushing hotly under Hongjoong's devouring mouth, you instinctively try to squeeze your thighs shut to hide yourself.
But Seonghwa’s hands clamp down on your knees, holding you in place.
"No," he murmurs, his thumbs stroking your skin. "Don't hide from me, angel. I want to see all of you."
He kisses a path from your knee up to your inner thigh. You shake uncontrollably, whimpering and moaning as your brain short-circuits from the dual stimulation. He stops right before he reaches your core, leaning in close just to get a good look at how slick and needy you are for them, pressing hot kisses to your upper thighs.
"예쁜 보지..." he says under his breath. "나 때문에 이렇게 젖었네…"
A grunt rips from Hongjoong's throat, his lips pulling away from your breast with a wet smack.
"넌 대체 한 게 뭐야?" he mutters, glaring down the length of your body at his roommate. Hongjoong moves his mouth to the soft side of your breast. He bites down and sucks, leaving yet another mark on your skin. "이거 다 나 때문이잖아."
Seonghwa's tongue suddenly darts out, dragging a long, wet stripe straight up your soaked folds.
A violent jolt shoots through your entire nervous system. You cry out loud, your head tossing to the side against the pillows.
"Hwa!" you moan out, your eyes rolling back into your head as his tongue begins circling your sensitive bundle of nerves.
Hongjoong recoils at the sound of his roommate's name falling from your lips. His jaw locks, a wave of jealousy crashing over his features. He instantly bites down harder, his hands gripping your waist, punishing you with pleasure just to make you scream his name instead.
"내 이름 불러," he commands, his hot breath hitting your skin. Say my name.
"H—Hongjoo... Ho... Joong…" you stammer, your voice wrecked.
"크게 말해."
Your mind goes hopelessly blank. Seonghwa’s tongue is lapping over your dripping core, sending wave after wave of blinding heat through your body. The overload of both men devouring you makes it impossible to translate in your head.
When you just lie there whimpering, Hongjoong stares dead into your unfocused eyes. He cocks a dark eyebrow, a new blend of the tutor you know and the wildly jealous man you're trapped beneath.
"Don't know what that means?" he tsks. He shakes his head, the disappointment in his expression making you feel incredibly small and desperate to please him. "And here I thought you were making progress with your listening."
"I am," you whisper helplessly, practically moaning the words out as Seonghwa presses two long fingers against your slick entrance, teasing but refusing to push inside. "I... I am..."
Hongjoong's eyes are unyielding as he holds you on the very edge of your sanity.
"Will you listen carefully?"
You nod frantically, your eyes squeezing shut as your hips buck upward, begging for Seonghwa’s fingers to just enter you already.
"Yes!" you sob out. "Yes, I will!"
You put all your strength into focusing on his words, desperately trying to focus as Seonghwa's fingers slowly start to press inside your dripping hole. His tongue relentlessly teases your clit, but you force your wide, teary eyes to stay locked on the man hovering over your face.
"혀."
Vocabulary—tongue. You nod once, frantically. He sees the understanding click in your eyes, and he reaches down, his pointer finger tapping against your closed lips.
"내밀어."
His fingers tap your lips again, making you obey before your brain finishes translating.
Sucking in a shaky, whimper-filled breath, you part your lips and stick your tongue out for him. Hongjoong's eyes narrow as he leans down, his mouth curling right above yours.
He spits, letting his saliva land right on your tongue.
"삼켜," he whispers.
Swallow.
You obey instantly, swallowing it down and sticking your tongue back out to prove it.
A grin breaks across Hongjoong’s face, utterly intoxicated by your submission. He pats your cheek. "좋아. 내 모범생."
Good. My star student.
Seonghwa’s fingers suddenly start moving inside you. He'd slipped them all the way in without you realizing—you were too consumed by Hongjoong even to notice. A loud, broken moan escapes you as he begins to pump his fingers in and out of your slick heat, his mouth latching onto your clit at the same time.
Hongjoong watches you fall apart under his roommate’s fingers hungrily, tracking every buck of your hips.
But as your breathing turns into high-pitched sobs, Seonghwa gets too swept up in his own lust. Panting, he pulls his mouth away from your pussy, his eyes glazed over. He reaches down for the buckle of his own pants, clearly intending to take exactly what he’s been teasing. While he fumbles with his belt, he crawls up your body to capture your lips for a desperate kiss.
But Hongjoong's hand shoots out, gripping his wrist and stopping him. When Seonghwa groans and tries to pull his arm back, Hongjoong shoves a hand hard against Seonghwa’s chest, pushing him back against the mattress.
"안 돼," he orders. No. He glares down at Seonghwa. "입술은 내 거야."
Seonghwa stares up at Hongjoong, wiping his mouth—still wet from your slickness—with the back of his hand. There's a smugness in his eyes, knowing he successfully pushed his friend to his breaking point, and he doesn't fight him. He yields, pulling back just enough to let Hongjoong take the reins as he works on unbuckling the rest of his belt.
Hongjoong's eyes look back at you.
A breath later, his expression hardens.
He moves, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your hands and knees, his grip harsh, sweaty, and jealous. You let out a startled squeak as your bare knees sink into the mattress, your back arched with your chest pressed to the pillows. Hongjoong kneels behind you, his dark eyes raking over your exposed core already wet with both your desire and what Seonghwa left behind.
You glance over your shoulder, wrapping your arms around one of Seonghwa's pillows to steady your trembling body. You gasp as you watch Hongjoong's hands fly to his waistband, shoving his pants down his thighs.
His cock springs free, his erection hard, twitching, and already glistening red. He's so thick that his own fingers hardly wrap around his girth as he strokes it slowly, watching your reaction with an unreadable look.
There’s hesitation in the way he breathes, his chest rising and falling, like he’s taking one final second to memorize exactly what he’s about to do before he crosses the line of no return.
Then, something shifts in his face. He reaches out, his fingers tangling roughly in your hair, and forces your cheek down into the mattress, completely cutting off your line of sight.
You let out a startled whimper as you feel him line his tip right at your entrance, his hands clamping down hard on your hips to lock you in place. But just before he pushes inside, his hand leaves your hip to point a shaking finger over your back, aiming right at the empty space at the head of the bed.
"가서 입에 물려," he orders, his voice trembling through the command.
You try to lift your head, straining against his grip on your hair to look over your shoulder and gauge what he just said. But before you can move, a shadow falls over you. You blink through the hazy, overstimulated fog.
Seonghwa is kneeling at the head of the bed, right in front of your face. He's pulled out his own length from his pants, not nearly as thick yet much longer than Hongjoong's, already dripping with precum. He smiles down at you, that gentle look returning to his eyes. His hand wraps around his base, stroking himself as he guides his throbbing tip right to your parted lips.
"You're doing well for us, angel," he murmurs, his fingers brushing away the hair in your face. "Now open up."
You open your lips, taking Seonghwa’s cock into your mouth.
Behind you, Hongjoong's hands grip your hips tighter, his thumbs digging into your skin. He leans over your back, his hot breath hitting your ear as he looks down at you from behind.
"You've wanted this just as long as I have, haven't you?" he asks, his voice trembling with pent-up desire.
You shake violently as Seonghwa starts to thrust into your mouth slowly, but you nod frantically, trying your hardest to look up at your tutor.
But a nod isn't enough for him. His grip turns bruising, demanding words. "말해." Say it.
You pull back from Seonghwa just an inch, a desperate tear slipping down your cheek. "네. 나… 너 갖고 싶어." I want you.
Hearing his own language fall from your lips in such a broken, needy confession seems to shatter him fully.
"우리 처음 만났을 때부터… 계속 이 생각만 했어," he whispers, his fingers shaking as his voice cracks. "지금… 나만 생각해."
He thrusts his hips forward, burying his thick cock deep inside your tight hole in one push.
You scream, the sound completely muffled by Seonghwa’s cock as he guides his length right back into your mouth. Your fingernails dig into the bedsheets, the bedframe shaking as Hongjoong begins to fuck you from behind. His hips snap forward without any rhythm, completely uncoordinated, relying solely on the instinct to stretch you, hitting that deep spot inside you over and over again.
In front of you, Seonghwa strokes your hair, taking in your muffled sobs around his cock, thrusting his hips gently into your mouth.
"Look how good he’s making you feel," Seonghwa moans, staring down at you sucking him, your body jerking as Hongjoong pounds into your cunt. "Just take it, angel. Give it all to Joong."
Hongjoong leans his weight over you, his hips bucking as his chest slides against your sweat-slicked spine. His free hand reaches blindly around your side to roughly play with your breasts, tweaking your nipples as he fucks you breathless.
"씨발, 존나 조여…" he curses between pants, his hips slapping wetly against your thighs.
Seonghwa moans above you as he guides his cock in and out of your mouth. "Are you really that tight, angel?" he groans, watching you take his friend. "씨발... I bet you feel so fucking good..."
"내 거… 넌 내 거야," Hongjoong grunts. His pace accelerates, his thrusts growing faster as you moan out his name. You're crying, drooling, and choking around Seonghwa’s cock, taking Hongjoong's dick, completely breaking apart. Your knees wobble beneath you, threatening to give out as you feel his length twitch inside you, sending hot sparks to your core and dragging you closer to the edge.
Hongjoong feels your legs shaking and slides his hands down your ribs, locking around your waist to hold you up.
"무릎 꿇고 제대로 받아," he orders, angling his hips to hit the spot that makes your eyes roll back.
Seonghwa pulls his hips back just enough to let his length slip from your lips, his thumb reaching out to gently wipe the spit and tears from your chin. "You hear him? Stay up on your knees and take it right," he whispers. His eyes are completely glazed over as he watches his best friend stretch you out. "Show him what an angel you are."
You let out a broken, breathless sob, trying to nod. Hongjoong hits the very back of your walls and grinds there, his hand pinching your nipple hard.
"내 좆으로 가득 차서 예쁘게 우네," he groans.
Seonghwa pushes past your lips again, thrusting sharply in time with Hongjoong's brutal pounding. "씨발..." His own voice is shaking now. He strokes your hair, breathing heavily.
Time distorts. You can no longer separate Hongjoong's filthy Korean from Seonghwa's breathy English. You moan both their names blindly into Seonghwa's cock.
Hongjoong's thrusts lose all rhythm, his control cracking, giving way to his desperate need.
"내 모범생," he growls, his voice cracking on the words. "진짜 미치게 완벽해."
Seonghwa’s hands tangle tightly into your hair, holding your head in place as he thrusts deeper into your mouth. "Come for him," Seonghwa begs you, his eyes squeezing shut as he gets closer. "Please, angel..."
"H—Hong—Hongjooong—!" you sob out, letting Seonghwa slip from your lips, your fingernails shredding into the pillows as the orgasm rips through your body. Your walls clench violently, milking Hongjoong's cock with stuttering spasms.
Hongjoong lets out a guttural groan at the feeling of you coming around him. He grabs your hips, buries himself as deep as he physically can, and releases inside you with hot, relentless pulses.
In front of you, Seonghwa grips his own cock, his eyes rolling back. He strokes himself furiously as he watches his best friend finally take you over the edge, a loud, helpless moan ripping from his throat as he finishes in thick ropes right onto your chest and the sheets beneath you.
Hongjoong stays slumped over your back, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade as his chest heaves. He's trembling just as hard as you are, his grip on your hips slowly loosening as the last few shuddering pulses of his orgasm bleed out of him.
Slowly, he pulls out. You hear the wet sound of him sliding out of you, the only sound other than the ragged gasps tearing from all three of you.
Without Hongjoong holding you up, your arms give out.
You collapse forward onto the mattress, your cheek hitting Seonghwa’s damp pillows. Your whole body feels like liquid. Your muscles twitch with the aftershocks of your climax. You can barely even keep your eyes open.
Behind you, the mattress shifts as Hongjoong falls back onto his heels.
In front of you, Seonghwa slumps back against the headboard, his long legs sprawled out. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Glistening sweat covers his entire body. He wipes a hand roughly over his mouth, his dark eyes slowly trailing over your exhausted, shivering form, taking in the messy proof of exactly what they just did to you.
As the haze of the orgasm finally starts to clear, your brain slowly begins to form thoughts again.
What did we just do?
You force your heavy eyelids open, using whatever strength you have left to push yourself up onto your elbows. You look over your shoulder.
Hongjoong is sitting at the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the wall. The man who was just cursing at you in filthy Korean is gone. You can practically see the panic replacing the jealousy. When he senses your gaze, he looks over at you. His eyes dart to your bruised lips, down to your chest covered in his best friend's release, and then to his own shaking hands resting on his thighs. He looks shocked by what he just did.
You shakily turn back around as you hear Seonghwa shifting against the headboard.
He grabs a box of tissues from the nightstand, tossing it gently onto the bed. He looks at Hongjoong's panic and lets out a breathless sigh.
"네가 이겼어, 중아," he murmurs. His voice is raspy, stripped of the seduction from earlier. His gaze, however, softens as he looks at his best friend. "이제 영어로 말할 준비됐어?"
Hongjoong flinches. He looks back at the wall, swallowing hard, his jaw ticking.
Seonghwa pulls one of the tissues out of the box and gently wipes his release from your chest, careful not to touch you too harshly. Once you're cleaned up, he pauses, brushing the sweaty hair out of your face and smiling softly at you. He lets his thumb caress your cheek one last time before he reaches over to a pile of clothes, picking up one of his random hoodies thrown carelessly to the floor.
"Here, angel," he says, holding it out to you. "Let's get you covered up."
Trembling, you reach your arm out to take it.
"No."
Hongjoong croaks the word, staring at Seonghwa's hoodie in your hands.
Before Seonghwa can react, Hongjoong reaches down and grabs the hem of his own sweater. He pulls it over his head, leaving himself bare-chested at the edge of the bed.
He crawls forward, his hands shaking with the sweater in his grasp. He pulls it over your head, helping guide your arms through the sleeves, hiding your body from view. The care in his hands is so gentle it aches, but his eyes refuse to meet yours.
After you're dressed, he quickly turns away, hastily pulling his sweatpants back up and tying the drawstring. He stands up, staring firmly at the closed bedroom door.
"Come with me," he says. His voice is hoarse.
He doesn't wait to see if you follow. He just turns, grabs his glasses from the dresser, and walks out into the hallway.
You hesitate for a moment, your legs trembling as your bare feet softly touch the hardwood floor. You pull the oversized sleeves of his sweater over your hands, trying to sink away from what just happened. But before you follow Hongjoong out of the room, you glance back one last time.
Seonghwa is still leaning against the headboard, his breathing finally steady. A satisfied look rests on his handsome face. He catches your eye and smiles.
"Thank you for such an incredible night, angel," he says, giving you a slow, teasing wink.
You still have no idea what his true intentions were tonight. You don't know if he just wanted to break his best friend or if he genuinely wanted a piece of you for himself. But as you look at the empty doorway, you realize it doesn't matter anymore. He did exactly what he promised. He pushed Hongjoong over the edge.
You give him one last look before stepping out into the hallway, following after Hongjoong.
He leads you past the kitchen, past the crockpot still sitting on the counter, and pushes open the door to his own bedroom.
You follow him inside as he holds the door open for you. Your heart is pounding in your throat, but for an entirely different reason now. The lust is gone, replaced by the terrifying anxiety of what comes next.
Hongjoong stands in the doorway for a second. His hand grips the handle tightly. The anxious, overthinking tutor you know is back, standing on the precipice of a reality neither of you actually thought you'd ever have.
He looks at you, swallowed up in his sweater. With one last, shaky breath, he steps fully inside the room.
Hongjoong shuts the door behind you.
translations:
형, 슬로우쿠커 고장난 거 같아. Hyung, I think the slow cooker is broken.
아무것도 안 됐어. 시켜 먹어야 할 것 같아. Nothing's cooked. I think we’re going to have to order.
아씨—! Damn it!
그건 그녀가 좋아하는 음악 종류조차 아니야. That's not even the kind of music she likes.
그건 네가 뭘 안다고 하는 소리야? What would you know about that?
선물 줄 거면… If you’re going to give her a gift...
적어도 그녀가 좋아하는 걸 줘. At least give her something she likes.
걔 네 방에 안 가. She’s not going to your room.
그럼 다른 여자랑 사귀어. Then date another woman.
왜? 내가 데이트하자고 했어. 걔가 좋다고 했어. Why? I asked her on a date. She said yes.
굳이 걔한테 물어볼 필요 있었어? Did you really have to ask her?
다른 사람도 많잖아. There are plenty of other people, aren’t there?
왜 네가 신경 써? Why do you care?
너 걔 좋아해서? Because you like her?
알잖아, 나… You already know… I...
나 걔 좋아한다고. I like her.
그럼 영어로 말해. Then say it in English.
왜 이런 짓을 한 거야? Why did you do this?
못 해? You can’t do it?
그럼 내가 데려간다. Then I'm taking her.
그만. Stop.
손 떼. Take your hands off.
씨발… Fuck…
박성화, 죽여 버릴 거야. Park Seonghwa, I’m going to kill you.
그가 널 기분 좋게 해 줄진 몰라도… He might be making you feel good, but...
네가 원하는 건 나라는 거 알아. I know it's me you want.
이젠 아니야. Not anymore.
나랑 보낸 밤 이후로는. Not after the night she spent with me.
이 자식. This bastard.
그럼 내가 누군지 다시 깨닫게 해줄게. Then I’ll make you realize who I am again.
오늘 밤… 내가 항상 원했던 거, 가질게. Tonight… I’m going to take what I’ve always wanted.
진짜 아름다워. Truly beautiful.
이 드레스 예쁘네. This dress is pretty.
내가 좋아하는 색깔. My favorite color.
이런 드레스 더 만들어 줄게. I'll make more dresses like this for you.
내가 때가 됐다고 생각하면 이거 벗길게. When I think the time is right, I’ll take it off.
그녀를 기분 좋게 해주고 싶지 않아? Don't you want to make her feel good?
네가 그녀를 기분 좋게 해줄 순 있어… You might be able to make her feel good...
하지만 걘 나를 봐. ...but her eyes are on me.
나만 보라고 했지. I told you to only look at me, didn't I?
자기야? Baby.
예쁜 보지... Pretty pussy...
나 때문에 이렇게 젖었네… You got this wet because of me...
넌 대체 한 게 뭐야? What the hell did you do?
이거 다 나 때문이잖아. All of this is my doing.
크게 말해. Say it louder.
내밀어. Stick it out.
입술은 내 거야. Her lips are mine.
가서 입에 물려. Put it in her mouth.
우리 처음 만났을 때부터… 계속 이 생각만 했어. Since the first time we met… this is all I've thought about.
지금… 나만 생각해. Right now… only think of me.
씨발, 존나 조여… Fuck, you're so tight...
내 거… 넌 내 거야. Mine… You’re mine.
무릎 꿇고 제대로 받아. Stay on your knees and take it right.
내 좆으로 가득 차서 예쁘게 우네. You're crying so prettily, filled up with my cock.
내 모범생. My star student.
진짜 미치게 완벽해. You're so fucking perfect.
네가 이겼어, 중아. You won, Joong.
이제 영어로 말할 준비됐어? Now... are you ready to say it in English?
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 10.5k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. hi everyone!! just a heads-up that updates might be a little more spaced out for the next few weeks. i'm wrapping up the semester, so i'm currently buried under finals and presentations on top of starting summer research and an internship. thank you for being patient, and i promise to do my best to make the wait worth it <333
"I still think this is a stupid idea," San's voice drifts from the middle of your bed flatly. You eye him through the mirror of your desk; he's sprawled out among your pillows, scrolling through his phone in complete boredom. You sigh, looking away and brushing the final coat of gloss over your lips. The pink shimmers under the soft light of your lamp, a perfect contrast for the midnight blue velvet draping dangerously low over your collarbones, teasing just enough to hint at the curve of your chest.
You don't turn to face your roommate. Instead, you cough through the cloud of perfume you just sprayed, waving a hand through the expensive vanilla mist Seonghwa had sent a few days prior—his best guess at Hongjoong's favorite scent. "Oh, really? You’ve only said that six times in the past thirty minutes. Tell me why again, I didn’t catch it."
"What if he doesn’t actually get mad?" San asks, finally dropping the phone to his chest and fixing you with a skeptical look through the mirror, ignoring your sarcasm. "He doesn't really seem like the jealous type to me."
"I think Seonghwa knows him better than you do, San."
"Really? Because it feels like I know Hongjoong pretty well for never having actually met him," San mutters, sitting up and bracing his elbows on his knees. "And I don't trust this Seonghwa guy, either."
"Why not?"
"Because his brilliant plan to 'fix your love life' conveniently starts with him taking you on some fancy date."
You pause, your hand hovering over a pair of gold earrings. A slow breath escapes you. You know the worry he’s hinting at—it's the very same one you’ve circled back to every night since the plan was formed. "Well... I do agree that he wants that for himself, not Hongjoong," you admit quietly, catching San's gaze in the reflection. "I think he's... complicated."
"Great. So you’re going on a date with another long-haired, manipulative son of a bitch."
"San!" You spin around, glaring at him. "I know I screwed up with Wooyoung, okay? But trust me, I learned my lesson. Seonghwa is Hongjoong's best friend. He genuinely wants what’s best for him." I think, you mentally add, hoping San doesn't notice your hesitation.
"Yeah, as long as he gets his turn with you first."
You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, stalking over to your closet to dig for your outfit's finishing touches. Your hand settles on a pair of sleek black stilettos, the pointed heels sharp enough to draw blood—maybe San’s, if he keeps rattling your nerves. "You don't even know the details of the plan," you say. "It's not like that."
"Yeosang and Yunho agreed that it's weird." San raises his voice over the sound of you cluttering through your shoe rack. "And you won’t tell us all of it, anyway. All we know is you’re going out to some restaurant with this guy—who, by the way, swore at Yunho ten different ways at that bar—and then back to his apartment."
"His shared apartment with Hongjoong," you correct, sliding your feet into the heels.
"Same difference!"
"It’s not!"
"It is!"
You groan, leaning forward until your forehead thuds against the cool wood of the closet door. "San, I get that you’re worried. I know all of you are. But this... this is my last resort. I don’t think there’s any other way to get Hongjoong to admit his feelings."
"I have an idea," San says, sliding to the edge of the bed with one of your pillows tucked under his arms. "You walk up to him and say, 'Hey, Hongjoong, I really like you. Do you like me too?'"
Without looking, you grab a stray fluffy slipper from the floor and hurl it over your shoulder. San’s reflexes are infuriatingly quick; he catches it mid-air, grinning like a cat, and tosses it right back at you. It thuds against the back of your legs, and you stumble.
"You know that’s not how either of us works," you mutter, rubbing your leg. You stand tall and slip into your soft, warm fur coat.
"You smart people are so complicated," San sighs, falling back onto the mattress. "Not everything has to be a calculated equation. Sometimes, simple works better."
"Sometimes, yes," you agree, smoothing the coat over your shoulders, "but not in this case."
You grab your purse and take one final look in the mirror. Your blue dress clings to you like it was made for the spotlight, impossible to ignore. You look like someone used to being the center of every room. Used to having people fight for your attention. Someone worth breaking the rules for—or at least, worth leaving the safety of a locked bedroom.
A shiver suddenly snakes down your spine as you stare at yourself. So many things could go wrong tonight. The timing could be off, Seonghwa could push too hard, or worse—Hongjoong could look at you in this dress and feel absolutely nothing at all.
You force a shaky breath and walk into the living room, silently hoping—praying, even—that blue really is Hongjoong's favorite color, like Seonghwa promised.
San hops off the bed, his socks padding against the floor as he trails after you. "Fine. But I at least want to meet this guy before you go anywhere with him."
You pause near the front door, shooting him a look of bewilderment. "You're not my dad, San. No."
"I don’t care," he counters stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm not letting another Wooyoung situation happen."
The mention of his name again makes you sigh. You swallow the lump of unease and adjust your purse strap, eyes flicking toward the kitchen island where the leather jacket had been draped for over a week, silently haunting your peripheral vision. It's empty now.
"Speaking of him... did Yeosang finally take the jacket back?"
"Nope. He won't even talk about him. And Yunho won't stop complaining that we fight about it too much, but he won't take it back, either."
Your eyebrows furrow at the vacant stool. "Then… where did it go?"
"I locked it in the storage closet in the bathroom," San says with a casual shrug.
"Oh. Great plan. Shove our problems in the closet instead of dealing with them."
San raises an eyebrow. "Or go on a date with our problem’s best friend and trust that he’s not secretly trying to get us in his bed."
You stare at him blankly for a few beats. "Goodbye, San." You turn away, your hand closing around the doorknob. "I promise, I will call you if anything even slightly weird happens. So please... don't follow me outside."
"So he’s not even coming up here to get you?" San calls after you as you step into the empty hallway. "Already losing points!"
"I told him not to," you shout over your shoulder, "so he wouldn’t have to deal with you!" You flash him a sweet, innocent smile before slamming the door shut, cutting off the rest of his last-minute protests.
The hallway stretches out, quiet except for the soft click of your heels on the floor. You press the elevator button, taking a slow, deep breath. Is it too much? you wonder—the perfume, the dress, the heels, the hair… everything about your appearance seems to scream for attention while your stomach twists with anxiety and nerves.
The elevator hums as the floor numbers tick down. Your heartbeat syncs with the mechanical clicks, quickening with every level.
When the doors slide open into the lobby, you catch your reflection in the glass of the dorm's mailboxes and sigh defeatedly. Deep blue velvet and striking fur, but they're paired with eyes that betray more nervousness than you’d like to admit.
Then you see him.
Seonghwa is leaning against a pillar near the entrance, dressed in a tailored black overcoat atop a dark turtleneck, his long hair falling perfectly into place. A group of exhausted students shuffles past him in sweatpants and hoodies, backpacks slung over their shoulders, and the contrast is almost absurd. For a second, you nearly laugh. Seonghwa looks incredibly handsome.
The moment his eyes find you, his posture changes. He straightens. His gaze travels from the hem of your blue dress upward, unhurried, until it reaches your face, sending heat rushing to your cheeks.
He doesn't say a word at first. Instead, he pushes off the pillar and starts toward you, one hand slipping casually into the pocket of his coat. There’s an appreciative curve tugging at his lips—subtle, yet unmistakable.
"You look beautiful, angel," he says when he reaches you.
Before you can reply, his hand finds yours. His fingers brush against the inside of your palm, light enough to send a spark up your arm, before he closes a tender hand around it. With a gentle tug, he guides you into a slow spin. Your dress flares softly around your legs as you turn, and his eyes never leave you. They travel the length of your body, taking in every detail like he has all the time in the world. By the time you face him again, the heat in your cheeks has deepened into a full-body flush.
You clear your throat, stepping back just enough to reclaim a sliver of your composure. Lifting an eyebrow, you finally catch the hint of playfulness in his eyes.
"Seonghwa..." you begin, aiming for nonchalant and landing somewhere closer to embarrassingly flustered. "Tell me honestly.. Was this plan actually for Hongjoong’s benefit, or for your own?"
He doesn't reach for you again. He maintains a perfectly agonizing distance as he turns and steps toward the building's doors, pulling one open and holding it for you.
"I'd say it's a fair fifty-fifty," he admits lightly as you step past him into the night air. "The second half of the night? That’s entirely for Joong. But this first part? Watching you walk toward me while looking like that?" His gaze dips once more to your dress, the grin on his lips softening. "That's entirely for me."
You huff under your breath, shaking your head as you step ahead of him. Unfortunately, the blush refuses to fade.
As you approach the curb, Seonghwa clicks a button on his key fob. The hidden door handles of his car slide smoothly out to meet his touch. He steps ahead of you and opens the passenger door. You slip inside, and the door shuts behind you with a quiet thud, sealing the rest of campus away.
As Seonghwa settles in beside you and the engine purrs to life, you remind yourself that his charisma is just part of the act. It doesn't matter if Seonghwa is enjoying this 'date' a little too much. As long as the end result is the same—as long as Hongjoong finally gets jealous, as long as he finally admits how he feels—the means are perfectly justified.
Seonghwa merges into the evening traffic, one hand loosely guiding the steering wheel while the other rests casually on the gearshift. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice him glance over at you, the streetlights illuminating his features.
"I was right, by the way," he muses after a moment. "You look breathtaking in my favorite color."
You blink, frowning at him. "Seonghwa, you told me to wear blue because it's Hongjoong’s favorite."
He keeps his gaze on the road, but the faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"It is," he says simply. "It just so happens to be mine, too."
You stare at him for a long moment, gauging his expression to decide whether he's teasing you or telling the truth. But Seonghwa gives nothing away. He watches the road ahead and doesn't say another word.
The car glides through the streets quietly. It’s a short drive, but Seonghwa seems to relish every second of it. That same unreadable smirk never once leaves his lips.
A few minutes later, he turns down a quieter street and pulls to a stop in front of a discreet, windowless storefront marked only by a small sign in gold script.
Your eyes widen slightly as you immediately recognize the entrance. It's one of the most exclusive omakase restaurants around—a place where reservations are booked months in advance, and the fish is flown in daily from Japan. It’s easily one of the most expensive meals in the area.
Second only to the steakhouse Wooyoung took you to.
"Omakase?" you breathe, staring at the exterior in disbelief. "Seonghwa... this is a little excessive for a fake date, don't you think?"
He shifts the car into park. "I'm not exactly the type of man to do things halfway," he says simply. But he doesn't get out immediately. He turns in his seat, casually draping an arm over the center console as he looks at you. "Besides, if we’re going to make Joong jealous, we might as well enjoy ourselves while we do it."
You let out a small laugh. "How exactly did you make sure he’d be there when we get back?"
Seonghwa grins, clearly pleased with himself. "Before I left, I asked if he had any plans tonight. Though I already knew the answer."
"And?"
"And I casually mentioned I was picking up a date and would be out most of the night."
Your brows lift.
"But I couldn't be sure that alone would keep him home. So I went into the pantry and pulled out this ceramic crockpot my mom sent when I first moved in, which I have never once touched. I threw a roast in it, set it to low. Then I told him that he must turn it off at exactly nine o’clock, or the entire meal would be ruined."
You stare at him for a second before a giggle bubbles up from your throat. "So he thinks you’re bringing a girl back to the apartment to eat..." you pause, barely containing your grin, "crockpot food?"
Seonghwa breaks into a real laugh this time. "Maybe. Who cares? If he thinks I'm comfortable enough to slow-cook a meal for a woman, it'll only make him feel more behind. It’ll make our little surprise even more of a shock when we walk through that door."
"Maybe we should have just stayed at the apartment," you realize suddenly, glancing out at the busy street beyond the windshield. "If the goal is to make him jealous, wouldn't it be faster to let him see us together right away? We could have just ordered takeout."
Seonghwa kills the engine, plunging the car into silence. He shakes his head.
"If we stayed there, he’d see everything," he explains. "He’d see the exact way I look at you, he’d hear every word we say, and he’d find a way to rationalize it." He leans in, one arm resting along the back of your seat now. "He's great at convincing himself something doesn't mean what it obviously does, as you probably know. But this is different. When Hongjoong sees us walk in together, he'll realize he's been sitting in that apartment all night with the company of a crockpot while I was taking you out to the most expensive restaurant in the city, making you laugh, touching your hand, whispering in your ear..."
He trails off, allowing your imagination to fill in the rest.
You understand that he's right. You know Hongjoong well enough to see exactly how if he'd been present the whole time—if he’d watched every glance, every word exchanged across the table—he could've easily found some way to explain it away. Would it have made him jealous? Probably. But you don't think it would've been unbearable.
But Seonghwa's plan is different. There'd be a distinct kind of agony in watching the two of you walk through that apartment door together, sharing silent glances and inside jokes he doesn't have any part in. Without the middle of the story, Hongjoong's imagination will fill the gaps with something more damning than the truth.
"He's going to absolutely lose his mind," Seonghwa says softly. "And that's when he’s most likely to finally admit the truth."
Your smile falters as a new thought crosses your mind. "Don’t you think he’ll be mad at you? Or us?" you ask. "I mean, if he really does like me... won't finding out his best friend took me out behind his back hurt?"
Seonghwa’s expression softens again. "No more 'ifs.' We’ve moved past the hypotheticals. And to answer your question: yes, he'll be furious. At me, not at you. He’ll probably refuse to speak to me for at least a week."
"And you're just... okay with that?"
"You have to understand the math, angel. The positives outweigh the negatives." He ticks the points off on his fingers. "Cons: I have to endure a few days of an angry Hongjoong for taking the girl he wants on a date. Pros: I get to take the girl he wants on a date." He pauses before he adds with a playful shrug: "And I suppose I'm helping him finally confess his feelings for his crush. Eventually."
You can't help it; you laugh. You hadn't realized how funny Seonghwa could be—how his dry wit and charm could be so disarming.
It feels wrong. A tiny needle of guilt pricks at the back of your mind because you know where your loyalty lies: your heart is set on Hongjoong. But your attraction to Seonghwa is undeniable; it's entirely different in its chemistry. With Hongjoong, the desire is a deep ache to be with him—to build a relationship together, to be his person. But with Seonghwa, it’s a magnetic urge to be around him. He radiates such an effortless charm and a layer of curated secrets that you don't want to step away from just yet.
Is Seonghwa just another Wooyoung? Am I making another mistake right now?
Your mind questions your heart, but the answer comes instantly.
No.
Wooyoung was attractive because he was everything Hongjoong wasn't. Seonghwa is the opposite. He doesn't feel like an escape or a distraction from your feelings for Hongjoong; if anything, he feels like an extension of them.
"Come on," Seonghwa says, his voice slicing through your thoughts as he steps out of the car. Before you can reach for the handle, the door swings open. He offers a hand. "The chef is waiting for us."
You smile and slip your hand into his, letting him guide you through the cool evening air and into the restaurant.
The dining area is intimate—almost deceptively small—yet designed with breathtaking architecture, where every inch feels meticulously crafted. Instead of a long, single bar, the room is segmented into several private, U-shaped omakase stations. Each one is designed with a beautiful Japanese minimalism: warm wood glowing under recessed amber lights, a sweeping circular soffit arcing from the ceiling, and dark velvet chairs promising comfort without crowding in a perfectly organized line.
Seonghwa notices your admiration and smiles, his fingers brushing yours for a moment before letting go, as if he suddenly remembered he should be keeping a bit of distance between you. You’re too busy watching the way the light catches the steam rising from a nearby station to even notice him speaking with the hostess.
"Welcome in," the woman greets, her eyes glancing down at her tablet. "Can I have a name for your reservation?"
"Hongjoong," Seonghwa replies smoothly.
Your head snaps toward him, an eyebrow arching in surprise. He meets your gaze and winks.
"Right this way," the hostess says with a polite smile.
Seonghwa gestures for you to go ahead of him, and you follow her deeper into the warm, wood-paneled interior of the restaurant. The lighting grows softer the further you walk, reflecting gently against the smooth counters and wooden floors. She leads you to one of the curved omakase bars where three other couples are already seated. Two empty chairs wait at the far end of the bar, clearly reserved for you and Seonghwa.
As you settle into your seat, you instinctively begin taking in the company around you.
The other couples are noticeably older than the two of you, but no one seems to pay your age much attention. Across the curve of the bar sits an older man with a shiny bald head and thin glasses. He leans toward the woman beside him, speaking animatedly while she listens with a smile. Her dark hair falls in tight ringlets around her shoulders, and the elegant black dress she wears reminds you immediately of the kind your parents’ friends always wore to dinner parties back home.
Next to them sit two women who appear to be at the restaurant for the first time, speaking in hushed but excited voices, trying to piece together what exactly they'll be eating. The final couple—the one seated next to you—looks only a few years older than you, eerily resembling a more mature version of you and Seonghwa.
Seonghwa slides in next to you, adjusting the chair just slightly, close enough that the space between your shoulders nearly disappears.
He leans closer, his voice dropping so only you can hear it.
"Thank you for joining me here, angel."
You reply softly, "Thank you for bringing me. Although we really didn’t have to come somewhere so expensive."
He clicks his tongue under his breath. When you finally glance over at him, you catch the playful roll of his eyes. "The money isn't a problem. Just enjoy yourself. Enjoy being here." He pauses, adding: "Enjoy being with me."
The chef suddenly appears behind the counter, offering a welcoming bow to the eight of you before introducing himself.
His voice is pleasantly calm, carrying easily across the bar as he greets the group. He begins his drink service at the far end of the curve, starting with the older couple seated opposite you. You watch as he takes each order with a polite nod, jotting something briefly on a small notepad before moving down the line. Slowly, he works his way toward you.
By the time he reaches the man sitting directly beside you, you’ve started panicking about what you might order. You don't recognize any of the drinks on the menu, and there are no prices to be found anywhere.
"And for you, young man?" the chef asks. The man orders a Hakutsuru, and the chef inclines his head politely before stepping down the line toward you.
You pause, eyes frantically scanning the menu. You have absolutely no idea what anything costs. The last thing you want is to accidentally pick a bottle that's worth a hundred dollars, especially when Seonghwa has already made it clear that he's paying for everything tonight. But at the same time, you don’t want to look inexperienced or rude in front of the chef.
"I’ll take whatever he’s having," you tell him quickly, gesturing toward Seonghwa before you have time to overthink it.
The chef nods and turns to him, his posture straightening into something noticeably more formal. "Of course," he says respectfully. "And for you, sir?"
The chef bows deeply—much lower than he did for the "young man" beside you—and without another word, signals a passing waitress to retrieve the drinks before turning his full attention to the neat row of knives laid out before him.
The second he’s out of earshot, you lean toward Seonghwa and whisper, "Did you hear that? He called that guy 'young man' and then turned to you and called you 'sir'. Do we look older than them? I mean, they've clearly already graduated."
You gesture subtly toward the couple, careful not to make the motion obvious to anyone else at the bar, but Seonghwa doesn't even bother to look.
"It's not about age," he murmurs, drinking in the surprised look on your face like he finds it more interesting than anything happening in the restaurant. "It's about how we carry ourselves. Besides, I think he just recognized that I'm the one lucky enough to be seen with the most beautiful woman in the restaurant. Why wouldn't he show me a little respect?"
Seonghwa says it with such calm certainty that you suddenly feel like you truly are the centerpiece of the room. You avert your gaze quickly, pretending to refocus on the chef, but you can still feel Seonghwa’s eyes lingering on the side of your face.
"I know you have a deal with the chef to say that to every girl you bring here," you say.
Seonghwa laughs softly. "I don't make deals, angel. I just have eyes."
The chef launches into his explanation of each dish as he begins plating the sakizuke. But as he describes the creamy texture of the handmade sesame tofu and the sweetness of the spot shrimp, his words begin to blur together as your thoughts drift back to the plan.
You want to trust Seonghwa. You do trust him. And you're nearly positive he's right about how Hongjoong operates—thinking back, you've seen enough proof of most of it firsthand.
But still, as the steam curls up from the small dishes in front of you, the doubts begin to make you feel queasy.
What if San is right? What if this doesn't provoke Hongjoong at all? What if, instead of fighting for you, Hongjoong sees you with his best friend and simply gives up? You can picture it too clearly: the way he’d offer a tight smile then retreat behind his politeness, accepting defeat. Convincing himself that you're better off with Seonghwa. That letting you go is the right thing to do. The idea of Hongjoong choosing distance instead of you makes you want to abandon the plan entirely.
You take a steadying breath, forcing the image of Hongjoong out of your mind.
Focus on the now, you tell yourself.
The chef sets a small, hand-painted ceramic bowl full of tofu in front of you, and you decide to let the food be your distraction. You expect something firm and rubbery, but the moment it touches your tongue, it dissolves into something impossibly soft. The texture is closer to custard than the kind of tofu you're used to. The toasted sesame blooms across your taste buds, causing your eyes to flutter shut.
"Mmm," you murmur under your breath.
When you open your eyes again, you find Seonghwa watching you, his expression softened by a little smile.
The chef clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to the counter. He lifts a long, slender blade and begins sharpening it. "We'll begin the sashimi course with hirame," he explains. "It's light and clean, and it will serve as a baseline for the palate."
He begins to slice the fish into thin ribbons. As he works, his keen eyes wander over the guests seated before him, eventually settling on you and Seonghwa.
"And what about you two?" the chef asks casually as his knife glides through the fillet. "Are you celebrating something tonight?"
You blink, glancing around. The other three couples are right there—why is he singling you out?
"We are," Seonghwa says convincingly beside you. "It's our anniversary, actually. Five years with the love of my life."
Heat floods your cheeks, a burning blush that starts at your chest and climbs to your hairline. You want to correct him, to laugh it off, but the words die in your throat. You just sit there, nodding dumbly as the entire table erupts.
"Aww!"
"Five years!"
"What a milestone!"
The woman with the dark ringlets clasps her hands together, her eyes shining. "Five years?" she exclaims. "But the two of you look so young!"
The bald man next to her leans forward, grinning at Seonghwa conspiratorially. "So tell me, young man, after five years... when are you going to finally put a ring on it? A girl like that won't wait forever."
A ripple of laughter courses around the counter. You feel like you’re trapped in a fever dream, suddenly dropped into someone else's life. But Seonghwa just lets out a charming laugh, pressing a finger to his lips as he casts a sidelong, secretive glance at you.
"Shhh," he murmurs. "Don’t give away the surprise."
Another round of delighted laughter breaks out, the older couple exchanging nostalgic smiles. You manage a polite one of your own, but as you pick up your chopsticks with trembling fingers, a dizzying sense of vertigo washes over you.
Five years? The love of his life? Do we really look like that? That comfortable together? That settled? That... permanent?
Under the counter, Seonghwa's hand finds yours; not to squeeze it lightly, not to lace your fingers together, but simply to rest his palm over the back of your hand for a brief moment, just enough to say I know. When you glance sideways at him, you see the faint hint of amusement in his eyes. He knows he just threw you off completely, but clearly, he's delighted by it.
The chef’s knife dances across the cutting board, the steel flashing under the lights as he works. With careful movements, he finesses the first cuts of flounder, laying the translucent slices one by one onto four shared wooden slats. The aroma of the fresh fish and wasabi wafts up immediately as he slides one of them in front of you and Seonghwa.
Maybe it’s the attention from the other guests, maybe it’s Seonghwa’s ridiculous fifth anniversary lie, or maybe it’s the way he keeps watching you from the corner of your vision. Whatever the reason, your fingers are still unsteady, and your chopsticks slip the moment you try to secure a piece of fish. The flounder slides across the slat, gliding dangerously close to the edge before stopping just short of the table.
Seonghwa lets out a quiet, fond laugh. Before you can attempt a second try, his hand comes down gently over yours. He doesn't take the chopsticks away, but steadies your grip. His fingers naturally adjust the angle of your hand, his palm once again pressing lightly against the back of yours.
"Patience," he murmurs right against the shell of your ear. You can hear the smile in it. "Do I need to tutor you on how to hold chopsticks?"
"I can do it myself," you mutter. Your protest would sound more convincing if your cheeks weren’t burning. Still, neither of you moves your hand away. Together, you lift the delicate slice from the board, bringing it to your lips. The moment the flounder touches your tongue, it dissolves, melting like snow.
For the next twenty minutes, the world shrinks to the small stretch of counter in front of you.
You watch the chef flip his knife with a quick flick of his wrist before every cut. After each slice—tuna, yellowtail, sea urchin—he wipes the blade clean against a folded cloth before it touches the next piece of fish. You find yourself getting lost in the hypnotic rhythm of it.
Around you, the other guests murmur softly to each other, but their conversations fade into the background. Your focus drifts instead to the shared platter between you and Seonghwa.
The two of you lean closer every time a new plate is placed down, quietly dividing the pieces between yourselves. Sometimes your chopsticks brush. Sometimes he nudges the better-looking slice toward you without any comment. Between bites, you whisper back and forth.
"Look at him," you murmur, tilting your head subtly toward the far end. "I'm pretty sure he thinks he's eating a steak."
Seonghwa follows your nod. The bald man is hunched over his plate, carefully chopping the slices of sashimi into tiny, uneven squares before stabbing them one at a time with a chopstick. Seonghwa presses his lips together, trying—and failing—not to smile.
"I shouldn't judge," he whispers back. "The first time I tried sashimi, I asked if the chef could cook it a little."
You look at him, grinning. "You're lying."
"I wish I were."
Your shoulders shake as the giggle finally escapes, muffled by your hand.
The chef transitions to the nigiri course. He scoops a small portion of rice into his palm and begins molding it with quick presses of his fingertips until it forms a perfect oval. He pauses before draping a cut of fish over the top, glancing toward you with a twinkle in his eye.
"A choice for the anniversary girl," he says. "Salmon or tuna?"
"Salmon," you answer immediately, without even thinking about it.
Beside you, Seonghwa clicks his tongue in disapproval.
You're half-laughing as you nudge his arm with your elbow. "What?"
"Terrible choice," he teases with a slow shake of his head. "The most common fish on the entire menu."
You roll your eyes, though your smile gives you away. "Five years together and you're still making fun of my taste?"
The whole counter laughs, the other guests enjoying your banter, as the chef chuckles softly under his breath as he finishes shaping the pieces.
"Salmon it is," he says, sliding two perfectly formed nigiri toward you. "Dip it in some soy sauce, if you please."
As the guests settle back into their private conversations, you lift the nigiri carefully with your chopsticks. Determined not to embarrass yourself again, you take an extra second to steady your grip before leaning toward the small ceramic dish of soy sauce.
But your hand betrays you again; the piece slips. It drops from your chopsticks and lands right in the middle of the liquid. Soy sauce jumps from the dish in tiny droplets, speckling the polished wood of the counter.
You immediately look up at Seonghwa, whose eyes are wide as he looks down at the mess, and then back at you. For half a second, neither of you says a word. But then your mouths twitch at the exact same time.
You bite your bottom lip, trying desperately not to laugh, but your shoulders start shaking anyway. Seonghwa looks just as bad, his expression collapsing into a barely contained grin as he glances around the counter to make sure no one’s looking.
He snatches up a cloth napkin and immediately starts dabbing at the counter, turning his face slightly away from the chef in a hopeless attempt to hide the wide, toothy smile spreading across it. You grab another napkin and join him, your hands trembling as you wipe at the scattered droplets. The two of you end up hunched over the counter together, heads bowed as you try to clean up the spill before anyone notices.
"Happy anniversary," he murmurs under his breath. You glance up just as he reaches over and gently catches your hand. His fingers steady yours as he uses the corner of his napkin to dab a drop of soy sauce from your thumb. "Remind me to get you a bib for the sixth one."
The pork belly dish that arrives next surprises you by becoming your favorite part of the meal. The chef places the dish onto your shared plate, the meat lacquered in a dark, savory-sweet glaze. But as you quietly gulp down each bite, the mood between you and Seonghwa slowly changes.
Your teasing softens, giving way to the murmur of a topic meant only for the two of you to hear: tonight's mission.
Seonghwa leans closer as he reaches his chopsticks toward your plate, dipping a piece of pork into the sauce pooling at the edge before bringing it to his lips.
"You have to understand his psychology," he says quietly after he swallows. "Joong's very good—or at least he thinks he is—at pretending he doesn’t care. I think it’s easier for him that way. I think if he convinces himself that something doesn’t matter, then he never has to risk actually wanting it. But I also think he’s terrible at watching someone else take something he wants."
You chew slowly, digesting his words as much as the flavor of the pork. "So when we get to your apartment... how do we actually start?"
Seonghwa lifts his glass of sake, his thumb absently tracing the smooth rim as he thinks.
"Casual comfort," he says after a moment. "We walk in like we just had the best night imaginable, like nothing about it is unusual in the slightest. When he asks—and he will ask—I’ll remind him that you owed me a dance, and we decided to make a night of it. Dinner, drinks. No big deal."
You nod slowly. "Right. Okay."
"And then we let the little things do the work. A hand on your waist when I guide you inside. Standing a little too close. Laughing about something that happened here tonight. Nothing obvious or cruel, just enough to make him feel like an outsider."
You watch him quietly. He takes another bite of the pork belly, once again dragging the piece through the sauce on your plate without asking, but you don't mind.
"It sounds calculated because it is," he continues. "But we're not trying to hurt him. We're just putting a bit of pressure on him, forcing his hand."
"And then... the finale?" you ask, your tone skeptical but curious. "Your room?"
Seonghwa nods once.
"Yes." He sets his chopsticks down, giving you his full attention. "I'll suggest we go to my room to watch a movie. Or to actually get the dance you owe me." His mouth curves faintly. "Either way, it's the ultimatum. Hongjoong either stops us, or he accepts that he's lost his chance."
The chef begins distributing small, steaming lacquered bowls of miso soup as the final course of the meal. As you cradle the bowl in your hands, smiling gratefully, tension begins to stir beneath your exterior.
The truth is, this night has been perfect. You're enjoying the way Seonghwa looks at you, the caring warmth in his expression whenever your eyes meet. There’s something about the way he holds your attention that makes the rest of the room fall away. Even the other guests seem drawn into the illusion. The couples watch the two of you with soft smiles, the older woman occasionally sighing over how sweet it is to be so young and yet so in love.
Over the course of the evening, this fake date has begun to feel... real.
"Seonghwa," you say quietly. "What if... what if the act is too good?" Your gaze drops to the soup before lifting to meet his eyes again. "What if Hongjoong doesn't intervene? What if he lets us go to your room?"
For a moment, Seonghwa doesn’t answer. He gently lowers his spoon back in his bowl, stretching out of the beat of silence as your eyes lock.
"Then," he says simply, "we'll go to my room."
Your heart skips, though the feeling that follows isn’t the pleasant kind that comes with excitement.
You trust Seonghwa—you do—but San's earlier warnings, combined with the uneasy voice in the back of your mind, haunt your reasoning.
You need to be careful.
Seonghwa has been so confident tonight, so certain that Hongjoong will react the way he expects him to. But at the same time, he seems to have already built a plan for what happens if Hongjoong doesn’t. What if Hongjoong really doesn't react? What if he watches the two of you walk in together—laughing, close, clearly wrapped up in one another—and decides to say nothing at all? You want to follow Seonghwa down the hallway just for Hongjoong to appear behind you, to call your name, to finally break the silence that’s been hanging between you for weeks. But what if you reach Seonghwa’s door and the words never come? What happens if the door closes behind you, leaving you alone in his room?
The arrival of dessert forces your attention back to the chef, a much-needed snap back to the present. Two pieces of mochi—one dark chocolate, one strawberry—are placed before you. Without a word, you reach for the chocolate while Seonghwa goes for the strawberry.
Around you, the evening begins to wind down. The chef begins to clear the station; his work is finished. The murmur of conversation from the other guests fades as they pay their bills and leave. After everyone else is gone, you and Seonghwa raise your glasses in a final toast.
"To finally getting Kim Hongjoong to be vulnerable," Seonghwa whispers.
You smile, clinking your glass against his.
Seonghwa swallows the last of his drink, then casually reaches for the bill the waitress set beside him. He settles it with an easy flick of his card, offering her a polite nod of thanks as she takes it away.
When the two of you stand, the chef steps forward slightly from behind the counter. He bows deeply.
"Tonight was a pleasure," he says. "You are a lovely couple."
"Thank you," Seonghwa replies. His hand finds the small of your back naturally as he guides you toward the exit. He looks back over his shoulder at the chef and offers a proud smile. "It's all her and her beauty, really. I'm just the lucky one driving the car."
You shake your head, blushing, embarrassed, and amused all at once, ducking your face slightly as you follow him out the door.
The car ride is quiet.
The city hums around you the same as always: other cars' headlights sliding across the windshield, the whoosh of passing tires, the distant sound of music leaking from somewhere down the street. Inside the car, though, everything feels contained. Seonghwa drives calmly, his hands resting in the same position as on the way to the restaurant. For several minutes, neither of you speaks.
You try to focus on the passing trees instead of the restless anxieties circling your mind, but eventually, the silence becomes too much to bear.
"So," you begin, your voice small in the confined space. "What does Hongjoong do on his usual Saturday nights?"
Seonghwa lets out a chuckle. "Honestly? Barely anything."
You look at him, your eyebrows lifting. "I find that hard to believe."
"I'm serious." His smile widens as he shakes his head. "I wasn't lying when we met—I practically had to put him in a headlock to get him to the bar that night. And then, once we finally got there, he was attached to his phone the entire time."
You remember that night vividly—staring at your own phone, checking it every few minutes, waiting for a text that never came, wondering if Hongjoong was even thinking about you. Now, the image of him sitting in that same bar, equally distracted, equally restless, paralyzed by the same indecision, makes your heart ache with a bittersweet sort of triumph.
"So then," you ask quietly, searching for any information that will calm your budding anxiety, "what does he do at home?"
Seonghwa slows the car as you approach a red light, keeping his eyes on the intersection. "He's usually working."
"Working?"
He nods. "Either hunched over his laptop making music, or buried in a pile of fabric sketches for whatever design he’s in the middle of. Though lately, I'd say I hear that guitar through the walls almost every night."
Your head tilts. "More than usual?"
"Way more."
"He's making more music?" you ask, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you think about the one new song you've heard.
"I believe so." The light changes. Seonghwa presses the gas gently, the car easing forward into motion again. The movement fills the space between you before he speaks again, more thoughtfully this time.
"You two are good for one another."
The statement is so sudden that it makes you raise your eyebrows. "Why's that?"
The road ahead stretches long and dark, broken only by the glow of storefront lights and the occasional passing car. Seonghwa’s expression changes as he drives—something more contemplative settling into his features.
"The more time I spend with you, the more I see it," he says softly. He's so quiet that to you, it sounds like he's talking to himself. "You..."
He trails off, his eyes fixed intensely on the road. His jaw tightens, as if he’s caught himself on the edge of saying something he shouldn’t.
"I... what?" you press, the curiosity beneath your voice impossible to hide.
The corner of Seonghwa's mouth twitches, not quite forming a smile but something more conflicted. He exhales softly. "Never mind my thoughts." The dismissal is gentle, but firm. He clears his throat, one hand adjusting slightly on the steering wheel as if resetting himself. "Just focus on tonight. Focus on the door we're about to walk through. That's what's important."
You want to push him—to press further, to pry open whatever realization had crossed his mind so suddenly. You want to know what he saw in you in that moment that made him stop mid-sentence, what thought had seemed safe enough to begin but dangerous enough to abandon. But something in his expression tells you he won't say more, so you swallow the question.
Suddenly, instead of taking the familiar road that would lead back toward the campus gates, Seonghwa turns the car in the opposite direction.
The buildings outside the window begin to change, familiar storefronts giving way to darker stretches of road. The campus lights slowly disappear behind you.
"Seonghwa?" you ask, shifting in your seat. There’s no fear in your voice—you’ve realized you trust him far more than logic would probably advise—but your curiosity is piqued as the car continues down a road you don’t recognize. "Your apartment is that way." You nod back to where you came from. "Where are we going?"
A slow smirk pulls at his lips. He doesn't look at you, keeping his eyes on the darkening road. "I believe I mentioned earlier that I wanted that dance, no?"
You glance around through the windshield, confused. "Here?" The surroundings are growing grittier, the road growing more gravelly. Streetlights become sparse, leaving long pockets of shadow between them. You lean slightly toward the window, scanning the unfamiliar buildings as they pass. "This doesn't exactly look like a dance floor, Seonghwa."
He only hums under his breath.
A moment later, he pulls the car toward the curb and eases it to a stop in front of a small, aging building that appears to be held together by nothing but habit. The paint along the exterior walls is chipped and fading; the sign above the door is barely legible beneath years of weather.
You side-eye Seonghwa, suddenly wary.
On the sidewalk a few feet away, a small group of men sits gathered along the curb, their bodies half-obscured by the cigarette smoke drifting around them. Near the corner of the building, two stray cats tumble across the pavement, screeching and hissing, their fight echoing in the otherwise quiet street.
Where the hell did he just bring me?
Your expression must say everything you’re thinking, because the second he shuts off the engine and looks over at you, he bursts into laughter.
"I promise you," he says, opening the driver's side door, "it does not look anything like this on the inside."
You should probably hesitate, ask more questions, or at least reconsider blindly following a man into a building that looks moments away from collapse; yet, before your brain has the chance to protest properly, you’ve already reached down and unbuckled your seatbelt.
The night air is even colder than you expected as you close the door behind you. Seonghwa is already walking toward the entrance, glancing back briefly to make sure you’re following.
Your heels click against the cracked pavement as you fall into step beside him. He shoots one last grin your way before opening the worn wooden door of the building.
The door creaks shut behind you, and for a moment, you just stand inside, letting your eyes adjust to the dark scene in front of you.
It's quite literally exactly what you expected. If anything, it might actually be worse.
It looks like the corpse of an old convenience store. Rows of metal shelving units stretch out before you, skeletal and half-collapsed, tilted at strange, sinking angles. Most of them are completely empty, save for the occasional forgotten scrap of cardboard or a dusty price tag still clinging stubbornly to the edge. The overhead lights flicker weakly, casting a sickly yellow hue over the aisles.
Near the front counter sits an ancient cash register that looks like it hasn’t worked since maybe the early 90s. The drawer hangs crookedly open like someone forced it apart with a crowbar.
"Seonghwa..." you whisper, feeling incredibly uneasy.
He, on the other hand, looks completely unbothered.
"Relax," he murmurs gently. Before you can question him further, he reaches over and takes your hand, his fingers closing warmly around yours as he guides you deeper into the store.
You follow him through the aisles, trying to tiptoe to quiet your heels against the dusty tile floor. At the very back of the store stands a massive shelving unit that stretches nearly from floor to ceiling. Unlike the others, this one is completely full, stacked with old crates and heavy boxes. The entire structure is bolted firmly into the wall behind it.
At least, that’s what it looks like.
Seonghwa lets go of your hand and steps closer to the shelf, running his fingers along the side of the frame until they find something hidden in a groove.
He pulls.
A grinding groan fills the room as the entire unit shifts. Your eyes widen as the massive shelf begins to pivot slowly outward. Behind it, revealed inch by inch, is a narrow concrete staircase descending into darkness.
You stare at him with confusion etched onto every one of your features. "What...?"
Half of Seonghwa's face disappears into the shadow of the staircase, but his eyes are bright. "Trust me, angel," he says, extending his hand towards you again. "Ladies first."
You look at the staircase, then back at him.
"No."
He blinks at you.
"You go first," you add, gently nudging his shoulder toward the opening. “I am not walking into some creepy basement before you.”
He chuckles softly, conceding the point with an easy nod, and turns toward the staircase.
"Alright," he says over his shoulder. "If that's what it takes."
He places one hand against the concrete wall and begins his descent, his footsteps echoing down the stairwell. For a minute, you linger at the top, watching the way his figure gradually slips deeper into the dimness below. Then you follow. With each step downward, the stale chill of the abandoned store fades behind you. You suddenly feel warmth rising from somewhere beneath you. As you descend further, you swear you can hear the muffled sound of a cello thrumming through the walls.
You reach the bottom of the staircase expecting more damp concrete, but as Seonghwa pushes open the heavy steel door, you're met with something entirely different.
The smell of dust and decay is completely transformed into the expensive scent of aged bourbon and dark tobacco.
"Oh," you breathe.
It’s a speakeasy, but even that term feels too small for the opulence laid out before you.
It’s practically a palace of luxury. The room is bathed in the warm glow of massive crystal chandeliers and sconces that cast soft reflections against the dark wood-paneled walls. Near the bar, the floor is a checkerboard of black and white marble, melting into polished hardwood where plush leather sofas in indigo and forest green are arranged into private nooks. Couples in their fanciest clothing—silk dresses and tailored suits—are tucked into the corners, their laughter barely audible over the soulful hum of a jazz melody. Everything about the room feels hidden, protected, secret; a pocket of 1920s glamour preserved behind a rusted shelf.
Seonghwa doesn't wait for you to find your footing. Before the wonder of the room can fully settle, he reaches back for you, his fingers sliding easily between yours, gentle enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. But you don't.
He weaves you through the maze of marble-topped tables and velvet armchairs, guiding you toward a secluded corner in the back, far from the entrance and tucked away from the eyes of the other patrons. Eventually, he stops in a small pocket of space half-hidden behind a pair of dark drapes.
"I wanted to show you the bar, but I think we’ve already had enough to drink tonight," Seonghwa says quietly, leaning in closer as he speaks. "Maybe enough to where I shouldn't be driving much longer."
You let out a soft, nervous laugh, still feeling like an intruder in such an elegant space, like at any moment someone will tap your shoulder and politely escort you back upstairs. "Then... we should probably head back soon, shouldn't we?"
"In a moment," he murmurs, undeterred by your suggestion. "But I wanted my dance before you’re gone from my reach forever."
Before you can decide how to respond, he moves. With a gentle yet insistent pull, he draws you closer until the space between you disappears. One of his hands settles firmly against the small of your waist, while the other remains intertwined with yours, fingers loosely laced together as his thumb begins tracing slow, absent circles against your knuckles. The gesture is small, sure. But it's dangerously intimate.
"Seonghwa..." you breathe, tilting your head back to look at him properly. "How..." You shake your head slightly, still trying to take in your surroundings. "Where... how did you even find a place like this?"
He doesn't give up the secret. He simply offers a small, enigmatic smile, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again, so quickly you wonder if you imagined it.
"I know our time is almost up," he says softly. As if to confirm it, he glances briefly over your shoulder toward a vintage clock mounted on the far wall. "It’s already 8:30. I promise, just one dance. Then I’ll take you back to him."
The mention of Hongjoong should feel like a shock back to reality, a reminder of the plan you and Seonghwa had laid out together. But standing here, with Seonghwa’s hand steady against the small of your back, the apartment feels a million miles away. The way he's looking isn't the look of a friend helping another; he's looking at you like he's memorizing every one of the features he knows he can't keep for himself.
"Okay..." you whisper, your voice barely a breath.
Slowly, almost without realizing you’re doing it, you lean closer. Your free hand lifts hesitantly before settling against his shoulder.
The first notes of Lana Del Rey's cover of Blue Velvet suddenly drift through the room. Seonghwa’s gaze drops briefly to your dress, the corner of his mouth lifting like the universe is teasing him.
"Perfect," he murmurs.
The lush, romantic swell of the violin plays around you. The speakeasy—the couples, the soft clink of glasses, the flickering candles—simply ceases to exist. All you can see, hear, and feel is the sway of Seonghwa’s body against yours and the heat radiating from where his palm is pressed against your back.
He’s a beautiful dancer, leading you with a weightless grace. His steps are confident enough that you never have to think about where your feet should land, trusting that he'll carry you through the dance.
You find yourself letting your forehead rest against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne, letting the romanticism of the moment drown out the logic of the plan.
Seonghwa’s head tilts slightly toward you, his breath brushing softly through your hair as he leans closer.
"You're so beautiful, angel."
As Lana Del Rey's voice drifts softly through the air of the room, your movements begin to slow, the gentle sway fading until both of you come to a quiet stop. You pull back just enough to look at him, your breath catching in the narrow space between you. Seonghwa's hand at your waist moves, gently drawing you closer.
His gaze is dark now, the look in his eyes growing heavier. It makes your knees weak as it drops slowly to your lips. Without meaning to, your own eyes follow, fluttering to his mouth.
Seonghwa begins to lean in.
His hand slips free from yours, and for a second, you think he’s pulling away—until his fingers return, brushing lightly along the curve of your jaw. His touch is so gentle, so cautious that it sends a shiver down your spine. His elegant fingers slide beneath your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the faint calluses at the tips of his fingers, and his breath fanning softly across your lips.
Then, just as softly as the song still threading through the room, he leans closer, his lips hovering just short of yours.
His voice barely above a whisper, he speaks softly.
"Joong would lose his mind if he could see us now."
The spell of the music and the moment breaks.
Your breath catches in a sharp gasp as reality rushes back in. Your hands fly up to his chest before you can think, pressing against him as you step back, putting a sudden distance between you.
"What are you... Seonghwa...?"
Your voice trembles softly, your mind spinning as the song begins its outro. The question hangs between you, unfinished, because you aren’t even sure what you’re asking. Was that supposed to be some sort of reminder? A test? A taunt?
Seonghwa doesn’t move at all. He stands in the center of the floor, one hand still half-raised, watching you with an expression that is terrifyingly hard to decipher. Then, almost reluctantly, a small, crooked smile touches his lips—one that's charming in the way all his smiles are, but also one that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"I'm... I'm sorry, angel," he says at last, his voice regaining the smooth composure he wears so well. "I got a bit lost in your eyes for a moment."
You stare at each other, his light words not quite landing like the tease he intended. The song has faded away, the music dissolving into the murmurs of conversation drifting from the other side of the drapes. Glass clinks somewhere. Someone laughs. The world has quietly resumed around you. But you can't move.
You want to ask him. Ask him whether that moment was part of the night's act, or if, for those few seconds, he'd forgotten the plan completely, just like you did. But you're not sure if you actually want to hear the answer, and somehow, you suspect he knows that.
Seonghwa is the first to move. He blinks once, slowly, and whatever shadow that was lingering in his gaze clears. He smooths a hand over the front of his jacket, resetting himself. "Come on, angel," he says gently, gesturing towards the hidden staircase. His eyes flick briefly in that direction before returning to you. "Let's get you to Joong."
You watch him walk ahead, the charming ease settling back into his posture like that entire moment was solely in your imagination. Seonghwa glances back when he realizes you haven’t followed, one eyebrow lifting.
Without another word, you smile tightly and fall into step behind him.
The walk back to the car is silent.
The cold night air should be clearing your head, but instead, it only makes the leftover heat of Seonghwa’s touch burn more.
This was a fake date. It was supposed to be a simple strategy meeting before seeing Hongjoong, nothing more. So why didn't that moment feel calculated at all? You had been seconds away from kissing Seonghwa. No—worse than that; you had been seconds away from letting him kiss you. The guilt twists in your stomach. You're doing this for Hongjoong. He’s the one you’ve spent months pining for, the one whose attention you’ve been trying to earn. This whole night was supposed to bring you closer to him. How did you let yourself forget, even for a second, who this was really about?
And why, for a man who has spent the entire evening talking about the plan, did he look so close to throwing the whole thing away just for a taste of your lips?
The drive back is punctuated only by the soft click of the turn signal. Seonghwa is a statue beside you, his fingers relaxed but controlled, his eyes fixed on the pavement ahead. When he finally pulls into the apartment's parking lot, the headlights flash across the building before the car rolls to a stop. He cuts the engine, and the sudden absence of noise is deafening.
You can hear your own breathing too clearly in the quiet. You shift awkwardly in your seat, the velvet of your dress rustling. Looking down at your lap, you twiddle your thumbs nervously.
"Seonghwa," you say finally. "Do you... Do you really think this will work?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He leans back in his seat, staring out the windshield at the light of the lobby of his building. The silence is long enough that you wonder if he's even going to answer at all before he finally speaks.
"I think whatever happens tonight is exactly what is meant to happen, angel."
Before you can ask what he means, he opens his car door. By the time he walks around the front to open yours, the version of him who had almost kissed you feels impossibly far away.
You pause before you get out, looking up at his gentle eyes as he offers you his hand. You smile softly, taking it and stepping out, closing the door behind you.
He glances down at his watch. "It's 8:58," he says as the two of you start toward the building. "Perfect timing. Joong should be in the kitchen."
You can’t really bring yourself to respond. Your throat is beginning to feel too tight. Every step across the parking lot feels like walking closer to the edge of a cliff.
The glass doors to the building slide open, and you have to take a deep breath before following him down the quiet hallway. The closer you get to the entrance of his apartment, the faster your pulse races.
By the time you reach the door, Seonghwa stops. You nearly walk into him before catching yourself, your gaze lifting to find that he’s turned toward you. He places a reassuring hand on your arm when he realizes the level of anxiety coursing through your veins.
"Are you ready?" he asks gently.
You swallow, your hands trembling slightly at your sides. "I don't know..." you admit. "What if something goes wrong?"
Seonghwa hesitates.
"Then," he says quietly, his gaze holding yours with something unreadable beneath the calm, something that feels like all the restraint and romance of the night folded into a single look, "we improvise."
And without waiting for another word, he reaches back, turns the handle, and pushes the apartment door open.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 10.6k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. okay so this is gonna end up being like 30+ chapters at this point which was NOT my intention, but i just can't stop writing. please enjoy ;))))
"Deep breaths, ____," San murmurs from your right. He's practically swallowed by his comically oversized wool scarf, his eyes the only thing left visible as they crinkle with concern. "You're not going in there alone. Well... I guess technically, you are. But we're walking you as far as we can!"
"I don't think deep breaths are going to help her, San," Yeosang interjects from next to him, forced to walk on the grass because of the narrowness of the path. He looks at you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. "If it gets too weird, just text me. I'll call you with a fake emergency. Yunho's cooking suddenly burned our kitchen down."
On your left, Yunho smiles silently. When you didn't reply to any of his texts on Monday night, he knew something big had happened. He hasn't weighed in much since you confessed to the full story, but his silence isn't judgmental—it's knowing. He knows that while San can offer distractions and Yeosang can offer escape routes, only you and Hongjoong can actually fix what happened between you.
For the past seventy-two hours, your phone has been a source of silent torture. Every five minutes, a glance; every five minutes, nothing.
Hongjoong never replied to you.
Every time you close your eyes, you're faced with the memory of the unexpected heat of the kiss, followed instantly by the ice-cold splash of humiliation when he pulled away. Does he regret it? Or worse, is it so insignificant to him that he doesn't even think it warrants a conversation?
Now, as you head to the Language Center for your usual 5 p.m. Thursday tutoring, you guess you're about to find out.
"He one thousand percent picked that movie on purpose, by the way," San says, his voice bright as he tries to lighten the mood.
Yunho lets out a laugh, reaching across you to nudge San's arm. "No, he just happened to choose the one Korean movie where a tutor and his student start making out."
You shake your head as you zip your coat a little higher, a laugh bubbling up in your chest despite the knots tying themselves in your stomach. "I'm telling you guys, he was just as surprised as I was," you say. "There's no way he knew."
Yeosang nods in agreement. "Plus, there are a million K-dramas with that exact trope."
San stops mid-stride, squinting at him with suspicion. "And how exactly do you know that?"
Yeosang’s pale skin immediately flushes a soft, dusty pink. He looks away, suddenly very interested in a nearby oak tree. "I've seen... a few. My sister makes me watch them."
"Oh, your sister makes you?" San pounces, his grin widening. "Or has ____'s situation inspired you? Do you see yourself as the tutor, Yeo? Or maybe you wanna be the student?"
The walk dissolves into a mess of laughter as San relentlessly teases Yeosang, whose ears are now as red as his cheeks.
"It's not like that!" he defends himself, shoving San. "It's just a good trope!"
"Yeosang," you warn, your eyes shining with a momentary reprieve from the dread, "I can tell you from experience that it is very overrated."
But your laughter dies a sudden, synchronized death as the Language Center looms into view around the next bend. The boys slow their pace. Yunho's laughter falls flat, San's teasing grin vanishes behind his scarf, and Yeosang's face settles into concern.
"Okay, look," Yunho says, his voice dropping. "Go in and just see what the vibe is like at first. Don't feel like you have to address the elephant in the room the second you sit down. Just... gauge him."
"He's probably just nervous," San adds. "Scared he crossed a line he can't un-cross."
You let out a shaky breath, your eyes fixed on the building ahead. "I think the line was pretty thoroughly destroyed when his tongue was down my throat, San. What else is he waiting for?"
A brief silence falls over the group. They all exchange a look that clearly says they don't have a clue.
"Maybe he's just scared of women," San finally offers. "You know, like Yeosang."
Yeosang snaps his head toward him, taken aback. "What is with you today? Why do I keep getting attacked?"
"Because you're too much of a coward to give your own friend his jacket back," San says, his side-eye sharp.
Yunho lets out a weary sigh, his breath blooming like a cloud in the cold air. "Are you two still arguing about this?"
"I want it out of our kitchen!" San's voice rises as he nudges you for backup. "It's been draped over that chair for a week at this point. It still smells like his sleazy cologne!"
"You're his friend, too!" Yeosang shoots back, his voice rising to match San's. "If it's such a burden, drop it off yourself."
San scoffs. "I don't want to be anywhere near that piece of shit right now. You're the only one here that can still tolerate him."
"Not anymore," Yeosang mutters, a bitter edge to his words that makes you look up in surprise. He shakes his head, a look of disdain crossing his features. "Do you have any idea how many people Wooyoung has cycled through since that night? I’ll tell you something—his body count has gone up more than the number of days that have passed. He’s completely gone. ____ destroyed him."
You wince at his words. "Okay," you breathe, holding up a trembling hand to stop the conversation. "I really, really don't need that image in my head right now."
Yunho immediately steps in, making a dramatic show of reaching out and cupping his large, warm palms over your ears as you approach the foot of the stairs. "Don't listen to them," he says, his voice muffled. "Remember your actual problems. Hongjoong. The kiss. The awkwardness. Focus on him."
You look up at Yunho and give him a flat, deadpan stare. "Thanks, Yunho."
He offers a sheepish, lopsided grin—part apology, part encouragement—and lets go as you reach the entrance. They crowd around you for one last pep talk—San giving your arm a supportive squeeze, Yeosang offering a terse yet encouraging nod, and Yunho ushering you up the steps.
"We’ll see you when you get back to the dorm! I'll have dinner ready!" San calls out, the three of them hovering at the base of the stairs like your private security detail until you disappear through the doors.
Once inside, the hum of the heater swallows all the sounds of the outside world. The nerves return as your friends are left behind, the doors swinging shut behind you.
You have absolutely no idea how you're going to face Hongjoong.
Will he play the professional? Will he open his notebook, click his pen, and carry the session on as usual, pretending things between you haven't changed? You’ve spent the last three days preparing for the worst: coldness, silence, avoidance. After all, when things get messy... those are the three things you both seem to do best.
You take a final deep breath and approach the receptionist, forcing a polite smile even as you begin to feel lightheaded from the nerves. The woman recognizes you instantly, offering a similar smile back. "Hi, ____."
"Hi," you respond, your voice sounding more anxious than typical. You don't even bother with the formalities of the time or your tutor's name; by now, she knows you too well.
The receptionist’s fingers clatter against the keyboard for a moment before she looks up, her smile softening into something sympathetic. "Alright, you're all set. Oh, and do me a favor? Tell that sweet boy Hongjoong that I hope he feels better soon. That flu that's going around this season is an absolute nightmare."
You freeze, your lips parting in confusion.
The flu?
The receptionist is already looking back at her monitor, oblivious to the way the blood is draining from your face. Clearly, she assumes your tutor's illness is old news to a dedicated student like you.
Hongjoong is sick?
Is he... not here?
You force your facial muscles into a tight, brittle smile. "I... I will do that. Thank you."
The woman nods and motions toward the tutoring room with a distracted wave of her hand. You turn away, a wave of nausea rolling through you as you walk through the doors. If Hongjoong was sick enough to call the center, why didn't he tell you? Why let you walk all the way here, escorted by your friends, only to find out from the receptionist?
Most importantly: if he isn't here, who is?
You enter the room and immediately notice that it's unnervingly empty; there are only three people in the entire space. In the far corner, a pair of students is murmuring what sounds like Italian, their voices hushed.
Your eyes drift slowly to the man sitting at your usual table.
He's occupying the exact chair Hongjoong usually claims, but the energy is entirely wrong. There are no neatly stacked textbooks, no notes laid across the wood, no glow of an open laptop. He’s leaning back, his spine curved in a lazy slouch, his attention entirely consumed by the phone in his hand. Every few seconds, a short, dry burst of a laugh escapes him at something on his screen.
Your heart sinks. Hongjoong really isn't here. He abandoned the session—and you—to a stranger.
You grimace, the humiliation from the past three days curdling into frustration. You approach the table and stop right beside it, your shadow falling across the man's lap. He doesn't notice. He doesn't even glance up, his thumb continuing to flick upward across the screen. You stand there for a beat, scanning the nearly empty room as if Hongjoong might suddenly jump out from under a table and tell you this is all a terrible joke. When no such miracle occurs, you clear your throat.
Finally, the man looks up. There is no apology in his gaze, no welcoming smile. He simply furrows his brow, looking slightly annoyed, as if you just rudely interrupted him.
"Hi," you say, trying your best to swallow the frown and the sting of disappointment prickling behind your eyes. "Um... is Hongjoong not here?"
The man looks you over for a beat before swiping his phone open. He taps into his messages, and despite instinctively looking away to be respectful, the sheer volume of the text catches your eye. It’s a block of texts from Hongjoong, but it’s all in Korean—a blurred, scrolling sea of characters you can’t even begin to decode.
"____, right?" he asks, his thumb still flicking over the screen.
"Yes."
He doesn’t look up; he merely jerks his chin toward the empty seat across from him, a silent, dismissive command. After a second, when you sit, he finally flips the phone face-down on the table and offers a smile that feels completely fake.
"I'm James," he says, leaning back and shoving his hands in the pockets of his black hoodie. "Hongjoong's out with the flu, apparently. I'm supposed to fill in."
You swallow hard, pulling out your phone to open your recording app out of habit. "Okay... why didn't Hongjoong contact me or anything?"
James tilts his head, giving you a look that borders on incredulous. "Do tutors usually give their students a heads-up when they're sick if another one will be there?"
You suck in a deep breath, a self-deprecating laugh bubbling up in your chest. "No," you say, feeling the heat crawl up your neck. "No, I guess they don't."
He gives you another odd look—clearly wondering why you're so visibly rattled—before grabbing his phone again. He begins scrolling through the text chain with Hongjoong, his eyebrows arching higher and higher with every passing second.
"Damn," he mutters, more to himself than you. "He’s a much better tutor than I am. He sent me a whole list of things to work on with you."
You find yourself leaning forward, trying to sneak a peek at the texts, your heart hammering. You're desperate for any scrap of Hongjoong's thoughts, any proof that he hadn't just deleted you from his mind the moment you left his apartment on Monday night. "Yeah? Like what?"
James doesn't even glance at you as he continues to scan the instructions. "This week is all about negative forms, apparently. He said you’re probably going to struggle with understanding the difference between the -지 못하다 ending versus the standard 못 form." He pauses, finally looking up at you with a judgmental squint that suddenly makes you feel very small. "You still don't know the difference between casual and polite forms?"
You flinch, completely taken aback by his condescending tone. "I—no, I mean, of course I do. I just... um..." You trail off, your brain scrambling to defend itself after practically getting slapped in the face. "Obviously, new grammar patterns are going to take me a minute to get used to."
James gives you a slow once-over before nodding. "Sure. Anyway, he also mentioned you need to work on your confidence in speaking. Said your listening has improved a lot lately?"
Your heart skips a beat. You can almost hear Hongjoong's voice saying those exact words to you in his kitchen—the way he’d looked at you when he praised your progress. "Um... a little bit, I guess."
James raises an eyebrow, a challenge in his eyes. He leans forward, encroaching on your personal space as his voice quickens. "네 튜터가 나한테 거짓말한 거야? 아니면 내가 하는 말 이해해?"
Your mouth quickly drops open, then snaps back shut. You stare at him, your mind a complete, static-filled blank. The syllables flew past you too fast to catch even a singular word.
"Right," he says, smirking in ugly triumph. "Okay. He attached your assignment, too, so we can get started on that."
He taps the screen to open an image, and you sit there in a stunned, miserable silence. The humiliation you've been carrying since Monday has evolved into a cold, hard knot of resentment. Who is this guy? And why the hell is he being so rude? Treating a tutoring session like it's an interrogation?
James squints at the screen, pinching and dragging the image with a frustrated flick of his thumb. "Do you have any money on your printing account?" he asks, looking at you flatly. "I don't know how he expects me to read this blurry-ass image from my phone."
You stare at him, genuinely stunned by the audacity of the request. He wants you to pay for his own lack of preparation?
"No," you say, your voice coming out like ice. "I don't."
He lets out a very frustrated huff, tossing his phone onto the table with a clatter that echoes through the room. "Alright. Stay here. I'll be right back." He stands abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor, and vanishes through the door, presumably to go hunt for the money he should've already secured or the printer he should've already found.
You're left alone in the quiet room, staring blankly at the empty wall behind his chair.
What the actual fuck?
The questions that have been simmering since you walked in suddenly reach a boiling point, more aggressive and painful than before. Where the hell is my actual tutor? Is he actually sick? Or does he simply not want to face me after what happened? If that's the case, why the fuck would he leave me with this? Did he willingly hand-pick this asshole, or did he not have any say in who was filling in?
Your gaze drifts to the phone lying abandoned on the table. The screen is dark, but you know what sits beneath that black glass: a literal wall of text about you. His thoughts, his instructions, his observations—everything you're currently dying to know, written in a language you still can't speak. Being avoided by Hongjoong isn't entirely unexpected, but being replaced by a stranger who treats you like a chore is a whole new level of torture.
James returns a few minutes later, the quiet of the room broken by the snap of a freshly printed sheet of paper landing in front of you. He slumps into his chair with an indifferent sigh, his hand immediately diving for his phone to resume his scrolling—likely checking for any last-minute instructions Hongjoong might have sent.
He begins humming a low, tuneless melody that grates against your already frayed nerves. His attention is entirely absorbed by the screen. You watch him, your mind grasping to piece together the fragments of the situation. If this man has Hongjoong’s number—if Hongjoong is sending him paragraph-long descriptions on your learning habits—they have to at least be friends, right? And if they’re friends, James likely knows if that flu is an actual fever or a convenient lie.
"So..." you start, trying to keep your voice casual, like you're simply killing time before you start. "Are you and Hongjoong close? Are you also from Seoul?"
James looks up, levelling you with that same look of baffled annoyance. "I'm from New Jersey."
Your lips pull into a thin line. "Oh."
"And no," he adds, finally clicking his phone off for good. "I don't even know the guy. I have no idea how he even got my number. We just work the same shift rotation sometimes."
You blink, your theory crumbling instantly. Okay. Scratch that plan.
"Let's just get started," James says, his finger tapping the paper.
The dialogue is a disaster from the first sentence. James doesn't speak with the patient, melodic cadence that you're used to Hongjoong using. He speaks with the rapid-fire clip of a native speaker who has somewhere better to be, his accent thick and his patience thin. He's miles ahead of you, leaving you stumbling through the phonetics. You find yourself pausing before every line. You only realize it's your turn to speak when the room suddenly falls silent.
Then, you hit the new grammar pattern—the very one Hongjoong said you would struggle with.
"저... 저는 이번 주말에 숙제를 하지 못할 거예요," you read, but your tongue trips over the syllables. The -지 못할 tangles behind your teeth, coming out as a garbled mess of consonants.
Habit takes over. Honestly, it's muscle memory at this point, born from weeks of patient sessions with Hongjoong. You immediately tap the 'stop' button on the recording app, your thumb already moving to reset the track so you can get it right. That’s how it works with Hongjoong. You don't move on until you've perfected it.
James stops mid-breath, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline as he stares at your hands. "What are you doing?"
You look between him and the phone, blinking. "Starting over?"
"Why?"
"...Because I messed up?"
James lets out a short, incredulous laugh, leaning back in his creaky chair. "Does Hongjoong really make you start over every time you fuck up a single word?"
The question feels like a direct insult to the way you work. You feel a frown deepening on your face. "Well... no. He doesn't make me. I want to."
"You want to do more work?"
You feel a flash of heat in your cheeks—part embarrassment, part budding rage. "It's one extra minute. I want it to sound the way it's supposed to."
He chuckles again, that condescending little huff making you want to shove the paper off the table. He shrugs his shoulders, indifferent. "Alright, sure. I get paid either way. Let’s start over."
You grit your teeth and run through the dialogue again. While your pronunciation is flawless the second time around, the uneasy feeling in your stomach only grows. Every time you pause to let a conjugation click into place, you can feel James’s silent judgment. Everything that makes you a good student—your effort, your care, your dedication—seems to be nothing more than something for him to make fun of.
The second the recording finishes, you hit 'submit' with an aggressive jab of your finger, desperate to be done with the suffocating atmosphere of your substitute tutor.
"Do you have any questions?" James asks, sounding like he's still reading off a script, checking off the final box of the session.
You bite your inner lip, your pride warring with your genuine confusion. "Well... like Hongjoong mentioned… I don’t really get the fundamental difference between the -지 못하다 and the 못 form."
He lets out another airy laugh, the kind of sound that makes you feel like you just asked him to explain two plus two. "Okay. Look. -지 못하다 is just more polite. 못 is casual. It's pretty simple."
You stare at him, your frown deepening. "Right. I've read the textbook definition. I understand that. But why? Can you... I don't know..."
You trail off, suddenly feeling the absence of Hongjoong’s teaching style deeply. Hongjoong doesn't just recite rules; he deconstructs them. He tells you why the language evolved that way, giving you the cultural context and nuances that eventually make the grammar stick.
James's brow furrows, his patience clearly being tested. "Can I what? It’s pretty simple. Polite versus casual. I… don’t really know what else I can explain."
He’s looking at you like you're an idiot. His gaze is heavy with a condescension you've never once encountered in this room before. You've never felt smaller, sitting in this molded chair that suddenly feels like it’s swallowing you whole, shrinking you down until you're nothing but a nuisance.
The frustration that has been simmering since you saw his slouching frame finally reaches its tipping point. The words slip out before you can catch them:
"Have you ever actually tutored anyone before?"
He raises an eyebrow, his jaw snapping shut as he takes genuine offense. You didn't really intend to be rude—well, perhaps a little—but the look he gives you is lethal.
"Obviously," he snaps coldly. "It's just that most people understand the material without me having to dumb it down for them."
You flinch as if he's actually just struck you.
It's possibly the most demeaning thing anyone has ever said to you. Maybe you were a little rude, but James was the aggressor from the second you sat down. He was clearly irritated to be stuck here on a Thursday night, clearly annoyed by the detailed instructions Hongjoong had left behind.
Hongjoong.
Hongjoong would never in a million years say that to you. You don't think he even possesses the capacity to think it. Even when you're drowning in a sea of complex particles, he meets you with a patience that makes you feel capable. In the midst of this disastrous session, you realize that you don't just miss him—you need him here. You need the way he looks at you—not as a chore to be "dumbed down," but as a person worth the effort.
Maybe it's just the heat of the moment, but you suddenly think that being assigned to him wasn't just a scheduling fluke. It feels like a collision of fate that you aren't yet ready to lose because of some accidental kiss.
"Okay," you say, your voice flat.
You don't wait for a response. You shove your phone into your bag, not looking at James again. The sound of your jacket zipper teeth locking together is loud. You sling your bag over your shoulder and pause for only a second, giving James one final, cold glance.
"Did Hongjoong have anything else?" you ask. "A message? Anything?"
James sighs, his thumb flicking across his screen one last time with bored indifference. "Not really. He just mentioned that you might try to leave pretty quickly. Said I should try to stop you—make sure you understand everything before you go."
Your heart skips a beat, then seems to stop entirely. Even from his room—or wherever he's hiding—he still knows you. He's trying to protect your progress, hovering over your shoulder through a text of instructions, even when he's not here to guide it in the flesh. The contradiction stings. If he cares enough to warn James that you might try to leave early, why couldn't he show up and stop you himself?
"Oh," you whisper.
You look at James and realize that even if you had a million questions, you don't want a single answer if it doesn't come from Hongjoong's lips.
"I'm good. Thanks for... whatever this was."
You turn on your heel, your face set in a stony frown. You walk out without looking back at the table, the doors swinging shut behind you as you leave James and all of Hongjoong's instructions behind.
What the actual hell was that?
Your mind loops in a dizzying monologue, fueled by the sting of abandonment, as you storm away from the Language Center. If he really has the flu, he’s a victim of bad timing. But the cynical part of you suspects cowardice—a convenient excuse to avoid addressing what happened on Monday. You don't particularly want to face Hongjoong, either. But at least you showed up.
You don't think Hongjoong would've purposely picked James to be his replacement. But if you're right, that means you truly have the worst luck of anyone you know. Out of the entire tutoring staff, Professor Choi just had to hand you to the one person who treated your perfectionism like it was something to be ashamed of? Is there suddenly a problem with wanting to learn? Wanting to do things the right way?
The irritation begins to bubble over. Hongjoong left a novel's worth of instructions for James, and yet for some reason, he couldn't be bothered to send a two-word text: I'm sick.
You're halfway across the quad, the wind whipping through your hair, before you realize you're not even walking toward your dorm. Your legs are moving on autopilot, carrying you in the complete opposite direction.
You skid to a halt. The sudden stillness makes your head spin. Closing your eyes, you draw in a lung-searing breath of the evening air. It’s bracingly cold, but for a moment, it manages to quiet your thoughts.
You aren't ready to face the quiet of your room, nor the well-intentioned but inevitably inedible comfort food San promised to cook for you tonight, just in case things with Hongjoong went badly.
You need a buffer. Just one hour to yourself.
After enduring James’ sneering condescension and the emotional whiplash of the last twenty minutes, you deserve a treat. As you look toward your favorite campus café, just a few feet off the main path, you can already taste it: a hot chocolate topped with sweet whipped cream and extra marshmallows. Maybe a chocolate muffin, too.
Exhaling a cloud of silver mist, you square your shoulders and start walking toward the café. If Hongjoong wants to hide from you, fine. You'll let him, for now. You’re going to sit in a window seat, wrap your hands around a steaming mug, and forget about the fact that your heart is currently a tangled mess of irritation and longing.
The small bell above the door chimes as you step into the warm interior. You happily take in a breath, relieved to be smelling the scent of coffee beans and cinnamon rolls instead of highlighters and textbook pages. You walk straight toward the counter, your head down as you dig around in your bag for your wallet.
"Hi," you say to the person behind the register, pulling out your card and tapping the plastic against the counter. "I'll do a medium hot chocolate, extra marshmallows, and—"
The words die in your throat as you finally lift your gaze and make eye contact with the man taking your order.
Standing there in the mandated black apron, his dark hair tucked neatly under a baseball cap, is the last person you ever expected to see behind a service counter.
"Seonghwa?"
Your eyes widen as you take in the sight of him with a name tag pinned to his chest and a steaming milk pitcher in his hand.
He stops pressing buttons on the touch screen and blinks at you, a slow smile spreading across his perfectly symmetrical face as he realizes that it's you.
"____?"
"You work here?" you ask, your voice hitching in shock. "Why have I never seen you before? I'm here at least twice a week!"
Seonghwa laughs as he turns to the counter behind him, setting the pitcher down before reaching back to loosen the ties of his apron so he can talk to you casually.
You try to look away, but it's no use. He’s dressed in the standard-issue cafe attire—a simple black polo embroidered with the emerald-green logo—but on him, it looks expensive. High-quality. His dark, tailored pants hug his frame just right, and his baseball cap is tugged over his forehead, the low brim showing off the angles of his face.
He sees you staring in the espresso machine's reflection. A smirk plays on his lips. "Well, maybe you haven't been looking."
"No, I would've noticed you," you blurt out, the words leaving your mouth before your brain can put up a filter. Heat crawls up your neck as you realize how that came out.
Seonghwa pauses, his hand hovering over the knot of his apron. He slowly rotates his head toward you, a perfectly groomed eyebrow arching toward the brim of his cap. "Would you now?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. A charming smirk deepens his dimple. As you blush, he lets out a soft laugh, finally taking off his apron and hanging it on a drawer handle.
"I’ll take it as a compliment," he says, finally relenting. He leans his elbows on the polished counter and smiles at you. "The truth is, I technically don't start until next semester. I'm still in the training phase."
You nod, your cheeks starting to cool. "So that's why."
"That's why," he confirms, his dark eyes sparkling at you. "I was here so often that I figured I should just see if they had any openings. Free coffee, every day."
"Every day?" you repeat, dumbfounded and a little dazed by how he's looking at you. "Wow. Maybe I should apply, too."
Seonghwa tilts his head. "But you already have a job, don't you?"
You nearly gasp. The lie. The one you'd told at the bar... and then again in Hongjoong's—and Seonghwa's—apartment. "Right! Of course I do. But... in this economy, you can never have enough money. Um... diversified income, you know?"
He lets out a soft huff of a laugh that makes you think he doesn't believe you. He doesn't press you, though; you expect him to ask something along the lines of where you work, but he doesn't. Instead, he reaches for a cup next to the register. The sleeve rustles as he picks it up.
"Sure," he murmurs, uncapping a nearby Sharpie. He writes your name on the side of the cup, and you're impressed by his neat handwriting. "So, hot chocolate. Was it extra whipped cream?"
"Um... I said extra marshmallows."
He chuckles again, shaking his head as he marks it down. "They're going to fire me before I even start."
"No, it's okay, I'll take the whipped cream, too. And maybe a chocolate muffin," you add, feeling a sudden wave of shyness now that you're being served by someone you know.
"Got it." He taps a few buttons on the monitor. When you move to swipe your card, he gently blocks the reader with his hand. "It's on the house."
Your eyes snap to his. "No, what? Seonghwa, you can’t—I can pay for it."
He shakes his head, his smile widening. He leans a little closer over the counter, the brim of his cap casting a shadow over his eyes and making his gaze feel incredibly private.
"Don't worry about it. Consider it a down payment." His voice lowers as he all but whispers, "You owe me two dances now."
The air leaves your lungs in a rush. You stutter, your tongue suddenly feeling two sizes too big for your mouth. "Oh. Okay. Um. Two. Right."
You stand there, rooted to the spot, watching Seonghwa turn to prepare your drink. You're practically mesmerized by the sight of him working—steaming the milk, tapping the pitcher to pop the bubbles, mixing in the perfect amount of marshmallows. His effortlessness makes you feel clumsy just by association. As he finishes swirling a mountain of whipped cream on top, he reaches up to pull off his cap. He runs a hand through his dark, slightly mussed hair, shaking it out.
"I’m taking a fifteen!" he calls out toward the back.
"You're a trainee, Seonghwa!" a rough voice bellows back from the kitchen. "You don't have any fifteens to take!"
Seonghwa ignores it. He shrugs at the empty air and slides your hot chocolate, paired with a chocolate muffin, across the counter. He gives you a charming tilt of his head before quickly fixing another drink—a double-shot iced Americano for himself.
His eyes lock onto yours, nodding toward a small, secluded table tucked into a cozy corner near the back windows, far away from the students still studying quietly. "Let's sit."
You follow him over, holding your treats and smiling shyly as he reaches to pull a chair out for you. The gesture is so effortlessly gentlemanly that you feel your cheeks redden again.
"Thanks," you murmur, sliding into the seat.
He sinks into the chair across from you, his long legs stretching out beneath the small table. He takes a slow sip of his coffee before focusing solely on you.
"So," he begins. "What brings you here so late?"
You take a long, grateful sip of the hot chocolate, letting the rich cocoa warm your tongue. It’s perfect—the exact sugary, comforting distraction you needed.
"You actually have a talent for this," you say, trying to steer the conversation away from your own life, specifically the reason why you came to the café. "This is the best hot chocolate I've had all semester."
He preens slightly at the compliment, but he doesn't let the distraction slide. Seonghwa is too observant; he notices your fingers tapping anxiously against the paper sleeve of your cup. He sets his drink down and fixes you with a quizzical look.
"Were you supposed to have tutoring with Joong tonight?"
You freeze. Your cup is halfway to your lips, but you pause mid-air, the steam warming your cheeks. Slowly, you lower the drink back to the table.
"How did you know?"
He chuckles, taking another sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim of the cup.
"Every Thursday, it's the same thing," he tells you. "He takes over the entire kitchen. Papers spread out everywhere, marking down all these notes. I've seen him work on actual assignments with less focus than he puts into those Thursday sessions. He tutors on Tuesdays, too, but he doesn't put nearly as much effort in. But tonight... he didn't prepare for anything at all."
He pauses, letting that sink in. You feel a strange, fluttering sensation in your chest as the image forms in your mind of Hongjoong hunched over his notes, all for you.
"He won’t talk to me, you know," Seonghwa adds quietly.
"About what?"
"About you."
You nearly choke on a bite of your muffin, coughing as you scramble for your hot chocolate to wash it down. Seonghwa, however, doesn't look concerned; he just smiles.
"Will you?" he asks.
You stare at him, your mind racing for a deflection, an exit, anything. "I… I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Seonghwa doesn't relent. "What happened on Monday night, ____?"
You hesitate, every instinct you have screaming caution.
Why is Seonghwa asking you this?
First, he approached you at the bar with that smooth, disarming confidence, asking for a dance—a moment that still gives you butterflies when you think about it. Now, he's buying your drink, bartering for more of your time, all while asking you to talk about your feelings for a man who isn't him.
He must see the gears grinding behind your eyes—the way your gaze flits from him to the exit—because he leans in to reassure you.
"I’m not trying to ruin things for you, angel," he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. "I’m just trying to help my best friend."
You nearly choke on your muffin for the second time. Angel?
Seonghwa’s grin widens. "Oh? You like pet names?" he teases. "Cute. I'll be sure to let Joong know he's been taking the wrong approach."
You've quite literally gone still, your brain malfunctioning. "Seonghwa… what—what are you…?"
He laughs under his breath. "This is awful," he sighs, shaking his head regretfully. "I really wish I'd gotten to you first. You're adorable."
Before you can even process the implications of that—the idea of Seonghwa getting to you first—his expression changes.
"Anyway, tell me," he continues. "Tell me what happened between you two on Monday. And don’t bother asking how I know something happened—I could feel the tension before I even walked through the front door. I promise I’m only trying to help. For both your sakes."
You weigh your options for a long second. You're completely out of your depth, trapped between your loyalty to your own stubborn pride and your desperate need for some answers. But if anyone knows the truth about Hongjoong—why he didn't show up, whether he's really sick—it’s his roommate.
"He doesn't really have the flu, does he?" you ask, your voice a little hesitant and full of suspicion.
He smiles, almost fondly, for a reason you can’t place. His fingers tap idly against the side of his drink. "Answer my question first," he says while shaking his head, "then I’ll tell you anything you want."
You let out a defeated sigh, your shoulders sagging as you glance around the café. The place has begun to thin out, the once-busy tables slowly emptying as students pack up their laptops and notebooks, drifting out into the darkening evening. You want your answers—desperately—and you know Seonghwa is the only person who might give them to you before the night ends.
"Okay," you say, finally meeting his gaze with a small nod. "Fine."
Seonghwa leans in, his chin resting on his palm. "How exactly," he begins, "did you end up in his bedroom?"
The blush on your cheeks deepens until it stings. "Well… it was my fault, honestly. We were talking about how my listening comprehension has improved through K-dramas, and he mentioned watching one together so he could help me translate the imperfect subtitles."
You pause, your fingers nervously picking at your muffin wrapper, shredding the paper into tiny confetti. "I was overwhelmed, and I thought he meant, like, right that second. Looking back, I don't think he actually intended for it to happen then... but either way, I said sure. I... I thought there was a TV in the living room. But then he said the only screen was in his room. So… we, um, went."
Seonghwa laughs, running a hand over his face as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “And neither of you thought just to watch it on his laptop at the kitchen island?"
Your tongue clicks softly against the roof of your mouth as the blunt logic hits you. "Oh."
He shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "God, you two are a disaster. Anyway, what happened after?"
"Um... we watched Parasite."
"I've never seen it."
"I wouldn't recommend it," you say, your voice dry. "Not unless you enjoy watching tutors and students make out. Or parents touching each other underneath their clothes on a living room couch."
Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up. "Well. I imagine that was a little awkward."
"Just a little," you agree sarcastically, letting out a sigh. “We... we almost kissed once. But then he pulled away at the last second and started rambling about some grammar rule."
Seonghwa laughs again, this time burying his face in his hands. His muffled voice comes out through his fingers. "He's more helpless than I thought."
"But then," you continue, suddenly feeling very shy. You start picking at your nails, pretending to be interested in the chipping polish. "He, um. He actually did it. He kissed me."
The laughter stops. Seonghwa's hands drop to his lap instantly. His amusement vanishes from his face. He doesn't say a word; he just watches you, waiting for the rest of the story.
"It was during the... uh, the scene with the parents," you explain quietly, your gaze dropping to your hot chocolate. "We were just... both anxious, I guess. The remote fell off the couch, and we both went to pick it up, and, um..." You trail off, the memory of how Hongjoong's eyes darkened making your heart stutter.
Seonghwa stares at you in disbelief, a smirk fighting its way onto his face. "He kissed you? During a sex scene, no less?"
You blush furiously. "Yeah. Maybe. Um. Anyway, he pulled away again almost immediately. He just said my name, then turned his back to me. He was quiet for a long time before he told me it was late and I should go."
Seonghwa nods slowly, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. "And that’s when I saw you leave," he concludes softly.
You nod, feeling the sting of rejection all over again. Seonghwa goes quiet, his gaze drifting toward the darkened window of the café as he processes everything you just said.
"I'm going to tell you something," he begins suddenly, breaking the quiet that settled between you, "that Joong would probably kill me for if he knew I was telling you."
You instantly sit up straight. The half-eaten muffin in your hand is forgotten as you lean forward. At this point, you're desperate for anything, any scrap of information that might help you make sense of the enigma that is your tutor.
Seonghwa exhales softly.
"Well, first of all," he says, "to answer your question... no. He doesn’t have the flu. He’s been locked in his room pretty much since Monday night, but he’s not sick." He lets his words hang in the air, watching you digest them.
The confirmation stings, yet it’s not a surprise. You were right. He's hiding, unwilling to face the consequences of something he started.
Seonghwa studies your expression for a moment before continuing.
"I first met Joong last year," he says, tracing the rim of his cup thoughtfully. "We went to different high schools, but when we found out we'd both been accepted to the same international university, we decided to meet up before the semester started." His mouth curves faintly at the memory. "We became close fast. Over the summer, we talked about everything—school, family, passions… life."
He pauses to take a slow sip of his coffee.
"And, of course," he adds after he swallows, glancing up at you briefly, "girls."
You nod, following along, though you can’t quite suppress the small, irrational pang of jealousy that pricks at your chest at the thought of Hongjoong dating before you met.
"Now, I told him I’d dated a few girls in high school," Seonghwa continues. "Nothing serious enough to stay committed to once I left Korea. But Joong…" He pauses, thinking back. "When I asked him about it, he suddenly went quiet."
Your brow furrows. Suddenly, you're nervous for what he's about to say next.
"I didn't push him at first," he says. "But eventually, I asked if he'd ever had a girlfriend. He hesitated for a long time before he said no."
Your heart gives an unexpected little jump.
"I remember the way he looked when he said it. Like he was embarrassed, or like he thought I'd judge him for it." Another faint smile pulls at his lips. "Which, in hindsight, means I probably did what any terrible friend would do and pushed even more. I asked him why. Why had he never dated anyone? Had he ever even tried? And all he said was that he'd never met anyone compatible." He pauses as he glances at you. "He told me he'd never even had a real crush before."
You blink. Oh.
"For a while," he admits, chuckling, "I thought maybe he wasn’t into girls at all and was too nervous to tell me. But now, seeing him with you..."
He trails off, but he doesn't need to finish the sentence. The implication is loud enough to make your ears ring.
You sit there, stunned, slowly processing what he just told you. Seonghwa isn't saying you're just another girl Hongjoong likes; he's saying you might be the first one he's ever liked at all.
For some reason, a warm, bright, and dangerous spark of happiness flickers in your chest. Because as much as you try to stay irritated with him for running away, for hiding from you, for being too afraid to face his own feelings, you can't stop the satisfaction spreading through you.
You like the idea of being the first. You like the idea that somehow, impossibly, you were the one who finally got to him.
"I think that might be part of what intrigues me about you," Seonghwa continues after a moment, gazing at you curiously. "What is it about you that made Joong finally fall for someone?"
Your fingers tighten slightly around your cup.
"Well... obviously, you’re beautiful," he adds easily, like it's simply an objective fact. "And you’re clearly smart. Independent. Comfortable in your skin, yet still shy. There's this quiet confidence about you. That’s what drew me in, at least." He pauses, his eyes roaming over your features, lingering in a way that feels both analytical and flattering.
"But for Joong," he continues softly, "I know there has to be more."
Suddenly, the warmth is replaced by a nervous pressure curling in your stomach.
Why you? What could possibly be so special about you? You were just a student who needed a language credit. You and Hongjoong were just two people shoved into the same room by a professor and a class schedule. If you hadn't signed up for Korean, he wouldn't even know you existed. What makes you the one he suddenly wants?
After a moment of silence, Seonghwa chuckles. "Maybe he really is into the whole teacher-student thing."
Your head snaps up.
"I teased him about that once. Before I knew you, obviously. I asked him if writing down all those notes and corrections for his students was secretly turning him on. If that's why he spent so much time preparing for those sessions." His grin widens. "He swore at me in so many different dialects that I’m starting to think I wasn’t completely wrong."
He laughs, but you feel a small frown pull at your lips. Is that all you are? A trope? A convenient fantasy born out of proximity and a power dynamic? Something temporary, replaceable by any other semi-attractive student?
Seonghwa quickly catches the change in your expression and shakes his head, his smile softening. "Of course, that’s not the main reason. I was only kidding," he says gently. "Besides, Joong was a tutor back in Korea, too. He taught other students English, ironically. If he was going to fall for someone just because she was his student, it would have happened a long time ago."
The knots in your stomach loosen just a little, because you know that Seonghwa is right. Hongjoong is too disciplined, too structured to be that simple. You've seen him think carefully about every little decision he makes; he's not someone who falls for things easily. Which means that whatever this is... it has to be more than that.
"But, anyway. On a more serious note," Seonghwa says, pausing to lift his cup and take a slow, contemplative sip of his drink. "From what I’ve seen and from what he’s told me, I can tell he’s terrified of admitting his feelings for you. But I don’t exactly know why."
You glance down at your own drink, tracing a line through the condensation with your fingertip. "I always thought he just didn’t want to break the rules," you say. "You know, the whole tutor-dating-a-student thing."
"That’s part of it, I’m sure,” Seonghwa concedes, nodding slowly. “Joong is very careful, and he's somehow even smarter than he seems. He wouldn’t want to get either of you into any real trouble with the university, and it’s definitely a gray area. If you ever actually started dating, you’d have to keep it a secret. And Joong isn't exactly the type who enjoys pushing boundaries."
You let out a humorless laugh. "I think the boundary is pretty much demolished at this point."
"Exactly," he says, huffing out a laugh of agreement while nodding. "And I think that’s why he pulled away harder than before."
You tilt your head. "What do you mean?"
Seonghwa thinks for a moment, deciding on his words carefully. "I think before, it was all theoretical for him. A thought he could entertain, feelings he could indulge a little, but still keep neatly contained in his head. But the moment it became real, the moment it crossed from a 'thought' to an 'action'... he panicked."
You look at him, confusion knitting your eyebrows together. "But why?"
"I think he’s definitely scared to break the rules," he says slowly, "but I don’t think that’s the whole story."
"Because he’s never had a girlfriend?" you venture quietly, thinking back to what he said about Hongjoong's past.
"Yes, I believe so. I think Joong is just fundamentally afraid of being vulnerable. I told you, he’s never even had a crush before. None of this is familiar territory. And, to be completely honest… you being you might make it even harder for him."
You frown, a small pang of insecurity creeping in. "What do you mean by that?"
"It’s not about you, angel. Not in the slightest. Like I said, I wish I’d gotten to you first,” Seonghwa teases with a warm grin. "It’s about the cultural difference. The two of you were raised in very different places. You grew up with different traditions, different norms, even different ways of speaking and carrying yourselves. It's his first time outside of Korea. Every part of you is technically new to him."
He pauses, searching for the right words. “It’s not a problem, of course. It's actually something rather beautiful. But it does make things more complicated. For someone like Joong—so controlled and guarded—being faced with that kind of difference is terrifying. He'd have to let go enough to risk clashing over things he's never even had to question before. That’s a scary level of vulnerability."
"But that's the point, isn't it?" you argue. "Any good relationship will have arguments. Any good relationship uses those differences to get closer. You learn from each other, and you grow together."
Seonghwa's smile returns, but it’s bittersweet, tinged with a sad knowingness. "I know. You and I both know that. But I don't know if Joong does yet."
You sit with that for a moment, looking down at the table. Slowly, the pieces begin to align in your mind, forming a picture that’s at once illuminating and a little disheartening. It was never only about the university's rules or the tutor-student boundary. It was about Hongjoong's fear of letting someone in.
"What would he do if I just told him how I feel?" you ask suddenly, lifting your eyes to meet his.
Seonghwa’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Would you ever actually do that?"
"Well... no," you admit. "But hypothetically."
"God, you really are adorable," he laughs softly at your words. "But in all seriousness... I honestly think he'd pull away even further."
Though you anticipated that response, your stomach still sinks. Across the table, he sighs quietly, like he wishes the answer were different.
"I’m telling you," he continues, "he's terrified of being vulnerable. I don’t know exactly where it comes from. Maybe it's the pressure he puts on himself, maybe it's how he grew up, maybe it's just the way his brain works." He pauses. "But I do know this."
You glance up. Seonghwa leans forward a little, resting his forearms on the table. His gaze on you sharpens.
"Part of the reason you’re such a perfect match for him is that you won’t just do that."
"Because I won't... confess?"
"Exactly."
You frown, confused.
"Think about it," he explains softly. "If you walked up to Joong tomorrow and poured your heart out to him, he'd panic. Not because he doesn’t feel anything back. It's quite the opposite. It would be too much all at once. With Joong, I've noticed that everything has to happen in inches."
Your head tilts as you listen, digesting his words.
"Even without realizing it, you’ve been meeting him just slightly outside of his boundaries this entire time. Not crashing through them, and not forcing him into something he's not ready for. Just softly nudging him in the right direction."
You think back to all the quiet glances, all the accidental touches, and all the conversations that always seemed to hover right on the edge of a confession.
"You push him," Seonghwa continues with a faint smile, "but you don't shove him. I think that's exactly what he needs. Joong needs someone like you."
You lean back in your chair slowly, releasing a long breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. The words swirl around in your head, mixing with the steam curling upward from your drink like fog. He needs you. The phrase sounds absurd, wonderful, and terrifying. Finally, you run an anxious hand through your hair and laugh weakly.
"So... what can I even do? I mean, we kissed, Seonghwa. What could possibly be the next step forward other than just confessing?"
Seonghwa goes silent for a long moment. Without saying anything, he suddenly reaches across the table, his long, careful fingers picking up the small plastic stirrer resting beside your cup. He dips it into your hot chocolate, gently swirling it through the drink. The cocoa began to settle at the bottom while you were talking. He watches the dark ribbons slowly dissolve back into the milk, the motion absent and thoughtful, like he’s giving himself time to think.
"Can I ask you something, angel?"
You nod. "Of course."
He keeps his eyes on the cup for another moment, the stirrer making one last slow circle before he finally lifts his gaze to you.
"Do you really like him?"
The corners of your lips quirk into a small smile. A few weeks ago, you would have hesitated, searching for the right wording, worried about revealing something you weren't ready to face yet. But now, the answer feels so crystal clear that it almost startles you.
"I do," you say, the admission leaving you as a soft, breathy exhale. You look down at the stray crumbs scattered on the table, your heart feeling so dangerously full that it aches. As you think about Hongjoong, the words begin to spill out. "I... I like who he is during our sessions, and I like who he is when he forgets he's my tutor. I like the way he treats me, like I'm worth the effort of every last note he takes. I like how he notices the tiniest mistakes. The things I would never catch on my own. And I like how he doesn't just let them slide—he stops everything until I fix them properly. Until I get it right. I like the way his brain works. The way he explains grammar rules to me like they're puzzles to solve instead of facts to memorize. I like the tone of his voice when he's correcting my pronunciation. And I like how he looks at me when I finally get something right." You pause, your voice softening as you think back to every memory you've ever shared with Hongjoong. "I like how he adjusts his glasses when he gets nervous. And I like how he gets so shy and awkward over the smallest things. When he suddenly forgets how to talk the second something even slightly personal comes up. I like that we have similar interests. The same taste in music. And I like how when we start talking about those things, it just feels easy. Conversations with him start to feel natural once we get past the awkwardness. Like we're not even thinking about what we're saying anymore."
Your eyes flicker up for a moment. Seonghwa is watching you, the look in his eyes telling you that he has absolutely no intent to interrupt. You glance down again, the words coming more easily now, spilling out before you can stop them.
"And I like how I feel around him," you say softly. "Like I'm truly being seen. Like I'm valued for who I am. I like how he doesn't treat me like someone he's trying to impress or someone he expects to change. He treats me like I'm already worth his effort. I'm worth the time he spends helping me understand things. I like how he makes me feel safe to want things. To want to succeed. To want to do my best. And I like that he genuinely cares about helping me get there." You swallow, your voice softening even more. "I... I really do like him, Seonghwa. More than I've ever liked anyone before. So much that it scared me to admit it for a very long time."
Across from you, Seonghwa hasn’t interrupted once. He's been listening intently the entire time, completely still, his expression unreadable. When you finally fall silent, he gently sets the stirrer down beside your cup and leans forward, his gaze piercingly serious.
"I believe you."
Seonghwa says it quietly. The words leave him with such a calm certainty that you feel all the walls you've built up around your feelings for Hongjoong finally crumble for good.
He holds your gaze for a moment, studying your face, measuring the sincerity behind everything you just confessed. Then he leans back slightly in his chair, one hand still resting loosely beside your cup.
"I've known Joong for a while now," he says, "and I can tell you for a fact—no one has ever spoken about him like that. Not once." For a second, the shadow of something almost fond passes across his features. "He’s spent twenty years unknowingly waiting for someone to notice those little things about him. To see the parts of him that he's usually too scared to show anyone. I'd be a terrible friend to let him stay locked in his room and miss out on a girl who thinks of him the way you do."
But as his fingers lace together on the table as he leans forward again, the warmth in his voice fades slightly.
"There's just one thing you need to understand first," he says quietly, holding your eyes. "Joong is my best friend. He's never done this before, and if he lets you in, he's giving you something no one else has ever had. He's handing you the only map to a place no one else has ever explored." He pauses, his voice completely honest. "I don't want to see him get hurt. If you want him, you need to be fully committed."
Your breath catches in your chest as you realize what Seonghwa is implying.
"I saw what happened at the bar, ____."
All of a sudden, your heart drops. Your entire body freezes.
Seonghwa saw you rush outside. He saw through your lie about work. He saw Wooyoung chasing after you.
He knows you weren't outside that bar all alone. And now, he knows you're involved with a man who definitely isn't Hongjoong.
"If you want him," Seonghwa continues, his voice lowering until it's almost a whisper, "you have to be sure. Because if you break him... he might not know how to put himself back together."
"I am sure," you say, your voice finding a sudden solid ground. You look him right in the eye, your expression clearing until there’s nothing left but the plain, open truth. "What you saw... that was me finally ending something that someone else didn't want to finish. I walked away from that because I finally know how I feel. I know who I really want."
Seonghwa studies your face for a long moment. His gaze moves slowly over your features, like he’s searching for any trace of hesitation you might have missed yourself, any flicker of doubt that would give him a reason to stop this before it begins.
Apparently, he doesn’t find one. The tension in his shoulders finally bleeds away, and he gives a small, thoughtful nod.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts. At first, it's subtle, barely there. But it grows quickly, spreading across his features until it becomes unmistakably mischievous, like he knows exactly what to do next.
"Then let me help you."
You blink, caught so off guard that the words barely register. "What do you mean?"
This time, the smile sharpens into a full-blown smirk. "I know Joong. Better than he knows himself most days, actually. And I know exactly how much he likes you. But," he continues, lifting one finger, "I also know that he's catastrophically bad at actually doing anything about those feelings."
A quiet laugh escapes you. "That, I've noticed."
His smirk deepens. "Which is exactly why he might need a little... encouragement."
You stare at him. "Encouragement?"
"I can help you push him over the edge," he promises. "Get him to finally act on those feelings for good. No more half-measures, no more kisses followed by him immediately running away from you."
Your eyes narrow. Your fingers tighten around your warm cup as you study him across the table, considering what he's saying. You turn his offer over in your mind. It sounds perfect—a little too perfect.
"Why do you want to help me?" you ask slowly, suspicion coloring your tone. "What’s in it for you, Seonghwa?"
He doesn't look offended in the slightest. If anything, your skepticism seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth lifts like he wanted you to ask exactly that. He leans back, the fabric of his polo straining against his shoulders as he crosses his arms over his chest.
"You don't trust me," he sighs, shaking his head faintly. "I'm wounded, angel."
"That's not an answer to my question."
His eyes crinkle, glinting with humor.
"Like I said," he says, his voice smooth and charming. "I really do wish I'd gotten to you first. But since I'm a loyal friend, I'll settle for playing matchmaker." He pauses, his voice dropping to a velvety whisper as he leans in closer. "Just let me have that dance you owe me before I officially surrender you to my best friend."
You stare at him for a long beat, silence overcoming you as you try to read his expression to figure out how much of that was teasing, how much was genuine, and how much of this entire situation is a trap you’re willingly stepping into. Because the offer is tempting. But can you truly trust a man who just admitted he’s doing this, at least in part, for himself? Is he really helping you finally win Hongjoong, or is he just playing a game of his own?
But as you think of Hongjoong’s back turned to you in the silence of his bedroom, you realize this might be your last resort. This might be the final chance you have to force Hongjoong to stop running and admit what he feels—to you, and to himself.
You turn back to Seonghwa. He's watching you patiently, like he already knows exactly what decision you’re about to make. A small, slow smile begins to tug at the corners of your lips.
"Okay," you say, locking your gaze with his. "What's your plan?"
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 8.0k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. please do not be mad at me :)))))))))))))))
Hongjoong's room is smaller than it looks on Instagram—or perhaps it only feels that way because the dimensions began shrinking the moment he clicked the door shut behind you.
Quite honestly, his bedroom is exactly what you've seen in the background of his song covers, yet now that you're standing inside it, it feels like stepping into the cluttered architecture of his mind. The walls are covered in his artistic inspiration—posters of David Bowie, Michael Jackson, and Prince watch over the room. His shelves groan under the weight of yet another vinyl collection that rivals the one in the living room. Meticulously placed plants trail green vines over the edges of dark wood, softening the harsh colors of the album covers.
Much like in the main area, the overhead light seems completely unused. The heavy lifting is once again left to scattered lamps casting long shadows against the exposed brick wall behind his bed. Deep red curtains shield the room from the intrusive glimmers of the streetlamps outside, leaving only fractured shards of moonlight across his taupe bedspread and the matching couch facing his TV.
It's undeniably a room for creation. From your spot atop the patterned rug, your eyes wander over the debris of Hongjoong's process: three different guitars lean against the furniture, recording microphones lie scattered across his desk, a headless mannequin dressed in a half-finished suit jacket stands in the corner, and what seems to be around twenty messy, scribbled pages, covered in what you think are song lyrics—
Hongjoong suddenly rushes toward the couch, swiping the crinkled and balled-up papers once he notices where your gaze has landed. You watch him frantically shove everything into a desk drawer, slamming it shut before you get the chance to read a single word.
He watches you out of the corner of his eye, his jaw tight and his expression suddenly defensive. You stand perfectly still, your feet still stuck to the same rug, feeling guilty of a crime you didn't mean to commit.
Hongjoong is quiet until he finally turns fully toward you, his hand still lingering on the handle of the drawer.
"Sorry for the mess," he says, looking a little embarrassed. "I didn't... I wasn't expecting anyone to be in here."
"That's okay," you quickly reassure him. "It's not... It's not that messy." You're lying through your teeth, but the clutter is honestly endearing: it's so him. But of course, you would never even think about saying that out loud.
He offers a sheepish, lopsided smile that proves he doesn't believe a word of it. "Uh... you can sit here," he says, nodding toward the small, two-seater couch.
You finally peel your feet from your designated spot on the rug, your steps cushioned by it as you sink onto the cushions. In your nerves, you don't take the extra second to calculate your spot; you simply sit, landing on the left cushion but dangerously close to the middle of the couch.
Hongjoong lingers, his shadow stretching against the brick wall. He takes a step toward you, then falters. His foot quite literally hovers mid-air like he's afraid of getting too close. He looks at the space right next to you—the only space left—and then his eyes drop.
The remote is sitting there, nestled against the curve of your hip, practically brushing the hem of your skirt.
You bite your lip, cursing your own lack of spatial awareness. You didn't mean to sit in the very spot he needs to reach, but moving now or picking it up yourself would be too humiliating—it would look like you're admitting to the fact that you wanted him close, even if it was unintentional.
Hongjoong doesn't ask you to move. Instead, he braces himself and lowers onto the cushion right beside you, for some reason, just as close to the middle as you are.
The shift in the couch pulls you toward him, and your shoulders brush. He reaches out, his fingers grazing the fabric of your skirt as he picks up the remote, and for a second, his touch makes you dizzy.
The tension pulses in the narrow gap between your bodies. Every other time you’ve been this close, you at least had the safety of a textbook. You could lie to yourselves then—the closeness was just for the sake of the lesson. Your accidental touches were just byproducts of sharing notes.
But you left all the excuses in the kitchen.
Here, you're sitting in the very room where he sleeps, surrounded by posters he chose and lyrics he wrote. You feel small, exposed, and terrified; yet, there's a thrill humming under your skin. And with it comes a question you shouldn't be thinking at all:
Were the tutoring sessions only ever an excuse for what we both secretly wanted?
Hongjoong clears his throat and aims the remote at the TV. The screen flickers, the bright Netflix logo turning the entire room red. His thumb moves over the pad, scrolling quickly through different thumbnails.
"Should we... should we watch this?" he asks, suddenly clicking. He doesn’t even wait for the trailer to load before the title card for Stranger Things appears—the first thing on the 'Trending' list.
You blink at the screen, then shift your gaze slightly to the side, looking at him quizzingly. "Um... I thought you wanted to teach me about grammar...?"
The silence that follows is borderline comedic. Hongjoong freezes. He lets out a flustered breath, his posture snapping upright, looking like he’s trying to pull his professional dignity back around his shoulders.
"Right. Of course," he explains, immediately clicking back to the home page. "I—well, I only suggested that one because I know it has really good Korean subtitles. Since it's so popular, it uses the best translators. Very... accurate. But, uh, we can watch a K-Drama if that's what you'd prefer."
You stare at him, nodding very slowly. When you don't verbally respond, he clears his throat, avoiding your eye, and begins scrolling through the 'K-Drama and Film' section with a speed that borders on desperate. He flies past colorful rom-coms and historical dramas until he abruptly stops. The screen settles on a poster with a familiar title.
"This won a lot of awards," he says, his voice leveling out into something softer. He finally turns his head, gauging your opinion. "But I’ve never actually gotten around to watching it. Have you?"
You tear your eyes away from the way his glasses catch the reflection of the TV and force your attention back to the screen. Parasite. You’ve seen clips here and there, heard all the praise it earned when it came out, but you’ve never actually sat down to watch it from beginning to end.
"I've never seen it either," you say.
"Okay," he says, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Perfect."
He clicks play and tosses the remote to the side, awkwardly settling into the cushion beside you as the room plunges into the shadows of the opening credits.
The cinematic silence of the room is obliterated the second he hits play. The Netflix tudum thunders through the speakers with such floor-shaking force that both of you jump.
"씨발—" Hongjoong hisses, his previously regained composure cracking again as he scrambles blindly for the remote he’d just so confidently tossed aside. His fingers fumble against the cushion, brushing against your thigh in his desperation to find it, sending chills through your body. He finally snatches it up, frantically mashing the volume button.
The room quiets, but the adrenaline remains, leaving a buzz in your fingertips. Hongjoong slowly slumps back against the couch.
"Sorry," he mutters, tossing the remote again. "...Sorry."
You let out a startled, breathless laugh. "...What were you watching that loud?"
He looks at you sheepishly. "I, uh... I use the TV for music sometimes," he admits as the screen now rolls the opening credits of Parasite, "when I’m working and don’t feel like listening to a full record. I have a bunch of playlists posted on YouTube."
"I think you're going to go deaf," you joke, the tension beginning to lift. "How are you supposed to help me with my Korean if you can't even hear me talk?"
Hongjoong leans back further, a smile breaking on his face as his eyes crinkle behind his glasses. "You're right," he says. "I'll dial it back. Your... education is more important."
You match his smile even as your heartbeat refuses to slow down.
You both focus on the screen as the room settles into a dim light, the dark colors of the film outshining his scattered lamps. For the first few minutes, as the opening scene begins, you watch in silence.
The volume is much quieter now. You actually wish he hadn't turned it down; it makes you self-conscious of your uneven breathing and the way your chest rises and falls just a little too fast from the nerves. You try to hold your breath, worried that Hongjoong might hear—but he's so close that it feels pointless. After a few seconds, you give up.
He's sitting beside you with his legs spread slightly and his hands resting in his lap, like he's trying his best to give the illusion of relaxation even if he doesn't feel that way. You, meanwhile, sit with one leg crossed over the other, your hands clasped around your knee, and your body drawn inward like you're trying to take up as little of his personal space as possible.
You try to relax. You focus on the screen, on the dialogue, on the characters. But your heart won't slow.
"Are you catching the grammar patterns?" he whispers, pointing a finger toward the screen where the Kim family scours their semi-basement, phones held high in search of a Wi-Fi signal. "When Kiwoo says, 'Upstairs neighbor finally locked up his Wi-Fi,' he uses the past tense suffix. It’s the same one from Lesson 3, remember?"
You blink, a little surprised he's actually teaching you about grammar, but you quickly nod. "I remember," you murmur, squinting at the screen to match the sounds to the subtitles.
"Good. Don't let the speed throw you off. It's still the same words you hear from me."
You nod again, but your attention is quickly pulled away by a fumigation truck rolling past the family's window. Thick chemical fog billows into the basement, and you notice that the dialogue becomes vulgar. They begin to cough, their faces contorting as the fumes envelop them. The subtitles flash words and phrases like "Shit!" and "Fuck me!" as they wheeze through the gas.
You tilt your head, watching the subtitles with a sudden thought. "I have a question," you say, leaning a little closer to him to be heard over the coughing.
He immediately pulls his gaze from the screen to focus on you. "Go ahead."
"Can you teach me how to swear in Korean?"
Hongjoong freezes. His eyes narrow a bit behind his glasses, a flicker of something you can't read crossing his face. "I... can't teach you that," he says firmly. "It's not in the curriculum."
"But it's in almost every sentence," you counter, pointing at the current subtitle: 'That son of a bitch.' "If I want to be fluent someday, shouldn't I know how to express... frustration?"
Hongjoong frowns as he reads the words on the screen, shaking his head. "No. There are perfectly polite ways to express your emotions without resorting to that."
"But what if I want to resort to that? I know a few phrases, but not many," you press, suppressing a smile. You find his sudden moral high ground a little funny, all things considered. "You've said 씨발 twice since I got here. Once when the record scratched, and again with the Netflix intro."
Hongjoong’s mouth falls open slightly as he looks at you. "Don't—that... uh—" he stammers, his hand flying to his glasses to push them up the bridge of his nose. "That's different. That doesn't mean you should be picking it up."
"So you can say it, but I can't?" You arch an eyebrow. "That doesn't seem very fair."
His jaw tightens. "I don't want you saying it because it doesn't..." He trails off, looking back at the screen. "It doesn't fit you. The polite endings I teach you... they suit you better."
You swallow hard, the shift in his tone catching you off guard. You don't know where to look—at him? At the screen? Your gaze flickers back and forth before you force it to settle on the TV.
"Okay," you say finally, quietly. Your heart picks up again.
You risk another glance at him briefly, trying to make sense of what he meant. Your fingers tighten slightly around your knee as you think: Why is he suddenly so strict about this?
You turn back to the screen again, this time making yourself stay there, even as the question lingers.
Silence reclaims the room as the movie transitions. Two young men sit at a plastic table outside a convenience store, green bottles of soju lined up between them in the moonlight. They talk easily, names passing back and forth—but they slip through your mind almost instantly.
"Okay, look at this line," Hongjoong says, suddenly slipping back into his usual 'tutor' cadence as one man leans across the table, gesturing with his bottle. "Note the way he's talking about his grandfather here. In Korean, he’s using a very specific level of formality. The men are the same age, so they're casual with each other, but the second he mentions someone older, the entire structure of the sentence shifts."
He begins to deconstruct the nuances, explaining how the grammar doesn't just change based on who you're talking to, but who you're talking about.
You find yourself nodding along, mesmerized not by the mechanics of the honorfics but by the way Hongjoong's hands move as he teaches you. When he's focused like this, explaining the rules of his native language, you can't help but be attracted to the way he talks. He has such a rare ability to guide you through the logic without ever making you feel small. You've always appreciated how he doesn't dumb things down; he invites you up to his level, treating your intellect with respect.
"It's like if we were to start talking about Professor Choi right now," he says, turning his head slightly. "We’re about the same age—or close enough—so you don't use formal honorifics with me. But if you were telling me about an assignment he gave you, or something he said in a lecture, you would use the same forms they're using here."
"When's your birthday?" The question slips out. You wince, realizing it sounds like you hadn’t absorbed a single word of what he explained, even though his comment about your ages is what prompted your curiosity.
But he doesn't call you out; in fact, the corner of his lip quirks. "November 7th."
"You're not that much older than me, then," you say. "Mine is in March."
"Actually, I am." He turns his head to face you fully as he pauses. "Have we ever talked about the school system in Korea? The academic year starts in March, not August. By the time we apply for university, we’re technically a year ahead of where you'd be here."
You listen carefully, nodding as the mental math clicks into place. "So... you're over a year older than me?"
"I am," he confirms. "Which means—uh, linguistically speaking... you still have to use the polite form with me."
"Still?" you challenge, trying to recall what the textbook stated about this. "Even if we're..."
The sentence dies. You trail off, not knowing how to label the relationship—or the lack thereof—between the two of you. What are you? Friends? Are you simply his "favorite" student, the only one allowed to get private lessons in his bedroom, where the relationship isn't casual enough for him to call you a friend? You know that 'friends' isn't the right word for what you are, anyway. It's more than that, yet still frustratingly less.
"I am your tutor, too," Hongjoong says after a long minute. His voice has gone quiet, and yet, he doesn't make any move to lean away from you. "Even if I'd been born a year later, because of our roles... you'd still have to address me politely."
He says it as if you could ever forget. You almost laugh at the thought.
How could you? Your 'roles' are stitched into everything. You could never possibly forget when every meeting between you has a purpose, every conversation loops back to language, and every moment—no matter how close—gets pulled back under the label of tutoring. Even this. Even being here, in his apartment, is technically an extra session.
And yet, your gaze drifts, taking in his room again. The dim lighting. The hum of the movie. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on his couch, right next to where he sleeps.
A tutor and his student.
...Right.
Is this something typical tutors do with their students? You know it isn't. Hongjoong can justify it with mini-lessons on dialogue, calling it listening practice and saying it's just part of language learning, but you know that beneath all of that, he knows it's more than that, too.
You don't respond. Instead, you turn your attention back to the screen. If you open your mouth now, you’re not sure you could stop yourself from asking him every last question circling your mind.
It takes you a moment to realize the scene has already changed. The man from the convenience store is now making his way up a hill in a quiet, affluent neighborhood, the earlier conversation long gone. You and Hongjoong didn't catch a single line of it.
"Um..." You blink, the on-screen sun making you squint. "Did we miss the entire scene?"
Hongjoong shifts beside you. The sound he makes isn't quite a laugh, but more of a tethered, breathless exhale. "I think we did."
You look at him, then back at the brightness of the TV. "Should we go back?"
He considers it for a moment before shaking his head slowly. "It's okay," he says. "I'm sure I can figure out if we missed anything important. The context clues should be enough."
You nod without a word and settle back into the cushions, but "settling" is a generous term. You're excruciatingly aware of the mere inches of air separating your bodies. You can quite literally feel the steady rise and fall of Hongjoong's chest, the way his shoulder hitches slightly when he shifts his weight. Every time he breathes out, you swear you can feel the faint warmth of it against your neck.
Your eyes stay on the screen, but your attention doesn’t. The images move, the dialogue continues, yet none of it lands. Your mind is too scattered to follow what's happening anymore.
Suddenly, the scene changes again.
The man is now sitting in a sunlit room, hunched over a desk beside a young girl. He’s pointing at a workbook, his tone firm yet patient, using the exact cadence Hongjoong uses with you when you struggle with a particular lesson.
The man is her tutor.
A startled, involuntary laugh escapes you. You nearly clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle it, but it's too late.
Hongjoong turns to you, a question forming in his eyes, but then he looks back at the screen. The irony hits him a second later.
You can’t help it—it’s too funny.
Another quiet laugh slips out before you can stop it. Of course. Even here, in his room, where the tutoring should've been left behind in the kitchen, it's somehow followed you anyway.
Maybe this is just our destiny, you think to yourself. Maybe every moment, no matter where we are, will always find its way back to this. Tutor and student, question and answer, right and wrong.
"It’s like us," you say lightly, nodding toward the girl just as she frowns after getting another question wrong.
Hongjoong lets out a soft chuckle, his shoulders finally losing most of their tension. "It is. Guess I picked a better movie than I realized," he jokes, his eyes bright.
It releases just enough pressure to make the room feel breathable again. Things settle. The air loosens, the quiet no longer quite as heavy.
But as the scene continues, the humor slowly drains away.
The girl on the screen isn’t working anymore. Her pencil has stopped moving entirely, forgotten between her fingers as she turns toward her tutor instead of the workbook in front of her. She's pouting, her body angled his direction as she begins to pepper him with questions—not about her work, but about his life. About the female teacher in the house. About how pretty he thinks she is.
Her jealousy is written plainly in every line of her face.
You go still, the realization creeping in too late as the scene unfolds. Beside you, Hongjoong’s attention has gone stiff, his posture tightening as he watches the same thing you are.
The joke you made, the parallel... it isn't funny anymore.
Your eyes lock onto the subtitles the instant they flash across the screen. "She is pretty. A beauty even," the tutor's voice drifts from the TV's speakers.
"I knew it. You are interested," the girl replies.
"If you were a perfect ten, maybe she would be a six? Six-point-five?"
You shift in place, your heart beginning to pick up an uneven tempo. Just a minute ago, they were discussing her workbook. How has the atmosphere pivoted so quickly? Where is this leading to?
You risk a side-eye at Hongjoong. His jaw is set so tight you can see the muscle leap in his cheek. One eyebrow is quirked, his gaze narrowed behind his glasses like he's trying to dissect the dialogue for a flaw, but his hands—folded in his lap—are gripped so hard his knuckles are turning white.
Suddenly, the girl reaches out. Beneath the wooden desk, she grabs her tutor's wrist, her fingers pressing gently against his pulse.
Your heart drops into your stomach. You freeze. No... are they about to...? you think, the thought racing through your mind. No. They can't... This can't be happening.
But you're paralyzed, unable to look away as the man doesn't pull back. Losing every ounce of professionalism, he leans in, his gaze dropping to her lips with such hunger that it makes your own skin flush. The distance between them vanishes.
He kisses her.
You freeze, a scorching blush flooding your cheeks and spilling down your neck, hot enough to make the skin across your entire body burn. Your heart crashes wildly against your ribs, a frantic, irregular symphony you're certain he must be able to hear.
Oh—oh my god.
Did that really just happen?
Did you really just watch a tutor kiss his student while sitting inches away from your own?
On the screen, the couple pulls apart, the man murmuring that they should get back to studying as if nothing had happened. But the silence in Hongjoong's bedroom is deafening.
You try to keep your gaze fixed on the TV, but the magnetic pull of the man beside you is impossibly strong. Slowly, you let your gaze drift to the side.
Hongjoong’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, his face stained a deep pink that rivals the heat in your own cheeks. He’s staring straight ahead at the flickering screen, but as he feels the weight of your stare, he hesitates before tentatively turning his head.
When your eyes meet, the movie disappears.
The dialogue fades into nothing, swallowed by the pounding rush of blood in your ears. All that remains is Hongjoong—the shifting light of the TV dancing in his dark pupils, the way every trace of his usual composure has completely disintegrated.
His gaze falters. It falls, slowly, deliberately, dropping from your eyes to your lips. His mouth parts slightly, a shaky breath slipping free.
He leans in.
The space between you shrinks, consumed by the heat radiating from his skin. The gravity of the room shifts, tilting the world until there is nowhere to go but toward him, and your body moves without thinking, your lips reaching for his own, beginning to close the distance—
And then he snaps.
Like a wire suddenly pulled tight and cut, Hongjoong jerks back. He recoils so fast he nearly loses his balance, his shoulder hitting the back of the couch with a dull thud. A fit of dry, panicked coughing breaks from him, his hand flying to his mouth as he sharply turns his entire body away from you.
You snap your spine straight, staring at the TV with wide, unseeing eyes as you breathe in and out quickly and shallowly. The movie is a blur of colors and sounds that mean nothing; your brain is a loop of white noise. What just happened? Was Hongjoong... was he really about to—?
"So," Hongjoong blurts out. He finally chokes back his cough, though he refuses to turn his head. His voice is an octave higher, strained and tight. "That... that was a really interesting grammar pattern they used there. Very specific."
He doesn't look at you. Instead, he launches into a rambling, nonsensical explanation of a grammar point you’re pretty sure doesn't exist in any textbook.
"The way the particles were placed... it implies a level of, uh, linguistic intimacy that changes the entire sentence structure," he stammers. "It's about the, uh, intentionality of the verb ending. Let me... let me explain the nuance to you."
You aren't listening to him. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he adjusts his glasses three times in a row. He snatches up the remote, fumbles with the volume until the movie goes silent, then accidentally cranks it until you wince from the noise, before finally slamming it back onto the cushion.
He almost kissed me. He almost kissed me. He almost kissed me. The thought repeats like a broken record, drowning out his voice. You take a shaky breath as you realize you can still feel the heat from his skin over yours.
"—so, yeah. Does that... does that make sense?" he finally finishes, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. He’s staring fixedly at a lamp in the corner, refusing to let his eyes stray anywhere near your face.
You don't look at him either. You can't. "Y-yeah. Got it... thank you," you manage, your voice sounding like it belongs to a stranger.
Neither of you moves. You both stare at the screen, but you're no longer watching the movie, your minds nothing but racing hurricanes of what-ifsand did-I-imagine-thats.
As the film rolls on for the next thirty minutes, the tutor role eventually dies. Hongjoong doesn't mention another grammar pattern again. He doesn't point out a single vocabulary word. He sits in a rigid, stony silence, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
A cold chill of panic begins to prick at your earlier excitement. Was that it? Was that an irreversible mistake? Has the professional boundary slipped so far that he's already mentally retreating for good? You brace yourself for him to stand up, to at least slide to the far end of the sectional to put a safer distance between you.
But Hongjoong doesn't move.
He remains exactly where he was, his shoulder still occasionally brushing yours. Despite the crushing awkwardness, he stays as close to you as humanly possible. Like moving away is the one thing he fears more than staying.
The screen later dims as a new scene begins, the vibrant colors of the wealthy household fading into the low purples of a dark midnight living room. As the parents settle onto their sofa, the light in Hongjoong’s bedroom dies along with it, plunging the two of you into darkness.
Then, the husband’s hand slides upward.
You feel Hongjoong’s entire body go rigid again. His arm, which had been softly resting near yours, turns to stone. You mirror him instantly, your own lungs seizing as the husband on screen begins to caress his wife's breast. You stare, unable to look away yet wishing with every ounce of your being that the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole.
The dialogue turns explicit. "Clockwise," the woman moans. The sound of their labored breathing begins to fill Hongjoong's bedroom, amplified by the speakers. The husband slips his hand beneath the blanket, and the wife's lips part in a gasp of pleasure.
Hongjoong shifts violently at the implication, his knee bumping yours as you notice his face is bright red. "Do you..." his voice cracks. He clears his throat, struggling. "Do you want me to skip this? I can... I can fast-forward..."
"Um—" you stammer, the word coming out breathless. Wouldn't acknowledging that this is an awkward thing to watch with your tutor only make it worse? You force a small smile. "It's... fine. Um. It's not a problem."
"Right. Yes. Not a problem," he whispers tightly. He doesn't move to find the remote. He sits with his lips pressed into a thin line, his hands now gripping his knees.
So, you sit there. Two people who spend their time together politely discussing sentence structures are now trapped in the dark, listening to the wet, desperate sounds of a climax.
You can't stop the image of him almost kissing you from overlapping with the bodies on the screen—the way his eyes had dropped to your lips with that same dark, focused intent you're currently seeing on the husband's face. If he was that close to kissing you, how close was he to doing... other things?
It's not as if you haven't played the scenario out before. Hell, you've speculated what Hongjoong would be like in bed thousands of times by now. You've imagined what it’d be like to be under him, to have his lips on yours, and now—watching the scene take place in front of you—what his ringed fingers would feel like slipping inside you.
And then his own lyric resurfaces in your mind: Somewhere in my head, I take off your dress. The memory causes you to blush. Hongjoong wouldn't write something that suggestive for nothing, right? So, what if, right now, he's thinking the exact same things you are?
You steal a glance at him. He's sitting with agonizingly perfect posture, his hands still clasped around his knees, his eyes locked on the screen. But his eyes are unfocused, glazed with a mixture of mortification and something much, much darker. His lips are still pressed into that bloodless line, and his right foot is tapping a manic, silent tempo against the rug.
You're in a similar predicament. Your own leg is bouncing with a nervous energy you can't contain. You’re so fixated on holding yourself together, on not letting out a single sound, that you don't realize how aggressive the movement has become.
Your bouncing leg suddenly gives a sharp, involuntary twitch, and your knee slams into his.
Both of you jump as if you’ve been electrocuted. The sudden movement sends the remote—which had been precariously balanced on the cushion between you—tumbling off the edge of the couch and onto the floor.
"Sorry!" you blurt out, jerking your leg back immediately.
"It's—it’s fine," Hongjoong says quickly, his voice cracking mid-sentence. He leans forward, reaching for the remote on the floor.
But you've already reached for it at the same time.
Your hands collide on top of the plastic casing. At first, neither of you moves. His skin is searing against yours, the silver of his rings pressing into your knuckles. You both freeze, eyes glued to your tangled fingers, the electricity of the touch making your vision blur. Slowly, as if moving through deep water, you both sit back up, leaving the remote abandoned on the rug. Forgotten.
Your eyes drift to his, and the breath is instantly punched out of your lungs.
The look in his eyes—it's an intensity you've never seen before. Gone is the polite, practiced mask of your tutor. Gone is the flustered man you've faced all night. In his place is something dark, focused, and utterly dangerous. As you lock eyes, you find yourself unable to look away. The blue and grey glow from the TV flickers across the sharp line of his jaw and the reflective lenses of his glasses, but his gaze remains fixed on yours.
Then his eyes drop to your lips again.
You don’t move. You don’t flinch. You don’t even think you’re still breathing. His gaze lingers there much longer this time, tracing the shape of your mouth with a hunger that makes your mind go blank.
He finally looks back up at you, searching your face. He hesitates, his chest rising and falling in jagged hitches.
But you don't move an inch. You give Hongjoong everything he needs to see.
His hand lifts off his knee, hovering in the air between you, trembling with uncertainty. Slowly, carefully, he leans in, as if he's testing the reality of the moment, terrified that if he moves too fast, the sudden movement would shatter the dream and leave him alone in the dark.
As his face gets closer, you see the slight crease between his brows—that look of a man at war with himself. Deep, pained concentration. He’s still debating, still struggling with the consequences, even as his lashes lower and his eyes flicker to your lips one last time.
He’s so close now that his shaky, warm breath is the only thing you can feel against your skin. Your noses faintly brush, the scent of him enveloping you completely.
Then, finally, Hongjoong closes the distance.
His lips brush against yours, soft, hesitant, tasting of every forbidden thing you've been afraid to want for so long.
Your brain melts in a blinding flash of shock before the warmth crashes through you. It tingles down to your fingertips, heavy and sweet, as the reality sinks in: Hongjoong is kissing you. The man you’ve spent months memorizing across the table in the Language Center, the man whose every "professional" gesture you'd overanalyzed until you'd driven yourself half-insane, is finally, actually pressing his lips against yours.
Finding your resolve, you lean into him, your lips moving against his in a soft, trembling response.
He pulls back just an inch, his face still so close that your breaths mingle. His eyes are wide, dark, and dilated as they frantically scan your stunned expression. He looks staggered by his own audacity, his features tight with worry.
Your heart is a riot in your chest, and you’re already breathless, your mind spinning in a dizzying loop. Did he really...? Did Hongjoong just...? The intensity in his eyes erodes every conscious thought as he searches for any flicker of regret or discomfort on your face. But all you can see is the man who just threw your entire world for a loop, and you're still too far gone to process if this is even real.
"Hongjoong...?" you whisper, your voice completely breathless, your wide eyes gazing up at your tutor.
At the sound of his name, something in him finally breaks.
The last of his restraint shatters. His gaze darkens, a mix of pure desire and the agony of a lost battle flashing in his eyes. He remains silent for a harrowing second—a heartbeat where the entirety of the world seems to hold its breath. Then, slowly, he reaches up and slides his glasses off his face. He sets them carefully, neatly on the taupe cushion beside him, never breaking eye contact for a moment.
He doesn't hesitate again.
One of his hands slides firmly around your waist, his palm hot even through your clothes, pulling you flush against him. His other hand reaches to the back of your neck, his fingers firm and unapologetic as he grasps your hair. He leans in and crashes his lips against yours again, but this time, the hesitation is gone, replaced by a desperate hunger.
The kiss deepens, losing all its tentative edge as Hongjoong's restraint finally snaps. He kisses you harder now, more insistent, his lips and tongue exploring yours with a desperate, uncoordinated fervor, and you feel the months of unspoken tension finally breaking. Your body ignites. Every nerve screams as your brain goes blissfully silent, responding instinctively by tangling your fingers into his soft hair and pulling him closer, desperate to match his sudden pace.
As his tongue tangles with yours, his hands begin a slow, searing trek along your side, his grip tightening as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His fingertips graze the hem of your knit top before sliding under the fabric, the touch of his skin against your bare waist lighting your entire body on fire. As his hand glides higher, his thumb tracing the delicate edge of the lace of your bra, a broken, needy, breathless moan escapes you.
"Hongjoong..."
At the sound of your voice breaking, his kiss falters. Slowly, it bleeds out into an uneven breath that fans across your damp lips. Hongjoong doesn't pull away. He stays there, his forehead dropped against yours, his chest heaving near your own. His hand at your waist flexes, his fingers digging into the curve of your hip rather than retreating. You think he's about to lean back in. To intensify the touch until every boundary was left forgotten. His gaze drops, flicking back to your lips with a look of pure, tormented conflict, his pupils so blown they’ve swallowed the iris.
"____," he whispers, his voice sounding so wrecked, so stripped of its usual tonality, that it's unrecognizable.
The hand that had been cradling your neck moves forward, his thumb racing out as if to trace the flush on your cheek, but then it stops. His hand hovers in the air, visibly shaking, like he's suddenly afraid that touching you again will make it impossible to stop.
"I— we—"
He cuts himself off, the words dying in a pained and hollow exhale. Slowly—so slowly it looks like it’s costing him every ounce of his strength—he lets go of you.
The loss of his warmth is immediate and chilling in the small, dark room. You watch in a daze, your skin still humming from his touch, as he runs a frantic hand through his hair, his breathing coming in shallow. He reaches for his glasses on the cushion, his fingers shaking so badly he fumbles with them twice.
Trembling, he slides them back on and fully turns his body away from you. He stares at the closed bedroom door, his jaw working as his expression smooths out into blankness. He goes completely silent.
You stay like that for a long time. The seconds of silence stretch into what feels like hours. Hongjoong remains turned away, like he's a statue. You, meanwhile, can’t take your eyes off him. You’re staring at the back of his head, fixed on the messy, dark strands of hair where your fingers were tangled only seconds ago, wondering what the hell just happened. Your lips still feel swollen, buzzing with a phantom heat that refuses to fade. Your skin still hums at the exact points where his hand gripped your waist.
Why did he stop?
Did I do something wrong?
Your mind flashes back to every polite smile, every conversation, every professional boundary he’s meticulously maintained over the past few months. Every single line that the two of you have drawn to keep each other at arm's length has just been completely violated. You felt it in his touch. Hongjoong wanted you. He's wanted you for a very, very long time.
So why stop now, when you've finally broken past the boundary?
Is he back to that impossible timeline, where your "fluency" is what's stopping him? Is he so tethered to his sense of professionalism that he refuses to let this exist as long as the "tutor" label remains? It feels cruel. To let you taste him for a moment, only to snatch it all away as soon as you give something back.
You open your mouth, a thousand demands for clarity resting on the tip of your tongue. You want to grab his shoulder, to force him to look at you, to make him admit that all his professionalism has already been thrown to the floor along with the remote.
But you snap your jaw shut before a single sound escapes.
No question feels big enough. No sentence structure in any language can properly translate the look of tortured longing he'd had in his eyes right before he pulled away. No vocabulary can do justice to the aching insecurity in your chest as you stare longingly at the back of his head.
Finally, the silence breaks, but not with the explanation you’re craving.
"It's already ten," Hongjoong says. His voice is completely flat. Emotionless. The rasping heat from moments ago is gone. He still hasn't looked at you; he's staring down at his own hands. "I, uh... don't want to keep you. You should get some rest before class tomorrow."
Your heart sinks.
Oh. He isn't just pausing the movie or stopping the kiss. He's ending the entire night, slamming the door on whatever just happened between you.
"Yeah," you murmur, hating how fragile you sound. You nod, even though his back is to you and he can't possibly see the way your bottom lip is trembling. "I... I should go."
A wave of mortification washes over you, hot and stinging. You feel exposed—humiliated by what happened and by the audacity of thinking, even for a second, that tonight would be the night where the rules finally changed. You’re confused, disappointed, but above all else, terrified. Terrified that this isn't just the end of the night, but the end of everything you and Hongjoong have been building for months.
As you move to stand up, your legs feel weak, barely able to support the weight of your own humiliation.
Hongjoong stands abruptly, awkwardly clearing his throat. Without a single word, without so much as a glance in your direction, he leads the way out of his bedroom. His body is stiff, his shoulders pulled high as he guides you down the hallway. You follow silently, your footsteps echoing softly against the hardwood.
When you round the corner into the open kitchen, you freeze as the soft hum of the stove and the smell of sizzling garlic overwhelm your senses.
Seonghwa is in the kitchen, hovering over a pan, a dish towel draped over his shoulder. He looks up as you enter his peripheral vision. He doesn't say a word, but as his eyes move from your flushed face to Hongjoong's, he sends a look so knowing that it feels like he'd been standing in the bedroom with you the entire time.
"Finally," he teases, gesturing with the spatula he's holding towards the digital clock on the stove. "It's already ten. Three hours of studying Korean in one night? Impressive."
You try your best to give him a polite smile, but you know it comes out looking awkward and forced. Neither you nor Hongjoong responds. You silently move toward the marble island to snatch up your bag, your fingers fumbling with the strap. Hongjoong lingers by the refrigerator, unnervingly pale and staring at a speck on the countertop, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room.
Seonghwa's smile falters as he takes in the sight of you both. His eyes dart between your swollen-lipped expression and Hongjoong's shattered composure. "Is everything... okay?" he asks, his voice dropping, the teasing gone.
"It's fine, Hwa," Hongjoong says quietly. "She's just... she has an early class. She needs to get back."
You can't look at Seonghwa again. You retreat toward the front door, your brain screaming: What did we just do? How did I let this happen? You shove your feet into your boots, not even bothering to lace them properly, your hands shaking so badly you can barely get a grip on the leather. Hongjoong follows you into the entryway, hovering in the small space. He won't meet your eyes. He's staring at the floor, his hands shoved in his pockets.
"Do you..." he starts, his voice breaking before he clears his throat. "Do you want me to... walk you back? It’s, uh, pretty late."
"No," you say quickly, the word coming out more forceful than you intended. "I mean... no. Thank you. I'll be okay. It's not a long walk."
He swallows hard, nodding to the floor. "Okay," he murmurs. Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are full of pained, unreadable conflict. "Uh... text me. When you get back. Just so I know you're... safe."
"Okay," you whisper. "I will."
You don't wait for another word. You pull the heavy door open and step out into the hallway. You hear the click of the lock behind you, and you don't stop moving until you're outside on the sidewalk, the night air finally allowing you to breathe, even if your heart still feels like it's trapped back in his room.
San is luckily nowhere to be found when you finally reach your dorm. You throw your bag on the couch, kicking off your boots and leaving them scattered in the middle of the kitchen.
In a daze, you hurry to your room and strip off the clothes that still smell faintly of Hongjoong's apartment, then haul on your thickest, most oversized hoodie, seeking sanctuary in the fleece as you crawl into bed. You pull the duvet over your head, enveloping yourself in a dark cocoon where the only light comes from the glow of your phone.
Your notifications are a mess. You ignore the dozen pings from Yunho—variations of "Into what??? his what???" and "ARE YOU STILL THERE???"—sliding past them numbly.
Instead, you click into the thread with Hongjoong. You swallow hard, the lump in your throat thickening as you scroll past the earlier messages—the polite plans for tonight’s "study session" that now feel like they belong to a totally different lifetime. With trembling fingers, you type the only words you can manage.
You: I made it back okay.
You hit send and watch the little bubble float to the top of the screen. You don't put the phone down. You can't bring yourself to. You lie there on your side, curled up into a tight ball as you stare at the screen. You have to wait for any scrap of hope he's willing to throw at you, any single syllable to prove that the click of his door wasn't the sound of a permanent ending.
Then, the status changes.
Seen.
Your breath hitches. You wait, the seconds stretching into an agonizing eternity.
Suddenly, the three little dots appear at the bottom of the screen. He's typing.
You stare at them until your eyes burn, your thumb hovering over the screen as if you can pull the words out of him through sheer force of will. You wait for the "I’m sorry," or the "We should talk," or even just a simple "Good." Anything. You'll take anything.
The dots disappear.
The screen stays empty, the "Seen" timestamp mocking you. You feel another lump form in your throat as you will your eyes to remain dry with all the emotional strength you have left.
A moment later, they reappear.
Then vanish again.
You lay there in the suffocating quiet, watching the repeating torture: typing... gone... typing... gone.
Minutes bleed into a half-hour. Your eyelids grow heavy, the emotions and drama of the night finally giving way to a bone-deep exhaustion. The last thing you see before your vision blurs into a dreamless sleep is the fading glow of the screen—still waiting, still empty.
Hongjoong never replies.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 10.1k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. your comments make my week guys thank you so much for all the love <3333 enjoy.... :))))
The scent of your Korean classroom is the same as every Monday—that nauseating, stale blend of burnt coffee and printer ink. Usually, that very scent is a trigger for your academic anxiety. By 9:30 a.m., your spine is a rigid line of defense, your pen a weapon ready to capture every stroke of Professor Choi's intimidating Hangul from your second-row seat. You're used to the prickling heat on your neck and the frantic mental scramble of grammar rules, a desperate internal monologue fueled by the need to prove you belong in this room.
Today, however, the whiteboard in the front of the room is nothing more than a blur of black and white.
Professor Choi's voice cuts through the classroom, just as dangerously direct as ever, as he paces the front, his marker tapping against the board. In any other week, that sound would have sent your heart plummeting into your shoes. But your anxiety is absent today. You don't look up at the words he's written. You don't rehearse the honorifics in your head. You don't even feel the usual flare of irritation at Yunho's relaxed, sloping posture in the seat beside you.
The correct answer to a grammar drill isn't going to fix the wreckage you spent all of Sunday marinating in.
Twenty-four hours of staring at the ceiling, replaying the venom in Wooyoung's voice until you went numb to the words. Yeosang had been there for most of it; he'd stopped by just to pick up his car and ended up pacing around your couch for six hours. Yeosang, who knows Wooyoung far better than the rest of you, looked uncharacteristically worried.
"He's a wreck," he mutters, checking his phone for the hundredth time. "He's acting like he doesn't care. Like the whole thing was just a joke to him. But he won't even read my texts."
"Alright." Professor Choi's voice cuts through your memories. You finally lift your head from the blank expanse of your notebook. "Find a partner. Using this lesson's grammar patterns, write a quick dialogue for submission. Each pair will perform in ten minutes."
The heavy shuffle of chairs follows immediately, grateful to be freed from another thirty minutes of note-taking. Yunho slides his desk towards yours, his expression a mix of puppy-like guilt and genuine concern. He hasn't even uncapped his pen yet.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers, leaning in low enough to bypass the ears in the neighboring rows. The apology is a carryover from the dozens of texts he sent the day before, unable to get to your dorm in the near-freezing temperatures without Yeosang's car. "I promised you two hours earlier that you wouldn't be a third wheel. And then I go and disappear right away... and look what happened. You were all alone with him before San and Yeosang found you."
"Yunho," you say, your voice sounding exhausted. "You apologized all day yesterday. It's okay. It's over."
"It's not okay, though," he insists, shaking his head. "The things Wooyoung said... they were horrible. He was cruel to you, and he was cruel to San. I didn't think he could let it get that far. I don't know him as well as they do, but still—"
"He was hurt. And he was drunk."
"That doesn't excuse any of it."
"I know." You look down at your notebook, where you absentmindedly doodled a series of messy, meaningless geometric shapes in the margin. "Which is why he's out of my life now. For good. Probably out of San's, too. Even Yeosang can't get a text back."
Yunho sighs, his shoulders deflating. "Yeosang told me he can't reach him. And that he's acting like the whole thing meant nothing."
You nod, the silence between you filling with the things you don't want to say. You really don't want to talk about Wooyoung anymore. You want to believe the silence from his end is the finality you needed. But the physical remains are harder to ignore than the memories.
Specifically, his leather jacket.
It's currently draped over the back of a stool at your kitchen island, still smelling faintly of his cologne. To you, that thing is entirely a cursed object: you won't touch it, San refuses to acknowledge it, and Yeosang can't even get a reply, let alone get close enough to Wooyoung to return it.
You glance at Yunho, the question beginning to form on your tongue—Could you take it back? Could you just drop it outside his apartment door and run?—when the squeak of Professor Choi's dress shoes stops directly beside your desk.
"윤호씨? ____씨?" Your professor's shadow looms over your empty notebooks, his voice as dry as the untouched paper. He peers over his glasses, his eyes darting between your blank pages and your guilty faces. "I hear a great deal of English coming from this corner. Are you finished? Perhaps you'd like to be the first to share your dialogue with the class?"
You freeze, the blood rushing to your face, but before you can even stammer out a pathetic excuse, Yunho clears his throat.
He sits up with a sudden, practiced confidence, rolling his shoulders back as if he had a script for this exact moment hidden under his desk. "Sorry, 선생님. We were just debating the proper setting for our scene. We're torn between a 교실 and a 공원. Which do you think would better highlight the grammar?" His voice is steady, even as he kicks your foot under the table to encourage you to play along.
Professor Choi narrows his eyes, his gaze lingering with the experience of someone who has spent at least a decade dismantling excuses. He isn't buying a single word of it. However, Yunho possesses a combination of perfect test scores and a respectful bow that makes him Professor Choi's undisputed, though unspoken, favorite student.
"Focus," your professor says simply, tapping his finger on your desk twice in warning before turning to terrorize the pair behind you.
Yunho slumps the moment Professor Choi's shadow retreats, his confident facade cracking the second he's out of earshot.
"Okay," he huffs, his pen finally hovering over the glaringly white page. "We need to use the 'ㄹ까요' pattern. Let's do something simple since we're presenting it live. How about... asking someone out? There’s definitely an example somewhere in the textbook we can copy without Choi noticing."
You nod, scanning the room as he frantically flips through the pages. "Yes. Good. Let's keep it short."
Yunho's pen blurs across the page. "Okay, I'll start. 오늘 오후에 같이 영화를 볼까요?" Shall we watch a movie together this afternoon?
You lean in, watching his neat, sloping Hangul take shape across the lines. "And I'll respond with yes, and then add something about the weather. 좋아요. 오늘 날씨가 좋을까요?" Sounds good. Do you think the weather will be good today?
"Perfect," he mutters, already halfway through scribbling the third line. "네, 날씨가 아주 좋을 거예요. 공원에서 산책할까요?" Yes, the weather will be very good. Shall we take a walk in the park?
You reach forward, pen poised to add a following line about the time, but the sharp crack of Professor Choi’s palms meeting silences the room.
"시간 다 됐습니다," he announces, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. Time is up. "First pair: 민기씨 and 은지씨. Please come to the front."
Your stomach drops as Mingi and his partner begin gathering their script. You look down at Yunho's notebook—you have exactly three lines. "Yunho," you hiss, the panic finally starting to bleed through your exhaustion. "We’re not done. What if he calls us next?"
Yunho doesn't even flinch; his pen is already flying across the paper again, his eyes narrowed in intense focus.
"Relax," he whispers. "Mingi speaks slower than anyone in this class, and Eunji is more terrified of Professor Choi than you are. Besides, he always gives feedback for, like, five minutes before calling the next pair. I'll finish the script. All you have to do is stand there and read what I point to when it’s our turn."
You watch the back of Mingi’s head as he walks to the front of the room, then glance back at Yunho, who is already deep into a sentence about meeting at the subway station.
"Okay," you breathe, clutching your notebook like a lifeline as Eunji stammers out her first syllable. "Thanks. Just... please make sure your handwriting is legible."
As the pair presents, Mingi cannot keep a straight face to save his life. Every time he stumbles over a complex verb conjugation, he doesn’t just correct himself—he cuts a glance right at Yunho. He scrunches his nose or sticks the tip of his tongue out in a quick, ridiculous grimace that only the two of them are meant to see.
Beside you, Yunho—who you certainly hope is done writing your script—is a goner. He's desperately trying to maintain that serious facade, but his shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter. He buries his face in his palm, pretending to cough, yet you can see the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and the way his entire face softens whenever Mingi looks his way.
It hits you then, harder than any grammar point learned today: Yunho looks so in love. Watching them is like watching a movie play out in real time, a silent dialogue of inside jokes and shared glances. You find yourself smiling at the two of them, the stress of the presentation momentarily replaced by the warmth of seeing your best friend so completely endeared by someone.
"잘했습니다," Professor Choi says, though his tight expression suggests he's debating whether or not to lecture Mingi on his facial expressions for a few minutes. Good job. He checks his list. "Next. 윤호씨 and ____씨."
The bubble bursts. Yunho snaps his notebook shut, the lingering grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stands. You reach for your things, your heart doing a nervous drumroll against your ribs, when the quick, insistent buzz of your phone cuts through the silence.
Yunho is already three paces ahead of you, halfway to the front of the room, casually smoothing a hand through his hair as he flashes one last lingering grin over his shoulder at Mingi. You, however, lag behind. A cold, sudden intuition prickles at your fingertips as you hesitantly reach into your bag. It's probably nothing, you tell yourself. Just a quick check. Just one second to ensure nothing's wrong before you have to stand in the spotlight and perform for nearly thirty people.
You tilt the screen just an inch, barely even enough to see the lock screen.
The air immediately leaves your lungs in a shocked, rattling gasp—a sound so loud and sudden in the silent room that Eunji, usually too shy to talk to you, actually whips around in her seat to stare.
Hongjoong: Hey
You don't read more than the first word; the name is more than enough to shake you. You immediately slam the phone face-down against your chest, eyes widening. With a racing heart, you look up, your gaze colliding with Yunho's from the front of the room.
He's standing by Professor Choi's desk, but the moment he sees the color completely drain from your face and the shaky grip on your phone, his eyes go just as wide as yours.
"____씨? We're waiting," Professor Choi prompts, his voice sharpening with impatience, wondering why you still haven't moved.
Yunho doesn't wait for you to reply. Upon seeing your expression, he instantly rushes back over to his desk, his long strides covering the distance in mere seconds. He sweeps up his notebook and hooks his bag over his shoulder in one motion, his hand clamping firmly around your upper arm.
"죄송합니다, 선생님!" Yunho calls out an apology to Professor Choi, his near-frantic voice cutting through the quiet room. "Family emergency! We have to go! We’ll send excuse notes later, I promise!"
Before your professor can even sputter a response about his mandatory attendance policy, Yunho is already hauling you toward the exit, your heels skidding against the floor. The heavy classroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the confused whispers of your classmates.
Yunho doesn't stop for a second, maneuvering you through the hallway until the overhead lights blur into long streaks of white, a strobe effect that matches the tripping of your pulse. He surges through the glass double doors of the building's mini café, weaves through the clusters of students huddled over laptops and steaming cups of coffee, and steers you to a secluded table in the far corner that's half-hidden by a large potted plant. He practically shoves you into the chair against the wall, hurriedly sitting down across from you.
You throw your phone away from you with a jolt, the glass screen skidding across the table until it hits the base of a salt shaker. You snatch your hands back as if it suddenly burned them.
"I can't," you say shakily, the words catching in your throat. "I actually can't look. This is so humiliating."
Yunho, however, is grinning so widely it looks painful. His eyes dart between you and your phone excitedly as his fingers drum against the side of the table, silently urging you to hurry this along. "Just look at what he said!" he hisses, reaching out and pushing the phone two inches back toward you.
"How did you even know it was—"
"Days!" he cuts you off, his hands flying in the air dramatically. "I've been waiting days for this text, too! By now, I've literally memorized the way your face twitches when you're thinking about him!"
You let out a breathless, shaky giggle at how ridiculous you feel, burying your face in your palms. "I'm scared."
Yunho suddenly barks out a laugh that draws a few shushes from a nearby grad student trying to study. "Scared of what? Do you honestly think he's sending you a text at ten on a Monday morning because he doesn't wanna see you?"
"Yes!" you hiss back, peeking at him through the narrow gaps between your fingers. "What if he's like, 'Hey, I'm actually gonna be pretty busy this week, maybe I can try to help you another time.' Imagine I've spent this much time stressing about it just for him to take his offer back."
Yunho’s expression softens, a knowing, almost pitying smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Well..." he says slowly, nudging your phone the final inch until it brushes against your knuckles. "There's only one way to find out."
"I know," you groan, the sound muffled by your palms as you press the heels of your hands into your eyes.
It takes a long, agonizing ten seconds to work up the courage. You draw a deep breath in through your nose and slowly let it out through your mouth before shakily reaching for the phone. You handle it with the caution of someone defusing an unexploded bomb, swiping up delicately. Your heart races as the camera scans your face, and then...
Hongjoong: Hey, if you're still up for another extra session this week, I'm free tonight. My place might be quieter than the library. I can send the address if that works for you.
A high-pitched yelp escapes your throat as you practically hurl the phone back onto the table, the device skittering dangerously close to the edge. Immediately, you bury your face in your hands again, your skin flushing.
Tonight? His place?
Around the café, half a dozen students look up from their laptops with identical expressions of irritation at the noise you're making, and the barista pauses with a milk pitcher mid-pour to eye your corner of the room.
Yunho offers a charmingly apologetic smile to the room before, without even a whisper of permission, snatching your phone off the table and scanning the screen.
After less than three seconds, his jaw drops.
"____," he says, his voice dropping. He looks up at you, his eyes wide and alert. "He just invited you to his apartment."
"Oh my god," you murmur into your palms. "I thought we were just going to the library again. I was prepared to say yes to the library, not his place! His apartment? Yunho, what is happening?"
Yunho shakes his head, a short scoff of disbelief escaping him. "Very bold. Very unexpected." He stares at the text like it’s a riddle he's trying to work out. Suddenly, he squints, his brow furrowing as he rereads the message. A slow, incredulous grin begins to spread across his annoyingly happy face. "Hold on. 'My place might be quieter than the library'?"
He looks at you, his eyebrows dancing toward his hairline. "____. How would his apartment be quieter than the literal library?"
You pause, your brain finally catching up. "…That's a good point," you say, finally dropping your hands just enough to reveal eyes wide with a mix of panic and realization.
That’s all it takes for Yunho to lose it. He throws his head back, his laughter echoing off the café’s high ceilings.
"Imagine!" he wheezes, gasping for air. "Imagine how long he sat there, typing and deleting, trying to come up with the perfect excuse to get you to come over, only to sound so dumb! He’s terrible at flirting!"
"Yunho!" you hiss, though a bubbly, hysterical laugh is starting to claw its way up your own throat. "Stop it! It's not funny! What am I even supposed to reply?"
He wipes a stray tear from the corner of his eye, still laughing as he slides the phone across the table again. "What do you think you reply? You say, 'Hell yeah, that works'!"
You can't stop your own laughter from escaping, watching how the tables have officially turned: now, it's Yunho earning the glares and hushed "shhs" from the students surrounding you in the mini café. He doesn’t seem to notice—or more likely, he simply doesn't care—far too entertained by the situation.
You, however, are back to staring at the text. The cursor on the screen blinks at you, a mocking little line. You have no idea what to say. Every response that your brain constructs feels either too eager, too cold, or just plain weird.
"____," Yunho says, his voice becoming serious again. He holds out his hand, palm up, fingers wiggling expectantly. "Give me the phone."
"Absolutely not," you snap, clutching it closer to your chest.
"I’m serious! Reciprocity. You helped me with Mingi, so now I’m helping you with Hongjoong."
"Shh!" You lunged across the table, smacking his arm. "Don't say his name so loud! What if someone hears?"
Yunho holds up his hands in a defensive gesture, a cheeky grin still plastered on his face. "Okay, okay! Just give me the phone. I'll help, I promise."
With a heavy sigh of reluctance, you slowly drop the phone into his outstretched palm, watching him like a hawk as his thumbs begin to blur over the glass. Your anxiety spikes again, and so you sit up straighter, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of what he's doing.
"Wait, let me see it! Check with me before you hit—"
"Sent!" Yunho chirps, looking up with a blinding, satisfied smile.
"What? Yunho!" You practically dive over the table to snatch the phone back, your heart in your throat. You scramble to unlock the screen, eyes darting to the chat bubble, and your jaw hits the floor.
You: Works for me :) What time?
"A smiley face?" you shriek, though you try to keep it to a muffled, hysterical whisper. "Why the hellwould you put a smiley face? Have I, in the history of our friendship, ever sent you a smiley face? I don't use those! Why would I ever send that to him?"
You reach across and try to smack his arm again, but this time, he ducks out of range while laughing his head off. "What? It's cute! It's approachable!"
"It's embarrassing! I look too eager! And I never text like that!" you retort, your voice rising in a pitch of pure distress. "Why would you send that?"
"Because," Yunho says, finally sobering up enough to catch his breath, though that amused glint remains in his eyes. "You never would have sent that text, ____. You would've sat here for three hours, deleted it three hundred times, and tried to find the perfect wording until it was too late. I just saved your entire afternoon. You're welcome."
You groan in defeat, sliding down in your chair until your chin almost hits the table.
The glares from the surrounding students have reached a breaking point. A guy three tables over—who looks like he hasn't slept since the semester began—actually slams his textbook shut with a loud, aggressive thud. Realizing you’ve officially worn out your welcome, the two of you scramble to gather your bags, still bickering in low, frantic tones as you head for the exit.
"It's too flirty, Yunho! He's gonna think I'm too excited!" you hiss as you push through the doors into the cold late-morning air.
"He’s gonna think you’re the perfect amount of excited," Yunho counters, zipping up his jacket. He playfully nudges your shoulder. "Look, it'll be fine. He probably just wants to see you in a non-strictly academic place for once. He's not Wooyoung, ____. It’s not like he’s gonna try to fuck you the second you walk in."
"I know, I know," you murmur, your voice barely audible over the crunch of gravel as he trails you down the path to your next class. "I know he’s not like him. It’s just... the jump from the library to his apartment is a lot of progress to make in one text."
"That’s because you’re thinking about it like his student instead of a girl who has a crush on him," Yunho says, stepping onto the curb and pivoting to face you with a final, encouraging smile. He checks his watch, his eyes widening as he realizes he needs to rush to make his next lecture. "Go to class. Take good notes. Distract yourself for a while. I'll text you later."
You roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward as you watch him sprint back up the path, his backpack bouncing against his spine. You look down at your phone one last time, just because.
1 new notification.
His reply is already waiting, the little gray bubble pulsing with a fresh update.
Hongjoong: North Hall, Room 117. The side door by the bike racks is usually propped open if you don't want to wait for me to swipe you in. See you at 7?
The room number, the propped open door... It's all terrifyingly real. You take another deep breath while flexing your fingers, shaking out the tension before biting your lip and typing the words that officially seal your fate.
You: See you then.
The air in the hallway of North Hall is unnervingly still. It's quiet—you haven't encountered a single soul since tentatively pushing through the side door left ajar. Now, as you wander down the corridor, counting the numbers on the matte-finished doors, the only sound to be heard is the thumping of your heart in your ears.
Room 121, Room 119... Room 117. You stop in your tracks, your stomach dropping. The urge to bolt, to turn around and sprint right back through that door, is tempting; instead, you choose to stand in front of the door awkwardly, checking your reflection in your phone’s camera for the twentieth time in five minutes.
You spent the entire walk here gaslighting yourself about your outfit—you aren't really dressed up. Your skirt? It's simply a comfort choice. Denim jeans are far too restrictive for sitting in one place throughout a long study session. Your knit top? It's purely a practical base layer for your oversized coat. The carefully curated stack of rings and the specific necklace you spent ten minutes debating? You just felt like adding a little something to your outfit today. No big deal. Even your boots were just a necessity for the cold walk across campus.
The international dorm smells expensive, like a mix of glossy floor wax and someone's fancy, high-end cologne that was sprayed a few too many times. You notice immediately how nice it is compared to the cramped cinder-blockedness of the other dorms on campus; this is the most luxurious student living can get, looking more like a hotel than a dorm.
As you clutch the strap of your bag tightly, a new anxious thought pierces through your nerves: Who else is in there?
You realize that you never even asked if he lives alone. The mental image of a roommate, some unsuspecting stranger, witnessing your inevitably awkward arrival makes your stomach sink.
The clock on your lock screen flips from 6:58 to 6:59.
You take a deep, shaky breath, closing your eyes for a moment. You have a sixty-second window to appear punctual without seeming desperate. You wait, counting the beats of your own pulse, until the clock finally turns again.
7:00.
You quickly reach out before you can second-guess yourself, your hand trembling just enough to make the three knocks sound more hesitant than you intended. You barely have time to drop your arm to your side before the door swings inward.
The sudden rush of climate-controlled warmth from the apartment immediately hits your skin. You snap your eyes to the figure standing in the entryway.
Hongjoong.
He's dressed in a black button-down—the fabric looks pretty expensive, with a slightly oversized fit that tapers where he’s rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms. His dark-rimmed glasses match his pants, catching the soft light of the living room behind him. He looks sophisticated, older, and like he put exactly as much effort into his look as you tried to deny that you did.
The polite, practiced smile he usually wears in your sessions rests on his lips, but it looks slightly strained at the edges. His eyes rake over you, taking in the skirt, the boots, and the way you’re unintentionally holding your breath as you stare at him.
"Hi," he says.
"Hi," you say.
He clears his throat, his hand lingering on the doorknob as if he’s momentarily forgotten he’s supposed to let you in. "You, um..." He glances down at his watch and then back at you. "You're right on time."
"I wouldn't want to keep you waiting," you say, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. Your fingers twist around your bag strap as you quickly add, "But I wouldn't want to intrude on your time, either. I know you're... busy."
"Yeah. No, I appreciate that," he responds with a small, crooked smile. "Punctuality is a good trait. Very... professional."
The word professional hangs in the air between you awkwardly. You stand there for a heartbeat, the dead silence of the hallway pressing into the small of your back, while the warmth of his apartment beckons you forward.
His gaze falters then, straying from your eyes. It trails down the length of your coat, settling on the hem of your skirt. While the fabric isn't too tight, it's probably shorter than anything he's ever seen you wear. His eyes linger there a second too long, tracing the line of your legs down to your boots.
When he snaps his gaze back up to meet yours, a creeping heat has stained the tops of his cheekbones.
"Right," he blurts out, his posture snapping straight as he finally pulls the door wider. "Please. Come in."
You offer him a sheepish smile and step into the apartment, the soles of your boots clicking twice against the floor before you come to a halt just inside the entryway. Hongjoong moves behind you, closing the door and locking it with a click.
For a moment, you both just stand there, avoiding eye contact—two people who have spent weeks talking over textbooks and worksheets, but who suddenly seem to have forgotten how to exist in the same square footage.
"Oh! Right. Sorry," Hongjoong suddenly says, breaking the tension with a flustered gesture toward the floor. "You can leave your shoes there."
He points to a designated area where a surprisingly large pile of shoes is gathered. Your eyes scan the row: a few pairs of casual sneakers scattered between designer loafers and boots that scream Hongjoong. The number of shoes makes you wonder—is there a roommate hiding in one of these rooms, or does Hongjoong just have a bigger shoe collection than your entire closet? Given his major, the latter feels entirely plausible.
You balance yourself against the wall for a second to kick off your boots, placing them neatly at the edge of the pile.
"Follow me," he says, clearing his throat again. He motions toward the kitchen attached to the living room, and you follow, your socks softly thudding against the dark hardwood floor as you catch your first glimpse of where your tutor lives.
His apartment is honestly beautiful. It's modern in structure, with large windows, high ceilings, and an updated kitchen, but Hongjoong's touch has softened it completely. The overhead lights are turned off; in their place, the main living area is covered in the glow of floor lamps and candles that flicker from nearly every flat surface.
Lush greenery is tucked into every corner, making the apartment feel cozy and natural. Dominating the living room is a massive display of books, stacked CDs, and a record collection that is clearly the heart of the main area. A turntable hums in the background, playing a vintage jazz record you've never heard. It's the exact kind of atmosphere you'd expect from a man like Hongjoong, but in person, it feels even more fitting.
As you follow him into the kitchen, you notice the cozy details continue even here. Small succulents line the windowsill, and more candles sit atop the marble island.
Hongjoong slides onto one of the stools at the island, and you follow, your movements a little stiff as you settle onto the seat beside him. You set your bag down on the counter, ignoring how your shoulders are only a few inches apart.
"So," he starts, his gaze darting across everything he's already set up: neat diagrams of sentence structures and highlighted vocabulary lists. "We can, uh, get started."
A small frown tugs at your lips as you scan all the prep work. You never told him what you needed help with today.
He begins shuffling the papers into a more organized pile a little clumsily while you stare down at your own clasped hands.
"Thanks for meeting with me again," you say finally, looking at him a little shyly.
He stops his paper-sorting and looks back at you. The tension in his shoulders drops just an inch, and a genuine, soft smile spreads across his lips.
"It's no trouble," he says sincerely. "I'm more than happy to help you."
You smile back. "I, um... I actually missed the last half of class today," you admit as you remember Yunho dragging you through the café doors. "There's a dialogue I was supposed to finish and submit. I thought maybe you could help me with that?"
Hongjoong’s head tilts slightly. "You missed class? Is everything okay?"
"Um..." You scramble to recall the excuse Yunho had shouted at Professor Choi on your way out. "Family emergency. Everything's fine now. Just a lot of... sudden phone calls."
"Oh." His eyes search yours. The only sound between you for a long moment is the faint backdrop of the jazz record spinning. Finally, he nods. "Well, I'm glad it's resolved." He clears his throat, eyes flicking between you and the marble counter. "We can jump right in, then. Did your professor give you a specific prompt?"
"Not really," you say, leaning into the relief that he didn't press for details. "My partner and I started a script, but I can't really remember anything past the first line. I have it here." You pull your notebook from your bag, the spiral binding catching briefly on your sleeve, and lay it open to the lone sentence you wrote before you left your dorm.
He nods and reaches across the cool marble to tilt the notebook towards him so he can check your writing. As he leans in, the sleeve of his black shirt brushes against the knit on your arm. It’s not skin-on-skin—there are two layers of clothing between you—but the sudden contact sends an electrifying jolt through you that makes you visibly jump.
Both of you freeze. He pulls his hand back just an inch, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows hard, before he continues like nothing happened.
"The, uh, sentence structure looks good. He clears his throat, his voice a pitch higher than before. "What’s the scenario for the rest of the script?"
"Making plans," you murmur, staring fixedly at the paper so he won't see the flush creeping up your neck. "We have to use the 'ㄹ까요' grammar pattern."
"Suggesting something," he says with another nod, picking up his pen and flipping through a few pages. "Your first line is '오늘 오후에 같이 영화를 볼까요?'—'Shall we watch a movie together this afternoon?' Do you remember what direction you and your partner were going with the rest?"
"Um, yeah," you respond, your voice quiet. "It was supposed to be... someone asking someone else out. Then the rest is planning the when and the where and all that."
Hongjoong’s pen halts mid-air. He doesn't look at you, but you notice his fingers tighten around the barrel. He begins scrambling through the textbook again, finding the right lesson. You notice, for the first time, that his textbook is filled with new color-coded tabs—something he's never bothered with during your sessions.
He reaches out to straighten the edge of the textbook, then aligns it perfectly with the edge of the island, then adjusts his glasses, then pushes a stray lock of hair back into place.
"Asking someone out. Right," he repeats tightly. He taps a blue tab over and over with his index finger. "So... the next logical step would be the other person agreeing, right? Something like '네, 좋아요.' Then they’d ask about a specific time?"
"Sure," you say quickly, your handwriting messier than usual as you scramble to record his suggestion. "Maybe... '3시에 만날까요?'" Shall we meet at 3?
"Good," he nods, his eyes fixed on the tip of your pen as you scribble. "Then the other person can—"
The loud scratch of the record needle hitting the center of the vinyl cuts him off. You both nearly jump out of your skin again, frightened by the sudden noise. Hongjoong's hand flies to the bridge of his glasses to steady them.
"씨발... one second," he mutters, and your eyebrows lift. That's the first time you've ever heard him curse—and somehow, you find it a little attractive.
He quickly slides off the stool. As you watch him cross the room, his back to you, you realize you've been holding your breath. He hovers over a few stacks of vinyl, his fingers dancing over the spines with muscle memory.
"Any preference?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder. "I didn't even ask if you liked the jazz record. I have... well, I have pretty much everything."
"Um..." You're too busy tracking the way the light catches the silver rings on his fingers to actually process his question. "Anything is fine."
He continues flicking through the pile directly next to the record player, his movements slowing as he considers. "I finally got a version of Lou Reed's Transformer a few days ago. Do you...?"
A smile breaks across your face as you nod. "My dad used to play it in the car on the way to school. Perfect Day has been one of my favorite songs ever since."
Hongjoong beams at you, a real smile that makes his eyes crinkle. "Good taste. That was always my favorite on the album, too."
He slides the disc onto the player carefully, and as the guitar-driven melody of Vicious begins to fill the room, the atmosphere shifts for the better. You relax a little, turning in your chair back to your notes and focusing on the next line of dialogue.
Hongjoong wanders back over, but he doesn't sit immediately. Instead, he leans against the counter, watching as you work on the page, trying to make your Hangul more readable. You can feel his gaze, though. It's heavy, trailing the movement of your hand before drifting, almost involuntarily, down the length of your body to where the hem of your skirt rests against your thighs.
You finish the line and turn to look at him, catching him in the act. His eyes are fixed on your legs, his expression hooded and unreadable—a look far different from anything you've ever seen from your tutor.
A blush immediately blooms on your cheeks. You quickly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your gaze darting down to your boots in a sudden fit of shyness. Hongjoong, realizing what you saw, lets out a dry cough that sounds awkwardly forced.
"I, uh..." He rubs the back of his neck, his ears turning bright pink. "I like your outfit. By the way. It’s... It's nice. It looks good. On you. From a designer’s perspective. The... fabric."
It's possibly the worst, most awkward compliment you've ever received, and yet... it makes your heart dance. You let out a nervous laugh, your fingers awkwardly tracing the binding of your notebook.
"Oh. Thank you," you stammer, looking up at him through your lashes. You're about to turn back to the safety of your sentences when a sudden spark of boldness hits you. "I, um... I've always liked the way you dress, too."
Hongjoong blinks, his hand dropping from his neck as he stills. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," you say, gaining a tiny bit of courage from the way he’s looking at you. "It’s... nice to see a guy who puts effort into what he wears. Not just sweatpants and hoodies every day, you know?"
He lets out a genuine laugh at that, finally sinking back onto the stool beside you. You can't help the small smile that tugs at your lips as you turn back to the dialogue, but his next words stop your pen entirely.
"Well," he says, his voice a little quieter, "I could say the same for you. You always look put together, even when you're dressed casually during tutoring. It's one of the first things I noticed about you. I—"
He catches himself mid-sentence, quickly readjusting his glasses again. You’re starting to recognize this as a nervous habit. "I mean—from a design perspective," he adds hurriedly. "You have a very... intentional way of presenting yourself. You know your silhouettes. And what colors suit you. It's rare."
He begins tapping his pen against the edge of the counter as you stop your writing entirely, the grammar forgotten as you turn your head to look at him.
He won't meet your eyes. He’s staring down at his own hands, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, like he has a thousand more things to say and is currently fighting the urge to let them slip.
"Right. Um," he says, suddenly snapping out of it. He reaches for your notebook, pulling it toward him with a slightly unsteady hand. "Let me check what you have so far."
You watch him as he scans your words, his eyes moving rapidly behind his lenses. You find yourself leaning in, trying to see your own handwriting through his perspective, cringing when you see the messy strokes.
"You wrote, '좋아요. 홍대입구역에서 봐요,'" he reads aloud, his pronunciation perfect. "That’s in response to meeting at three, right? That’s good. But then... this next part?" He taps a finger against the paper. "Close, but something’s off with your spelling of 계획."
"What? Where?" you ask, leaning even closer.
He points out the specific character, his pen hovering just above the paper without touching it. "Right here. You used the wrong vowel combination."
You frown, quickly scrawling a messy line through the mistake and rewriting it.
"It’s a common mistake," he says, his voice back to the tutor you're used to. "The double vowels mess up everyone at first."
"We focused on that two sessions ago, though," you mutter, feeling a prickle of annoyance at your own brain.
He smiles softly. "Right. But you're not going to get everything perfect right away. Mistakes are part of learning."
"I hate when people say that."
Hongjoong laughs. "I know you do. But it's true."
Your frown softens at that. You pick up your pen and start on the next line.
For the next twenty minutes, you fall into an easier rhythm. You bounce ideas off each other, debating whether the characters in your dialogue should go to dinner after or end the date at the movie theater. The awkwardness lingers, but it's no longer the only thing in the room.
All of a sudden, the bubble pops. The hum of Lou Reed's vocals is shattered by the sound of jingling keys and the thud of a deadbolt sliding. The front door swings open with such confidence that you figure the owner of the key is very much at home.
"Joong?" A smooth, melodic voice calls out, echoing through the living space. "벌써 왔어? 아까 문자 보낸 건—Oh."
The sentence dies mid-air, trailing off into a stunned silence as both you and Hongjoong pivot on your stools, eyes snapping toward the entryway.
Your heart, which finally settled into a steady throb, lurches into your throat. You freeze, your fingers locking around your pen as you stare at the figure standing in the light. You recognize that posture—the high-fashion elegance. You recognize those feline eyes. Most of all, you recognize that long, dark, silky hair.
It's the man from the bar.
Seonghwa.
He stands frozen in the entryway, a bag of groceries dangling forgotten from his hand. His eyes squint as they land on you sitting at his kitchen island, and his head tilts as they trace over your body. You can see the gears turning behind his eyes as he processes the sight of the girl he was flirting with in the bar now sitting inches away from his roommate’s shoulder.
"You—"
"You're—"
Oh my god. The thought screams through your head, a deafening siren of mortification. This is Hongjoong’s roommate? The man you flirted with on Saturday night? The man you were seconds away from following to the dance floor?
You can't take your eyes off him, and he seems to be trapped in the same shock. Of all the thousands of students on campus, how is it possible that the man from the bar is the same man who shares a refrigerator with your tutor?
And then the memories of that Saturday night come rushing back. You think of Seonghwa’s disarming smile. You think of the way he leaned in to gossip over the music. Most specifically, you think of what he said about his roommate.
He never leaves the apartment... he's been typing and deleting things on his phone since Friday morning...
The blood drains from your face so quickly you feel lightheaded. He wasn't talking about some random guy. He was talking about Hongjoong.
But the realization doesn't stop there. It gets exponentially worse. If Seonghwa was at the bar, and if he was talking about Hongjoong... that means Hongjoong was in the building. Hongjoong was there. On Saturday. When you were with Wooyoung.
Your grip on your pen tightens even more as you try to keep your expression calm. Did Seonghwa see Wooyoung run after me? Did Hongjoong see me with either one of them? If not, did Seonghwa tell Hongjoong about what happened between us?
You frantically scan Seonghwa’s face, searching for a hint of judgment or pity, but instead, his expression is one of half-shocked realization melting into slow, intrigued amusement.
He lets out a short, incredulous breath as his gaze flickers from your horrified expression to Hongjoong’s stiff, confused posture.
"You're kidding," Seonghwa says, his voice just as low and velvety as you remember.
Hongjoong's gaze darts between the two of you, his brow furrowing into a confused V. "What? You two know each other?"
Seonghwa doesn't wait for you to find your tongue; not that you would have any clue of what to say, anyway. He lets out an amused hum, leaning against the doorframe, the grocery bag crinkling at his side.
"You didn't tell me your student was the pretty girl who spilled her drink on me at the bar, Joong."
Your face burns hot as Hongjoong whips his head around to look at you. He doesn't say anything at first; he just stares at the side of your profile, his dark eyes intense and searching. At the moment, all you want to do is shrink into the knit of your sweater and vanish.
From the casual way Seonghwa said it, it’s obvious that they’ve already talked about this. Hongjoong heard the story of the girl at the bar. He just didn't know the protagonist was you.
"I thought you didn't like to go out," Hongjoong says finally. You shiver as you hear his voice is deeper and stripped of its politeness. You force yourself to meet his eyes, your heart hammering.
"I don't."
The two of you just lock eyes, both trying to read between the lines, desperately searching for answers to your unspoken questions. Seonghwa stands there like a spectator, his arms crossed, observing every drop of the tension.
"You disappeared before I could even get your name," Seonghwa interjects, and your eyes widen.
You scramble through your memory, trying to recall the lie you spun to get away from him when Wooyoung’s texts started vibrating in your pocket. You have to double down on it now, but the stakes are terrifyingly high. If Seonghwa saw you with Wooyoung, or worse, if Hongjoong saw the way you looked at that screen before bolting...
"Right... I'm ____," you say, your voice sounding small. "Sorry about that. And I'm really sorry for, um, the drink. Again."
You look down at your hands, trying to project a facade of regret while your brain is screaming at you. What did you tell him? Right. Work. You told him you had to work. Why would you do that? You don't even have a job.
Seonghwa's expression softens into something more charming, reminiscent of when you first met. "Don't worry about it. I was more concerned that everything was okay. You looked... very anxious."
It's an invitation, a wide-open door for you to explain who sent that text and why you ran.
"Oh, everything's fine," you say, the forced lightness making your words feel weak. "It was just a work thing." You awkwardly pause. "Um, sorry about that. Again."
If Seonghwa did see you with Wooyoung, he doesn't show it. He nods, smiling at you disarmingly, like he truly is glad you're okay.
Hongjoong remains quiet, his gaze flicking back and forth between you and Seonghwa. His expression is impossible to describe—a mix of confusion, realization, and something else that looks to you like a simmering frustration.
Seonghwa's smile widens, fully amused, as he tracks the tension radiating off both of you.
"Well," he says, shifting the grocery bag in his arm and pushing off the doorframe. "I should probably get some work done. You two have fun out here."
He offers you a polite, lingering nod and shoots Hongjoong a look so knowing it’s practically a taunt. He turns to head down the hallway, but just as you think you're finally safe, he pauses. He pivots on his heel, the light of the hall catching the amused glint in his eyes one last time.
"You still owe me that dance, by the way," he says teasingly, his eyes locked right onto yours.
The blood rushes to your face as you let out a high-pitched little laugh that betrays your nerves. You quickly drop your gaze to the floor.
Beside you, Hongjoong doesn't laugh.
He tenses so violently you can feel the rigid line of his shoulders through the inches of room between you. He stares down the hallway at Seonghwa, his jaw set in a tight line. A silent communication passes between the two roommates, something you can't quite decode.
With a final, charming smile in your direction, Seonghwa disappears. A second later, you hear the soft sound of his bedroom door closing.
Hongjoong goes very, very quiet. The Lou Reed record has long since ended, but he doesn’t move to replace it. He doesn’t even seem to notice it's over. He turns back to the counter and starts flipping through the textbook, the pages snapping under his fingers. He clearly isn’t reading. His hand is shaking enough to make the paper rattle.
He keeps his eyes glued to a random diagram of a Seoul subway map, refusing to look at you. "So..." he starts, trying to be casual, but his voice is tight. "You were there on Saturday?"
Your mind scrambles, trying to find an answer that isn't a lie. "Um, yeah. My friends kind of forced me out of my room," you mutter, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "They dragged me along with them."
"Oh," he breathes out, a short, humorless puff of air. "Yeah. Seonghwa did the same thing to me."
The silence returns, more suffocating than before.
"So... you met Seonghwa," he says eventually.
Fuck. You’re screaming internally. How much did Seonghwa actually tell him? The phrase "pretty girl who spilled her drink" implies they talked about you—perhaps in detail.
"I... I did," you stammer. "There were so many people there, and I got separated from my friends. I bumped into him, and I accidentally spilled my drink on his jacket." You pause, the words sticking in your dry mouth. "But, um... I got a text and needed to run out for a bit. I left right after that. To take care of things."
Hongjoong doesn't move. He’s still staring at the textbook, his profile stony. You're desperate to know what he’s thinking, but his face won't reveal a thing.
"You two talked a lot?" he asks.
You hesitate, a thought flashing through your mind: Is he jealous? You let out a nervous, high-pitched laugh that you immediately regret. "Um... a little. He seemed... really nice." You swallow hard, deciding to push away from Seonghwa a little. "He talked about you. I, um... I didn't know it was you at the time, but..."
Hongjoong's head whips up, his dark eyes snapping to yours suddenly. "He didn't tell me that."
"Oh," you breathe. He keeps looking at you, waiting for more explanation. "He just said he had to force you out of here," you continue, the words tumbling out. "That you don't really like dancing." You try for an awkward laugh, but it dies when you realize he isn't even smiling.
"Do you like dancing?" he asks in response.
"Not... particularly," you admit.
He pauses. "So... why do you owe my roommate a dance?"
You suck in a deep breath. "Well, he told you about the drink, right?" you say, your voice slightly trembling. "I think I offered to find him napkins or something to make up for the mess, but... he suggested a dance instead. So. Yeah."
Hongjoong doesn't look away. "And you said yes?"
You weigh your options, feeling like you're about to choke on the tension. "Um. Well. No. Technically, I didn't. I had to leave."
"But if you didn't have to leave?" he presses.
You suddenly feel very small and very exposed under his gaze. "Well... yeah. I guess," you whisper, the honesty feeling like more like guilt, though you didn't do anything wrong. "He was... um, nice. And I felt bad for spilling my drink."
Hongjoong stares at you for a long, pulse-pounding moment. "Yeah," he says finally, his voice cold and clipped. "He is pretty nice."
He tears his eyes away from yours, snapping them back to the subway map. The only sound in the room now is the tap-tap-tap of his pen against the marble counter.
"You didn't finish your dialogue," he says. His voice has shifted; the soft, hesitant edges from earlier are gone, replaced by a tone that is suddenly stricter than usual. "Keep writing."
You swallow hard, the sudden shift in his energy making your pulse skip. Without a word, you nod and hunch over your notebook, the pen scratching against the paper as you scramble to finish the last two lines. The entire time, you can feel his gaze burning into your cheek. You don't dare look up.
The second your pen lifts from the final syllable, he reaches out and slides the notebook across the counter toward him.
"Okay," he says, his eyes scanning your messy handwriting. "Let's practice."
Your head snaps up, your eyes wide. "Huh? I don't—I don't really need to perform it, Hongjoong. I just have to submit the written version."
"No matter what level you're at, it's always good to get practice with speaking and listening," he counters tightly.
"Well, what if I'm fluent?" you challenge, your usual defensiveness flickering to life. "Then I wouldn't—"
"Even I still need to practice," he interrupts, "and I'm technically fluent in English. I don't get a lot of it because Seonghwa and I only speak in Korean together."
You frown, glancing toward the hallway where Seonghwa disappeared. "But... you two just spoke English."
Hongjoong pauses, his grip on the notebook tightening. "Right. But only because you’re here. I don't really speak English unless I'm with you." He stops, the words hanging for a beat too long before he stiffly and awkwardly adds: "Or my other students."
"Right," you nod slowly, letting it go. "Okay. Sure. More practice."
You take a stabilizing breath and begin. As you go through the lines—meeting at the station, plans for the weekend, asking to see a movie—something strange happens. The words flow out of you with ease. You realize you aren't even looking at the paper anymore. You’re just listening to the tone of Hongjoong's voice as he feeds you the prompts, and the Korean responds in your mind like a reflex. You’re hearing him, understanding the nuances of his tone, and it’s guiding you through the dialogue better than Professor Choi ever has.
When the last line of the dialogue is finished, you both go quiet. Hongjoong slowly sets the notebook down, his eyes drifting over your face, the previous hardness in his expression beginning to melt into surprise.
"Your listening has improved," he says quietly. Despite how hard you try to hold it back, a small, proud smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. "Have you been practicing on your own?"
"Well..." You shift in your seat, thinking back to how many lazy days you've spent on your living room couch lately. "I've been watching some K-dramas. I guess that helps me. Though I'm not sure how much of it is actually helping and how much is just entertainment."
Hongjoong's eyebrows shoot up. "Actually, that's a great way to improve. The brain maps the cadence of the language even when you aren't actively translating. Do you watch with English subtitles?"
"No," you say, keeping a perfectly straight face. "No subtitles. I have it all in Korean, and I guess what's going on."
His eyes go wide in shock. "What? Really? You can follow the plot like—"
A giggle escapes you, the first real, uncontrolled sound you've made since Seonghwa walked in. "No, Hongjoong. Of course I use English subtitles."
He stops, blinking at you for a heartbeat before a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He lets out a huffed laugh. "Very funny, ____." He taps his pen against the notebook, his gaze lingering on yours as the humor fades into something more thoughtful. "Well... it really is a great way to study. Though it's hard to... fully grasp the nuances of the grammar patterns when you aren't fluent yet. The translations don't always capture the exact meaning."
He pauses, his thumb rubbing the side of his pen. He looks down at the counter, then back at you. "Maybe we should watch one together. So that I can explain things better. You know... better than the subtitles can."
You go completely still, processing what he just said. Your heart does a nervous somersault as you look around at your notebooks, textbooks, and pens scattered all over.
"...Like... n-now?" you stutter.
You can tell by the way his eyes widen that he probably meant sometime in the future—maybe next week, maybe somewhere public like the library—but the opportunity is there now. He sputters for a second, his confidence momentarily failing him like he's realizing what he just suggested.
"Uh—yeah. Yeah. I... I guess. Now works," he says, the words tripping over each other.
"Oh. Okay. Great. Um..." You scan the open-concept living area, your eyes darting past the plants and the towering bookshelves. You're searching for a screen, a remote, anything—but the living room seems to be purely for music and reading. There isn't a single TV in sight.
Hongjoong follows your gaze, looking around his own living room as if he’s seeing it for the first time, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable pink. He clears his throat, the sound tight and painfully awkward.
"Right. Uh... the TV is in my room."
Your entire body quite literally short-circuits.
"Oh."
The word hangs pathetically and lonely in the air. Complete silence follows.
Hongjoong practically scrambles to fill it, stuttering as he gestures between the living area, his bedroom, and the door Seonghwa disappeared behind. "Seonghwa and I—we wanted to keep the main area as a place to, you know... talk. Hang out. Not just stare at a screen. It fits the vibe better in here, right? A big black monitor in the middle of all the plants and records would just ruin it."
"Oh. Yeah. I get it," you say, your voice a pitch higher than usual. You nod rapidly, as if the design of his apartment is the most interesting topic in the world. "I agree. A TV would definitely throw it off."
"Exactly. So we both keep our own TVs in our rooms," he rambles, his gaze dropping to the marble.
An agonizingly awkward silence settles over you as Hongjoong starts packing up the notes, slow and uncoordinated. You notice his hands are shaking even worse than before, the paper crinkling under his touch. When every last pen is tucked away, he turns to you hesitantly.
"So. Um. Do you... want to...?"
"Uh... yeah. Sure," you manage. You try to offer a casual smile to smooth over the awkwardness, but it probably looks more like a terrified grimace.
He nods abruptly and stands up, and you follow his lead quickly. "You can just leave your bag out here," he says, nodding to the stool. "Uh... Seonghwa won't touch it or anything."
"Okay."
He clears his throat one more time, his hand hovering near the back of his neck. "Follow me."
Your brain is fully screaming at you to think about what you're doing. What is happening? How did we get here? I'm walking into Hongjoong's room. This was just supposed to be tutoring. I was prepared for the library, not his bedroom. How am I even in his apartment? Why am I following him into his room? What the hell am I doing?
Your fingers are trembling as you clutch your phone, and in a fit of blind panic, you instinctively pull up your text chain with Yunho, grasping for anything that could potentially calm you down.
You: YUNHO!!! Help!!! I'm literally walking into Hongjo
You don’t even have time to finish the sentence because Hongjoong is already reaching for the handle of his bedroom door at the end of the hall. You hit send on the unfinished fragment with a frantic thumb, not even sure what you expect Yunho to do—call the police? Break down the door? But you need someone outside of this moment to know what’s happening—if only to prove to yourself that it’s real.
Hongjoong pushes the door open and steps inside, and you follow.
He pauses just inside, his hand still curled around the handle. For a split second, it looks like he might leave it ajar. Just enough to keep you visible to anyone passing by. To Seonghwa. To keep things explainable. Appropriate. Professional.
It would make sense. There’s no reason to close it. You’re just watching a K-drama.
But then, his eyes flick to you. Something in them shifts, quietly and decisively.
And just like that, his hesitation disappears. Hongjoong shuts the door behind you.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 12.8k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. this has been one of my favorites to write so far, so i hope you all enjoy <3
chapter-specific warnings: swearing, heavy alcohol use, verbal/sexual harassment, crude/derogatory language.
No new notifications.
You've read the same three words so many times today that the phrase is burned into your retinas by the glow of your phone screen. For the past hour, you haven’t moved a muscle from your hollowed-out spot on the couch. In fact, you haven't even left your dorm all day, other than to grab a quick dinner at the dining hall. You glance at the time at the corner of the screen: 9:07 p.m. You've wasted the day away, alternating every few hours between the rumpled sheets of your bed and the cozy cushions of the sofa until your eyes have begun to ache and blur from the relentless exposure to the blue light.
You curl tighter into the corner of the cushions, knees tucked to your chest, and swipe down again to refresh. You watch the little silver wheel spin, and...
No new notifications.
You sigh. Your thumb hovers, already twitching to repeat the process. It’s reached a level of pathetic that you don't even want to acknowledge. A self-imposed loop of agony where you dissect every syllable of that walk home with Hongjoong. Having no classes on Fridays or Saturdays has proven to be a curse; without the structure of a schedule, you've simply let yourself rot in what-ifs. You have a mountain of assignments due, an endless list of vocabulary to memorize, but your motivation is gone: you're stuck wondering if his promise of "sometime this week" was really just a polite way of saying "never again."
You swipe down again.
1 new notification.
You bolt upright, your spine snapping straight as your heart picks up speed. You scramble to unlock the phone, but your Face ID fails—once, then twice—and you're not sure if it's because the lights are turned off or because your expression is too desperate for the sensors to even recognize. You tap the screen with trembling, nervous fingers, punching in your passcode until it finally unlocks.
Your eyes fly to the banner:
Amazon Shopping: Still interested? Korean Grammar in Use: Beginner is an item you recently viewed. Take another look now!
A groan leaves your throat as you hurl the phone onto the cushion beside you. You bury your face in your hands, the heat of your palms pressing against your tired eyes. You know it's humiliating and pathetic to let the lack of a text message dictate your mood, but you want things to move forward. You don't want to take the same two steps back into the safety of the student-tutor routine.
Just as you reach out to retrieve your phone—the masochistic urge to refresh it just one more time already winning—the click of a key in the lock breaks the silence of the room. You whip your head around, frowning as you wait to see which of the two people who possess your spare keys has decided to interrupt you.
As the door swings wide, it turns out you don't have to choose. It’s both.
Yunho bursts through the entrance first, looking effortlessly handsome in a dark button-down and slightly wrinkled pants that suggest he's been ready for at least an hour. Yeosang follows closely behind, his face fixed in a mildly annoyed expression as he checks the watch on his wrist. They both smell like a mixture of the crisp night air and expensive cologne, a scent that makes your current state of wallowing in self-pity feel significantly more dismal.
"San, we're here!" Yunho announces loudly through the small common area. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees you, his eyes sweeping over your oversized hoodie and the nest of blankets you’ve built around yourself.
Yeosang doesn’t even wait to greet you. He looks toward the hallway, his voice echoing. "Is he seriously sleeping? San! If we aren't at that entrance in thirty minutes, we probably aren't getting inside at all!"
You blink, squinting painfully as Yunho flips the overhead light switch, practically blinding you. "He's been asleep since I got back," you mutter, shielding your eyes. "That was two hours ago."
"Are you kidding?" Yeosang groans. He marches straight over to San's door and knocks on it with enough force to rattle the hinges. "San! Get up!"
A muffled, panicked shout erupts from behind the wood, followed by a loud thump that sounds suspiciously like a human body rolling directly onto the floor. A moment later, the door creaks open, and San peeks his head out. His hair is messy, sticking up in all sorts of directions, and his eyes look dazed.
"I'm up!" he insists, though he looks like he's still half-dreaming. "I just needed a quick nap. I need energy if we're gonna be out all night."
"Yeah, well, that strategy is gonna land us a night full of begging people to let us leave our stuff at their table," Yeosang retorts, crossing his arms. "Hurry up. Ten minutes, San. Or we leave you here."
San scrambles back into his room, the sound of dresser drawers slamming following close behind.
Yunho, however, hasn't moved. His full attention is fixed on you. He leans against the back of the sofa, eyes narrowing as he catches the subtle movement of your foot trying to discreetly kick a pillow over the phone you just tossed aside.
"Absolutely not," he says, his voice flat and final.
"I didn't say anything," you mutter, trying to sink deeper into the couch cushions.
"You didn't have to. It's written all over your face. You're still waiting for him to text?"
You frown, rolling your eyes and choosing to turn away from him. You told Yunho about everything that happened during yesterday's study session in the café, but now? You're sincerely regretting doing so.
"____, I say this with love. This is pathetic." You look up at him with a glare as he steps around the couch, nudging your knee with his. "Get up. You're coming with us. There's a new bar opening tonight, it's Saturday, and the anxiety vibrating off you is making me nervous. You need a drink. Or ten."
"I really don't," you resist, sinking back further. "I'm tired. I don't even like bars. It’s going to be loud and sweaty and everyone is going to be on top of each other—"
"And it's going to stop you from staring at a blank screen for the forty-eighth hour in a row," Yeosang chimes in, walking back from San's door and leaning against the living room wall. You shoot Yunho an accusing look, but he just shrugs.
"After everything that's happened in the past week, I'm going to be sharing the details of your love life with Yeosang and San more often. Just in case," Yunho defends. You roll your eyes again, but you can feel yourself starting to cave.
Yeosang nods in agreement. "Even if Hongjoong texts right now, do you really want to be the girl who was just sitting in the dark, rotting, while she waited for it?"
The words sting, and you shoot a second glare toward Yeosang, but his gaze is unimpressed.
"If he wants to text you, he'll text you," Yunho adds, his tone softening but remaining firm. "Staying here won't make it happen faster. It'll just make you more miserable. Now, are you going to get up on your own, or do I have to drag you off this couch myself?"
You look from Yeosang's blunt honesty to Yunho's stubborn insistence, then back down at the pillow where your phone is hidden. They're right. You are being pretty pathetic.
"Fine," you huff, finally swinging your legs over the side of the couch and standing up, grabbing it. Your muscles feel stiffer than you thought they were. "But it's gonna take me way more than ten minutes to look okay again."
Yunho’s face lights up with a triumphant grin that makes you immediately think you should regret your surrender. Yeosang actually chuckles, telling you, "Don't worry about it. You can take as much as thirty, probably. I only said ten so that San would hurry up and put on some pants."
You laugh as you head toward your room. You motion for Yunho to follow so he can act as a second pair of eyes for your closet while you scramble to work on your face. He follows you in, leaning against the doorframe as you plop down at your desk, reaching for your makeup.
The small room is silent for a few minutes, save for the click of your blush palette and the hum of the heater. Yunho begins rummaging through your closet, the hangers clinking together as he slides them along the rail. He’s taking the job seriously, pulling out fabrics and holding them up to the light, but your focus is still elsewhere. Your phone is sitting face-up on the vanity, and every few seconds, your hand instinctively reaches for it.
You tap the screen.
No new notifications.
You apply a quick coat of mascara, then tap the screen again.
No new notifications.
"Okay, two options," Yunho says, turning around. In his left hand, he holds a beaded, asymmetric black top; in his right, a sequined taupe camisole. "It's pretty cold, though, so you'll need a jacket."
You barely glance at him through the mirror, your eyes glued to the reflection of your phone screen. "The black one should be good."
Yunho frowns slightly, tossing the top onto your bed and pulling out two pairs of jeans—one black, one light denim. "And pants? If you do the black ones, you should probably—"
You grab your phone, swiping up to check your notifications for the hundredth time. "Sure, yeah. Black sounds good."
The hangers go still. You hear a heavy sigh, and before you can check your empty lock screen again, a large hand reaches over your shoulder and gently flips the phone face down.
"____, stop."
You look up through the mirror, meeting Yunho’s reflection. He isn't smiling anymore.
"I know a lot has happened this week," he says softly, his hand lingering near the phone as if to guard you from it. "And I know how badly you want that text. But for just one night, try to forget about it. You're stressing yourself out for no reason. Please?"
You realize how much energy you're wasting on waiting for a text from someone who might not even be looking at his phone right now. You let out a long breath and finally set the phone at the very edge of the desk, away from your reach.
"Okay," you say, giving him a small, tired nod. "I'll try."
"Good." Yunho's grin returns. He holds up the black jeans again. "Now, look at these jeans and tell me if they'll look right with the top. I'm really just pulling stuff at random."
You laugh, shaking your head. "I'm sure they'll look fine, Yunho. You have better taste than I do."
You take the clothes from him, retreating to the corner of the room to swap your oversized hoodie for the beaded top and the black denim. After sliding into a pair of kitten heels that give you just enough height to be visible to your friends in a crowd, you return to the vanity, nodding with satisfaction when you see the girl in the mirror starting to look decent again.
As you start sectioning off your hair to get all the knots out of it, Yunho hovers nearby, leaning against the dresser. He’s quiet for a second, watching you work, before he clears his throat. "Oh, by the way. I invited Mingi, too. He should be meeting us there later."
Your hands pause mid-air. A wave of guilt suddenly washes over you. Between the spiral of waiting for Hongjoong and the dark cloud named Wooyoung you’ve been living under all week, you realize you haven’t checked in on Yunho once. You hadn't even asked how his talk with Mingi went.
You drop your arms, looking at him through the mirror with wide, apologetic eyes. "I'm a terrible friend. I never even asked—how did it go? Did you give him the snacks? Did you talk to him?"
Yunho lets out a chuckle, waving off your apology with a flick of his wrist. "You’re not a terrible friend. Honestly, with everything you’ve had going on this week, I would’ve been concerned if you did find a second to ask about it."
He moves closer, leaning against your desk now, his expression warming as he thinks back. "But yeah. I did what you suggested. I gave him everything and just told him that I wanted to take things more seriously."
You turn in your chair, completely abandoning your hair for a moment, your eyes searching his. "And?"
A slow, boyish grin spreads across Yunho's face, and for a second, he actually looks a little shy. "And... yeah. It was good. It wasn't too much. I didn't overwhelm him, at least." He pauses, his gaze dropping to his shoes before snapping back to yours. "He agreed. He said he wanted us to be serious, too."
You break into a grin, nudging his shoulder lightly. "Yunho! I told you it would work! So, does that mean you're, like, official now?"
He ducks his head, a faint dusting of pink creeping up his neck, but the pride in his smile is unmistakable. "Yeah... yeah, we are."
You giggle at his embarrassment. "I'm happy for you," you say, and you truly mean it. Your heart swells for your best friend; he deserves that kind of certainty with the man he likes. But as you turn back to the mirror to finish your hair, a quiet, bittersweet ache settles in your chest.
Will it ever be that simple for me?
For Yunho, the path was pretty much a straight line: you have feelings, you buy the gift, you say the words, and you get your answer. But as you think about Hongjoong, about the cryptic silences, the unanswered texts, and the confusing tension, you start to realize things will never be that easy for the two of you.
You finish your hair and start shoving all your makeup back inside your drawers, slamming them shut. You look over at your phone, still face down on the edge of the desk, but quickly avert your eyes before the urge to check it can win.
"Okay," you say, standing up and smoothing out your jeans, forcing a bright smile for him. "Let's go make me a third wheel."
Yunho laughs, looping an arm around your shoulders and tugging you toward the door with a playful squeeze. "Trust me. Official or not, Mingi’s still the one who’s going to be third-wheeling us."
Yeosang's car is technically a five-seater, but it feels half that size with the four of you packed inside. The scent of three distinct colognes and your own perfume swirling together in the confined space is enough to cause a headache, and to make things worse, you're shoved into the cramped backseat next to San—practically a broad-shouldered wall of muscle that takes up more than his fair share of the bench.
"I said ten minutes, San," Yeosang says from behind the wheel. His eyes are fixed on the road, but his voice is dripping with dry judgment. "You took thirty-four. I watched the clock."
"I had to find the right socks!" San defends himself, shifting so much next to you that the leather seats creak. He’s a complete 180 from the sleepy mess who rolled onto the floor earlier; now, he’s practically vibrating with newfound energy. "The ones I'm wearing match the buttons on this shirt. I needed them."
You can't help but laugh, pressing yourself closer to the window to get another inch of space. "Thirty-four minutes just for socks? I literally did a full face of makeup, and I still beat you to the door."
"It's a longer process than you think!" he protests, looking genuinely offended. "There's my skincare, getting my hair right, picking my outfit, everything."
"San, I'm gonna be honest with you. Tonight's outfit really just looks like you were running thirty-four minutes late," Yunho chimes in from the shotgun seat, glancing back with a teasing grin.
"Agreed. Not your best work," Yeosang mutters. He takes a turn that sends you sliding hard into a frowning San’s shoulder. "An outfit that probably cost us a table and the first round of drinks."
The banter bounces around the car, and for a few minutes, the easy laughter is enough to fill the gaps in your thoughts. But as Yeosang shushes everyone to navigate a particularly busy intersection, the car settles into a brief lull. Your hand, acting on a muscle memory you haven't quite broken, slips into your purse.
You slide your phone out, keeping it low against your thigh. The screen stays dark, but you just want to check. Just one tap.
Just as your thumb reaches for the glass, a passing streetlamp catches the screen, reflecting the light. In the rearview mirror, you see Yunho shift. He twists around in his seat, not saying a word, but simply raising one eyebrow, his expression screaming: I'm disappointed, but not surprised.
Your heart does a guilty little hop. "Oops," you mutter, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Habit."
You pointedly drop the phone back into your bag, closing it.
"Habit's just a nicer word for addiction, you know," Yeosang remarks, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror for a split second. "We’re less than a minute away. If that phone comes out again before you have a drink in your hand, it's going in the glove box. And I'll lock it."
"He'll do it, too," San confirms, leaning closer to the middle of the car. "He did it to me once when I kept playing Clash Royale on the way to get pizza. I didn't get it back until we were on the way home."
You let out a breathy laugh, finally leaning your head back against the seat. "Okay, Mom. I get it. No more phone."
"Good," Yunho says, reaching back to give your knee a supportive pat. "Just relax and forget about him tonight. Now, look. We're here."
Yeosang kills the engine as he maneuvers the car onto a patch of dry, uneven grass at the far edge of the lot. The designated spaces have long since been filled by a sea of metal and haphazardly parked SUVs. It's opening night, and while you expected a crowd, this is an introvert's nightmare.
"Is the entire city here?" Yunho asks, leaning forward to peer through the windshield at the number of people pushing to get inside. "How are this many people supposed to fit into that tiny building? It’s gonna be standing room only. And barely that."
"Great," Yeosang sighs, though there's a spark of challenge in his eyes as he pockets his keys. "Maybe if we'd left thirty-four minutes earlier, we'd at least have an actual spot to park in."
San opens his mouth to fire back a retort, but the sound is cut short by the synchronized thud of Yeosang and Yunho laughing and slamming their doors shut. You look at your roommate, shaking your head in mock pity before grinning and following them out into the cold, pulling your jacket over your arms.
The moment your feet hit the ground, the muffled thump of the bass vibrates through the soles of your shoes. The air outside is cold, but it’s charged with the energy of the massive crowd funneling toward the entrance. The horde of strangers and the roar of a thousand overlapping voices is overwhelming, and you suddenly feel like shrinking back into the quiet safety of the backseat.
San must have sensed your hesitation, because before you can even take a full step ahead, he's there, draping an arm over your shoulders. He pulls you closer to his side, acting as a barrier against the growing mob.
"Stay close to us tonight," he says, his voice losing the playful edge it had in the car. He leans closer to be heard over the rising music. "Don’t let any weird guys come up to you. We're not doing a repeat of last time. Tonight is about having fun and leaving all of Wooyoung's bullshit behind."
Just outside the front door, he comes to a halt. His dark eyes scan the perimeter before softening as they land back on you. "If any guy won't take a hint, tell them I’m your boyfriend. I’ll handle it, okay?"
You let out a soft laugh, the knot of tension in your chest loosening. "I think I’m more than capable of handling myself, San."
You try to play it off as a joke, but as you look up at him, the sincerity in his expression makes you feel much safer than you did two minutes ago.
"I mean it," he adds, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before finally letting go.
The moment the four of you push through the entrance, you realize just how packed the building really is. The music is so loud it rattles your ribcage, making it impossible to hear anything but the relentless beat. There's barely any standing room, let alone a clear path to the bar.
Tables are scattered across what used to be a dance floor, but they aren't being used for drinks; people are standing on top of them, cheering and dancing recklessly. The actual bar is buried under a three-person-deep swarm of bodies, so crowded you can’t even catch a quick glimpse of the bartenders. It feels more like a frat party than an opening night, which is exactly the kind of environment you usually avoid. The space is already small enough to begin with, and with the sheer volume of drunk, sweaty people crammed into every available square inch, you start to feel claustrophobic.
Fortunately for you, Yeosang seems to be on a mission. He immediately begins to carve a path through the crowd, ignoring the indignant shoves of guys and the drunken protests of girls whose personal space he's invaded. You quickly fall into step behind him, followed closely by San, with Yunho at the rear.
You spot it first: a small, semi-circular booth tucked near the far perimeter, right where the sticky floor of the dance area meets the dark wood buffer of the bar. It’s a miracle it’s still empty, though it's likely because the previous occupants were just swallowed by the growing mosh pit. You instantly hook your fingers around Yeosang’s elbow, steering him in its direction before anyone else can claim it.
The booth is still very much in the middle of the chaos, but it offers a few inches of breathing room. More importantly, it offers a somewhat safe place to leave your belongings.
"I'll take it," Yeosang says with a nod of satisfaction. He slides into the far corner of the curve, with Yunho and San on either side. You take your spot on the very edge next to San, preferring the end—more air, less sweat, and a clear view of the neon exit sign just in case your claustrophobia ends up becoming too overwhelming.
Yunho, however, stands right back up, tossing his wallet carelessly on the table after pulling out a few twenties. You can tell he's in his element. The heat and the noise that usually drain your battery only seem to fuel his. He grins down at the three of you, already scanning the three-person-deep barricade at the bar like it's nothing.
"Stay here! I'll be right back!" he shouts over a sudden beat drop. "First round is on me. The next five are on San!"
"Hell no they're not!" San objects instantly as you reach forward, catching the edge of Yunho's sleeve before he can get away.
"Yunho, wait." Your heart does a little anxious flutter as you look up at your best friend. "Actually come back this time. Don't get distracted."
Your mind is racing back through the countless nights out where Yunho had promised to "be right back" with a tray of shots, only to end up disappearing completely. You'd usually find him in the dead center of the floor three hours later, hair soaked with sweat and shirt half-unbuttoned, surrounded by total strangers and completely oblivious to the fact that you were thirsty and worried. Tonight, with how crowded the place is, the thought of him going missing feels less like a funny memory and more like actual danger.
But Yunho is Yunho. He flashes you an over-the-shoulder wink that he knows you can't stay mad at. "No promises!"
Then he's gone, his tall frame swallowed by the sea of college students in an instant. You sigh and turn to the two men you're left alone in the booth with. In this environment, San and Yeosang are complete polar opposites: San is sitting with perfect posture, his chest puffed out as he watches the crowd with a restless energy, his fingers drumming excitedly against the sticky tabletop. Meanwhile, next to him, Yeosang has his head leaned back against the leather seat, looking around with a frown.
"This is really more crowded than I thought it'd be," Yeosang says flatly, his voice surprisingly clear over the roar of the speakers.
San shifts his weight as he leans forward, grinning. "It's perfect," he counters, an eager glint in his eyes. "The more people there are, the easier it is to get lost in the music and have a good time. Right, ____?"
You level a sharp side-eye at him, a look that says you absolutely do not agree.
His smile only broadens, his eyes crinkling with infuriating amusement. "Come on, look at everyone having fun!" he laughs, pointing toward the churning crowd of bodies ahead of you. "Stop being so serious. Both of you. After the first drink, you won't even notice the crowd."
Yeosang offers a slow, skeptical blink, his head still tilted against the back of the booth. "If you say so," he murmurs.
Suddenly, a passing stranger's elbow clips your shoulder, causing you to jump and quickly recoil, looking around with an irritated frown. San pretends not to notice, leaning over to jab an insistent finger into Yeosang’s arm.
"I do say so," he insists, undeterred.
While San is busy trying to poke Yeosang into having fun, you take advantage of the momentary distraction. Slipping your hand into your bag, your fingers find the cold glass of your phone. You slowly slide it out, keeping it hidden well below the line of the tabletop, the screen lighting up in your lap. You frantically swipe the brightness down as you squint your eyes, reading:
No new notifications.
Impatience begins to spike in your chest. It's only Saturday, you internally reason. He said he'd text me sometime next week. Not this early.
But your doubt persists over reason. Forty-eight hours is plenty of time for a man to overthink. Plenty of time for him to realize that starting to officially cross the line between a professional relationship and this—whatever this unspoken thing is—is a mistake. The thought of retreating to square one prickles genuine irritation in your gut. You're getting tired of all the pretending.
"You're not as slick as you think you are, you know."
You jump, nearly dropping your phone to the floor before clumsily pinning it face down against your thigh. You look up to find Yeosang's knowing gaze fixed directly on you.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you say, feigning a look of innocence.
"Right. Because the lock screen-colored light coming from your lap is part of the female anatomy," he counters, his tone bone-dry.
San tries to hold in his laughter as he ducks his head, peeking under the table at your white-knuckled grip on your phone. "You're seriously checking it again? We haven't even been here for ten minutes!"
"I was just responding to a friend!" you say, slightly proud of how easily the lie slipped out.
Yeosang doesn't blink. "____, your entire social circle is currently sitting in this booth."
"Hey! That's both offensive and not true!" you shoot back, narrowing your eyes.
San's grin turns mischievous, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "Yeah, Yeosang, give her some credit. Yunho's technically over at the bar."
The two of them devolve into a fit of giggles as you press your lips into a thin, hard line, fighting the traitorous urge to join in.
"I have a life outside of you three!" you insist, though your voice is shaky with threatening laughter.
"Name one," Yeosang challenges, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. "Name one person, excluding the three of us, who would be texting you at eleven on a Saturday night."
Your mouth opens, a protest ready to fly. "I—"
Graciously, you're saved from having to invent an imaginary friend by Yunho suddenly plopping down into the booth. He's breathing hard, a few strands of hair already damp and clinging to his temples. Despite the havoc he just navigated through, he's miraculously balancing four full condensation-slicked glasses in his large hands.
"No shots?" San asks, his bottom lip jutting out in a little pout as Yunho begins sliding a different, colorful concoction in front of each person.
"You're not allowed to complain. I nearly had to throw hands with some guy when I asked for them," Yunho explains, shaking his head. "Complete asshole. Claimed he was there before me while literally standing a foot behind my shoulder. The bartender told me they were out of clean shot glasses anyway, so I had to guess what you'd like. Funnily enough, the guy started swearing at me in Korean—probably assumed I didn't understand a word."
Yunho’s lips quirk into a little smirk, proving he's more entertained than upset. You look suspiciously at the glass he sets in front of you. It's a murky, iridescent violet, the ice cubes clicking softly against the rim as you lift it to your nose. It smells like a blend of gin and something more tangy.
"What did he say?" Yeosang probes, already halfway through his own drink in one impressive gulp.
Yunho grins, taking a sip of his own. "Called me a 씨발 새끼."
A laugh jumps out of your throat as you set your glass back down without taking a sip, the only other person at the table who doesn't need a translation.
"The hell does that mean?" San asks, his head whipping between you and Yunho.
"It means Yunho's a fucking son of a bitch," you translate too happily for the meaning, still giggling.
All three of them break into laughter as Yunho continues his play-by-play. "Then he went on this whole rant about how he just wanted to get his roommate shots for finally leaving their apartment, and how I was ruining his night. There was more, too, but I couldn't translate it all on the fly." He pauses to take another sip. "I just let him have the last tray of shots. Wasn't worth the drama."
Yeosang nods, wiping condensation from his thumb. "We'll get some later. No point in catching a charge over it."
"Right. He did have nice hair, though," Yunho adds, looking back towards the bar like he'll catch sight of the man again. "Long, silky, dark..."
"You sure you didn't wanna ask for his number instead of fighting him?" San grins.
"He's a taken man now, San," you interject lightly. "No more hookups for Yunho."
"Not that he was exactly racking up the numbers anyway," Yeosang comments dryly, dodging the playful punch Yunho throws at his arm.
The table dissolves into bickering, and you finally take a hesitant sip of your drink. It hits your tongue with a burst of blackberry and a surprising spicy finish of ginger. It's absolutely delicious.
But the taste triggers a memory you don't necessarily want to relive: the blur of a different bar, where your third drink of the night just appeared in front of you. You stared at it, then at him, feeling the heat of the room rise.
The image flickers behind your eyes. Wooyoung’s hand slides drink after drink toward you, each one more tailored to your palate than the last, while his eyes watch for your reaction with that smug, satisfied grin—
No.
You take a much longer, more desperate gulp of the drink Yunho brought, letting the icy liquid numb your throat and douse the memory. Tonight wasn’t about Wooyoung nor Hongjoong. You wash the memory away, turning back to the conversation your friends are having.
"What's in this drink, Yunho?" Yeosang questions, his nose wrinkling as he squints his eyes at it. "There's so much sugar."
"For you, I just asked for something with a lot of grenadine," Yunho laughs, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. "I went easy on you and ____. San, on the other hand, is pretty much drinking jet fuel. He'll be dancing on a table in no time."
As his name is mentioned, San suddenly stands up, nudging your shoulder to usher you out of the booth so he can squeeze past. "I gotta warm up first," he retorts, smoothing down his shirt. "Now, who am I gonna have to fight over there to get a second round?"
The air of the dance floor is filled with the overwhelming haze of cologne, sweat, and spilled beer. Usually, the proximity of so many bodies would have you running for the exit, but the two drinks you’ve managed to down have softened the edges of your anxiety, turning the crushing crowd into background noise.
Yunho lasted exactly two and a half songs before his height gave him a clear view of Mingi across the room. With a celebratory shout that was swallowed by the bass, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you stuck between San's energy and Yeosang's surprisingly fluid movements.
While San jumps around, shouting out half-remembered lyrics and pulling startled strangers in to sing along, you and Yeosang are content to stay in your own bubble. You're both swaying loosely, a rare, relaxed smile playing on your lips as you sip your third drink of the night. He stays glued to your side, his shoulder bumping yours every couple of beats to keep you from being swept away by passing groups of rowdy students.
But even with the music thumping in your chest, you can't stop feeling a phantom vibration in your pocket every now and then.
Taking a quick sip of your drink, you use your free hand to slip your phone out. You keep it low, squinting through the darkness to read.
No new notifications.
You sigh softly, not surprised in the slightest. Before you can lock the screen, Yeosang's slender hand reaches out and gently plucks the device from your fingers. Without a word, he slides the phone back into your jeans pocket and taps it twice, as if sealing it shut.
Through his jumping, San somehow notices. He lets out a loud, "Hey!" and lunges forward, grabbing your free wrist and spinning you into the center of their little circle. He whirls you around with a dimpled grin so infectious that you can't help the bubble of laughter that finally breaks through your chest.
For a while, you truly do forget about everything. The three of you dance like idiots, a mess of tangled limbs and spilled ice, shouting over the music and laughing together.
But the mayhem of the bar eventually does what it does best. A group of girls in birthday sashes suddenly swarm San, shrieking when they recognize him from class. At the same time, some guy even taller than Yunho stumbles between you and Yeosang, splitting your little circle apart. In the shuffle of the shifting crowd, you find yourself pushed closer to the bar area—not secluded enough to be alone, but suddenly more off to the side, where the laughter of your friends is lost to the bodies now standing between you.
You take a tentative half-step back to dodge a more reckless group of dancers, but your heel suddenly snags on someone's shoe. You stumble, the liquid in your glass sloshing over the rim and landing squarely on a dark sleeve.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" you gasp, the alcohol in your system making your voice a pitch higher than usual. You reach out instinctively, hovering your hand over the damp fabric of the stranger's jacket. "I can make it up to you—let me find some napkins, or—"
The man turns, and the words instantly die in your throat. He's striking, with sharp, elegant features and a pair of soft, deep eyes that quite honestly make your legs feel weak. He's dressed in a dark, textured denim jacket over a black shirt, looking polished among the disheveled crowd. But it's his hair that truly catches your attention: long, dark, and silky, just slightly brushing the tops of his shoulders. He looks like he could be a model.
You freeze. The hair... It's so distinctive. And it's exactly how Yunho described the man he fought with earlier.
Could this possibly be him?
But the man doesn't look angry in the slightest. Instead, he pauses, his gaze unabashedly sweeping over you, making a flush creep up your neck. When his eyes finally settle back on yours, a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"It's all right. Don't worry about the napkins," he says, his voice surprisingly soft and velvety over the roar of the music. He pauses, watching you with curiosity. "But you could make it up to me by joining me for a dance?"
You blink, your tipsy brain struggling to keep pace. You left San and Yeosang for all of ten seconds and have already been intercepted by—not to mention flirted with—a stranger who looks like he just came straight from the runway. He's confident, yet there’s a gentleness in his posture that feels strangely calming.
"I—" you start, but the words blur together in your head. You let out a small, airy laugh, the alcohol stripping away your usual filters. "What's your name?"
"Seonghwa," he replies, his smile deepening until it reaches his eyes.
"Seonghwa," you repeat, letting the syllables roll off your tongue. It feels elegant. You glance around, noticing the empty space surrounding him. "Why are you here all alone, Seonghwa?"
"I brought a friend," he says softly, his shoulder shifting in a slight shrug. "But he doesn't like to dance much."
You raise an eyebrow, his situation sounding eerily similar to your own. "If he’s not a dancer, why drag him to a place like this on a Saturday night?"
"He never leaves our apartment," Seonghwa explains, entertained by your questions. "I have to force him out into the world sometimes."
Ha, you think, the realization dawning. This is definitely the guy from Yunho's story.
A part of you wants to laugh—to run back to the booth and tell Yunho that his "complete asshole" at the bar is actually a soft-spoken charmer. But you stay. You're allowed to talk to a handsome stranger, aren't you? You're not here to stress about your love life. You're just a girl in a bar, enjoying a conversation with a man who seems genuinely interested in what you have to say.
"Trust me, I know the type," you say, leaning in closer so he doesn't have to raise his voice. "My friends had to drag me out of my room tonight, too."
"Is that right? Well, at least you're actually out here," Seonghwa says, his dark eyes sparkling. "My friend is tucked away at a table in the back, probably still staring at his screen. He’s a bit of a perfectionist. He doesn't know how to shut his brain off, even in a place like this."
You smile, the description hitting a little too close to home. "Is he working?"
"Working?" Seonghwa chuckles, shaking his head as he takes a small step closer. "That's the million-dollar question. He's spent the past two days staring at his phone. He’ll type something out, delete it, sigh, and start all over again. I assumed it was an assignment, but I really have no clue. I finally told him that if he didn't put the phone down and come get a drink, I was going to throw the thing off our balcony."
A sudden heat, one that has nothing to do with the alcohol, rises to your cheeks. You think of your own phone, silently hidden in your pocket. Maybe Seonghwa would think you're just as pathetic as his friend if he knew what you'd been stressing about all night. "Wow," you murmur. "He sounds very dedicated."
"That's one way to put it," he agrees, nodding. He makes a show of looking around before he drops his voice to a conspiratorial murmur as if he’s sharing a secret he's scared of his friend overhearing. "I’ve never seen him quite like this. If you ask me, something threw him off balance this week. He’s been a restless mess since Friday morning."
He offers you his hand. His fingers are long and elegant, and the way he looks at you—with such undivided, soft attention—makes you blush again.
"But enough about my roommate. I didn't come over here to talk about him," he says, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before meeting your eyes again. "I came over because I saw a pretty girl who looked like she needed some help having a good time."
You look down at his hand, your heart racing. Seonghwa is captivating—charming, funny, and handsome enough that you want to say yes just to see where the night goes. But is it fair? Is it right to dance with him when you've spent the whole night stressing about Hongjoong? Would this just be another mistake, another distraction, the same thing that happened with—
Buzz.
The magnetic thread pulling you toward Seonghwa violently snaps.
You freeze, your breath hitching as your free hand flies to your pocket. A dangerous hope flares in your chest. Is it him? Is it finally Hongjoong?
Your movements are frantic and uncoordinated as you pull your phone out. In this moment, you don't really notice or really even care that you're being rude to the man waiting for your answer; your entire world has narrowed to the notification you just received. Your wide eyes lock onto the screen:
Wooyoung: I need to talk to you.
Your heart skips a beat. A cold, sickening sense of dread fills your lungs. You stare at the name, the letters blurring as your mind reels. The high of Seonghwa's company evaporates instantly, replaced by a visceral, pulsing anxiety. You feel paralyzed, caught in a situation you thought you’d left in the past.
"Is everything okay?" Seonghwa's soft voice pulls you out of your thoughts, his brow furrowing as he watches the color drain from your face. He’s still waiting there, hand half-extended, his elegant features now clouded with concern.
Before you can even force a lie past your lips, your phone buzzes again.
Wooyoung: Where are you right now?
You suddenly feel the urge to hide, to disappear into the crowd, the bathroom, the floorboards, anywhere but here. Your fingers tremble as you shove the phone back into your jeans. Ignore it, you command yourself. This is a night for forgetting. San, Yeosang, and Yunho are all here with you. You're completely fine.
You look back at Seonghwa, forcing an apologetic smile. "Yeah," you breathe, wiping your sweaty palms on your jeans. "It's fine. Just work. I'm sorry." You look down at his outstretched hand again, wanting to attempt to reclaim the moment, to let him pull you away from Wooyoung, but the atmosphere is now gone.
Buzz.
The third vibration sends a shock of panic through your nervous system. Why now? Why tonight? Why is this suddenly happening? Why is he texting you out of nowhere, after almost a week? How is it possible that he waited for the exact moment you let your guard down to remind you of what you left behind with him?
You draw a shaky breath, all but forgetting about Seonghwa yet again as you pull your phone out one last time, your vision barely able to focus.
Wooyoung: Ignoring me?
Wooyoung: Look to your left.
If there was ever a moment in your life where your heart fully stopped, it's this one. A cold sweat breaks out across your skin, and your neck feels stiff as you slowly begin the agonizing pivot of your head. You scan the bar, your eyes cutting through the mass of swaying, oblivious bodies, until your eyes lock onto exactly what they're terrified of.
There, dressed in all black, perched at the edge of the bar, leaning back with a drink in his hand, is Wooyoung.
A girl you've never seen before is leaning into him, her mouth moving with an animated desperation to be heard, but he is utterly focused on you. Even across the distance, you can read his expression easily: a blend of wounded pride and bitter jealousy. He isn't only watching you, he’s watching the man you're standing next to.
Panic hits you. The guilt you've been suppressing for days surges up, mixing with a sudden, overwhelming sense of nausea. The walls of the building feel like they're closing in, your claustrophobia and anxiety twisting together until it's hard to breathe. It's all too overwhelming. You break eye contact, immediately looking around for the nearest exit. You need to get out of here. Now.
"I—I’m so sorry," you stammer, turning back to a bewildered Seonghwa. You practically shove your drink into his hands, the liquid sloshing over his fingers. "I have to—could you hold this for me? I’m so sorry about your jacket."
"Wait—" Seonghwa catches the glass with a startled reflex, his eyes wide as he reaches out to steady you. "Is everything—wait, I didn't get your name!"
"I'm sorry!" you call out, the words probably inaudible to him as you spin away on your heel.
His voice is lost to the blaring speakers as you hurry into the crowd, your ears ringing. You don’t look back at the bar to see if Wooyoung has stood up. You don't stop to look around for San or Yeosang or Yunho. You don’t look to see if Seonghwa is still watching you.
You aim for the front of the building, but the instinct to hide in the bathroom dies as quickly as it was born—Wooyoung would expect you to run there. Instead, you make the split-second decision of rushing through the exit doors, the frigid night air shocking your sweat-slicked skin.
You scramble toward the side of the building, ignoring how you're jacketless and shivering because it's absolutely nothing in comparison to the hammering of your heart.
After you round the corner, the bar's thumping music finally dissolves into a muffled thud against the alley's damp brick. You practically collapse back against the wall, your eyes snapping shut as you struggle to breathe in the frigid air.
Of course he's here. It's the newest spot in the city; it was arrogant, borderline delusional, to be so utterly unprepared to run into him.
But as your shock finally begins to recede, a million uneasy questions take its place. What does he want? There wasn't a trace of warmth in those texts, and the look he gave you from across the bar was even colder. Is he here to apologize? Or is he looking for a way to settle the score after you'd so thoroughly bruised his ego? To your anxious mind, the latter feels almost certain.
You fumble for your phone and attempt to call all three of your friends, but the effort is futile. No responses. Last time you saw San and Yeosang, they were completely lost in the music and their drinks, and there's no chance Yunho even knows where his phone is at this stage of the night, especially if he's with Mingi. But going back inside means risking a collision with Wooyoung—or worse, dragging Seonghwa's kindness into the middle of it. You're trapped outside, pinned by your own indecision.
"Running away? Am I really that scary?"
The sudden voice does in fact scare you, making you jump so violently that your shoulder blades hit against the brick. Your eyes fly open. Wooyoung is standing just a few feet away at the corner of the building, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket.
He looks identical to the night you met—the same leather jacket and hairstyle—but the energy rolling off him has changed. His playful, seductive magnetism is gone, replaced by what feels dangerously like anger.
Wooyoung takes a slow step towards you. Your heels scrape against the pavement as you recoil, pressing your spine harder against the wall until there’s nowhere left to go.
He stops, his lips twisting into a scoff as he rolls his eyes at you. "Relax," he says dryly. "I just wanna talk."
"Talk about what?" you manage to ask, your voice thin. You shift, a cautious attempt to put more space between your bodies. "I don't think there's anything left to say, Wooyoung."
"You don’t?" Another scoff breaks from his throat. He shakes his head as he looks away from you, off into the distance of the dark alley. "I don’t know about you, but I’m personally not the biggest fan of where we left things."
You both go silent. You search his face, wondering: Is this the prelude to his apology? Or is he baiting you, waiting for you to fill the hush with an apology of your own?
His eyes snap back to yours. He looks over your body, tracking your shoulders' involuntary trembling from the cold. With a small huff that puffs white into the air, he shrugs off his jacket, leaving him in nothing but a black t-shirt. He holds it out to you.
"Here," he says flatly, looking at you expectantly.
You stare at the jacket, then at him, confused.
He rolls his eyes and motions the jacket forward again. "You're shivering. Just put it on."
You gulp before reluctantly reaching out and taking it from him. His body heat is still radiating off the leather as you slide your arms into the sleeves. He sighs, jamming his hands into his jeans pockets and leaning against the wall next to you, turning his profile to you as he stares at the rusted chain-link fence across the way.
"I'm sorry I left you there," he says quietly. Your head whips toward him, eyebrows arching, but he refuses to meet your eyes. "I’ve been trying to think of what to say to you for days. All I could come up with is that I was an asshole. I just thought you wanted everything. I thought you felt the same way I did."
When he finally turns, he pins you with a stare so intense it makes your throat ache. But he doesn't continue. He's said all he wanted to.
You aren't naive; you can tell what he wants. He's waiting for a "me too." He's waiting for you to tell him you made a mistake, that your "boring" life isn't for you, and that you truly do belong in his world.
You aren't falling for it this time.
"We already had this conversation, Wooyoung," you say, taking a shaky breath. He stares at you, his expression blank. "I’m sorry that I hurt you. I’m sorry I made my feelings seem... different than they were."
You pause, choosing your words carefully, knowing you're walking a thin line between honesty and unnecessary cruelty.
"I like you," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "You're confident, and you're fun. And somehow..." A faint laugh catches in your throat. "I even like that your ego is ten times the size of anyone else's. You really do make me feel free. And it does feel good to just... let go sometimes."
Wooyoung's eyes flicker, a spark of hope—or perhaps just pride—igniting.
"But," you whisper.
The spark immediately dies, extinguished by a single syllable.
"Every time I let go, I end up feeling worse about myself afterward. I'm not like you, Wooyoung. I like having control. I find peace in the safety of a plan. I’m not a project for you to fix. I don't want to become another version of you. I never want to change who I am just to fit into someone's life."
You search his face for a sign of emotion, but there's nothing there. He's standing there like a shell of the Wooyoung you know: the same body, but a new, terrifying stillness.
"I'm sorry that I hurt you," you continue softly. You drop your gaze to your feet, unable to bear staring into his eyes any longer. "But I stand by what I said."
Silence crashes over you again. Wooyoung goes quiet, looking back ahead towards the fence absently. You stand rooted to the spot, holding your breath, waiting nervously for his reaction. Had you been too harsh? Not harsh enough?
After what feels like an eternity, he pushes off the wall, slowly turning to face you. He looks down at his shoes for a heartbeat before snapping his gaze to yours, terrifyingly calm.
"I don't usually do this," he says, his voice dropping to that same low register he used the night he kicked you out of his car. "I don't chase people. But I really tried with you. I gave you my best, ____. And I was under the impression that I was doing a pretty good fucking job of it."
He takes a step closer, his shadow stretching and swallowing yours. You feel your heart sink into the pit of your stomach as he looks down at you. "So tell me one thing. Honestly."
You can only nod, your heart racing.
"Did you want him the whole time?"
Wooyoung doesn't even need to say his name.
Of course he still thinks it's all about Hongjoong. You're beginning to think he's blind to the possibility that a woman could simply not want him. Yet... he isn't entirely wrong. You did want Hongjoong. The only difference is that in the beginning, it was more of a quiet longing for something you thought was surely impossible; by the end, you realized that even if Hongjoong didn't exist, it wouldn't make you and Wooyoung any more compatible.
You blink at him, feeling small under his perceptive gaze. He had always been able to read you with a terrifying accuracy, and the fear that a lie would only ignite his temper further keeps the words trapped in your throat. You need to tell him the truth, but a version of it that won't hurt his pride.
"I don't have a good answer for that," you whisper honestly. "He... he was always on my mind, yes. But you knew that. San told you about him the very night we met."
Wooyoung lets out a raw, ugly laugh. "He wasn't fucking competition. Never in my life—" He chokes off the sentence with a scoff of disbelief, his head shaking bitterly. "Never in my life did I think I'd have to worry about some fucking tutor. What is it? Does the 'nice guy' act actually work on you? I gave you too much credit. I thought you were too smart to fall for that shit."
You freeze. The volume of his voice is rising with each word; you clearly miscalculated your answer. Wooyoung is too angry to talk things out rationally, whether you tell him the truth or not. This conversation isn't going anywhere. "Wooyoung, I don't think this is—"
"And what about that guy inside?" he interrupts, motioning toward the bar's entrance as his voice gains a new crazed edge. "Things didn't work out with the tutor, huh? You move on that fast?"
You flinch, stuttering. "H—He had nothing to do with—"
"Answer my fucking question, ____!" His shout cracks the silence of the alley, and you go still. He doesn't move any closer to you, but the force of his voice feels like a shove nonetheless. "Did you want him the whole time? Yes or no?"
"It's not that simple!" you argue back, your hand swiftly slipping into your pocket. Your fingers curl around your phone. Even though he stays rooted to his spot, you take another nervous step back. You silently hope that if you end up needing to call for help, at least one of your friends will pick up.
"I didn't think anything was possible with him," you admit, your voice trembling. "But I knew... Well, you made it clear that you wanted me. Yeosang warned me that you didn't do relationships. I didn't think you'd ever... become serious about me."
"So because of what Yeosang said about me, you just fucking used me?" Wooyoung's eyes go wild, a mix of rage and a bleeding wound he can't hide. "I was what? A distraction? You used me to have some fun while you waited for him because you didn't think I'd actually like you?"
You flinch as if he's just slapped you.
He's right.
You admitted the same truth to Yunho just days earlier. You did use him. You tried to drown your feelings for Hongjoong in Wooyoung, and it became the core of your guilt for days.
"Wooyoung... I..." The words die in your throat. You reach for a defense, a justification, something, but all you can think of is the hard reality of your own selfishness. "I didn't mean to—"
"What the hell? What are you doing out here?"
You look past Wooyoung's shoulder as he whips around, and you see them—San and Yeosang, side-by-side near the corner of the building. San is storming down the alley, looking nearly twice his usual size. Beside him, Yeosang walks with a slower deliberation, his eyes locked on Wooyoung with suspicion.
San doesn't slow down. He marches straight up to Wooyoung, planting himself so close their chests nearly collide. Without a word of greeting, he brings a hand up, shoving Wooyoung’s shoulder with enough force to send the smaller man stumbling back a half-step.
"You've got some nerve cornering her out here after what you did," San sneers with a protective fury you've never heard from him before.
Wooyoung doesn't back down. If anything, the physical contact only riles him up more. He squares his shoulders, his own expression twisting. "After what I did?" he repeats, his voice cracking with indignation. "What about what she did?"
A vein pulses in San's temple, and for a second, you think he's going to hit him. San is obviously wasted, and the alcohol has stripped away all of his patience.
"What she did?" he practically growls, his eyes flashing. "Are you fucking kidding me? You left her in the middle of nowhere, Woo! Alone, in the dark, in the middle of a goddamn parking lot!"
"I texted you to come get her!" Wooyoung retorts, throwing his hands up defensively. "You had her location! She was fine! I knew you'd come!"
"And if I didn't?" San reaches forward, his fingers curling into the collar of Wooyoung's shirt. He bunches the fabric in his fist, hoisting it upward until Wooyoung is forced onto the balls of his feet. "If I hadn’t looked at my phone? If some creep had pulled over before I got there? What if she’d been hurt, or kidnapped, or worse?" Despite the slight slur in his words, San's conviction is sharp; he towers over Wooyoung. "Are you a fucking idiot?"
"Fuck, dude!" Wooyoung snaps back, his hands coming up to grab at San’s wrists, struggling against the grip despite not taking a swing. As you take a step back to put distance between yourself and the confrontation, you can see desperation move through Wooyoung's eyes—the look of a man who knows he’s lost the moral high ground but is too proud to surrender it. "I know I messed up! I fucking know! I already apologized!"
"You think an apology covers that?" San’s face is inches from Wooyoung’s now, staring at him with pure disgust. "It doesn’t matter what she did to you or how mad you were. You put her in danger."
"She used me, San! She just told me she wanted someone else the whole time I was fucking her!"
Wooyoung spits the words out with a venom that makes you feel sick. Suddenly, some realization seems to spark behind his eyes, and he snaps his head toward you. "Is that what it was? Were you picturing him while you were with me?"
He wrenches himself free from San with a jerk and crowds into your space. As he looms over you, the scent of whiskey fills your nose; he's way drunker than you realized. Maybe even more than San. "Didn't seem to be thinking about him when you were moaning my name, baby," he sneers, the nickname landing like an insult.
You stumble back, holding out a desperate hand to put space between you. "Wooyoung, what the fuck? Of course I never—"
"You think he can fuck you like I can?" His voice drops lower, his eyes wide with rage yet laced with a raw hurt he can’t hide. He stumbles slightly, his balance betrayed by the alcohol, but his gaze remains pinned on you. "You think some fucking nerd can make you feel the way I did? You think his dick can compare to mine?"
A hot wave of shame floods your face, your skin burning with the humiliation of having what happened between you dissected so crudely in front of your friends. You take another shaky step back, your mouth opening to defend yourself, but San beats you to it.
His hand hooks into the back of Wooyoung's shirt, jerking him back. "Shut the fuck up, dude!" San all but yells as Wooyoung, looking one second away from throwing a punch with his fists clenched as tightly as they are. "What makes you think you can talk to her like that?"
Seeing the situation get closer to its breaking point, Yeosang finally moves. He steps between the two men, his hands locking around San's bicep to pull him back from Wooyoung. "San, calm down," he commands steadily, forcing a gap between them. "You're both wasted. You aren't fist-fighting in the middle of some alley. Get a grip. Both of you."
"Why are you telling me to calm down?" San looks at him incredulously. "He's the one who's stalking her or some shit!"
"I'm not fucking stalking her!" Wooyoung snaps, his composure cracking more with every passing second. "I just saw her at the bar. I got distracted for one second and saw her basically spreading her legs for some guy when I looked back!"
Your eyes narrow as the words leave his mouth. You know he’s drunk, but he’s going too far. The humiliation is already burning through you. He's projecting his rejection onto you like a weapon; he won't stop until he feels he's gotten revenge.
San shoves Yeosang’s hands off his chest, but he doesn't lunge again. He stands his ground, glaring at Wooyoung, his chest heaving with suppressed rage. "Really, Woo? You’re so pathetic that just because a girl doesn't want you, you're gonna act like a dick?"
"Well, it's not like it isn't the truth, right?" Wooyoung’s lips curl into a smile that never reaches his eyes. He ignores San, fixing his attention entirely on you. "Then again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised. Probably would've let that guy take you right there on the bar if I hadn't interrupted."
He pauses. For a moment, something flashes across his face. Uncertainty, maybe even a hint of regret, as if he knows he's taking it too far. But then his jaw tightens.
"You really have a thing for doing it in public, huh? I mean..." His mean smirk snaps right back into place. "I would certainly know."
You freeze on the spot. He’s bringing up the restaurant—right here, in front of them. If he goes any further... if he mentions the things he said about the two of them joining in... You feel the color drain from your face.
Wooyoung watches the blood leave your cheeks and grins as if he can read your mind. You see his game clearly now: he’s trying to weaponize the one thing he thinks he still has over Hongjoong—your body—and he's using it to humiliate you in front of your friends to salvage his own bruised ego.
"Wooyoung, no," you finally find your voice, glaring back at him and refusing to give him that satisfaction. "I was just talking to him. That's it."
Yeosang shakes his head, his expression shifting from suspicion to disappointment. "Woo, you need to stop. I know you're drunk and lashing out because you're hurt, but come on. You're crossing a line. You can't say stuff like that."
Wooyoung just lets out a sharp laugh, looking away and shaking his head as if he’s the only one in the alley who knows the truth. "You guys have no idea. You’d be surprised if you heard about the shit she’s actually into, Yeo. She's—"
"We don't fucking care what she's into!" San growls, his entire body tensing. Yeosang immediately moves back in front of him, bracing for another lunge. "You're the only one who gives a shit about any of this! I know sex is all you think about, but for the rest of us, not everything is about who's fucking who!"
Wooyoung flinches. His drunken boldness flickers out, revealing his true, pained self.
"You really think that's all I wanted her for?" he asks, voice cracking as he turns to you, searching your face desperately. "Did she tell you any of it? Did you tell them what I said? That I actually fucking liked you? That I wanted you to be my first goddamn girlfriend?"
Your mouth drops open, but you quickly clamp it shut, stunned. His first girlfriend.
The guilt you've been trying to forget about all night suddenly amplifies. You really hurt him. There's no denying that he's crossing vicious, unforgivable lines right now, and the alcohol is clearly fueling his worst, most toxic impulses... but the foundation of his rage is what you did.
"She told us, Woo. She told us everything." Yeosang breaks the silence quietly.
Wooyoung turns to him, his shoulders slumping as the last of his fight ebbs away, replaced by a crushing defeat. Yeosang doesn't look away. He steps past San, moving with the weary calmness of a man who knows Wooyoung better than everyone else. After years upon years of friendship, Yeosang knows exactly what's going through his mind.
"Maybe what she did was wrong," he continues, his voice devoid of judgment, but firm with the truth. "Maybe she shouldn't have gone out with you. You have every right to be hurt and upset." He pauses, reaching out to place a non-threatening hand on Wooyoung's shoulder. "But you don't have any right to follow her into a dark alley, wasted out of your mind, and spit this insane shit at her just because you're getting rejected for the first time in your life. Everyone goes through this at least once, Woo. It just happens to be happening to you at twenty instead of ten."
Wooyoung remains motionless, staring at Yeosang blankly, with no expression for you to dissect. You watch his throat move as he swallows hard, his gaze finally drifting back to yours. He gently brushes Yeosang’s hand aside and begins to walk toward you—slowly this time, his predatory stare replaced by plain vulnerability. Behind him, San jumps to move forward, but Yeosang's arm shoots out, stopping him.
Wooyoung stops just inches away. He looks down at you, his face a blur of confusion, hurt, and lingering anger.
"Fuck, ____," he whispers, dragging a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the last few minutes. "I'm sorry. I'm really fucking sorry. I've never..." He glances back at Yeosang, then back to you, the words catching in his throat. "I’ve never felt like this before. I’m really... fuck."
He can't even finish the thought. You watch him carefully, keeping your own expression neutral. He’s clearly never been told no, and you can't help but feel bad for being the one to do it first. But even as your heart aches, you can see the truth he’s still blind to. He doesn't like the girl you really are. He just likes that you're a new and interesting type of challenge. You're at fault for leading him on, but you're also the only one who sees these "feelings" for what they really are.
"Can we try this again?" he finally asks, his voice solemn and hopeful. "When I’m... more sober?"
You take in a sharp breath, not knowing what to say. Is there even anything left to talk about at this point? Could a sober conversation fix feelings that were always toxic to begin with?
But San and Yeosang cut in before you even open your mouth. "No," they say in unison, with a finality that leaves no room for negotiation.
Wooyoung immediately turns toward them, a defiant eyebrow arching even as he sways on his feet. "I think that’s her decision to make—"
"You’re done seeing her, Woo," San cuts him off coldly.
Yeosang looks sadly at his friend, but gives him a slow nod. "You’ve both said what you needed to say. You’re hurt, and you blame her. She was figuring out her feelings, and though she’s sorry for how she handled it, she doesn't want you. There’s nothing else to talk about. You both need to deal with this on your own."
Wooyoung’s lips tighten into a thin line. He pointedly ignores them, turning his full attention back to you. He offers a casual, nonchalant shrug, though his eyes remain searching behind the facade. "So?" he asks again. "Can we try this again or not?"
You stare up at him, trying to peel back the layers of alcohol and ego to find the man underneath. Even through the haze of his intoxication, his emotions aren't being faked. You know his pain is real, but you also understand that Yeosang is spot on with his words.
"Wooyoung, I'm sorry," you say quietly. "Yeosang's right."
His expression falls instantly, rejection crossing his face. For a moment, you feel a strong urge to take it back, to promise him one last talk, one more night to smooth things over. But you know that’s a trap. It would always end exactly here: Wooyoung feeling hurt by what you did while refusing to let go, and you drowning in guilt while knowing you're better off apart. There is no clean ending to this conversation. And there never will be.
"I’m sorry," you repeat, and this time, the finality in your voice is unmistakable. You mean it.
He watches you for one final second before nodding slowly. "Alright," he says, his posture shifting as he pulls his head up. He shoves his hands into his pockets with a forced nonchalance, his usual persona sliding back into place. "All good."
He turns to head back toward the bar’s entrance, but he stops when he reaches San and Yeosang. He looks at them calmly, his lips twisting into a clearly artificial smile. "I wasn't here for either of you, by the way. I don't know why you two think you're her fucking bodyguards, but this was between her and me."
"Fuck you, Woo," San says lowly, his feet planted, refusing to step back an inch. "You wanted her alone so you could talk her into giving you what you want. That shit might work on your hookups, but I’m not about to let it work on her."
Wooyoung stares at San for several silent seconds. You wait, holding your breath, watching the two men face off. But eventually, Wooyoung chooses not to respond; his pride won't allow a shouting match he's already lost. He turns his head—not looking at you, but directing his final words squarely at you.
"I'll see you around," he says, his voice distant and devoid of all emotion. "Hope it all works out with him."
He walks away without another glance, disappearing back into the bar. You're left standing in the ringing silence of the alley, cold and shivering even with his leather jacket still draped around your shoulders.
The quiet is broken by the pop of Yeosang's jaw. You look over and realize he's finally let his composure slip. A cold, simmering anger has taken over his features.
"I'm gonna go get him and take him home," he says. "I don't like how that ended. At all."
You simply nod, unable to find your voice as you look between him and San. Yeosang’s eyes soften when they land on you, though his brows remain pulled together in a grimace.
"____, I hate to ask this, but are you good to drive? I know San isn’t."
"I'm fine," you murmur, nodding again. You're pretty much sobered up now, the adrenaline having burned through the buzz you had earlier.
Yeosang reaches into his pocket and tosses you his keys. Along with the metal jingling in your palm, he hands you your own jacket and bag. You realize then that he must have grabbed them from the booth when they realized you had disappeared.
"Take my car and go home. Don't wait for Yunho. I’ll come get it in the morning," he says, his voice tinged with regret. "I... I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. And I'm sorry we dragged you out tonight. We should’ve known he'd be here."
Without waiting for a response, he turns and heads back toward the entrance, going after Wooyoung.
The alley feels even smaller now that it’s just you and San. He hasn't moved an inch. He’s still standing with his feet planted, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and his face twisted into a frown.
"Fucking asshole," he mutters. He zips up his jacket to his chin, his shoulders hunched as he stares off toward the bar. "I can’t believe he's supposed to be one of my best friends."
You stay quiet. You really don't have anything left to say. Instead of answering, you take a steadying breath, your fingers curling tightly around Yeosang’s keys as you turn toward the parking lot.
"Come on, San," you say, not waiting to see if he’s following.
He trails after you anyway, but the brief silence doesn't last. He continues to ramble as he stalks along the pavement.
"I don’t like how he was talking to you," he says, the alcohol making his thoughts loop. "So fucking manipulative. He knows your head is a mess—acting like he doesn't know that. 'It’s her decision,' my ass. Does he talk to everyone he hooks up with like that? No fucking wonder he’s never had a real relationship. And 'bodyguard'? Like it's wrong for me to give a shit about my friends? I can't believe—"
"San." Your voice stops him as you reach the car and yank open the driver’s side door. "Sit in the passenger seat, San."
He blinks, pausing mid-sentence as he realizes he was about to follow you right into the driver’s side. He nods sheepishly, the fire in his eyes dimming as he realizes his rambling is only piling more weight onto your shoulders. He rounds the car and climbs in quietly.
You slide in and slam the door shut, finally sealing out the muffled music and the cold chill of the night. You peel Wooyoung’s jacket off and toss it carelessly into the backseat, wanting its weight off you. For a moment, you just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, basking in the silence of the car.
Just for the hell of it—out of a habit that is really just a self-inflicted wound at this point—you pull your phone from your pocket one last time. San notices but averts his eyes, saying nothing. You hold your breath, hoping the universe might have spared one small kindness for you tonight.
No new notifications.
Still nothing from Hongjoong.
The screen goes dark, reflecting your own tired expression back at you. You shove the phone into the center console, turn the key in the ignition, and, without another word, you start the car.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 8.4k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i hope you all enjoy <33
Why the fuck did I do that?
The thought loops in your head, repeating in a rhythmic pulse that keeps in time with each step up the marble stairs of the Language Center.
I liked it two days late. I look like a stalker. I look desperate.
You glance at your phone for the time: 4:57.
It's been approximately nineteen hours.
Nineteen hours since you sat in the blue-tinged dark of your living room, watching that low-lit confession bleed through your phone. Nineteen hours since you'd summoned a hit of reckless, late-night courage to double-tap the screen, turning that empty heart into a vivid, irreversible red.
And Hongjoong has said absolutely nothing.
The silence has been so vast that you've spent the day convinced you'd actually hallucinated ever liking the post. But every time you anxiously checked your phone between classes, the heart was still there—a bright, mocking crimson.
By your second lecture of the day, the regret had settled in. By the third, you were certain you'd misread everything. Maybe the song had nothing to do with you. Maybe the "taking off your dress" was just a lyrical trope. Maybe the Korean lyrics were a gatekept secret for someone who actually speaks the language, not for the student who's tripping over her own tongue during every session.
You push through the doors, the sudden rush of climate-controlled air doing nothing to stop the trembling in your limbs. Your bag begins to slide down the slick sleeve of your leather jacket, and you have to hike it back up with a frustrated jerk. You know the temperature is dropping outside, but you also know the shivering is merely a result of the sickening realization that you truly did step out of character—and in doing so, you might've just messed up. Badly.
To make matters worse, Wooyoung's silence is just as, if not more than, deafening as Hongjoong's. He hasn't reached out—not that you really expected an apology... but the total radio silence feels surreal, like you're noticing the absence of something you never actually wanted. But the void it left behind is impossible to ignore. A twisted knot of guilt still tightens in your stomach every time he flits through your mind; you feel guilty about the ending, but there’s a second, more selfish reason underneath.
In a strange way, you almost feel like you owe him. If it weren't for the wreckage of that night in his car, or the way in which he'd treated you in the short time you'd known each other, you never would've admitted how badly you want the man waiting for you in the tutoring center. Wooyoung was the one who finally pushed you to admit what—or who—you've always truly wanted.
But right now, the epiphanies about your love life are being drowned out by the sheer looming threat of your 5:00 appointment.
To avoid the embarrassment of facing Hongjoong, your pride is screaming at you to turn around, to fake a fever, and to bolt right back down those marble stairs. You'd probably—definitely—lose the attendance points for this week, but in the grand scheme of things, are those ten points really worth the humiliation you're about to subject yourself to?
Your foot pivots, the rubber sole of your boot traitorously squeaking against the polished floor as you prepare to make a run for it.
But then, the woman at the front desk looks up.
Her eyes lock onto yours before you can complete the turn. She offers that small, practiced nod of recognition, her hands already hovering over her computer in expectation. The escape hatch slams shut. You’ve been seen; there's no backing out now. You’re officially trapped.
With a deep, bracing breath, you force your legs to move forward. Your bag feels like it's filled with rocks as you approach the desk, ready to sign your dignity right over.
"Hi," you say quickly, a tight, nervous smile fixed on your face as you stare straight at her computer screen rather than her eyes. "____ ____. Five o'clock. Korean. Kim Hong—"
"Kim Hongjoong," the woman cuts in, her fingers flying across the keys. She doesn’t even wait for you to finish; she’s seen you every week and knows your routine by now. "I know, I know. You're all set."
She finally looks up, a small, amused glint dancing in her eyes as she takes in your rushed state. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
"You're in a bit of a rush today, aren't you?" she asks lightheartedly. "Don't worry, he's not going anywhere. He's been waiting at that table for thirty minutes already. Didn't even have anyone before you today."
You feel the heat climb up your neck, a blotchy flush that you know is giving you away. "Oh," you stammer, shifting your weight. "No, I just... didn't want to be late. The weather is—it's getting cold out there, you know? Wouldn't want to keep him... waiting."
"...Right," she nods, her smile widening just enough to let you know she isn't buying a word of it. She gives the counter a final, dismissive tap, like she's signaling your time is starting. "Well, you'd better get back there before you set a new track record. Good luck."
She lets out a soft, huffed laugh and turns back to her screen, leaving you standing there with your heart hammering. If the receptionist can see the frantic energy rolling off you, there's no way Hongjoong—the man who notices each misplaced syllable and every hesitant pause you take—won’t see it, too.
You turn away from the desk full of dread. The hallway stretches out before you, and you try to settle your brain over the muffled sounds of other students' hushed conversations. You keep your eyes fixed straight ahead as you make your way towards where your tutor is waiting for you.
A few more steps, and there he is.
A dizzying sensation washes over you like the floor has quite literally tilted beneath your feet. It's only been a few days since the library, but looking at him now, it feels like it's been a lifetime.
Then again, when you think about everything that's happened in those few days, the actual distance doesn't feel so far off.
Hongjoong doesn't look up when you walk in. His folder is already open, and you notice he's already placed a copy of today's dialogue at your seat, aligned perfectly with the edge of the table. He has a pen in his right hand, his head bowed as he stares down at his own copy like he’s trying to memorize the words.
You move slowly, too nervous to disturb whatever intense focus he’s projecting. Your limbs feel heavy as you pull out your chair, the legs of the seat scraping against the floor with an annoyingly loud screech, but he doesn't even flinch. You slowly sit down, and finally, he looks up.
His hair looks messier than usual. It's partially combed back with a few strands out of place, as if he’s been running his fingers through it for the entire thirty minutes he was waiting for you. But behind his glasses, his eyes don't look any different. They're the typical observant, patient, polite eyes of Kim Hongjoong, your tutor.
"Hi," he says, his voice sounding no different than usual. Polite and steady.
"Hi," you say back, your heart thudding. Wild and erratic.
It's quiet for a second. The silence stretches, thin and taut, before he clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
"We have a lot to cover today," he says casually, opening and closing the flap of his folder absently as he speaks. "The dialogue is pretty long, so... we should get started."
"Okay," you reply, glancing down at the paper in front of you. "Sure."
As you reach for your phone, you start to feel like you're losing your mind. Looking at him now, so professional and stoic, you feel more and more delusional for ever liking that post. Did he even see it? you wonder. You liked it two days after it was posted. A guy with as many followers as he probably gets so many notifications that he has them turned off entirely. He probably hasn't even opened Instagram since he posted it.
Yes, that’s probably it. He didn't see it. You're stressing over nothing. You tell yourself to calm down, to just act normal, because this is just another regular session.
You feel yourself relax just a little bit. You reach into your pocket, pull out your phone, and open the recording app. You place it on the table between you, right in the center, just like you do every single week.
The second your phone hits the wood, Hongjoong immediately stiffens.
His eyes dart down to the screen, and he freezes. He has to pause, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the muscle pop, before he clears his throat again—but this time, it’s more of a struggle.
You freeze, too, your hand still hovering inches away from the phone.
Oh, you think, the realization hitting you. Maybe... maybe he did see it.
Hongjoong's gaze remains fixed on your phone for another few seconds before he finally tears his eyes away from the screen. He doesn't look at you, focusing solely on the paper placed right in front of him. His fingers tremble—just a microscopic tremor—as he slides his folder to the side to clear the space between you.
"Right," he says, his voice uncharacteristically empty. He clears his throat for the third time and forces himself to sit up straighter, adjusting his glasses with one hand. "So. Today's dialogue is working on formalities, since that's what you're covering in class this week. We'll practice both honorifics and the deferential form. The conversation is between a student and a professor, so it's a good chance to work on talking more formally, using some of the vocab from this unit."
He reaches across the table, his silver rings catching the light as he taps a finger on the bold header at the top of your page. You follow his lead, staring down at the names "Mina" and "Professor Lee" as if they're the most fascinating things you've ever seen. You'd look at anything right now to avoid meeting his eyes—an effort you're fairly certain he is matching.
"You'll be Mina," he continues, his voice regaining a bit of that familiar cadence. "And I'll be Professor Lee. It's a conversation about Mina coming to his office to discuss her performance on the last exam. Remember, when you're talking to a superior, you have to use the highest level of formalities."
He pauses, and for a split second, his eyes flicker up to yours. It's a fast look—one that maybe feels less like a tutor and more like the man you had seen in the video.
"The focus today isn't about getting the pronunciation one hundred percent perfect," he adds more softly, his gaze dropping back to the script. "It's just about getting used to the feeling of speaking to someone of... higher status. You covered the grammar for this earlier in the week, yes?"
You nod without a word, finally forcing yourself to look at him.
He opens his mouth, his eyebrow arching slightly as if he's on the verge of saying something else, but then he catches himself, visibly swallowing the thought. "Good," he finishes instead, his voice sounding slightly strained. He pauses before tapping the page one last time. "Whenever you're ready. Line one."
You reach out, your finger hovering over the screen before you finally tap the red button. The timer starts ticking: 0:01... 0:02. You lock your focus on the paper, trying to keep your voice level and professional as you begin.
"실례합니다, 교수님. 지금 시간이 있으십니까?" Excuse me, Professor. Do you have time now?
Hongjoong doesn't look up from his copy. He leans back slightly, his posture becoming more rigid and authoritative, embodying his role. "네, 미나 씨. 들어와요. 무슨 일이에요?" Yes, Mina. Come in. What is it?
You swallow hard, trying to ignore how smooth his tone sounds. "지난 시험 때문에 찾아왔습니다. 시험을 잘 못 봤습니다." I came because of the last exam. I didn't do well.
Hongjoong looks up at you for one brief, lingering moment—his eyes searching yours over the rims of his glasses—before continuing. "네. 요즘 수업에 자주 안 왔죠. 그리고 와도 좀 집중을 못 하는 것 같아요." Yes. You haven't been coming to class very often lately. And when you do, you haven't been able to focus.
His voice is calm, but there's a low undertone to it that you can't place. It’s not really the typical voice of your tutor; it’s that same gravelly, late-night hum from the video he posted, and it sends a prickle of heat straight through your body. He continues, "무슨 이유가 있나요?" Do you have a reason?
You freeze for a heartbeat. The script says to apologize for not feeling well and having a lot on your mind, but with the weight of the last nineteen hours pressing down on you, it feels impossible to admit out loud, even if it's just the pre-written dialogue.
"죄송합니다, 교수님." I'm sorry, Professor. You murmur the sentence quietly, praying your phone still picks up your words. "요즘 몸이 좀 안 좋았고 생각이 많았습니다." I haven't been feeling well lately, and I've had a lot on my mind.
Hongjoong's jaw tightens as he stares at you. He doesn't even look back at the paper for his next line; he somehow already has it memorized. He watches the way your hand is trembling against the table, his own fingers twitching for a reason unbeknownst to you.
"생각이 많으면 공부하기가 힘들어요." If you have a lot on your mind, it's hard to study. He says it softly. It’s supposed to be a stern professor's observation, but coming from him, it feels warmer.
"네, 그런 것 같습니다." Yes, I think that's true. You keep your eyes glued to the paper, holding your breath.
Hongjoong doesn't move. "다음부터는 조금 더 집중하세요. 필요하면 도움을 요청하세요." From now on, focus a bit more. If you need help, ask.
"네. 감사합니다, 교수님." Yes. Thank you, Professor.
Your voice is barely audible as you finish. You finally look up, and for a split second, you seem to catch him off guard—his expression is soft, his lips slightly parted as if he has a million things to say that aren't on that piece of paper. But then, his mask instantly slams back into place.
The second the dialogue ends, you both go quiet. He immediately looks down, his hands busying themselves with the corners of his folder, straightening the same pages over and over.
You snatch your phone and hit 'Stop.' 2:33. The recording is done, but the silence that follows is worse. Without even replaying it, you know it's a messy file—some pauses are too long, and the tension between you is probably way too obvious to anyone with ears—but the thought of doing that again, of saying those lines again, is unthinkable.
"Do you... want to listen to it? To check for errors?" you ask as always, your face burning.
"No," he says quickly, almost before you even finish the question. He finally looks back at you, his ears tipped with a bright, tell-tale pink that matches the one on your cheeks. "It's fine. You used the formal grammar correctly. You can upload it."
You nod quickly, your fingers flying across the screen as you hit 'Submit.' You don't even check the file name or listen to the ending; you just need it out of your hands and into the portal where you never have to hear it again.
File Uploaded Successfully.
The confirmation fades to black as you set your phone face down on the table. Usually, this is the part where you start zipping up your bag and exchanging a few polite thank yous with him before you bolt for the exit.
But today, your hands stay flat on the table. You don't move. And neither does he.
"Well," Hongjoong breathes out. He taps his pen against his folder quickly, a rapid-fire, nervous staccato that echoes your heartbeat. "So. That's the dialogue. Is there anything else you need help with?"
He trails off, his eyes darting to your bag and then back to your face. He’s giving you the opening to leave. Holding the door wide open for you to escape.
But as you look at him, at the way his messy hair is catching the soft lighting of the room, and the way he's still meticulously avoiding a direct gaze, you feel the sudden urge to stay. The thought of walking out those doors and going back to the silence of your dorm, back to the "did he see it?" loop, feels like a nightmare. You aren't ready to just let this go, not quite yet.
"Um," you start, racking your brain for any reason to stay for just another ten minutes. "Well... maybe we could go over..."
But your mind is a total blank. You've been so consumed by the events of the week that you haven't looked at the syllabus in days. You stare at the table, waiting for the curriculum to somehow re-enter your brain.
Hongjoong watches you struggle. A very faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
"...The grammar for this lesson?" he fills in softly. "The 시 honorific suffixes? They can be hard to conjugate sometimes."
"Yes! That," you say, a bit too obvious about the relief flooding through you. "Exactly that. I'm still... really confused about when to drop the ㄹ."
"Right. The irregulars," he nods, pushing a fresh sheet of paper towards the center of the table.
It's a transparent lie. You both know irregulars have always been the one grammar point that comes easier to you than almost anything else. You've never struggled with them, and he knows it. But he doesn't say it.
He starts to doodle a few characters on the corner of the page. "It's definitely one of the trickier parts of the language for non-native speakers. I was honestly a little surprised before you came in when I saw your professor was covering the most formal form of it so soon."
You blink, caught off guard by the timeline. "You only saw the lesson plan today?"
"I didn't have much time to look over the materials for this week before today," he responds. He drops his hand and finally shifts his gaze toward you. "I was busy this week... writing."
He falls into a heavy, expectant silence. You freeze in place, your eyes widening ever so slightly.
Writing? Is he talking about what I think he's talking about?
You're both still sitting here for a reason; you both know it, but neither of you wants the responsibility of being the one to address it.
If your brain isn't being completely delusional, he’s handing you a lead and waiting for you to pull on it. It’s a silent challenge. He won't break the seal himself. He wants you to do it.
"Oh," you say, your pulse spiking so hard you can feel it in your throat. "Writing... what?"
He's quiet for a second, his ringed fingers fidgeting with his pen as his eyes dart to the side, searching for the right words. "Music." He pauses before finishing. "An original song."
Oh god. Inside, you are absolutely screaming. You know exactly how the light of his room looked in that video and how his voice sounded through every single note. But what exactly does he want? Is he baiting you? Does he want you to admit you saw it?
"Oh," you manage once again, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "What... what's it called?"
Hongjoong pauses. He sets his pen down entirely and raises his eyes, really looking at you for the first time since you sat down—not as your tutor, but as the man from the screen.
"Almost."
Shit. Your brain goes into a full-scale panic. What do I do? Do I tell him I liked it? Do I pretend I’ve never heard of it? Do I pretend I don't care?
But there's no point in lying; the notification that you liked the post is already burned into his phone's history. Trying to backpedal now only makes you look more guilty and obvious.
If he's brave enough to name the song, maybe you have to be brave enough to admit you were listening.
"Oh, yeah," you say, trying your hardest to sound nonchalant, though your voice is an octave higher than usual. "I think I might've seen that on Instagram."
The room goes dead silent. The only sound is the muffled chatter of students three desks over, which feels miles away from the electricity crackling between the two of you. Hongjoong doesn't blink, staring directly into your eyes with a piercing, unreadable expression that makes you feel like he's seeing straight through you.
"You liked it."
Your heart stops.
It's not a question. It's a flat, direct call-out that leaves you with nowhere to hide. You freeze, the air in the room suddenly thinning until your lungs feel tight. He noticed. He saw the notification, and he just cornered you with it.
This is the boldest Hongjoong has ever been, and that realization scares you: you aren't nearly as ready as you thought to be bold back. The reckless courage that fueled that double-tap is gone. You wanted him to notice, but now that he has, you feel far too exposed and vulnerable for your liking.
You let out a sharp, nervous laugh that sounds way too loud. "Did I?"
"You did," he says, terrifyingly calm.
"Oh. I... I just like everything I see sometimes," you stammer, your face burning. "Muscle memory. I don't really even think about it."
"You don't follow my music account, though," he points out, his tone becoming dangerously observant. He tilts his head, watching your reaction through his glasses.
"Well, it just came up on my recommended page," you lie, digging the hole you're already buried in even deeper. "You know. Reels. 'People you may know.' The algorithm is crazy."
"Huh. You might be the only person in the entire world who actually watches Instagram Reels," he says, a tiny, skeptical smirk finally breaking through his serious expression.
"Well. Maybe I am," you mutter back, your defensiveness flaring up because you know you're caught. Your pride is screaming at you to stop talking, but you know it's already too late for that.
He doesn't respond; he simply raises an eyebrow, his gaze lingering on your blushing face.
"Anyway," you say quickly, looking back down at the paper so you don't have to deal with his stare. "Yeah. I thought it was... good."
"Yeah?" Hongjoong prompts, the word coming out more softly. He leans back just an inch, giving you a desperate breath of space, but his gaze doesn't soften in the slightest. "What did you think of it?"
Your mind blanks as it searches desperately for what he's really asking right now. Is he looking for a critique on his production, or is he digging for something deeper, like the reason why you were on his profile so late at night? It feels like you’re unwillingly stuck in a game of chess; meanwhile, you can’t even see the board, let alone the moves he's making.
"I liked it," you say simply, your voice steadier than you feel. You scramble for a safe angle, something to keep the "student" mask from slipping entirely, and decide to play dumb. "Was it... a breakup song?"
Hongjoong lets out a soft, dry chuckle from his throat. "It kinda sounds like one, huh?" He shifts in his seat, his silver rings clicking against the wooden table. "But... no. Not really."
"Oh," you murmur, your curiosity finally overstepping your caution. You want to hear the meaning directly from him, not just from your own frantic interpretation of his lyrics. "What is it, then?"
He goes quiet, his expression softening as he thinks through his response. He looks down at the pen on the table, picking it up once again and spinning it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. "It's like the title says," he says quietly, giving you a sudden hit of goosebumps. "It's about something that almost happened."
Happened. Past tense.
Your heart sinks, a cold weight settling in your stomach, and while you desperately hope the disappointment isn't written all over your face, you feel the slump in your shoulders. Is that what it means? Something he once hoped for, but realized was impossible? A door that’s already closed?
"Happened?" you repeat quietly despite yourself, the word tasting bitter on your tongue.
Hongjoong stops his pen. He looks back up at you. He seems to catch the shift in your energy, the way you've practically just wilted in front of him, and so he pauses before he fixes his response.
"Happens," he corrects.
The hope rushes back into your chest so fast it makes you dizzy. Happens. Present tense. Ongoing. So it's not over. It's not just a memory. He really does want it, too.
"Um... the lyrics were... yeah. Really good," you say, trying to find your footing again. You pause, biting your lip as you think back to the video and the quick Korean words that had tripped you up. "I didn't really understand the second verse, though. The Korean part. What were you... What were you saying?"
Hongjoong looks down, his focus returning to the doodles on the corner of the paper. He begins to trace the lines of a few characters, his movements slow, like he's trying to decide exactly how much to put on the table.
"It’s just a bunch of metaphors," he says softly. "About timing. And, you know... overthinking. Things like that." He looks up, and there’s a different, almost challenging glint appearing in his eyes behind his glasses. "You'll understand more of it when you're fluent."
You let out a huffed laugh. You try to keep it light, but there's a genuine edge of impatience to it—you’re growing tired of the metaphors. Tired of the almosts. "That might take a long time, Hongjoong."
The air in the room stills once again. The way you said his name so impatiently leaves him quiet, his entire posture halting. His challenging smirk vanishes, replaced by a look that is so completely raw and sincere it almost hurts your heart to witness.
"I'll wait," he says, looking you directly in the eyes.
A swarm of violent butterflies erupts in your stomach, fluttering so hard it's nauseating. You blush, the dampness of a nervous sweat beginning to prickle at your hairline. You have to look down at the scratched wooden table, unable to hold the sheer sincerity in his eyes for another second without breaking.
He'll wait.
The weight of that promise quite honestly makes you think back to Wooyoung. Everything with him had been so loud. It was a whirlwind of rushed touches, desperate eye contact, and an intense, breathless energy that made you feel like you were constantly running out of time. With Wooyoung, the fire was hot and immediate, but it left you scorched, wanting for something different.
And here is Hongjoong, offering you exactly that.
He's offering you a slow, steady burn. He's offering a sense of safety and comfort so strong it makes this random tutoring room the only place on campus you ever want to be. There’s no pressure to perform here, no rush to bridge the gap before the two of you are ready. You're so drawn to him in this moment that it scares you.
I'll wait. The phrase repeats in your head, but as the initial rush fades, a hundred questions take its place. What exactly does he mean by that? How long is he willing to stay in this push-and-pull pattern? Does "waiting" mean until you're fluent enough to understand the metaphors in his lyrics? Or does it mean until the end of the year, when he's no longer your tutor?
Your eyes flicker to the edge of the syllabus peeking out from under his folder. There are still weeks left. Months of these sessions.
I don't think I can wait that long, you think, longing pulsing through you. The safety he's offering is beautiful, but looking at the way his eyes catch the light as they gaze at you—at the way his lips are still slightly parted from his own words—the patience he's asking for feels like a slow kind of torture.
The stillness between you is broken not by a confession, but by a sudden knock of knuckles against the top of the table next to you.
You both jump, the noise sounding like a gunshot in the midst of your conversation. You look up to find the receptionist standing there, her coat already buttoned and a jangling set of keys in her hand. She offers a small, apologetic grimace, though her eyes still hold that same knowing glint from earlier.
"I hate to break up a study session," she says, her voice echoing in the now-empty room. You look around, startled to realize that every other student has already cleared out. "But you're five minutes past time, and I've got to lock the front doors in ten. The center is closing early tonight for an event."
The bubble bursts instantly.
"Oh—right. Sorry," Hongjoong stammers, his voice cracking as he snaps back into reality. He immediately starts shoving his papers into his bag, his face flushing a deep red.
You're just as bad, your hands fumbling blindly with your own bag. You try to jam your notebook inside, only for the spiral wire to catch on the lining, leaving you tugging at it uselessly while your heartbeat thuds in your ears.
"It's fine," the woman says, watching the two of you scramble with an amused tilt of her head. "I'm just making sure you guys don't accidentally spend the night in here."
Hongjoong clears his throat—a rough, strained sound—as he zips his bag shut. "Right. Yes. Thank you."
He stands up, the screech of his chair against the floor sounding as frantic as you feel. He looks down at you, his eyes dark and swirling with everything he just said—and everything he didn't. The transition is dizzying; one second you were spiraling over the underlying meaning of his words, and the next, you’re being forced to leave the safety of the room and deal with those thoughts on your own.
"Actually," Hongjoong starts as you stand, his voice dropping so only you can hear as the receptionist walks back toward the front desk. He doesn't look directly at you as he slides the strap of his bag over one shoulder, but his movements are slow, like he's waiting for you to catch up. "I... I can walk out with you. Since you're my last student. If you want."
The air in your lungs hitches. "Oh. Okay," you stammer, your heart doing clumsy somersaults. "Sure. Yeah."
The tension doesn’t leave; it just shifts, growing mobile, getting ready to follow you down the hallway and out the double doors. Without the table between you to act as a barrier, you're suddenly even more nervous than before.
"Ready?" he asks, finally meeting your eyes.
You nod, unable to find your voice. You walk out of the tutoring building together, the silence of the hallway feeling loud as you leave the safety and the distance of the desk behind.
The shift from the Language Center's stifling, recycled heat to the biting evening chill outside causes you to shiver immediately. The doors hiss shut behind you, sealing the warmth inside, as a sudden gust of wind catches your hair—whipping it across your face and dragging a few sticky strands straight into your lip gloss. You grimace, tugging them free and huddling deeper into your brown jacket. The leather, which had felt substantial enough thirty minutes ago, now feels as thin as tissue paper.
Beside you, however, Hongjoong is hauling a thick, oversized white puffer jacket from his bag and shoving his arms through the sleeves with a wild haste. When he zips it all the way up, the stiff collar buries his chin and mouth, leaving only his glass-covered eyes and the bridge of his nose visible to the world.
As you look at him, a small bubble of laughter escapes you before you can even think to stifle it.
"What?" he asks. His voice is muffled by the high zipper that's covering his mouth, which only makes you laugh again, raising a hand to cover your grin. He looks down at his chest, then back at you, his brow furrowing in confusion.
"You—"
You hesitate, biting back your words despite the smile on your face. Is it too risky to joke with him now? After the weight of the conversation you'd just had—and the lingering tension of what's been left unsaid—is there room for something as light as teasing? But either way, just by looking at him so thoroughly bundled up, the words slip right out of you anyway.
"You look like a marshmallow," you finish, the words feeling light yet simultaneously dangerous in the sudden quiet of the evening.
Hongjoong’s eyes crinkle at the corners—the only sign he’s grinning behind the coat—before a startled, short bark of laughter escapes him. "Way to make fun of the international student," he says, his tone mock-offended, though his eyes are twinkling. He starts down the marble steps, and you quickly fall into step beside him. "It gets cold in Seoul, but not this cold. I'm not really adjusted yet."
"Just wait," you warn lightly, shoving your hands deep into your pockets to hide the way they’re shaking—partly from the chill, partly from the proximity. "In about a month, the blizzards will start to hit. Then the temperature will drop waybelow zero."
He freezes on the bottom step, his entire body pivoting toward you since the stiff collar won't let him turn his head alone. "What do you mean, 'below zero'? It already is."
You stop, too, already on the ground, looking up at him blankly. "What? No, it’s like... thirty-five degrees out."
For a heartbeat, you simply stare at each other. Then, slowly, a smile begins to take over his gaze. He chuckles, looking down at you teasingly. "I always forget you use that system here. It's below zero in Celsius, ____."
It's your turn to let out a surprised laugh as you raise your eyebrows at him, trying to ignore how your heart picks up speed when he says your name. "That system? You mean the better system."
"I do not," he chuckles. The two of you resume your walk, your shoulder brushing lightly against the puffy material of his sleeve as he steps down next to you. "Fahrenheit does not make any sense. To anyone, not just me."
You notice with a small, suppressed smile that he adjusts his stride to match yours, his presence a massive white outline in your peripheral vision.
"It's a scale for people," you argue, gesturing with one hand before quickly tucking it back into the warmth of your pocket. "Zero is really cold, and one hundred is really hot."
He huffs a laugh, a plume of white mist escaping over the top of his zipper. "But Celsius is logical. Zero is freezing, one hundred is boiling. It's mathematical. 0 to 100. Freezing to boiling."
You look down at the way your boots hit the pavement in rhythm with his and can't restrain the beat of your heart from quickening its pace again. Just being here, walking with him, debating about something so silly; it makes you feel like maybe you've done something—at least one thing—right so far today.
"But Celsius was made for water," you counter, hearing the smile in your own voice. "I'm not a glass of water, Hongjoong. I don't really care when I'm going to boil."
He laughs, his eyes flickering towards you. "Maybe not," he says, subconsciously stepping slightly closer to shield you from a sudden gust of wind. His jacket bumps against your arm again, and you hope the biting cold is enough to explain the flush on your cheeks. "But your system is just a lot of guessing based on feelings."
"Human feelings, at least," you say, trying your hardest to keep your voice light against the magnetic pull of his presence. You're mid-breath, ready to ramble on about why the Celsius scale is far too narrow, when the words suddenly die in your throat. Your jaw remains parted, the cold evening air hitting your tongue, as your gaze snags on a tiny, fluffy object shifting above you, high in the branches of the nearest oak tree.
You slow in your tracks and squint as the round shape slowly resolves into a chubby brown squirrel. It sits perched on a branch, clutching a mini marshmallow in its tiny grasp—undoubtedly dropped by a student leaving the hot chocolate station at the dining hall.
A startled laugh bubbles up from your chest, your rant completely forgotten. "Oh my god," you breathe, pointing upward. "Look, it's you! Your coat!"
Hongjoong stops next to you and follows your gaze, a slow, boyish grin spreading across his face. He shakes his head, murmuring, "Whatever you say," but his nonchalance is betrayed by the way he immediately digs into his pocket.
He pulls out his phone, his thumb flying across the screen to cue up the camera. He goes still, his head tilted in concentration as he waits for the perfect shot of the little marshmallow thief.
You watch him over his shoulder, your heart doing a slow roll in your chest. As he saves it, you see his photo gallery flash open for a second. He clicks on one of his albums, and your eyes widen as he scrolls past what has to be three hundred individual photos of squirrels: squirrels with acorns, squirrels mid-climb up a tree, squirrels sitting on benches around campus, and more.
A soft smile pulls at your lips as you recall the very first time you walked together after a session, when he stopped to take a picture of two little squirrels fighting over food. You remember how serious he'd looked when he confessed that he shares them with his older brother back home.
Watching him now, his thumb lingering affectionately over the blurry image he just took, the conversation you'd shared in the Language Center feels a little less serious. You look from the squirrel to Hongjoong, thinking that this—this ridiculous, strange quirk of the man with a gallery full of rodents—is far more dangerous to your heart than any lyrics he could ever write.
He tucks his phone back into his pocket, his fingers lingering on the fabric of his coat for a second as he catches your gaze. You two exchange a soft, almost shy smile, knowing he caught you staring at him, before both of you quickly look away. As you begin to walk again, the expected goodbye doesn't come; he doesn't veer off toward the northern dorms or shortcut to the dining hall. He stays right next to you, each step taking you further from the heart of campus and deeper into the quiet, tree-lined path to your building.
After a few moments of blissful, confusing proximity, you finally work up the courage to look at him and ask: "Where are you going, anyway? My dorm is this way."
You point toward the cluster of buildings in the near distance, their windows glowing with the amber light of students hunkered down for the night.
"Which one?" he asks in response, craning his neck, the stiff, overstuffed collar of his puffer jacket forcing his entire torso to pivot once again as he tries to follow your hand.
You tell him the name of the hall, anticipating—and perhaps even bracing for—his polite "see you next week" that would officially signal the end of your time together for the night.
Hongjoong, however, doesn't miss a beat. He doesn't slow his stride or offer a departing nod; instead, his gaze remains fixed on the path ahead as he takes the slight right turn alongside you.
"I was actually heading that way, too," he says with such calm conviction that you don't dare tell him not to worry about it. "I'll walk you."
You falter, your stride breaking for a heartbeat as a prickle of suspicion tightens in your chest. You quickly recover, lengthening your pace to match his.
Your walk continues ahead as the silence is broken only by the quiet swish of his sleeves against his sides. You try to keep your eyes forward, yet you can't help but steal glances at him every few seconds out of the corner of your eye. This path was a dead end for anyone who didn't live here—it led only to the group of residential halls and the dark expanse of your school's athletic fields.
Where could he possibly be going? The question races through your mind, but you swallow it back. Is he meeting someone? A friend? The thought of him heading to another dorm—perhaps to see someone who could more easily understand the lyrics to his song—makes your stomach twist with a sudden nausea.
But asking him about it is too prying. Your desperation from the "like" conversation still clings to you, but you simply adjust the speed of your steps, trying to focus on the small, steady comfort that, regardless of where he was ending his night, he had been the one to ask to walk you back. Twice.
"So..." Hongjoong begins tentatively. He clears his throat, his gaze flicking to you for a moment as if trying to search for the right phrasing and frequency to tune into. "How have you, uh, been... since I last saw you?"
A nervous, involuntary giggle escapes you, a thin and brittle sound intended to fill the awkward gap between you.
"I've been... um..."
Your mind immediately hits rewind, a reel of the past few days playing behind your eyes. The reality of everything that transpired with Wooyoung flashes by.
You never want Hongjoong to find out about a single second of that. You quickly make a silent vow to keep the part of your life that Wooyoung controlled private, tucked away in a forgotten corner where Hongjoong's eyes can't reach it.
"I've been good. Just studying. Classes. You know how busy it is," you add vaguely, offering a dismissive shrug that you hope conveys a convincing sense of normalcy.
Amusement tugs at his features, his dark eyes cutting toward you playfully. "You haven't been going out?"
You let out a breathy laugh, desperately masking the inner turbulence of your heartbeat. "Do you think I've been going out?"
He chuckles. "No, I don't. I remember you saying you're like me—more of an introvert." He pauses, a teasing undertone bleeding into his voice as he tilts his head at you. "But I also remember you saying you went out not once, but twice, for your friend's birthday."
Your eyebrows knit together instantly. "Twice? No, I only—"
The memory is clear: when you saw Hongjoong in the library cafe, you lied to him. You used Yunho's birthday as a cover for the hours you were to spend meeting Wooyoung in his apartment. The web of your own making is tangling around your ankles, and for a terrifying second, you swear Hongjoong can see the guilt etched on your face.
"Oh, yeah! Twice!" you blurt out, perhaps a bit too defensively. "But that was only because he's my best friend. I'd never do that for anyone else."
Hongjoong offers a slightly skeptical smile. "Okay, sure. If that's what you say."
"I wouldn't!" you affirm, desperate to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "Most of my nights are just... spent in the library. Or my dorm. Usually practicing my Korean, actually."
He slows his pace as you reach the edge of your dorm's courtyard. He scans the area casually, gauging the distance to your door before his eyes settle back on yours, completely focused.
"Well... if I can make time one of those nights," he says, his voice dropping, "I could help you study. Again. For Korean. In the library. Or... anywhere."
A flood of relief and nervous excitement washes over you, warming the skin of your cheeks despite the biting wind. "Yeah," you breathe, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. He smiles in return. "Yeah, that would be... really helpful. Yeah. I'd like that."
You both awkwardly linger there for a moment too long before sharply turning in unison, blushing as you finish the walk, the final few yards to the entrance of your building feeling like miles. As you stand before the doors, you take measure of the proximity between you: you're so close that the heat from his jacket radiates against your arm, yet you both find yourselves looking away, suddenly extremely fascinated by the dark shadows of the trees.
He clears his throat while you find yourself obsessively picking at a loose thread at the hem of your top.
"Well...yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I can text you. When I have a minute. Sometime this week. Maybe."
"Yeah. Perfect. Great," you stammer, nodding like a bobblehead. "I can... I can respond. To... that text."
You internally wince, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so stupid and pathetically eager. But then, Hongjoong turns to you fully, and a soft, warm smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, briefly melting your embarrassment.
"안녕히 계세요, ____," he bids you farewell softly, his Korean smooth and quiet. Goodbye, ____.
"안녕히 가세요, Hongjoong," you say back shyly, your heart racing. Goodbye.
He gives you a small parting wave. You offer a lingering, nervous smile in return before turning and practically ducking into the building, the lobby's warmth partially soothing your embarrassment at your own behavior.
Through the glass doors, you see Hongjoong linger for a second, a dark silhouette against the silver moonlight, before he finally turns back toward the evening's darkness. You lean your head against the cool brick of the interior wall, the early winter air of the walk still clinging to your clothes while the heat of his promise burns in your chest.
You turn and begin to scale the stairs to your floor in what feels like a single adrenaline-fueled blur, your boots clicking against the linoleum. When you finally reach the entrance to your dorm, you fumble a bit with the key—the tremor in your fingers born from the cold outside, or perhaps from being so close to Hongjoong for so long.
The lock finally yields, your door swinging open. Mercifully, you're met with silence. San isn't home yet. That small grace allows the tension to break, and you collapse against the wooden doorframe to breathe.
You let your head thud back, eyes fluttering shut as you try to reconcile the girl who just stuttered through a reiteration of old lies with the girl who just agreed to see her tutor outside the safety of their sessions again—even after the last meeting ended on a not-so-encouraging note. Your chest aches with a confusing mixture of guilt and giddiness.
Driven by a sudden impulse, you cross the darkened common area into the living room, not even bothering to turn on the lights as you reach the window. Pressing your forehead against the chilled glass, you peer down into the courtyard.
You immediately spot the lone figure of Hongjoong.
You watch him walk about ten paces with a confident stride before he falters, stopping dead in his tracks. He pulls his phone from his pocket, the screen casting a blinding glow that you can see even from this far distance. He turns in a slow, confused circle, glancing at the digital map, then up at the intersecting paths, then right back at his phone.
He's lost.
A surprised laugh bubbles up in your throat, huffing a ring of white fog onto the glass in front of you. So he hadn't actually been "heading this way" at all. His excuse had been a lie, an inconvenient detour through the cold, all for a few extra minutes of your awkward, stuttering company.
You watch with a soft, private smile as he finally finds his bearings and pivots to begin the long walk back toward the direction you'd both originally come from. However, as his figure is eventually swallowed by the trees along the path, your laughter slowly dies away, replaced by a cold and familiar sobriety.
Tonight truly felt like a milestone. No matter how desperately you tried to avoid the truth, Hongjoong forced you to admit it: he knows you saw the post. He knows you liked it. Nothing was explicitly confirmed, and yet somehow, you know. You know every lyric he wrote was meant for you—and now, he knows that you know, too.
Despite the crushing embarrassment and awkward tension, it was a step forward; perhaps the most significant one you’ve taken with him. Yet, as you stare out into the now-empty quad, something itches beneath your skin.
You want to believe in the promise of studying together and the soft Korean goodbyes, but a cynical voice in the back of your mind whispers a loud warning. Maybe tonight really was a beautiful "almost"—a glimpse of a life where you can be honest with Hongjoong about your feelings, where that honesty doesn't trigger an escape, and vulnerability isn't a precursor to a crash. But in your experience, every step the two of you take towards the light is followed by an inevitable fall back into the same student-tutor routine.
In a way, you had finally found the courage to reach for each other. But as you turn away from the window as he walks further away from your dorm, you can’t help but wonder: was this the beginning of something new, or just the highest point before the next two steps back?
After all, you're almost there. And in the world you and Hongjoong live in, "almost" is the most dangerous place to be.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 6.5k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i'm sorry it's a little shorter than what's typical but i hope you all enjoy <33
The morning light is certainly what you'd call an unwelcome intruder. It slices through the narrow gaps in your curtains with a blinding brightness, waking you with a heavy feeling in your chest. For a moment, you wonder if you came down with a fever overnight—but you know better. The heat radiating through your body is nothing more than the lingering burn of shame.
Your eyes feel gritty, swollen from the silent tears of last night. You roll onto your side, burying your face in your pillow, when the soft sound of someone snoring from your floor pulls you back.
Frowning, you push yourself up, rubbing at your eyes—which are still smudged with the same mascara from last night—and lean yourself over the edge of the mattress, stretching further until you can see him. San.
Your mind drifts back to the last time you found him sleeping on your carpet: the night after Yunho's party, when he'd woken facing one of his worst hangovers ever. That night had also been the first time you ever met Wooyoung. And now, after what feels like a lifetime compressed into a handful of days, your roommate is curled up in the same spot.
Only this time is different. A spare blanket is tucked around his shoulders, a couch cushion cradling his head. He's positioned closer to the door than before, his body angled as though he meant to put himself between you and anything that might try to reach you. He was guarding the door, yes, but more importantly, he was guarding you.
You turn your head to your left, your throat dry like it's been scraped clean with sandpaper. On your nightstand sits a row of three iced chai lattes, the plastic cups sweating beads of condensation onto the wood, alongside three chocolate muffins still wrapped in crinkled paper. Scrawled across the sides of the cups are the names: San, Yeosang, and Yunho.
The sight of them makes a fresh wave of nausea flip in your stomach. You avert your eyes and reach for your phone instead, your fingers trembling as you unlock it. Your notifications are empty. No texts from Wooyoung. No "Are you okay?", no apology, nothing. You let out a breath and close your eyes for a moment, relief rushing through you. Good.You don't want him to reach out. You don't want an apology, excuses, or concern. You want to pretend like the last twelve hours never happened at all.
But the more the fog of sleep fully lifts, the harder it is to outrun the memories: the smell of the leather seats, his fingers teasingly tracing your leg, the waiter's knowing look, the way his expression changed when you told him to stop, how his mind immediately went to Hongjoong when you told him you didn't want him, and the way he left you in some parking lot all alone, like you were something inconvenient he didn't want to deal with anymore.
Desperate to drown it all out, you lunge for the nearest chai. You don't care whose name is scrawled on the side. You take a large gulp of it, the freezing, spicy sweetness soothing the back of your throat as it slides down. You drink until your lungs burn for air, trying to use the sugar and the cold to wash the taste of Wooyoung out of your system, to swallow the memories down until they're buried deep enough to never again resurface.
But underneath the chill of the tea is the suffocating heat of embarrassment. Of course, Wooyoung just had to text San. So now, San knows. And if San knows, Yeosang knows, too. And if they both know, Yunho definitely knows. The "we told you so" is already ringing in your ears; they'd warned you about the truth of Wooyoung, and they'd seen this coming long before you had.
You want to crawl back under the covers and stay there until you dissolve into nothing. You're too humiliated to face your friends, too exhausted to defend your choices, and far too drained to endure the lecture you're convinced you deserve. As you exhale a shaky sigh, you go to set the cup back down, but your questionable coordination fails you. Your hand brushes against your phone, sending it skittering off the nightstand and clattering to the floor.
San jolts awake instantly, his eyes snapping open and his body tensing like he's ready to fight someone off. It takes a second for the haze of sleep to clear: he blinks rapidly, disoriented by the morning light, before his gaze travels up the side of the bed and lands right on you.
"Oh—hey," he rasps, voice thick with sleep. "You’re up." He pushes himself onto an elbow, then stills, something dawning on him all at once. "Oh. You're up." His expression drops as he pauses. "...Right. Sorry. I—uh."
The silence that follows his stuttering is loud. You're too embarrassed to look at him, let alone find the words to explain why you were even with Wooyoung last night. You stare down at the half-empty cup labeled Yeosang in your hand, watching the ice swirl and collide as you sit up straighter in your bed, as if posture alone gives you some control back.
San shifts, announced by the sound of the blanket rustling against the floor. He gets up and slowly walks over to the edge of your bed, sitting atop the blankets but keeping an arm's length of distance between you. He watches your face with perceptive eyes, waiting for a cue, a sign, a signal that you're ready to talk.
You don't give him one.
Finally, after a few more moments of silence, he reaches out anyway. He moves hesitantly, his arms opening as he tries to pull you into a hug—but as he leans in close, you don't move. You don't lean into his warmth, and yet you don't recoil in disgust. You go still, your body refusing to acknowledge the affection, not because it repulses you, but because you don't know how to receive it without collapsing out of pure mortification.
San pulls back immediately. There's a brief flicker of hurt in his expression, gone almost as soon as it appears, smoothed over by understanding. He doesn't crowd you. He doesn't ask questions. He gives you space even though every instinct in him is screaming not to.
"Sorry," he says quietly. "I'm just glad you're home."
You can't sit here like this. San is, as always, being so kind, but the gentleness in his voice only makes you feel worse—it feels undeserved. You're not shaking, you're not crying, and you're not broken. Being treated like you're delicate and fragile only makes the reality of last night feel more foolish. You were foolish. You don't deserve his affection, but you also don't think you deserve a lecture, either. You just want to be left alone. Deal with your mistakes yourself.
The chai tastes cloyingly sweet now, sticking to the roof of your mouth as San's care only makes the memories of last night stick. You decide that water is the only thing that might actually wash the grit from your throat and the ghost of last night from your system.
Without a word, you slide out of bed. Your legs feel like lead as you navigate around San's makeshift nest. You step over the blanket and the cushion, carefully avoiding any physical contact that might invite another look of pity.
"Wait—" San says, scrambling to his feet. He reaches out, his hand twitching forward as if to catch your sleeve, but stops himself just in time. "I wanted to talk to you first—"
You don't stop. You keep your eyes fixed on the door, pushing it open and stepping into the main room.
You head straight for the kitchen, desperate for the sink, but your pace falters when you see him. Yeosang is lying across the couch, his muscular frame draped over the cushions in a way that suggests he hasn't moved since he arrived. He’s only half-awake, his hair a mess, his eyes tracking your movement the moment you emerge from the hallway.
"Oh," you murmur, your voice cracking as the air leaves your lungs. You'd thought he and Yunho had just dropped off the drinks and left. "You're here?"
Yeosang blinks slowly, sitting up with a tired groan. He looks at you with an unreadable gaze, one hand reaching up to push a stray lock of hair out of his eyes.
"Finally," he mutters, voice raspy. "I figured San would've talked your ear off by now, but since you're already making a run for the kitchen, I guess—"
You catch movement out of the corner of your eye. San is hovering in the hall behind you, his face full of panic. He’s frantically waving his hands, making a desperate "cut it" motion across his throat while shaking his head so hard you're surprised he doesn't get whiplash.
Yeosang stops mid-sentence, his jaw snapping shut as he processes San's silent warning. The gears in your head slowly turn, and you realize they'd probably formed a plan: San was supposed to be the buffer—the one to wake you up gently and let all your emotions loose—before you walked out and realized Yeosang was even here. They probably knew he would take a more logical approach, and they clearly didn't think you were ready for that yet.
Yeosang clears his throat, sitting upright, his usual sharp eyes softened by a night spent on a cramped sofa. "I guess... you woke up earlier than expected," he finishes lamely, the lie hanging awkwardly.
A knock on the door suddenly echoes through the dorm. San moves past you to answer it, his footsteps hurried and slightly anxious. When the door swings open, Yunho is standing there, looking like he hasn't slept a single wink. In his hand, he’s gripping yet another iced chai, the plastic cup rattling against the cardboard carrier. He catches your eye and smiles tentatively, a small, apologetic thing that says he didn't know what else to do to help.
The sight of the fourth cup—the fourth reminder that your friends have spent the morning mourning your dignity—is the final straw.
"I don’t want to talk about it," you snap, the words coming out sharper and more defensive than you intended. You don’t even look at the drink Yunho is trying to offer. "I already know it was stupid, I know I shouldn’t have gotten involved with him, and I know exactly what you’re all thinking. So just... save the lecture."
You brace yourself for the pushback. You expect Yeosang to start a logical review of your bad choices or for San to start coddling you again. But no one corrects you. No one jumps in with a biting remark or a "we told you so." The words just uncomfortably simmer in the heat of the room.
San is the first to break. He steps toward you, but stops well outside your personal space, his shoulders slumped. "I shouldn’t have tried to hug you," he says, his eyes searching yours for forgiveness. "I’m sorry. And I probably shouldn’t have slept in your room, either. I just didn’t want you to be alone."
The ice in your chest starts to melt a little. You look at his tired eyes and realize he isn't trying to patronize you; he’s just the same San who's usually your safety net. That's when you realize he'd probably dropped everything the second Wooyoung's text came through, racing to a dark parking lot in the middle of nowhere because the mere thought of you being stranded and cold was painful for him to imagine.
Yeosang leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "From what we know—which isn't a lot, mind you—you didn't do anything stupid. No one with an ounce of decency leaves a girl alone in the cold like that."
Your heart falters. From what we know.
They don't know any of the details. They don't know about the car, last Saturday, or the way you let things escalate before the panic set in. They just know you were left behind.
Except for Yunho.
He's still standing by the door, the extra chai forgotten in his hand. He’s the only one who knows the messy, complicated context—the sex in Wooyoung's apartment, the blurred lines, the way Wooyoung got under your skin and stayed there. He meets your eyes, and there’s no judgment there, only concern.
"Are you hurt?" Yunho asks simply.
"Physically?" you clarify, your voice small.
"Anything," he responds.
You ponder this for a heartbeat, searching your body and your mind for any fresh wounds. You think of the way you shouted back at Wooyoung, the way you stood your ground, and the way you ultimately walked away from a man who thought he could "fix" you into a version of yourself you didn't even recognize.
If anyone is hurt this morning, it’s probably Wooyoung. His ego is likely in tatters because you were the first one to ever break his spell. You got what you wanted. You ended it, even if it didn't go according to plan. The way it happened left you feeling like a wreck, but the outcome was exactly what you had set out to achieve.
"No," you say, and as you look at your best friend, you truly mean it. "I’m not."
Yunho nods, a small, relieved exhale escaping him. "Okay. Then let’s just take this slow."
He leads the way back to the living room, and as the four of you settle onto the couch, the atmosphere finally shifts. You look at the three of them—San’s restless, protective energy; Yeosang’s watchful silence; and Yunho’s steady presence. They aren't angry, they aren't smug, and they aren't waiting for the chance to say they told you so. They’re just scared. They're terrified of what happened in that car, terrified of what Wooyoung did, and most of all, terrified of why you didn't tell them about any of it.
You can almost hear the gears turning in their heads as they try to reconcile the image of the Wooyoung they know with the version of him that abandoned you in a parking lot because his ego couldn't handle the truth.
"I'm okay, guys," you say steadily, letting out a long sigh. "Really."
San doesn't look convinced. He stares down at his lap, his fingers interlaced so tightly that his knuckles are stark white against his skin. "When he texted me..." he starts, his voice trailing off. When he finally looks up, there's an anger in his eyes that isn't directed at you but makes you flinch all the same. "It was just your name and some abandoned mall's address. That was it. No context, nothing even like a 'come get her.' I... I'm just worried. What the hell happened there? If he hadn't felt guilty enough about leaving you where you could've easily been—"
He cuts himself off, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he forces back the rest of that sentence. He looks back at his hands, taking a breath before meeting your gaze again. "If he hadn't texted me, would you have even called us? Or would you have just stayed there, stranded in the dark, because you didn't want us to know what you were doing with him?"
He asks the question, but the silence in the room suggests everyone already knows the answer. You've spent the morning judging Wooyoung for his ego... but what about your own?
If you're being honest with yourself, you are scared of your reputation cracking, even in front of the people who love you most. You realize with a pang of guilt that you likely wouldn't have called. You would have called an Uber instead, sat in the backseat while praying the driver wasn't a creep, and snuck back into your dorm and gone straight to bed. You would have practiced your lie as soon as you woke up—something about another late night at the library—just so you could hide the evidence of your own humiliation.
San nods, confirming that he doesn't need to hear the words out loud; he already knows your answer. He leans forward, his desperation to bridge the distance between you growing more palpable. "You don't have to tell us anything you don't want to. I know you hid all of this for a reason, but we're just... worried."
You remain quiet for a heartbeat, weighing the weight of his concern against your own pride, before Yeosang's voice cuts through the tension. "Yunho told us a little bit," he adds quietly. "Just what you already told him."
The air leaves your lungs as your heart drops into your stomach. Your head snaps toward Yunho, eyes wide with betrayal and disbelief. "Yunho! You promised you wouldn't say anything!"
Yunho winces, looking like he'd rather shrink into the sofa cushions than face you. "I’m sorry," he says, his voice soft but firm in his choice. "We were all just scared. We all know how Wooyoung can be, and we just... I knew you were trying to end it. I was scared he didn't react well."
"Well, obviously, no, he didn't," you mutter, a humorless laugh bubbling up in your chest.
You lean back, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the confession begins to pull at you. "He didn’t force me into anything, first of all. He was... manipulative, yes, but I kind of knew that, and I was still the one who let things go too far when I knew they should stop. I’m not a victim in that part." Your voice hitches, thick with regret and residual heat. "But still... it wasn't right. He got so mad when I tried to tell him the truth about my feelings." You pause. "Actually, I never even really had to say it. He figured it out himself."
"How?" San asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. "How did he figure anything out if you didn't tell him?"
"Well..." You look down at your feet. "I told him a little bit. That I didn't really think he even liked me. I told him he just liked the idea that he could 'fix' me. Like he could mold me into the type of girl he wanted, like he was my savior or something. And he's smarter than you guys give him credit for—he knew exactly what that meant. It meant I never saw him as a long-term thing. I didn't see him the way he thought a girl like me would."
You pause, the memory of the car's interior—the suffocating smell of his cologne and the sudden shift in his demeanor—washing over you until you feel like you're shivering all over again, just like last night.
"And then he asked about Hongjoong," you continue, quieter. "I denied it all. But I know he saw it in my eyes. And I think that was the moment he decided he was done with me."
The room goes quiet.
San’s expression shifts, the soft worry in his eyes hardening. You see recognition pass through him as he finally realizes just how deep the cracks really went. Beside him, Yeosang remains perfectly still, his mind likely replaying every interaction he’d witnessed or heard about between you and the two men over the last few weeks.
Yunho is the only one who doesn't look surprised. If anything, he just looks sad. He’s the only one who's actually had time to process your feelings about the situation, and you can see in the slump of his shoulders that he knew a confrontation like this was inevitable. He knew you were eventually going to be the one to dismantle the pedestal Wooyoung had built for himself, but as he looks at your face, it’s clear he didn't realize quite how much of the debris of shattered ego was going to fall on you.
"And?" San's angered voice cuts through the room, breaking the silence. "Because you didn't want the same things he did, he just kicked you out? In some parking lot in the middle of the night? Where anything could've happened to you?"
You shift uncomfortably, offering a small, helpless shrug. "I mean... well, yeah. Kind of."
San stands up, the movement so sudden it makes the cushions hiss. He begins to pace, though the small living room barely gives him enough space to turn around. A silent fury radiates off of him as he shakes his head. "I'm going to kill him. What the fuck is wrong in his head? To leave you there alone? To leave any girl there alone? Does he ever think about anyone but himself? Did he even think about what could've happened?"
"San... relax," Yunho says, his voice a cool contrast to San’s heat. "We'll deal with Wooyoung later. Right now isn't the time."
San lets out a breath that sounds close to a growl, but he sinks back onto the cushion, his leg bouncing with restless energy. "Fine," he bites out.
Yeosang takes a slow breath before speaking. "There’s no excuse for Wooyoung's actions," he says, his tone shifting. "We all know him. He's impulsive, and he thinks with his heart—or his dick—ninety-nine percent of the time. But I've been sitting here thinking... I think there was a lot of truth to what he felt for you. People don't spiral like that over someone they don't care about."
"Yeosang, really?" San scoffs, head snapping toward him.
"I'm saying," Yeosang continues, unbothered, "that he's never been the one getting rejected. I don't think he's ever even said the words 'I like you' to anyone before you. He doesn't know how to handle someone looking him in the eye and telling him he's not what she wants."
"But that’s not an excuse!" San snaps, his voice rising again. "Getting rejected isn't a valid reason to dump a girl in the middle of fucking nowhere and drive away! His ego doesn't trump her safety. It doesn't matter if his heart was 'broken' or whatever the hell you're trying to say."
"Obviously, I'm not trying to justify it!" Yeosang snaps back. "I’m just trying to think through it! I’m saying he panicked. I’ve known him for years and never once seen him act like this."
"Then he should've been the one to get out of the car!" San fires back, standing up again. "He was the one with the power in this situation, and he used it to punish her. For what? Hurting his feelings? He's a grown-ass man. He should know how to handle a girl telling him no!"
You watch them go back and forth, their voices bouncing off the walls of the small living room, and for a second, it feels like you're not even in the room. You're simply a topic—a case study for Yeosang to dissect and a wounded bird for San to avenge. They're fighting over the 'why' and the 'how' of your night, building a version that suits their own perspectives. The more they argue over why Wooyoung did what he did, the more you feel yourself disappearing from the conversation entirely. The urge to scream that you're right here, that you don't need them fighting about you, rises in your throat, but you force it back down, not wanting to make things worse.
"Okay, okay," Yunho interrupts, his hand coming down firmly on San's shoulder in an attempt to calm him down. "Whatever his reasons were, they aren't the point right now. He’s not the priority." He turns his full attention to you, his eyes searching yours with a gentleness that makes your throat tight. "Are you okay? Truly? You aren't... upset?"
"I'm not," you say, and you're surprised by how much you mean it. "This is what I wanted, really. I wanted it to be over."
But as the words leave your mouth, Yeosang’s start to take root in your mind. A parasitic seed of guilt begins to itch under your skin. You think back to the moments before the parking lot—the way you’d laughed together, the effortless chemistry, the way his touch had felt so right. It was easy. It was fun.
You'd walked into this thinking you were just ending a fling, a brief lapse in judgment. But now, you realize you'd done something much more permanent. Really, you'd ruined the very confidence that had made you attracted to him in the first place. You’d taken his 'savior' complex and thrown it back in his face as the flaw it actually was.
You know that you played a part in the escalation. You had let him touch you. You had let the lines blur until they were invisible, playing along with a game you knew was temporary. You had let him believe he was winning, all while knowing you had one foot out the door and your heart tucked away in a drawer labeled Hongjoong. Neither of you was the victim nor the villain. You were simply a person trying to figure out your own heart, and unfortunately for Wooyoung, he happened to be the casualty of your search for clarity.
"I just..." you start, looking at the three of them. You feel a strange sense of lucidity, a total lack of the brokenness they probably expected. You aren't shattered. You’re just tired. "I just wish it was as easy to tell him it was over as it was to tell him I wanted it in the first place."
You fall back into the cushions, letting the silence wrap around you. You look at San, whose protective rage is slowly simmering into a quiet, watchful hurt on your behalf. You look at Yeosang, who is still dissecting the logic of a broken heart, and finally at Yunho, who knows exactly how much of this was a self-inflicted wound.
It doesn’t feel good. There's no triumph in knowing you've bruised someone's ego, even if they deserved it for leaving you in the cold. But as you lean back into the sofa, surrounded by the people who actually showed up, you realize something: your hands aren't shaking. For the first time since you started this thing with Wooyoung, the tremor in your bones has finally stilled.
You aren't the "fixed" version of yourself that Wooyoung tried to mold, and you aren't the fragile glass doll that San is trying to guard. You're exhausted, you're drained, and you're carrying a heavy weight of guilt—but that weight is yours alone to carry. You've stopped being a project to be solved or a secret to be kept.
Finally, you're the one in control of what you want.
The blue flicker of the television is the only thing keeping the room from falling into total darkness.
Your entire day has dissolved into a long, numbing loop of skipping class and sitting on this couch, wedged tightly between your three best friends. You'd spent hours mindlessly forcing them through a Gossip Girl marathon—a show they pretend to hate, though you'd caught San secretly googling 'is dan humphrey gossip girl' more than a few times in between episodes. But after watching Serena make one too many self-destructive choices for the sake of some guy, the plot eventually started to hit a nerve. The parallels to your own mess—the hidden secrets, the good reputation slipping, the humiliation of being the topic of conversation—began crawling under your skin. Yunho had noticed your jaw tightening, and without a word, he'd quietly stolen the remote and swapped the drama for some muted nature documentary before you could protest.
Now, the silent footage of a dark ocean is the only movement in a room that has finally gone still. After hours of the boys treating you like you were made of glass—a cycle of fresh blankets and snacks pushed at you every five minutes—the late hour has finally caught up to them.
Yunho is out cold in the corner of the couch, his head tilted back at an uncomfortable-looking angle with his mouth parted open. San is slumped on the other end, buried under a mess of throw blankets and pillows, his quiet snoring the only real sound left in the room.
Only Yeosang is still awake, albeit by a thread. He's hunched over a Psychology textbook on the coffee table, his back against the base of the couch right next to your knees. He's trying to claw back the hours he lost skipping class to sit with you, but his eyes are fluttering shut, and his hand lingers on the corner of the same page for minutes at a time. He isn't paying any attention to you anymore.
For the first time all day, the spotlight is off. You aren't being watched.
In the midnight quiet of the dorm, you finally tear your eyes from the schools of fish swimming around on the TV and reach for your phone. You tell yourself it's just boredom—a restless itch to fill the silence—but your thumb moves with such a practiced pull that you know you're lying to yourself.
Hongjoong is still at the top of your recent searches on Instagram.
You click his design account first, the safe choice. You scroll through the grid of shades of denim and leather, studying the lines of his sketches and the close-ups of silver hardware as if you haven't already memorized the entire feed. There’s nothing new, but you linger anyway, scrolling until you reach the very bottom.
After a few minutes, you pivot, tapping over to his music account—the place you haven't dared to look at since that night he helped you with your test corrections in the library. Since the moment he'd caught you listening to the song of his last cover and fled immediately.
The screen loads, and your pulse immediately kicks against your ribs. There's a new little square in the top left corner. You quickly click on it, reading how long it's been since it was posted.
2 days ago.
Monday night, you realize—the night after the library.
The thumbnail is grainy, bathed in the same warm, dim light of his room you've seen a dozen times through your screen. He's sitting on the floor, hunched over his guitar, wearing the exact same black nylon jacket he'd had on during your extra tutoring session. You fumble for whoever's stray pair of AirPods is wedged between the cushions next to you, your fingers trembling as you jam them in. You don't care whose they are; you're simply desperate to hear what you missed.
The caption is a single, lowercase word: almost.
You turn the volume up, your finger clicking on the side of your phone until the rest of the room—the snoring, the blue flicker of the TV, the sound of Yeosang’s slow breathing—is completely drowned out. You hit play, and the first melancholic strum of his guitar vibrates directly into your ears.
You realize immediately that this isn't another cover. A worn spiral notebook is splayed open on the floor in front of him, filled with lines of ink that he’s crossed out and rewritten until the paper is nearly torn. He looks raw, his eyes never leaving the notebook as he begins to sing. You realize that this is, in fact, a Kim Hongjoong original.
"I press record, you check the time
The library's closing, we crossed a line
Back at my house now, I know I'm a mess
But somewhere in my head, I take off your dress."
Your breath hitches, a quiet sound that feels loud enough to wake the entire dorm. You freeze, praying your friends didn't hear, but your skin is already beginning to burn anyway. A prickly heat climbs up your neck, settling in your cheeks.
It's about you again. It's a literal frame-by-frame replay of your sessions.
You check the time. You do that every single session. The moment the recording stops, your eyes dart to that clock above his head, calculating exactly how many seconds are left in the session so you can escape before you do something embarrassing. He must've noticed. He must've known the whole time.
We crossed a line. When? Monday night? When you listened to his cover? Or was it the moment he volunteered to meet you outside the requirements at all? You'd spent weeks agonizing over the tension, but now, you realize for a fact that he's always felt it, too. He was counting the inches between you just as hungrily as you were.
But that last line... that's the one that makes your stomach flip. But somewhere in my head, I take off your dress. You feel a blush warming your cheeks. The line is so ridiculous, so untutor-like, that it leaves you breathless. While you were sitting there, staring at your notes and tripping over verbs, Hongjoong wasn't only thinking about grammar. Behind that polite, controlled persona was a man vividly imagining the very same things you were.
Hongjoong isn't just aware of the attraction between you. He's been living in it, just like you.
"We get close, starting to feel
Only to leave as soon as it's real."
That's exactly it, you realize, sucking in a breath. That's the loop you've been drowning in for weeks.
It's the summary of your relationship: the two of you edge toward something more intimate—a new interest in common, a look that lingers too long, a touch that wasn't supposed to happen—only for one of you to cut the wire at the very last second.
It's in the way a conversation about grammar suddenly turns into a lasting, knowing glance, until he clears his throat and retreats behind your textbook. It's in the way your hand accidentally brushes his, and instead of closing the gap, you bolt for the door.
You're both cowards. That's the ugly truth of it. You're both playing a high-stakes game of chicken, waiting for the other to break, but the moment things get "real," you both back off. You flee to the safety of your separate lives, and he hides behind his professional armor.
"We've got so much in common, including the issues
I'll pull away 'cause I know I could lose you
That's when it hits me, so suddenly
You are almost the best thing that's happened to me
I could say what I'm thinking, got nowhere to be
You could show me you want me, tell me what you mean
That's when it hits me, so suddenly
You are almost the best thing that's happened to me."
You let your head thud back against the sofa, eyes squeezed shut as the words ache in your chest.
I know I could lose you. You pause the video to think about what his lyrics mean. When he pulls back, he isn't being cold; he's scared. He knows the math of it all: if he crosses the line and somehow fails, he loses you entirely. He's choosing the safety of the "tutor" dynamic because he can't face the alternative.
You could show me you want me, tell me what you mean.
The lyrics sting. You take it as an accusation.
Hongjoong is calling you out. You've spent weeks playing the victim of his professionalism, but to be honest, you're a perpetrator, too. Every time you looked at him and then ripped your gaze away, every time you swallowed the truth because you were too scared of the "almost," you were helping him build this restraint.
He’s telling you through a recording in the dark that part of what's keeping you in the "almost" category is your own silence, not just his.
"I'm miles away, yeah
Repeat every mistake, yeah
넌 틀렸던 문법, 네 말투들 모두
내 마음속에 남아 날 울리고 있어, yeah
너를 사랑하는 게 너무 쉬운 일이는데
거짓말 뒤에 숨어
Over하는 걸까 겁낸 겁쟁이
교정실에 홀로 갇힌 죄인
너도 같은 형량이길
We're static and plastic, trapped in parts we play."
Hongjoong's transition to Korean is seamless, but for you, it's a door slamming right in your face.
You've spent months hunched over desks with him, dissecting sentences and memorizing verb endings, but now—when the stakes are a matter of your own heart—you can't understand a thing. You recognize bits and pieces: 거짓말 (lie)... 죄인 (sinner). But without the lyrics written in front of you, the full meaning slips right from your grasp.
The frustration manifests as heat behind your eyes. You lean in closer to the speaker, as if physical proximity could somehow bridge the linguistic gap, but the more you strain, the more the translation fades further away. Hongjoong is speaking to you directly through the screen, confessing through the melody, and you're still standing on the outside, peering in through a frosted window.
You don't need a translator to hear the shift in his voice, though. The measured tone of the man who corrects your pronunciation is gone. He sounds frustrated—no, he sounds indicted.
We're static and plastic, trapped in parts we play. That line, at least, is a knife you can understand. Hongjoong is mocking the costumes you both wear: the professional, kind tutor and the appreciative, hardworking student. He's calling your dynamic a mannequin's play—stiff, fake, and lifeless.
"If you'd step out of character and leave all the noise
I'd forget every script, just the sound of your voice
I wonder if we really tried, you'd never be
Almost the best thing that happened to me."
The song tapers off into a whisper, the final notes vibrating into your bones. Step out of character. There's your cue. He’s telling you that if you stop pretending to be a simple student who feels nothing for him, he’ll stop pretending he’s only there to fix your grammar.
You look around the darkened room, and for a second, everything feels sickeningly mundane. Yeosang is focused, his face half-drifting into sleep. Yunho and San are tucked away, the protectors who think you’re a girl who needs blankets and nature documentaries to feel safe. They see you as something to be shielded from the "risk" of a guy like Wooyoung.
But Hongjoong—Hongjoong is different, but he isn't necessarily offering you safety. Just like always, he’s challenging you. But this time, it's to be the girl who chooses the risk over the "almost."
Your thumb hovers over the screen as the video starts over, and the same beginning melody repeats in your ears. On screen, your tutor draws a breath to begin again, and you're caught in the pull of a voice you were never really even supposed to hear this way.
You think back to your "plan" in the library. You'd thought about how you could be the one to bridge the gap, how you could push him until he had no choice but to break and confess. But as the song settles over you, you realize that Hongjoong has already shattered long ago. This post is his white flag. He’s admitted everything, draped in the safety of a song, leaving the final move entirely in your trembling hands.
The "like" button currently sits as a tiny, empty heart. In any other context, it really is just a mindless gesture. But between you and Hongjoong, trapped in your static and plastic parts, it's you admitting through the phone: I know this is about me. And I want it just as bad as you do.
With a shaking breath, you double-tap the screen.
The heart turns red.
Liked.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 12.2k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. please make sure to read the warnings and enjoy!
chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, rough sex, heavy dubcon, fingering, oral sex (f and m receiving), throat fucking, finger sucking, degradation, humiliation, derogatory language/names, hair pulling, spanking, brief exhibitionism, brief unintentional vouyerism, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
"You're not actually going to keep this from them forever, are you?"
The jazz overhead suddenly feels like white noise, the melody severed by a question that hangs between you and Wooyoung. You look up from your half-finished meal as your heart performs a slow, leaden roll, leaving you reaching for a breath that won't come.
For the last hour, you've felt like you've been drowning in the performance of this "date." You've sat through his promises of seriousness, listening to him describe a version of you that quite honestly feels like a stranger—someone he wants to "save" from the very things that make you who you are. But while Wooyoung has been busy painting a future where you finally let go, your mind has been drifting back to your tutor the entire time. You can't stop comparing Wooyoung's desire to simplify your edges against the way Hongjoong silently wants you to sharpen them. And the guilt of that preference is another unwelcome guest at the edge of the table.
"Keep what from who?" you ask, though the wine on your tongue suddenly tastes like iron.
The playful smirk you've grown used to is nowhere to be found. Instead, Wooyoung just watches you, his eyes tracking the way you've been meticulously shredding a piece of asparagus rather than eating it for the past five minutes. His mouth curves slowly, but it certainly doesn't look like a smile. "San. Yeosang." The screech of his knife against the ceramic is the only other sound as he cuts his steak into thin strips, never once breaking eye contact. "Yunho, if we're being thorough."
Your stomach tightens at the last name, realizing your best friend knows the truth of the situation even more fully than Wooyoung himself. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you lie, taking a sip of wine you don’t need, just to keep your hands busy.
Wooyoung hums. "Sure you don't." He leans back, the silver-ringed fingers of one hand tapping on the table. "I just think it's funny," he continues in a low, conversational purr. "San's been texting me since Sunday night, begging me to come back so we can finish our game. Poor guy thinks I was there for him. Even when I left five minutes after you went to bed."
He pauses, his gaze dropping to your hand, tracking the white-knuckle grip you have on the stem of your glass.
He’s doing this on purpose, you think, the realization thudding in your chest. He's intentionally laying traps, baiting you to see if he can get you to bite.
He leans forward. "So what's the plan?" he presses, his ruinous smirk finally bleeding back onto his face. "Are you going to look Yeosang in the eye during class tomorrow and pretend you didn't let his childhood best friend fuck you with a knife? You're good at this little perfect student act, I'll give you that. San actually believed you."
"Wooyoung, that's different," you protest, but your voice sounds thin even to your own ears. "They're my friends. I don't want them involved in... this."
"Is that right?"
He then shifts, slowly reaching across the small gap between your chairs. His hand vanishes beneath the drape of the black tablecloth, and when his palm finds the exposed skin of your thigh, the air is punched clean out of your lungs. His hand is unnervingly warm. His thumb begins to stroke the skin just above your knee.
"Because from where I'm sitting," he murmurs, "it looks like you enjoy the secrecy."
You let out a scoff despite the heat flushing through your body. "I don't enjoy it."
"Right. You love it," he corrects, his grin turning wicked. "You love pretending you're so poised and unaffected while we both know you're a shaking mess the second I get you behind a closed door."
The silver of your fork hits the china with a sharp clack as you set it down harder than you mean to. You squirm in your seat. "No, I just don't need everyone knowing my business."
"Your business," he repeats, the words coming out as a thoughtful drawl, as if he's digesting the bitter taste of them. He doesn't pull away; his grip tightens, his fingers splaying against your thigh with a pressure that pins you to the spot. "So that's all I am to you? A transaction you wanna keep off the books?" He lets out a soft, humorless huff, his eyes searching yours for a crack in the armor.
You open your mouth to argue, but the words die in your throat. You don't think he truly meant it, but technically, he's right.
The waiter suddenly walks into the room, the click of his footsteps against the marble floor feeling like an intrusion of reality into the bubble Wooyoung has built around you. He pauses to refill your water glasses, the crystal clinking softly when the ice hits. You sit frozen, your spine rigid, praying that he doesn't notice the unnatural drape of the velvet tablecloth or the way Wooyoung’s shoulder is angled toward your lap.
The second the waiter nods and retreats, the safety of the public eye vanishes. Wooyoung leans forward, resting his chin casually on his free hand, his expression almost innocent if not for the fire in his eyes.
"You know," he says quietly, his thumb digging into the inside of your thigh with a pressure that sends a jolt straight to your core, forcing your toes to curl in your heels. "San would lose his mind."
"About—About what?" you stammer, trying to fix your gaze on the beads of condensation tracing slow paths down your wine glass, anything other than the heat of his hand as it slides higher up your skin with every passing second.
"If he knew how you sound," Wooyoung says casually, as if he were critiquing the cook of the steak. "If he knew the girl sleeping ten feet away from him every night was the same one who chokes on her own breath when I touch her right here."
As the words leave his lips, his fingers ghost over the sensitive skin of your core, brushing the dangerous heat where your legs meet. The air hitches violently in your throat, his name dying behind your teeth as you do exactly what he predicted: you lose the ability to breathe.
He grins as you recoil, your legs jerking away from his touch as his hand drops back to your knee. You clear your throat, your head snapping around to scan the corners of the private room, checking for witnesses despite the fact that you're completely alone.
"Wooyoung," you manage, trying to stitch your dignity back together even as your pulse thrashes against your skin. "I do not sound—"
"He'd be shocked for about a second. But then?" Wooyoung cuts through your denial, his tone amused but his eyes darkening. "He'd be curious. Yeosang, too. He'd pretend he doesn't care, probably. But he'd corner me later for the details. Every excruciating, filthy second of what it'd be like to have you under him."
You choke slightly on your wine. The liquid burns your throat as you set the glass down with a trembling hand. "Why would they... they’re my friends, Wooyoung. They don't look at me like that."
"Baby, please." He drags the word out, the syllables dripping with a pity that makes your skin crawl. His gaze roams over your face with an intensity that leaves you feeling stripped bare. "What do you expect, living with a man? You're smart, you're beautiful, and you walk around that dorm like you've never had a single impure thought in your life. You think they haven’t thought about it?"
"Wooyoung..." you warn, your knuckles turning white around your glass. Under the table, his palm spreads flat against your thigh, his fingers dragging you an inch closer to allow him better access to your body.
"You think San hasn't sat on that couch and wondered if those pretty little sounds you make would feel as sweet against his skin as they do in his head?" he murmurs lowly, so much so that you feel the vibration in your bones. "Or that Yeosang hasn't watched you study and wondered how much of that focus you’d have left if he were between your legs, making sure you couldn't think of anything but him?"
"No," you hiss, eyes darting frantically around the room as a blush spreads on your cheeks. "They don't... they aren't like you."
"They aren't," he agrees, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. "They're much more polite about it. But you know they're starving for a glimpse of the version of you that I get. The ____ that's flushed and breathless and begging." He leans in until the scent of his cologne is the only air left to breathe. "Imagine it. Imagine the way San would look at you while he finally gets his hands on what he’s been secretly eyeing for months. Imagine Yeosang taking his time, needing to see every way your body breaks for him. They want to know exactly what's behind that perfect little exterior, baby. And at any second, I could tell them."
You try to swallow, but your throat is a desert.
Inside, your mind is screaming in protest. You know he's wrong. You know San treats you with a protective kindness that has no room for what Wooyoung is describing. You know Yeosang respects your intellect far too much to ever reduce you to an object. Wooyoung knows it, too—and that’s exactly why he’s saying it. He's trying to dismantle your composure, thinking he's helping you. He's taking the people you feel safest with and dragging them into his world, forcing you to look at them through his own heated, unfiltered eyes.
He wants to rattle you. He wants to see if he can make you abandon those "exhausting" standards by showing you a version of reality where even your best friends are just as affected by you as he is. He’s pushing you to see a world where you aren’t just the "perfect student" or the "good friend," but someone capable of inspiring a total, messy loss of control.
But even as your brain rejects the logic, your body is a traitor. The mental image of Yeosang’s quiet, analytical eyes turning dark with desire, or San’s gentle hands becoming possessive, sends a sickeningly sweet thrum of arousal through your veins. Wooyoung is somehow managing to weave a web of magnetic filth around the people you trust, and god help you, the explicitness of his words is working.
"They aren't like you, Wooyoung," you mutter, your voice shaking so badly the words almost crumble. "They wouldn't... they'd hate both of us for talking about them like this."
"You keep telling yourself that," he whispers. "But I think you know what I mean, even if you don't want to admit it. You can feel it, can’t you?" His hand on your thigh hitches your dress up another inch, his palm hot and heavy. "That little spark of fear that’s actually excitement? You’re wondering what it would feel like to stop pretending. You’re wondering if I'll actually tell them."
Your breath hitches, a broken sound that all but confirms every word he’s saying. You want to look away, to find a focal point in the room that isn't his eyes, but you’re paralyzed by him.
"Wanna know a secret?" he adds, grinning wickedly. "I think if I told them I was willing to share, they’d be at this table before the check arrived."
The audacity of it—the idea of being dismantled and shared by the very people who are your safety—fractures the last of your composure. You need to speak, to defend them, to prove none of you are the people he’s describing. But his words are like a toxin, making it impossible to remember what the truth even is.
You're still searching for your voice when Wooyoung’s thumb hitches higher, finding your clit through your panties and pressing softly.
You jerk violently, your body jolting so sharply that your knees slam into the underside of the table. The wood groans, and the vibration rattles the china, sending your fork skittering. It hits the rim of your plate with a clink, bounces once, and slides off the table, vanishing into the dark shadow beneath the tablecloth.
Silence falls as your heart races.
Wooyoung doesn't move immediately. He just looks at you across the table, his thumb finally coming to a rest against your skin. He doesn’t offer a sympathetic look, either; he simply watches the way your chest heaves, his expression one of dark, devastating satisfaction.
In that one, echoing sound of silver against marble, he's shattering your boundaries and standards, leaving you exposed to the reality he's spent all night creating.
"Oops," he mocks, his voice thick with a predatory amusement. "I’ll get that for you, baby."
He pushes his chair back with a slow creak, dipping beneath the velvet fall of the tablecloth.
You shift awkwardly to the side, your knees knocking together as you lean away, eyes glancing down at your feet. You try to track where the fork might have fallen, desperate for the mundane task of retrieval to break the spell Wooyoung's cast on you. But the dim lighting makes everything beneath the table a blur.
And then you feel the slow trace of fingertips creeping up the outside of your leg. It's not the frantic reach of someone searching for something they dropped. It's the climb of a man who knows exactly what he's looking for.
You instantly tense, every instinct screaming at you to pull away. But his hands clamp firmly around your legs before you can even move.
"Shh," he murmurs. His voice is slightly muffled by the fabric draped over the table, but that doesn't deter him from teasing you. "No one will know, baby."
Your pulse jumps, and you brace your hands against the tabletop, fingers splayed. You try to steady your sudden rush of nerves. But it's no use as his other hand begins its ascent up your other leg.
"Wooyoung," you breathe, "what are you—"
The words die in your throat as something warmer than fingers ghosts over your knee. His tongue moves slowly, dragging upward along your thigh, making your spine instantly snap straight. Your legs begin to tremble, but he holds them steady in his palms.
You can't see him. No one can. His entire body is shielded by the tablecloth, completely hidden from view. That, somehow, is the worst part—not being able to see what's coming next, and not being able to brace yourself for it.
His hands settle firmly against your thighs, guiding them apart inch by inch until you're positive his face has a direct view of your already embarrassingly soaked panties. His tongue traces higher, dragging flat against the sensitive skin of the inside of your thigh, lingering just long enough in certain places to make every nerve in your body scream.
"No one can see me from here," he murmurs from beneath the table, his voice soft and coaxing. "I'll make you feel good. I'll make you forget about everything here but me."
Your skin feels like it's prickling as his body shifts closer. He then starts swirling his tongue in slow, teasing circles around your thigh, pausing every so often to suck gently. His touch is maddeningly soft, like he's testing how much you'll be able to take.
"What are you..." you gasp under your breath, though your voice breaks, and it comes out as more of a whimper. "We're in public—"
He doesn't answer with words.
His fingers hook lightly into the fabric of your panties, the touch deceptively gentle, dragging them down slowly until they slip past your knees and finally pool around your ankles. The cool air kisses your newly exposed skin.
You freeze in your place, your muscles locking as you wait. You wait for the door to slide open, for the faint shuffle of footsteps, for the waiter to return, for anything that would send the humiliation of being discovered racing through your veins.
Your mind runs ahead of itself, catastrophizing every possibility. Voices outside. A shadow passing the frosted glass of the door. The realization that Wooyoung has horribly misjudged just how private this room really is. Heat creeps up your neck at the thought alone.
But nothing happens.
As the seconds tick past, the room remains perfectly quiet and still. The tablecloth hangs low, concealing everything happening beneath it. Even if someone were to walk in right now without any warning, they wouldn't see.
Don't look at the door. You desperately command yourself to keep your face neutral even as your insides are liquid fire. You tell yourself to push him away, to end this before that handle turns, but your hands won't move.
Wooyoung is a terrifying magnet. You know this is wrong. The risk is massive. And it's not at all what you came here for. But you can't escape his addictive confidence; the rest of the world is beginning to blur. Your body is completely betraying your mind's logic.
The scratchy fabric of the tablecloth, the contrast of the cool room against the warmth of his tongue, and the way your own shaky breath cuts through the silence... you feel all of it. The "what-ifs" are still lingering, but now, they're becoming distant. Breathlessly, you realize that you aren't really fighting him anymore. You're fighting the urge to lean into it, to spread your legs wider and let Wooyoung succeed in exactly what he's trying to do: break your resolve and make you finally let go.
His mouth traces another slow line along your inner thigh, closer now to your core—close enough that your breath fractures into something embarrassingly unsteady. One of your hands fists the tablecloth tightly while the other hovers uselessly in the air, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
"Wooyoung, please," you whisper—but you can no longer tell whether you're begging him to stop or pleading for more.
He answers with a soft hum against your skin, hands spreading your legs wider, settling you more firmly in place.
"Relax, baby," he murmurs. "Just feel it."
Somewhere in that moment—caught between fear and desire—you start to let go.
Wooyoung's thumbs begin to rub circles into your inner thighs as his tongue inches closer and closer to the exact spot you're aching for him to touch. He nips at your skin with his teeth, a teasing bite that makes you suck in a breath. His touch never crosses the line into pain, and it never leaves any marks behind—its existence purely proves a point. Even without seeing you, he knows exactly how you react to everything he does.
"Woo... Wooyoung..." you breathe, the sound barely holding together as your legs tremble and his grip tightens unapologetically. You want more. You want him to stop dragging this out and touch you where he's clearly planning to, despite knowing that you shouldn't want it.
"Yeah, baby?" he teases against your skin. "You want it?"
You don't answer. You can't.
You hear him chuckle softly, pleased. "C'mon," he coaxes, dragging out the word. "Let me hear it. Tell me how bad you want it."
"I—I..."
You don't get the chance to finish. His thumbs press harder into your thighs, the pressure no longer gentle. He bites down harder, enough to steal a whine from your throat, a broken mix of pain and arousal.
"Heard that," he says, amusement dripping from his voice. "I don't think that's the sound of someone who doesn't want it."
His hands stay firm, anchoring you in place despite how bad your legs are shaking. "Anyone could walk in right now," he continues. "Our waiter. The manager. Someone looking for the bathroom. Anyone." He pauses, and you feel him smile against your skin. "I could stop right now, if you're too scared. We can sit here and keep eating like nothing happened."
His hands spread wide, gripping your thighs fully, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. The pain and pleasure blur together until another broken whine slips out.
"Don't lie to me," he murmurs. "Don't make me guess what I already know. Say it, baby," he coaxes, cruelly and patiently. "Say you need me to help you let go."
That does it. Whatever restraint you were clinging to splinters all at once, every warning and hesitation snapping clean through you.
"Fuck—yes, Wooyoung," you whisper, the words tearing free as your eyes well up with tears. "I need it. Please."
You feel his smug, wicked grin as he presses a kiss to your inner thigh. "Hell yeah, baby. Good fucking girl."
His tongue suddenly drags upward through the slick heat of your folds, flat and slow, the contact pulling a long-awaited moan from the back of your throat. The pleasure jolts through you like electricity, and you instinctively arch your hips toward his mouth, a silent plea for more.
His grip tightens in response, fingers digging into your thighs as he continues to lick steady stripes up your folds relentlessly. Each time lingers longer than the last, pausing over your clit to press just a little harder, reminding you exactly who's in control and exactly how completely you've given in.
You hear Wooyoung groan beneath the table as he takes in your taste. "Holy shit, baby," he growls, teasing your entrance with his tongue in swift circles. "Tastes so good."
A harsh flick of his tongue against your clit sends sharp waves of pleasure pulsing straight through your core. You let out a helpless whimper and reach blindly beneath the table, your fingers grasping for anything solid—his hair, his shoulder, anything—but they find nothing except darkness, reminding you that while he's hidden, untouched by consequence, you're the one exposed, who could be seen by anyone at any second.
Wooyoung is relentless, his tongue lapping between your folds and sucking on your clit with a starved hunger, like he hadn't filled up on the actual food and is still greedy for more. Your eyes flutter shut, and you clamp a hand over your mouth, desperate to smother the moan threatening to spill out as he groans deeply against your cunt, the sound vibrating through you and sending a heated shock coursing straight through your body.
His tongue takes time circling your entrance, just long enough to make you dizzy before pressing in, drawing a helpless gasp from your chest. He slowly penetrates your welcoming heat, fucking you with his tongue, the warmth and slickness of it leaving you whimpering and fighting back moans. One of his hands finally releases the tight grip it has on your thigh, sliding upward until it reaches your clit, flicking it cruelly before circling it with firm pressure. Your walls clench around his tongue instinctively, causing him to groan again, satisfied.
"Fucking slut," he mutters, sliding his tongue out of your hole and toying with your clit between his thumb and pointer finger. "Letting me eat your pussy here. Knew you'd eventually give in."
His other hand then lets go, and suddenly your legs are being held open by nothing but your own need. He slowly sinks a single finger inside your dripping cunt, curling it upward.
"I love this so fucking much," Wooyoung groans lowly. "How easy it is to make you forget everything."
You can't stop the soft, desperate moans that slip out as his fingers work faster, attention split between your clit and your hole, the pleasure mounting until it feels almost unbearable. You bite your lip hard, cheeks flushed, and brows drawn tight as you fight to stay quiet. Your walls twitch as he works a second finger inside your pussy, curling it cruelly, picking up speed like he's determined to make you lose control of yourself completely.
"Wooyoung," you moan as he hits the spot inside you that makes your vision blur, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. "Too—too much, Wooyoung, I—"
"Too much?" he echoes with mock concern. You can hear the sadistic grin in his voice. He adds to the pressure instead, teasing your entrance with a third finger. "That's funny, baby." He pauses as his third finger slowly starts to slide inside you, causing your mouth to fall open on a silent, desperate, overwhelmed cry. "I thought this was exactly what you wanted," he pouts tauntingly. "Didn't you say you wanted it? Needed me to make you feel good?"
Your eyes sting, tears blurring everything as you try to force out something coherent—anything other than the whimpers and moans spilling from you instead. You reach for his body beneath you again, desperate for an anchor, but you find nothing. Your fingers instead curl around the edge of the table, gripping so hard your hands ache. You try to speak. But all that comes out is another moan.
He clicks his tongue softly, disapproving—but unmistakably pleased with the mess he's made of you. "Aw," he tuts, a dangerous sweetness lacing his voice. "Did I break you, baby?"
The sound of the door opening sends a shock straight through you.
"Good evening," the waiter says politely as he steps into the room, hands clasped together as he offers a practiced nod. "Was everything cooked to your liking?"
Your body goes rigid.
Beneath the table, Wooyoung's fingers go utterly still inside you. The sudden stop is almost worse than the movement had been.
No. No, no, no, no—
Your breath stutters as you quickly straighten your posture and force your lips into something that might resemble a smile. You don't dare shift your body. You don’t dare look down. You sit frozen, focused solely on how exposed you feel despite the thick tablecloth hanging perfectly still.
You're convinced the waiter can see it: your flushed cheeks, the way your shoulders are drawn too tight, and the empty seat across from you. You're positive he's piecing it together, sure that at any second his gaze will drop, linger, and notice.
"Oh—um—yes," you manage, the words scraping out of your throat. "Everything—"
Wooyoung suddenly moves.
His tongue returns to your clit without any warning, sucking harshly, like a punishment for your hesitation. The shock rips a breath from your chest before you can control it. His fingers pick up again mercilessly. You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, fighting the reaction clawing its way up your spine.
"—everything's great," you force out, voice trembling just enough to make your heart pound harder. You're doing everything in your power not to react to the man secretly devouring your pussy under the table.
The waiter smiles, oblivious, and steps closer to the table. Too close. Close enough that you catch the faint crease between his brows as his gaze flicks over you—your heated face, the desperate look in your eyes, and the way your hands clutch the table like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
Underneath, Wooyoung hums softly against your cunt.
Your knee twitches.
The waiter pauses. "Is your company joining you again shortly?"
Your mind scrambles, slippery with panic. Whatever composure you had surrendered earlier is gone completely—your head is still empty, caught in the haze Wooyoung lured you into.
"Yes," you say too quickly, desperate for any excuse. "He just—um—stepped out." You swallow. "He, um, forgot his keys in his car. He'll be—he'll be right back."
The lie sounds thin even to your own ears.
The waiter hesitates, studying your face again, his eyes lingering a second too long. Your skin burns under the scrutiny.
Then, finally, he nods. "Of course."
Relief barely has time to register before Wooyoung’s fingers pick up speed, eliciting a soft whine that you rush to cover with a cough. You turn your face away as heat floods your cheeks. You can feel his wicked smile against your skin.
The waiter clears his throat.
"Well," he continues politely, as if nothing is out of the ordinary at all, "would you like to see the dessert menu while you wait? Our special tonight is very popular."
Please. Just leave. Your thoughts scream the same three words over and over.
"No, no, that's okay—" you start, your voice strained and too high.
All of a sudden, Wooyoung bites you.
His teeth scrape harshly against your clit. Shockwaves ripple through you, stealing your breath, and a helpless sound escapes before you even realize it.
The waiter blinks, startled, and you clamp your hand over your mouth, cheeks flaming.
"Yes!" you blurt, breathless and loud, the word tumbling out loosely like it has a mind of its own. "Yes—the special sounds... lovely. Sorry—um—long day..."
Thankfully, the waiter chooses not to question it. He simply smiles, clearly deciding not to ask further questions. "I’ll bring that right out for you."
He turns and walks out of the room, sliding the door shut with the same politeness he originally entered with. Relief should wash over you, but it never gets the chance.
Beneath you, Wooyoung picks up speed, his fingers pulsing in and out of your cunt as his tongue laps over your clit, ruthlessly abusing it while never once ceasing the pace of his fingers. The pleasure is unbearable; your face twists in a mix of bliss and humiliation, the memory of the waiter catching onto something making everything impossible to handle, and you start to feel yourself being pushed over the edge.
"You know you clenched around me when he came in, right, baby?" Wooyoung grins in between each nibble on your clit. "Didn't think you'd like being caught. No wonder you were such a whore for the little fantasy I made up about your friends wanting to fuck you."
You feel yourself clench even harder at his words, gripping the table so hard your knuckles blanch. Your legs tremble, quivering under the strain, closing slightly as if your body can’t handle any more, trapping his head between them. Your reaction makes him groan, and every sensation together overwhelms you so much that you begin to shatter.
"You gonna cum for me?" he asks, his voice both hoarse and teasing, sucking on your clit harder as his fingers somehow work faster. "Fuck, yeah. C'mon, let go for me, baby."
"Wooyoung!" You cry out his name involuntarily, a gasp, a cry, a confession of everything you've given up to him. Your body shakes, caught between helplessness and arousal, every nerve screaming, every thought reduced to his touch. It all becomes too much to handle—your body shakes and convulses, your orgasm ripping through you, sending your juices gushing around his fingers in hot, desperate pulses that soak his lips and chin. He groans at the sweetness, licking up every last taste as you ride out your high, clutching at anything you can reach to keep you from sinking off the chair.
Your eyes flutter shut as your chest heaves, every breath still shaky. Wooyoung's fingers finally slow. He withdraws, and your muscles relax as the tight coil of pressure unwinds.
You're not sure whether the broken whine that escapes you is a sigh of release, a whimper of exhaustion, or something in between. Your body trembles, and you press your hands to the table, squeezing your eyes shut.
Even as the immediate arousal fades, a shiver runs down your spine, and you realize how utterly undone you are, how completely you gave yourself over, and how pleased Wooyoung must be.
You sit there as he finally returns to his seat. He's… messy. His mouth and chin are soaked, traces of your heat still clinging to him. Your cheeks flare hot enough to burn through the tablecloth.
He catches the flare of your embarrassment and does nothing to help it at all. Instead, he smirks, lazily wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. Then, without a hint of hurry, he twirls the fork in his hand and flicks it back onto the table.
"Here you go," he says. He offers a slow, lopsided smirk. "Sorry it took so long to find. It's pretty dark under there."
You can only stare back. Your mind is a void, scrubbed clean of any coherent thought. Your pulse races, your ears feel hot, and even though things have calmed down, your body remains betraying you, shuddering in small tremors you can't seem to switch off.
Wooyoung notices. He tilts his head to the side. He doesn't move to comfort you. He simply lingers in the charged silence of your after, filling the space with his special talent: his words.
"Can't believe you almost said no to dessert," he muses, his voice dropping to that smooth, conversational tone as he brushes some dust off his suit jacket and rearranges the silverware in front of him. "Had to fix that. What kind of girl comes to a place like this and doesn't order dessert?"
He lets the words hang in the air.
"Oh, and about the car keys," he adds, a genuine laugh bubbling behind his teeth. "Nice try, baby. Truly. But did you forget? This place only does valet."
The realization makes you go cold.
He knows.
The waiter knows you were lying. He saw the flush, the trembling, the fake excuse—and he knew exactly why you were making it.
What is wrong with me? The question repeats like a broken record in the silence of your mind as you stare at Wooyoung's satisfied smirk. You came here to end this. You came here to walk away from the chaos Wooyoung brought into your life, to finally draw a line separating you. And yet, one look, one touch from him, and the line has once again been completely blurred.
I would never do this, you think, your fingers trembling as you anxiously fidget with your jewelry. This isn't who I am. He’s dangerous, he’s a mess, and he’s everything I should be running from. How does he do it? How does he manage to bypass your logic and your pride until all that’s left is this breathless, humiliated wreck of a person?
The silence is punctured once again by the approach of polished shoes against the floor. You freeze as the waiter reappears.
He sets a wide, silver plate in the center of the table. You can't bring yourself to look up, your hair falling forward to hide the heat radiating from your cheeks. To you, his silence feels like a final judgment. He knows you lied about the keys. He probably knows what Wooyoung just did to you.
"Everything looks great," Wooyoung says, his voice too breezy for your comfort. He leans back, looking far too relaxed in front of someone who just caught him in the act. He turns to you, grin widening as he catches your eye. "Good thing we still have room for more, huh?"
You want to disappear, to dissolve into the very chair you're sitting in. The waiter offers a curt, professional nod and retreats, leaving you alone with the consequences of the last ten minutes and the dessert now sitting between you.
The plate between you isn’t one dessert, but two, arranged with a purposeful symmetry and surrounded by little dollops of vanilla ice cream. At first glance, the cakes look nearly identical, both dark, glossy, and rich, but the details are what split them apart.
On the left sits a molten chocolate cake. It looks sturdy enough from the outside, but even the faintest shift of the table sends a tremor through its surface. One touch of a spoon would be enough to break it open, releasing a rush of warm ganache that refuses to be contained. It's indulgent by design—it's meant to be dismantled, enjoyed only once it spills.
On the right, a circular opera cake offers a quieter kind of confidence. It shares the same notes of chocolate and espresso, but here, the flavors are mastered. Razor-thin layers of sponge and buttercream stack cleanly, each one more perfect than the last. This is a dessert that you have to break into carefully, savoring the structure for it to taste right.
Wooyoung picks up a spoon and twirls it between his fingers, eyes flicking between the two. He reaches for the molten cake, then pauses halfway. A smirk tugs at his mouth as he sets the spoon down and nudges the plate closer to you.
"Ladies first," he says. "Go ahead. I'm not picky. They're basically the same."
You hesitate. You pick up your own spoon slowly, letting it hover over the plate, vibrating slightly with the tremor in your fingers as you weigh the two choices. Wooyoung watches you with an amused tilt to his head, his eyes tracking the indecision written across your face.
He lets out a soft laugh. "You think too much," he says fondly. "Here, let me help you."
Before you can respond, he reaches forward. His spoon presses into the heart of the molten cake, breaking the surface. The structure gives way instantly, the dark, warm ganache bleeding out in a slow and indulgent collapse.
"There," he says, dragging his spoon through the mess he's made, scooping up a mix of cake and chocolate. He reaches across the table, and his fingers wrap around yours to steady your hand as he guides the spoon into your grasp. "Just relax. You don't have to overthink all the time. Not with me."
You swallow the lump in your throat as your fingers tighten around the cold spoon.
Across the plate, the opera cake remains perfectly untouched as Wooyoung steals your unused spoon and dives into the molten one he just broke open. He's watching you expectantly, waiting for you to eat.
You hesitate, the scent of rich, bitter chocolate filling the air between you and him. And then, despite the feeling of your stomach dropping, you hesitantly take the bite. It’s warm, a little too sweet, and all-consuming, melting on your tongue just as easily as your resolve did under the table. You don't look at the opera cake again. Because as you swallow and wipe the droplets of chocolate that fell onto your chin away, you realize you didn't just accept the molten cake; you accepted the mess that comes with it.
Wooyoung scrapes up the last of the cake with his spoon, chocolate smearing the edge of the plate. You sit back, your own spoon resting motionless between your fingers.
"I'm full," you finally say quietly.
He glances up as he chews, amused. "She speaks," he says, mouth curving. "But I really hope that's not true. We've still got the rest of the night ahead of us."
You blink. "The rest of the—"
He just winks, reaching for his water like nothing's been said.
The check arrives shortly thereafter. Wooyoung slides his card into the leather folder, but not before sending you yet another sly wink. When you finally stand to leave, your legs feeling unnervingly weak and your hands still slightly trembling as you grab your flowers, you look back at the table one last time. The opera cake is still untouched, its layers perfectly intact in the center of the white tablecloth as you walk away.
As you move through the open dining room, you feel like the click of your heels against the buffed marble floor is drawing more attention than before. The atmosphere is suffocating as you feel everyone's eyes on you again. But the envy you sensed earlier has curdled into something uglier. Every whisper from a nearby table and every glance from the staff feels like they're seeing straight through you, judging what you did back in that private room. You're no longer simply the girl with the expensive flowers; you're an accomplice wearing a pretty dress, walking through the restaurant with a sickening secret that everyone already knows.
As you pass the foyer, the hostess's gaze lingers on you instead of Wooyoung for the first time.
"Have a good night," she calls after the two of you from behind the stand, her voice perfectly polite—but you see it. The tilt of her head screams that she knows what happened.
You nearly stop in your tracks, just about ready to walk straight up to her and demand an explanation for how it's possible that everyone suddenly seems to know that you did something very, very wrong. But Wooyoung's hand tightens at your back, guiding you forward, and the moment slips away.
Your skin prickles with the irrational certainty that hidden cameras are about to reveal themselves, that this entire night has all been an elaborate setup. Meanwhile, Wooyoung looks unbothered, less like a man who just crossed all of your lines and more like one who just finished a very pleasant steak.
"What, you wanna stay longer?" he asks lightly as he pushes open the glass doors, a laugh tucked into his voice. "Still hungry?" His eyes flick over you, amused. "I've got something else you can eat."
He grins as heat rushes to your face.
The valet is already there, waiting for you. It's the same man from before. He pulls the door open for you and hands Wooyoung the keys, and the reminder of your stupid lie to the waiter makes you feel like you're about to be sick.
You pause at the edge of the pavement, the roses—now slightly wilted from the restaurant—still clutched to your chest. Your gaze drifts to the front of the car, and suddenly, you're back in the grocery store aisle from this morning. Maybe Yunho's warning about the "revolving door" hadn't just been about the people Wooyoung brings home, but about the cycle he lives inside of.
You realize now that being "part of the rotation" means a little more than just being his date for the night. It means being pulled into the gravity of his world, where things happen secretly in the dark and are polished away by the light of a marble lobby.
"You're quiet," Wooyoung notes, releasing your back and stepping in front of you.
Streetlights catch the sharp lines of his suit as he flicks a twenty-dollar bill toward the valet without looking—a careless, dismissive tip for a job well done. Then his thumb lifts your chin, tipping your face up until you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
"Don't overthink things, baby," he murmurs, his smirk returning. It's the exact same one he used when he told you earlier that you ask too many questions. "The night's just getting started."
The leather seat sighs beneath you as you climb inside. The interior smells like him: expensive and intoxicating. The door shuts, sealing you in the silence.
As Wooyoung takes his seat on the driver's side and pulls away from the curb, you catch sight of a few people watching from the sidewalk. You now understand that they aren’t looking at a lucky girl with envy. They're looking at someone who belongs exactly where he wants her.
The engine hums as Wooyoung drives out of the restaurant's lot. Stomach tight with nerves and growing regret, you stare out the window, your own reflection looking back at you in the darkness of the night.
How much of the girl looking back is still you? Over the past few hours, you've been carefully shaped by Wooyoung. You've been adjusted by his expectations, softened where he found resistance, and encouraged to be more agreeable. Easier. Rather than getting a glimpse into how his world works tonight, you helped maintain it. Every polite smile you forced, every question you swallowed, and every moment you chose to give in a tiny bit more was another brick you laid for him. You didn't do it for yourself, but for him. Everything was for him.
Your fingers curl into the fabric of your dress as the thought makes you feel uneasy. If you're caught in Wooyoung's life, what does leaving even look like? Is there even an exit for you to choose? Or does it only end when he decides he's done with you?
Beside you, Wooyoung hums along to the music playing through the speakers, one hand loose on the wheel, completely at ease. He doesn't have a care in the world, largely because he's spent the entire evening making sure you revolve around his.
You draw in a careful breath, gathering the stray threads of your agency.
"Wooyoung," you say quietly, keeping your eyes on your own reflection. "I think I want to go home."
The tapping stops. He glances at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "Already?" he asks. "It's only nine."
"I know. I’m just... tired," you respond just as evenly.
He glances at you again, but for longer, trying to find a crack in your resolve. Finally, he gives a casual, dismissive shrug. "Okay. If that's what you want."
He reaches over and turns the music up a notch, the volume swelling to fill the space where a real conversation probably should have been. The words should be reassuring. He's doing exactly what you asked. Instead, they land strangely, like he's giving you permission rather than an agreement.
As he banks the car into a smooth U-turn, the tires chirping softly against the asphalt, you realize that even your exit is being handled on his terms. He's still the one with his hands on the wheel.
After a few minutes of silence, Wooyoung exhales like the quiet has started to bore him.
"You get like this a lot, I've noticed," he says, eyes still fixed on the road. "All serious out of nowhere. What'll it take to get you to where you feel relaxed all the time?"
You don't respond.
The quiet settles between you again, but it's tense now. A beat passes by slowly before he glances at you out the corner of his eye, a smirk spreading on his lips.
"Sucking on it while I drive could help."
Your head snaps toward him. Your mouth drops open slightly, gaping at him. "Wooyoung, what—what the fuck?" you blurt out, the shock rushing out before you can rein it in. "I just said I wanted to go home."
His smirk breaks into a grin as his hand leaves the wheel for just a second, dipping into the console between your seats. You hear it before you see it—the faint crinkle of plastic. He holds it out between two fingers.
You hesitate, glancing sideways. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding when you see it’s just a mint. One of the complimentary ones from the restaurant, still wrapped.
He chuckles under his breath at the look on your face. "What?" His brows lift innocently. "You thought I meant my dick?" He shakes his head, mock-disappointed. "Naughty girl."
Your face burns as you look away from his eyes.
"Here," he says, clumsily unwrapping it with one hand. "Open up."
"I'm fine," you murmur, turning your face toward the window, your jaw tight with embarrassment.
He exhales through his nose, unimpressed. "C'mon. Humor me."
Reluctantly, you convince yourself it's really just a harmless mint. Wooyoung just wants to tease you and push your buttons the way he always does. You know you could very well lean away, but you inch closer despite the few moments of hesitation, deciding to just go along with it since he's at least taking you home.
The moment your lips part, his fingers brush against them softly, like it's incidental.
But then they don't move away.
He slips the mint past your teeth and follows it with the pad of his finger, letting it linger on your tongue. Your lips close instinctively as you swallow, and in the process, you realize—too late—that you're fully sucking on his pointer finger.
Your breath catches. Your eyes snap to his, a startled sound leaving you, half protest and half disbelief.
How did I fall for that?
"Shh," he murmurs, glancing at you now, entertained. "Relax."
His finger drags in slow thrusts into your mouth in such an erotic way that it makes heat creep up your neck even as unease coils in your stomach. You go still, unsure of what to do with yourself, aware that you can’t quite speak when your mouth is full of the taste of his fingers.
He taps your lower lip once, easing away just enough to let you breathe, before catching your tongue and tugging it forward with a quiet laugh. He watches the mint dissolve, gaze flicking between you and the road like this is nothing more than a distraction.
"What, baby? Never gave road head before?" He laughs teasingly. "You have sucked cock before, right? I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if that little virgin mouth hasn't."
Your stomach drops as arousal courses through your body, straight to your core. The way he talks to you, so casual yet so degrading, so sure of the effect he's having on you, ignites something inside you that no other man has ever been able to reach.
Suddenly, the car slows.
You don’t realize what's happening at first. Not until you blink and the familiar blur of city lights has thinned into stretches of darkness, the empty pavement stretching ahead. Gravel crunches between the tires, the car rattling over uneven ground. His finger still rests lightly on your tongue as he turns sharply, steering into a vacant lot that is very clearly not anywhere near your dorm.
Your pulse roars in your ears as you realize you let yourself slip into the same situation all over again.
Wooyoung parks the car, shifting into neutral. He leans back, finally giving you his full attention, that same confident grin curling his lips. You can't decide whether to be furious, terrified, or turned on.
He slides his fingers from holding your tongue back between your lips, hooking his pointer finger around the back of your bottom teeth. With a pull, he draws your head closer until there's barely any space left between your faces. You freeze, your eyes widening as you look up at the devilish glint in his gaze, watching his eyes drift lower slowly, tracing down your face, your neck, the line of your shoulders, your chest, and your whole body beneath the fabric of your dress.
"You're gonna suck my cock, okay, baby?" he asks softly, the words mockingly gentle as he nods with a wicked grin. His thumb slips beneath your chin, guiding your head up and down in a slow imitation of the nod he just gave. "And then you're gonna ride it, yeah?" His voice drops to a whisper. "And you're gonna keep that pretty little dress on, too. How's that sound?"
You don't respond, frozen, awkwardly bent over the center console and staring up at him with wide, unblinking eyes. You don’t know where you are anymore, or who might be nearby. The world narrows until there’s only Wooyoung. All you can feel is his finger pressing against your tongue and the lust in his gaze as it pins you in place.
"Or are you too tired?" he asks with a pout as he slowly reclines his seat with his free hand. As he leans back, fingers playing with the zipper of his pants, his smirk deepens at the new angle—at the sight of your breasts framed perfectly above him. "That's too bad, baby," he murmurs. "Because I'm wide awake."
Your eyes drop despite yourself, drawn to his other hand as it pulls his dick free. It's already hard, throbbing, and glistening with precum, and your breath hitches, caught between shock and arousal.
He follows your gaze and laughs, stroking his cock slowly with his hand. Despite your brain screaming at you that this is wrong, that you told him to take you home, and he instead pulled into some abandoned parking lot and shoved his fingers down your throat, your eyes are mesmerized by the sight. In the low lighting of the car, Wooyoung's cock looks even bigger than you remember. You trace the lines of his veins with your eyes, lingering on the throbbing redness of his tip, and you can't help but start to melt at the sight of it, allowing yourself to give in, feeling your panties already soaked through again.
"Fucking whore... you love my cock, huh?" he laughs quietly, his finger tracing soft circles along your tongue. "Imagine how good it'll feel down your throat."
Your mind goes completely blank.
"You get so quiet," Wooyoung says, sliding another finger past your lips. "You're trying to come up with reasons not to want it, aren't you?" He pauses, his smirk widening slowly. "I fucking love it. Just relax and let me help you, baby. No need to be nervous."
His fingers pull free from your mouth with a loud, embarrassing pop before fisting your hair, shoving your head down to his lap. His sudden force causes you to gasp sharply, lips parting, and he takes the perfect opportunity to thrust his hips into your open mouth. His cock hits the very back of your throat so harshly that it makes you gag, driving tears to your eyes.
"Shit, baby," he groans, gripping your head by the makeshift ponytail and pressing it down onto his length, throwing his head back as he drinks in the sight of you gagging all over his dick. "If you're not gonna talk to me, at least put that pretty mouth to use, yeah?"
He pulls you up by your hair, letting out a low moan as your lips follow, wrapping around his sensitive tip. You look up at him, teary-eyed, and the way your eyes glisten only makes his groan deepen.
"C'mon, baby," he murmurs roughly, starting a slow, steady pace along the length of his cock, tugging on your hair to guide you where he wants. "Use your tongue. Suck it like the slut you are."
His hips snap forward, hitting the back of your throat again, and you choke, sputtering out a mix of saliva and breathless nonsense: "Ngh—Woo—Woo—"
Wooyoung shoves his hips up faster, holding your head down while thrusting his length until your nose brushes against his stomach. You moan around his dick, and he hisses with pleasure as your tongue slides along the side of his cock with each movement.
"Fuck, baby, just like that," he growls, one hand reaching for your dress and tugging it over your ass, exposing your panties and landing a sharp slap that makes another moan escape your throat. Tears streak your cheeks, mixing with your saliva, as he groans in between thrusts, "Know you—love my—dick—my fucking—whore—"
He spanks you again, lifting your head so your tongue can swirl in circles around his tip, the taste of precum filling your mouth. Your nails dig into the black fabric covering his thighs as you gag, his pace quickening and starting to lose control as he gets closer to his high.
"So desperate for me," he groans, angling his hips to press against the back of your throat. "Gonna make me—fuck—" His voice breaks into a moan as he looks down at your tear-streaked eyes. "Wanna fill that mouth with my cum—"
His thrusts grow more frantic as he gets closer and closer to his peak. Just as he moans, right on the edge of release, he pulls you up by your hair and crashes your lips together in a sloppy, messy, all-consuming kiss, biting your bottom lip hard and licking up the blood that spills out.
"Get on top of me," he growls, slapping your ass and sliding his hand through your hair down to your waist, pulling you over to the driver's seat. "Ride my cock. Been waiting for this since I picked you up."
"Wooyoung, I—" You try to speak, though the words feel useless. You want him, crave him, but the events of the night are weighing on your mind, stopping you from fully letting go. "I—"
"So now you decide to talk?" He grips your hips, hiking your dress up higher and revealing the entirety of your panties that are very clearly soaked with your arousal. "Do I have to be meaner? Close your mouth and ride my dick. And don't make me fucking tell you again."
His finger hooks around your panties, shoving them aside and exposing your bare pussy to the heated air of his car. The look he gives you is absolutely pornographic, taking two fingers and sliding them along your folds, collecting as much of your arousal as he can before lifting them to his mouth, tasting the slickness. He grabs your hips again and pulls you down, both of you gasping and moaning filthily as you sink down onto his cock.
One hand stays locked on your hip, pressing so deeply you're sure to have bruises in the morning, while the other snakes around to your ass, squeezing hard as your nails claw into his shoulders to keep yourself steady. The stretch of his length inside your cunt is too sudden, and it sends a jolt of pain throughout your body—but as Wooyoung begins guiding your hips back and forth against him, the shock quickly melts into filthy, overwhelming pleasure.
"Shit," he hisses, head leaning back against the seat with a predatory grin. "Feels so good, baby—been waiting so long to feel your tight pussy around my cock again."
You're so full that your mind starts to spin, your moans growing louder as he quickens the pace, guiding your hips faster, up and down now, making you bounce on his dick until your vision swirls and your head tips back.
"Wooyoung," you moan, your voice shaking as he thrusts up into you, "Please—more—fuck—I can't—"
"I said be quiet," he growls, slapping your ass. "Fucking whiny whore."
You feel the heat building in your core as every word he utters seems to push you closer to the edge. Your legs tremble, your chest tightens, and you feel the tears start to stream down your face again without your permission. You're so turned on, burning, desperate, shaking, and part of you wants it so badly that it terrifies you.
But your mind can't escape the memories. The dinner, the way he had made you feel small, humiliated, and powerless. How quickly you’d let yourself be used, how easy it had been for him to take control, and how disgusted you’d felt afterward. That part of you—the part that doesn’t belong here, that isn’t like this—starts screaming inside your chest.
Your body is betraying you, twisting pleasure and shame together until it’s almost unbearable. You can feel yourself on the brink, and every nerve in your body is alive, buzzing with a want you shouldn’t feel. And it’s too much. Too much shame. Too much heat. Too much everything.
"Stop…" you whisper, voice trembling, soft and desperate. But it doesn’t feel like enough. The word trembles into a broken sob. "No… no more… Wooyoung…"
Your plea is so quiet that Wooyoung doesn't even hear you over the sounds of his moans. His hands grip you tighter, thrusting relentlessly. You push against him, weakly at first, pleading, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care, and the trembling in your body only worsens, driving you toward a release you don’t really even want.
Panic spikes through you, tearing at your chest. "Stop!" you cry louder this time, finally managing to shove yourself off him entirely, pulling your dress down over your hips. You quickly and messily stumble back into the passenger seat as your vision swims with tears, chest heaving, body shaking, and the ache of unwanted desire still pulsing through you.
Wooyoung slumps back against the driver’s seat, his hair fallen into a mess across his forehead. "Huh?" he blinks, the lustful curve of his mouth faltering into a look of bewilderment. He reaches out, his hand hovering near your knee as if to pull you back to him. "What? What’s the problem?"
You turn toward the window before he can see your face, pressing your lips together as tears spill freely down your cheeks. Your shoulders hitch despite your best efforts to stay quiet.
He lets out a short, breathless laugh, one that sounds more like frustration than humor. "Seriously? You were into it two seconds ago," he says in disbelief. "Baby, come on... I'm so close." He leans in again, his voice dropping into that familiar, honeyed rasp, like he can smooth everything over if he just finds the right tone. "Just a little more, yeah? You're okay, just come back over here—"
"Wooyoung, no."
The raw edge of your voice makes him flinch, his hand dropping to the center console. The playful, predatory confidence he usually wears easily, like his second skin, is now stripped away, leaving him looking startled and—for the first time tonight—completely out of rhythm.
He stares at you, mouth parted like he doesn't know what to say, finally noticing the way your hands are shaking as you smooth your dress, still refusing to meet his eyes.
"I said I wanted to go home," you murmur, curling in toward the door, putting as much space between you and him as the cramped cabin allows.
Wooyoung runs a frustrated hand through his hair, gripping the strands tight. He stares out through the windshield for a long moment, jaw flexing, then looks back at you, and you can see it: it's finally beginning to sink into his clouded head that, this time, he may have crossed a line he can’t charm his way back over.
He lets out a breath and turns toward you.
"This was what you wanted," he starts, his voice low and frustrated. "You wanted all of this. You liked letting go with me. So what the hell is the problem now? Why are you acting like this out of nowhere?"
"It’s not a fucking act, Wooyoung," you snap, your voice trembling but firm as you finally turn to face him. His eyes soften slightly when he sees the tear-streaked look on your face. "That wasn't me wanting to feel free. That was youwanting me to lose control."
He scoffs, shaking his head as he leans in closer, disbelief suddenly edging into irritation. "Baby, I'm trying to help you," he says. "You overthink every goddamn thing. I can make you better."
"This isn't me becoming 'better'!" Your voice rises, the sound echoing in the cramped space. "This is me turning into whatever version of a girl you want me to be! You aren't 'freeing' me, Wooyoung! You're just trying to make me as careless as you are!"
"Careless? I'm doing all this because I genuinely like you!" he shouts back, finally snapping. He turns fully toward you now, desperation bleeding into his voice as his eyes search your face. "I want you to feel the same freedom I do. You’re trapped inside your own head, terrified of doing something wrong, and I just—" His voice tightens. "I want to fix it. I want to fix you."
The word hangs between you as a beat of silence passes. Fix.
"I don't need fixing," you say quietly, and the certainty of it chills your blood. You love your standards. You love the precision of your life, the order and control you maintain, the safety of your high expectations, and the lengths you'll go to meet them. To Wooyoung, they're a cage; to you, they're a part of your identity.
"I don't think you actually like me, Wooyoung," you continue, looking away from him as you feel your eyes begin to tear up again. "You just like that I won't drop everything and give in to you the way everyone else in your life does. You like that I resist you." Your jaw sets as you meet his eyes again. "You like that I'm a project. You literally said it yourself earlier: you like being the one who gets to 'fix' me. But I don't want to be fixed."
The car goes still.
Wooyoung just stares at you, chest rising and falling as an unsettled look creeps into his expression. His eyes narrow—not in anger, but in suspicion, like he's trying to locate the exact moment he lost control of the situation.
"Is this about the fucking tutor?"
The words hit you like all the glass windows in the car just shattered over you. You freeze. "What?"
"That fucking guy San wouldn't shut up about on Sunday. Hongjoong, right?" He spits the name out like it's poison. "That's what this is? That's why you're suddenly pretending you don't want me? That I'm this monster forcing you into all this shit you basically begged me for? Don't try to pretend you didn't want any of this, because I know you. I know you fucking did." His eyes search your face accusingly. "So it has to be him, right? Do you actually fucking like this guy?"
"No!" you object, your heart slamming against your ribs as Wooyoung's voice gets louder. "No—um, well—no—" Your voice fails you, stuttering over the lie. "It's not—"
But even as the denials fumble off your tongue, you know the truth.
Perhaps in a world without Hongjoong, Wooyoung would seem perfect. You might have eventually convinced yourself that your standards really were a cage, that your boundaries were just walls you'd built out of fear, and that you needed someone like him to burn them down. But Hongjoong has already shown you the view from the other side. Even through the quiet, innocent hours of tutoring, Hongjoong sees you for who you are. He looks at you with a piercing respect that sees your potential as a promise, not a project. Where Wooyoung demanded you surrender your control, Hongjoong challenged you to master it. The contrast between the two men is so blindingly clear that you can't even finish your sentence.
Wooyoung is right about one thing, though: he knows how to read you. He sees the flicker of recognition cross your face, watching as you silently choose the man who isn't even in the car.
It's the only confession he needs.
He lets out a dark, bitter laugh that holds no humor, only the sting of a bruised ego. Turning back to the wheel, his features harden into a mask of cold, brittle indifference that makes him look like a stranger.
"Unbelievable," he mutters under his breath. "Fucking unbelievable. I do all this for you—take you on a nice date, text you every goddamn day, show up at your dorm just to see you, and for what? You never even fucking wanted me?" He reaches over, not to touch you, but to angrily pop the lock on the passenger door. "Get the fuck out of my car, ____."
"Wooyoung—"
"I said get out," he hisses, his voice devoid of all its usual warmth and teasing. He turns to look at you, his eyes dark and mocking. "If you're so desperate to be controlled by your own head, then go ahead. Go find him. I'm sure your little tutor is just fucking dying to have his star student follow him around like a lost puppy." He lets out a derisive laugh, making it clear he thinks the idea of Hongjoong seeing you as anything more than his own type of project is a joke. "Go ahead. See if he cares more than I do. Just know that you'll regret pulling this shit, ____."
His words sting worse than the cold probably would. You don't wait for him to tell you to leave again. You stumble out onto the gravel, your heels crunching against the stone as the biting night air pierces through your thin dress. Before you can even catch your balance, the engine of his car roars to life.
Wooyoung doesn't look back. He floors it, tires screeching and spitting gravel against your shins as he drives away. You’re left standing in the center of an abandoned parking lot, the red glow of his taillights fading into the distance until you're swallowed by the pitch-black silence of the middle of nowhere.
Your hands are still trembling—partially from the adrenaline of the fight, and partially from the sudden drop in temperature. You look down at your phone, the screen bleeding white light into the night as a notification pops up.
Wooyoung: San's coming to get you. Don't fucking call me.
There's no "get home safe" or any lingering trace of the man who, only an hour ago, was whispering little compliments into the shell of your ear. He left you in the middle of nowhere, handing you off like a chore he was tired of doing.
A sob catches in your throat, but you swallow it back. You'd arrived tonight with every intention of ending things, of reclaiming the boundaries he so carelessly pushed against, and you won't let his exit be the thing that breaks you. If he wants to treat you like this for telling him the truth, fine. You'll let him. You were already halfway out the door before he even turned the key, anyway.
You stand there, the silence of the area you're left alone in haunting, wrapping your arms around yourself to keep the shivering at bay. You aren't mourning Wooyoung. You're mourning the time you spent letting him try to fix a version of you that was never broken to begin with.
But a part of you feels guilty. What if he truly thought he was helping? What if, in his own warped way, he believed he was giving you what you needed: confidence, desire, and permission to want without shame? You didn't want it to end in a fight. You just never expected him to care enough about you to be hurt. You always thought that you were just something easy, something temporary—someone for him to have fun with. No matter what he promised, you still can't fully believe you were wrong about that.
When the glow of headlights finally flickers from a distance, you straighten your spine. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, smoothing the fabric of your dress with trembling fingers. You promise yourself that you won't look like a victim when San arrives.
His little white car pulls into the lot, slowing to a crawl before coming to a stop a few feet away from where you're standing. After a second, the door slams open, and San hurries out.
He doesn't say anything at first. He stands there by the driver’s side, a jacket draped over his shoulders, his expression unreadable. But as he walks toward you, his eyes sweep over your disheveled hair, your red-rimmed eyes, and the way you’re holding yourself straight, pretending you're unaffected by what just happened.
"He just left you out here?" San’s voice is low with a quiet, dangerous anger that you’ve never heard from him before.
You try to speak, to offer some kind of excuse for Wooyoung, to say that you left on your own accord, but your voice dies in your throat. You just nod.
San reaches you, and without a word, he strips off his jacket and settles it over your shoulders.
"Come on," he says softly, his hand sliding down to catch yours. "Let's go home."
As he gently leads you to the passenger side of his car, you can't help but look back at the empty road where Wooyoung pulled away.
You sink into the seat, pulling San’s jacket tight around your chest as the fabric’s warmth begins to thaw the numb chill in your bones. He doesn't press you for details or an explanation like you somewhat expected; he simply shifts into gear and drives off, taking you back toward the world you actually belong in.
As you lean your head against the cool glass of the window, you let your eyes fall shut, finally letting the noise of Wooyoung's voice and the memory of the restaurant fade. In the newfound silence, the image of the tutoring desk in the Language Center flickers behind your lids instead. You see a pair of focused, glasses-wearing eyes looking back at you, not with a demand to change, but with a silent invitation to grow.
For the first time all night, the weight on your chest eases. You can begin to breathe again, carried by the thought of the man who pushes you to be better—not by changing who you are, not by asking you to abandon yourself, but by challenging you to meet your impossible expectations while still holding onto everything that makes you, you.
Hongjoong.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 12.1k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. yall its getting serious... please enjoy <3
There's a specific kind of freedom that only occurs at 10:45 a.m. on Tuesdays.
Not the explosive, frantic energy of a Friday night, nor the sluggish, coffee-fueled resignation of a Monday morning. Rather, it’s the kind that, as the final second ticks off the clock in the corner of your Korean classroom, lets the tension finally melt from your shoulders—the tension built from ninety minutes of forcing your tongue into the unfamiliar shapes of Hangul.
Your Korean skills aren't improving by that much—class is still hard, no matter how diligently you preview the lesson the night before—but it’s the only class you and Yunho share on Tuesdays. That means the moment everyone starts packing up their bags, even as Professor Choi calls out for two more minutes, the rest of the day is completely yours.
You and your best friend spill out of the building's heavy double doors, strides drifting naturally into sync. Your shoulders brush gently as you descend the wide stone stairs, stepping back into the real world for the first time since 8:30 this morning, back when you’d woken up earlier than usual to grab breakfast sandwiches from the mini café in the lobby before class. The cold air bites at your skin, stealing your breath and turning your laughter into pale clouds that float between you and the man next to you as you both fumble for the zippers of your jackets.
Late fall has claimed the campus with a vengeance. Sharp gusts of wind send desiccated leaves skittering across the pavement, chasing after one another in little bursts of copper and gold. Around you, the university moves in a muffled blur: students scurry past, bundled in oversized wool and scarves pulled high against their chins, boots crunching against the colorful carpet beneath their feet.
At your side, Yunho is locked in a losing battle with his gloves, tugging one free only for it to slip from his already stiffening grasp and flop uselessly onto the concrete.
"Seriously," he mutters, crouching to snatch it up. "Why is it always the left one?"
You huff a dry, short laugh. "Maybe it's trying to tell you to just keep your hands in your pockets. It's not even that cold yet, Yunho." But as you say it, a rogue gust of wind sneaks down the back of your collar, and you instinctively retract your chin into the folds of your jacket, jerking the zipper up until the metal teeth press against your lips.
Yunho catches it and snorts. "Sure it's not," he says, finally shoving his hand into the glove and rubbing his palms together to preserve the warmth. "I give it five minutes. You'll be shivering before we even get to the store."
You don't offer a verbal retort. Instead, you lean into him, bumping your shoulder against his with enough force to make him stumble half a step. "I will not."
He grins, that familiar, lopsided look that suggests he already knows he's right.
Tuesdays double as your unofficial grocery days.
Neither of you is particularly what anyone would call a responsible adult. Left to your own devices, your diet would likely consist entirely of instant ramen, leftover dining hall food, and the occasional stolen snack from someone else’s dorm. But Yunho swears it’s cheaper—and "way healthier"—to actually buy real food once a week. San and Yeosang, the gymrats they are, naturally agree, insisting they need the protein and nutrients that only a proper grocery store can provide.
So every Tuesday, right after class, you set off like clockwork, walking a few quiet blocks to the tiny local store that’s been there longer than either of you has been alive.
It's certainly far from glamorous. The carts squeak in protest no matter how gently you push them, the fluorescent lights leave you with a dull headache behind your eyes if you stare at them for too long, and the bakery section always vaguely smells like something is burning in the back kitchen. The checkout scanners beep in erratic bursts while half the shelves are slightly crooked, worn down after generations of shoppers passing through.
By now, you know the layout by heart. There’s the cereal aisle, where Yunho once spent nearly forty-five minutes squinting at nutrition labels after Yeosang got it in his head that he needed to find the box with the highest protein-to-calorie ratio. There's the freezer section, where your fingers nearly froze as you dug through the flavors of mochi until they finally landed on your favorite, strawberry. And then there's the produce area, where Yunho constantly slips into a terrible imitation of San, lecturing you about the importance of eating your vegetables in the most serious tone he can manage.
It's become your routine. You absolutely love how ordinary it feels.
No matter how hectic everything else in your life gets, Tuesdays are always the same: the short walk to the store, the slow wandering through the aisles, the whole trip filled with dumb conversations, inside jokes, and debates over what you actually need versus what you just happen to be craving that day.
You find comfort in knowing that at least once a week, things stay simple.
You push through the automatic doors, the chill from outside immediately giving way to the artificial warmth of the store. Your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, and you tug your jacket tighter around yourself to hide the fact that you are indeed shivering, just like Yunho had said. He's already a few steps ahead, absorbed in his phone with a level of focus that probably should be reserved for things far more serious than grocery shopping.
"Yeosang sent me his list," he says without looking up, and his tone makes you want to laugh before you even know what's coming. "Why the hell does he need five different flavors of Spam?"
You laugh as you pull a cart from the stack near the entrance, the metal handle still cool beneath your palms despite the store’s warmth. "Five?"
"Original, Bacon, Teriyaki, Korean BBQ, and—" He pauses, squinting at the screen. "Pumpkin Spice."
"Pumpkin Spice Spam?" you repeat, wrinkling your nose. "You think that counts as food?"
"I'd say it's legally questionable." He takes the cart from your hands before you can protest. Yunho has a habit of doing that—quietly taking over the little responsibilities you tend to automatically shoulder, freeing you up for what actually matters most to you. In this case, that means keeping track of four separate lists combined into one, meticulously checking off each item, and keeping the chaos of the grocery run somewhat contained.
You reach into the bag slung over your shoulder and pull out your phone, opening your messages with Yunho and scrolling until you find the list he just sent. With a few swift taps, you copy it over into your Notes app, already starting to reorganize it.
"At least you got a list this week," you mutter, brushing imaginary lint from your sleeves as you follow him toward the front aisles. "San will probably call me any second with what he wants."
As if summoned by the mere mention of him, your phone buzzes in your hand. The screen lights up, illuminating your fingers with the soft glow of none other than your roommate's name.
"Creepy," Yunho mutters, shaking his head without even looking over at you. He's already pushing the cart forward, weaving into the aisle and grumbling under his breath about where exactly he's supposed to find five different flavors of Spam in a store this huge.
You pause for a moment, bracing yourself before swiping to answer San's FaceTime call. His shopping lists are never just milk and eggs. They constantly end up sending you on scavenger hunts around the store for the most obscure items one could come up with—like last week, when he begged for a brand of electrolyte water that apparently only exists in two stores citywide.
As the connection clicks through, his face fills the screen, a close-up of flushed skin, damp hair plastered to his forehead, and heavy, exhausted breaths.
"Tell me..." he pants, the camera shaking as he wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. "Tell me you're still at the store."
A small laugh escapes you. There's something endearing about the way his jaw hangs slack as he gulps down air, caught immediately post-workout. As he drags a towel across his forehead, a few glistening drops of sweat smudge directly over the camera lens, turning his face into a blurred, watery smear.
"Ew, San," you groan, physically recoiling and tilting the phone away until he finally wipes the lens clean. "Could you maybe wait five more minutes before calling me? Maybe after you shower?"
San just flashes a grin as he tosses the towel over his shoulder. "Can't. If I call any later, you'll already be checking out."
You shrug, unable to argue. He’s right. You usually have one foot out the door the second things are bagged.
Ahead of you, Yunho’s phone screen lights up with another familiar face—Yeosang, huddled in the back of a lecture hall. He has both earbuds jammed in, panic on his face as he whisper-yells at his roommate. You lean in, giggling at the sight.
"I can hear San from ten feet away through two different phones," Yeosang hisses, eyes darting nervously toward the front of the room to ensure his professor isn't watching. "Can you please tell him to shut up?"
San scoffs, echoing loudly through your phone's speakers. "Why are you whispering like you're in the library?"
"I am in the library! In the middle of my Philosophy seminar!" Yeosang's voice spikes an octave, and he instantly slaps a hand over his mouth when he realizes he practically shouted that.
"Oh." San grins, not sounding sorry at all as he heads off toward the gym's locker room. "My bad."
Your hand automatically rises to shield your eyes, a reflex born from past trauma. "Keep the camera on your face, San. Please. I do not want to see any more... um... you know."
You shudder as the memory flashes back: a few weeks ago, he’d propped his phone on a locker room bench to change his shirt, unknowingly broadcasting three oblivious, stark-naked guys to the entire grocery aisle.
He smirks mischievously, towel now tucked under his arm as he leans closer to the lens. "Yeah, unless it's Hongjoong's, right?"
Your eyes widen. You frantically jab at the screen to mute the call. "San!" you hiss, unintentionally mirroring Yeosang's whispered panic. "Shut up! What if someone from our school is here and hears that?"
"Then they'll also know how bad you want your tutor to—"
"Okay! Okay. Roommates, focus," Yunho interrupts sharply, shooting San a warning glance through the phone that says don't you dare finish that sentence. "Focus on the list. What are we here for?"
"I need protein shakes," San blurts out immediately, like the thought has been burning a hole in his brain for the last ten minutes.
"Absolutely not," you shoot back. "I bought a thirty-pack last time and drank... what, four? Maybe less?"
"That's because you drank the rest of them," San accuses, pointing a sweaty finger at the camera.
"I literally did not touch them."
"You definitely did. I kept seeing empty bottles in the recycling."
"San, I don't even like the chocolate ones. They taste like chalk."
"That is exactly what someone who drank them would say!"
From Yunho’s phone, Yeosang lets out a long, weary sigh that crackles through the speaker. "Can you two please save this for later? Yunho, we're out of eggs. And detergent," he whispers, eyes flicking back and forth between his phone and his professor, afraid to linger on either for too long.
"Why are we always out of everything?" Yunho mutters as you swiftly tap them into your Notes app, adding them to the list.
"Probably because we burn through our very limited budget buying San cake mix instead of the stuff we actually need," you point out, flashing a deceptively sweet smile at the man on your phone.
San's eyes light up instantly. "Right! Thank you! We need more cake mix!"
"We do not."
"Please? With the rainbow sprinkles?"
"Absolutely not."
"You used the last one for Yunho's birthday!" he objects, nearly dropping his phone as he stops to argue in the middle of the locker room.
"Because it had been sitting in the pantry for three months. You clearly weren't going to use it!" you retort, your free hand flailing in the air as if gesturing could somehow force logic into your roommate's head. "San, we are both unemployed. This stuff isn't cheap."
"So now you're attacking my financial situation."
"I wouldn't have to if you would get a job."
"You just said we both don't have one!"
Yunho is doubled over, shoulders shaking with laughter as he wobbles dangerously close to a pyramid of cereal boxes. He barely manages to steady himself against a row of Cheerios.
"Okay, okay," he says between breaths, waving his hands. "Let's go over the list. Protein shakes, eggs, detergent, cake mix—"
"No!" you object, just as San yells a triumphant "Yes!" into his phone.
The dual outburst earns you a side-eye from a woman browsing the Frosted Flakes, but it’s nothing compared to the sound coming from Yunho’s other hand.
"I am in class!" Yeosang's voice is a desperate hiss. On screen, he looks like he's physically shrinking into his hoodie. "I swear, if I get kicked out because of your—"
Suddenly, the signal glitches and fractures violently. Yeosang freezes mid-complaint, mouth hanging open, while San's audio cuts in and out, overlapping in a stuttering loop.
"—new roommate for the two of you—"
"—used my cake mix without permission—"
"—will personally pack Yunho's bags for him—"
"—only left me one cupcake—"
"—finally get to live alone—"
"—maybe vanilla this time instead of—"
The voices pile up until they're a wall of static. You glance at Yunho, and in a silent, perfectly timed moment, the two of you exchange the kind of look that only months of grocery runs can teach. Without a word, you both break off, speedwalking in opposite directions down the aisle, dodging slow-moving carts and wobbling stacks of cereal.
"San, I can't hear a single word you're saying." You duck the end of the aisle, tapping your screen repeatedly like that will help fix the connection. San's voice crackles through chaos on both ends of the call—on his side, running water and doors slamming; on yours, overlapping shouts and Yunho's voice carrying from a few aisles over.
"Yeosang, you need to be louder! Repeat that!" You hear Yunho yell from somewhere near the cleaning supplies.
A few elderly shoppers freeze mid-step, clutching their coupons and staring at you like you’ve sprouted a second head, probably assuming you're shouting at yourselves instead of the men on your screens.
Finally, San's face unfreezes, blinking rapidly as it catches up to the present. "Okay! Important question!"
You brace yourself, coming to a halt. "What?"
"Are you getting cake mix?"
The silence that follows stretches. You tighten your grip around your phone. "I'm actually going to hang up on you."
"Please?"
"You're not even going to use it!"
"I will this time! I swear!" he insists over the muffled roar of the shower running in the background.
"You said that last time! And the time before that," you add as you roll your eyes so hard you're surprised you don't get a crick in your neck.
"This time is different!"
"It's always 'different', San!"
Yunho suddenly reappears, one hand raised like a peace offering, holding up two bulky containers of detergent to his own camera. "Did you say the blue or the green one?"
"Blue!" Yeosang whispers immediately.
San leans in close, filling the screen with a wide, hopeful grin. "And vanilla for me!"
"No cake mix!" you and Yunho say at the exact same time, the unison a little startling.
San huffs, peeling off his damp shirt with exaggerated defeat as he checks to see if the shower is hot yet. "Fine. Whatever. Just get me my protein shakes, oatmeal, Greek yogurt, and some fruit. Blueberries, if they have them."
You nod, thumbs flying as you add each item to your Notes app. "Yeosang?"
"Yunho has my list," he mumbles. "I just wanted to make sure you get my Spam."
Yunho stops mid-step, holding his phone at eye level. "What do you need all this Spam for, anyway?"
Yeosang shrugs, smiling sheepishly. "It's the only thing I can really cook."
You laugh aloud as Yunho shakes his head. Without another word, he reaches over and taps a button, hanging up on his roommate.
"San, I'm hanging up on you," you say firmly, though your smile gives you away.
"So no cake m—?"
Your phone beeps, the call cutting off before he can even finish the word. Tucking your phone back into your bag, you exhale a long sigh of relief.
The hard part of the trip is over.
"Peace at last," Yunho jokes, lazily grinning at you as he nudges the cart forward, the wheels squeaking softly against the linoleum.
The chaos seems to drain from the store in its wake. The harsh fluorescent lights above no longer feel oppressive, and the chatter of the other shoppers melts into a muted hum. The aisle opens up quieter, like the world has become more serene. All that's left is the rhythm of wheels rolling, the faint scrape of your shoes against the floor, and the comfort of your own easy conversations.
You wander around the store for the next twenty minutes, drifting from aisle to aisle with no real rush. The refrigerated aisle sends a cold rush of air against your skin as you reach for Greek yogurt, the plastic slick with condensation, then grab a bundle of protein shakes stacked neatly beside it. A little farther down, rows of cardboard oatmeal boxes follow, and you slide a couple into the cart before moving on to the produce section.
The colors there are brighter—glossy apples piled high, bananas hanging in thick bunches, berries tucked into clear containers still beaded with moisture from the misting system overhead. You pick through carefully, choosing the ripest ones.
With each stop, the cart fills up. Its wheels start protesting softly as the weight increases. Once the essentials are finally gathered and most of the list—excluding the Pumpkin Spice Spam, which was unsurprisingly nowhere to be found—is crossed off, you steer the cart back toward the center of the store, toward the registers. You're just about to start complaining about how long the lines look when Yunho's pace slows to a stop beside you.
You glance over to see him staring at the floral section, bright bundles of flowers breaking up the monotony of the endless aisles of shelves. His eyes flick between a few bouquets, hands tucked into pockets like he's trying to stop himself from touching any.
"You wanna get some?" you ask casually, resting your hands on the cart handle as he lets go.
He hesitates. "Maybe."
That alone is enough to make you raise a brow. "Since when does Jeong Yunho ever say maybe?"
He shifts his weight, eyes still fixed on the display. "I was just thinking."
"About?" you prompt more softly, sensing there's more behind it.
He exhales a quiet laugh, then rubs the back of his neck—not nervous, just thoughtful. "What if someone isn't really romantic?"
You glance at the flowers again, then back at him as it clicks. You nod. "Mingi."
A beat passes. "Yeah," he says simply, voice steady. "I want to ask him on an actual date. Not just hanging out in each other's dorms like we usually do." He gestures toward the bouquets. "I just don't know if he's the kind of guy who'd like... this." His fingers tighten slightly in his pockets. "I don't want to make him uncomfortable. Or do too much. You know, we have something good, and I don't want to make it awkward."
He’s been staring at a bouquet of purple hibiscus this whole time, and the care in his expression makes you smile. "You think he'd be turned off by you trying?"
Yunho shrugs, shoulders lifting and falling. "I think he's bad at romance," he says with a small huff of amusement. "We see each other almost every day, so I know there's something there. But I just wanna do what's right for him. I don't wanna scare him off."
The checkout scanners beep in the distance as you nod, considering his thoughts.
"I'm not really a romantic person either," you say after a moment. Yunho turns to look at you then, waiting. "I don't really need grand gestures. I've never even liked flowers much," you admit. "But if someone actually thought about me, planned something, asked me out on an actual date, that would mean a lot." You lift a shoulder in a small shrug, watching as his expression softens. "I don't need anything super romantic. I just need effort. For someone to see what I want, not just a performative gesture."
You glance back toward the bouquets, then at your best friend again. "I think Mingi's probably the same way. He might not know what to do with flowers or big declarations, but he'll love it if you're trying to meet him where he is."
Yunho hums under his breath, thoughtful. "So... not like this?" He points towards the display once more.
"Not like this," you agree gently. "At least not as the main thing."
A small smile curves his mouth. "Okay. Then what is the main thing?"
You glance past him, your eyes drifting down the stretch of aisles toward the far end of the store, where one row stands out immediately.
You nod in its direction. "What snacks does Mingi like?"
Yunho follows your gaze, then exhales a quiet breath that's almost a laugh. "He's obsessed with shrimp chips," he says with a smile. "He's always begging his parents to send money so he can buy more."
"There you go," you say lightly, already nudging the cart forward. "The fact that you noticed that is going to mean more to him than flowers. I promise."
As you start walking away from the registers, the plan begins coming together easily. No big build-up or pressure, just pure intention. You move slowly, reading labels, reaching for things with familiarity. A few bags of shrimp chips go into the cart first, their packaging crinkling softly, followed by cartons of Ben & Jerry’s in the flavors Yunho knows Mingi always gravitates toward. He adds a handful of smaller treats, too. All the ones Mingi reaches for without thinking, the ones Yunho only knows he likes because he's watched him do it a hundred times.
"And then you just ask him," you say, sliding a small bag of peanut M&M's into the growing pile.
Yunho nods, certainty settling into his posture. "I'll tell him I want to take him out," he nods. "Call it a date. Just... not make too big a deal out of it."
"Exactly," you reply. "You're not trying to impress him, just letting him know you're serious about this."
By the time you stop, the cart is overflowing: bright colors, crinkled packaging, frozen boxes stacked at an angle. Yunho looks down at it, then back at you, lips pressed together as he tries—and fails—to hold back a laugh. "____," he says finally. "How exactly am I supposed to give him all of this?"
Somewhere along the way, you must’ve both gotten distracted, grabbing anything that seemed even remotely essential, because the pile has grown absurd. At least fifteen different snacks crowd the cart. "Oh."
For a second, you both just stare at it. Then Yunho breaks first, a sharp bark of laughter escaping him as he bends slightly at the waist, one hand braced against the cart. The sound is contagious; you laugh too, echoing softly down the aisle.
"Okay, no," you manage between giggles, shaking your head. "No, wait. I have an idea."
He straightens, eyebrow cocked, still smiling. "Do you now?"
"Trust me, Yunho." You unlock your phone, flicking through apps until you land on exactly what you’re looking for. "Pinterest. I guarantee there are a million ideas for this exact situation."
Yunho leans in closer, watching as you type in the search bar. Gift basket ideas. Image after image floods the screen: neatly packed gift bags, handwritten notes taped to snack wrappers, and piles of treats tied with ribbons.
"You don't need to go all out like some of these," you say quickly as a disclaimer, scrolling past an especially overdone one. "Just put everything in some kind of basket or bag. Arrange it so he can actually see what you got him without digging through it." You pause on a simpler image, a tiny black basket filled with different flavors of Doritos. "Keep it simple, but thoughtful."
"Huh," Yunho murmurs, studying the screen as he reaches over to save a few of the less extravagant images. "That's actually not bad."
You grin triumphantly. "I told you—"
Just then, your phone buzzes in your hand. Your head snaps down to read the notification that just came through, and your smile drops instantly.
Wooyoung: 7 p.m. reservation sound good?
You freeze. Oh no.
Your eyes dart between your phone and your best friend, who is currently staring at the message with eyes blown wide, all amusement wiped clean from his face. You let out a nervous laugh that sounds wrong even to your own ears.
"____," Yunho begins slowly and calmly, eyes locked on the notification. "Why the fuck is Wooyoung texting you about a dinner reservation?"
You swallow, buying time, grasping for anything that might resemble an explanation. "Well..." you start carefully, lowering your phone like it might soften the blow. "We talked a little at your party."
Yunho blinks once, slowly. "Yeah?" he says. "And?"
"And," you repeat, stretching the word thin as you search for footing, "we talked a little more after that."
A beat passes. The hum of the store presses in around you.
"Yeosang and I warned you," Yunho says flatly, jaw tightening as he studies your face. "We warned you not to get involved with him."
"Yes. Yes, I know," you rush out. "And I didn't! I'm not. I mean—" You hesitate. "...Kind of."
His eyes widen slightly as he repeats your words. "Kind of."
"That’s not—"
"What," he cuts in lowly, "does 'kind of' mean?"
You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second. There’s no threading your way out of this. Yunho knows you too well. You can practically see the realization clicking into place behind his eyes, the puzzle pieces lining up one by one.
"…Shit," you mutter.
He straightens immediately. "____. Tell me."
You exhale, shoulders sagging in defeat. "Okay. So. We hung out."
An uncomfortable silence follows.
"Once," you add quickly, the word tripping over itself. "Just once. Last weekend."
Yunho doesn’t move. He just stares at you, expression blank, like he’s waiting for the rest of the sentence to arrive in a language he understands. "…Where?" he asks at last.
You hesitate just a fraction of a second too long.
His eyes widen. "You didn't."
"In his apartment," you say, the words tumbling out now. "But it’s not bad! I swear, it’s really not what you’re thinking—"
"You went to Wooyoung’s apartment?" he interrupts, voice jumping an octave. "Alone?"
You press your lips together, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. "Okay," you admit, barely above a whisper, "maybe it is what you’re thinking."
He stares at you like you’ve just pulled the ground out from under him. "____, what," he demands, incredulous, "does that mean?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. Your fingers curl tightly around the edge of the cart like it might keep you steady. "I may have made some... um... questionable decisions."
For a split second, his face goes completely slack: no judgment or disbelief, only shock. Then—
"You fucked Wooyoung?”
The word echoes, far louder than it should, drawing at least two curious shoppers' heads from the next aisle over.
"Be quiet!" you hiss, mortification flooding your face as you lean closer to the cart, wishing the floor would open up beneath you.
Yunho looks from you to your phone and back again, stunned, like he’s trying to reconcile two incompatible realities. "You fucked Wooyoung," he repeats, quieter this time, which is somehow worse.
You squeeze your eyes shut. "Oh my god, Yunho, please." You glance around the aisle again, praying no one you know is anywhere near you. "You cannot say that out loud. You actually can't tell anyone. Please."
He watches you, arms folding across his chest with agonizing slowness, the last traces of shock draining from his face and leaving something far worse behind. Judgment.
"It was a mistake," you ramble on, starting to stammer as panic takes over. "I’m embarrassed. I’m humiliated. I don’t even know why I let it happen, and I just—" You drop your voice, desperate. "Please keep it a secret."
Yunho exhales through his nose, long and controlled, the kind of breath people take when they’re trying not to lose it in public. His jaw works like he’s chewing back a dozen comments.
"…No one knows?" he asks finally.
You shake your head immediately. "No. No one. Not even San. Or Yeosang." You swallow. "Wooyoung knows I want to keep it quiet, too."
That seems to land harder. His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you, assessing and rearranging pieces in his head, trying to make them form a picture that makes more sense.
"Okay," he says at last. "I won’t tell anyone." Relief crashes through you so fast your knees nearly buckle. "But," he adds, pointing a finger at you, "I am judging you. Harshly."
You wince, heat flooding your face, but you nod anyway. "...I expected that."
He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "I just—" He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?" You hesitate long enough for him to continue. "I thought you were into Hongjoong," he says, quieter now. "You are into Hongjoong."
Your shoulders slump, the fight draining out of you all at once. "I am," you admit. "That’s the problem."
He frowns, confused. "What does that even mean?"
You stare down at the cart, at the ridiculous pile of snacks stacked like a monument to poor decision-making, wishing briefly that answers were as easy to grab as impulse buys.
"I really like him," you say softly. "But I don't know if he's ever going to do anything about it. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t make any moves. And I don’t want to just…" You trail off, trying to find the right words. "...sit around waiting for something that might never happen, no matter how badly I want it."
Yunho’s expression shifts then, his judgment melting into something closer to concern.
"So Wooyoung was…" he starts.
"A distraction," you finish. “A bad one. A convenient one." He doesn’t say anything for a few moments, so you unlock your phone again and hold it out to him. "Look."
He takes your phone from you carefully, like it might burn him. You swipe first, pulling up Hongjoong’s music account and the cover he posted. Yunho listens, eyes narrowing, head tilting slightly.
"No way," he mutters under his breath, looking up at you in disbelief. "Is this... about...?"
You say nothing, keeping your thumb poised on the screen, and move on to the design account. You show Yunho the piece that Hongjoong never explicitly tagged you in, but that anyone who knew would know. His thumb stills as his jaw slightly drops.
"Holy shit," he finally breathes, almost too quietly for words. His eyes are wide and unblinking. "____, he's in love with you."
Your chest constricts, and a flutter rises in your stomach. "Yunho—don't—"
"No," he stops you firmly, handing the phone back like he’s seen enough evidence to convict. "I’m serious. That’s not just a little crush, ____. That says that Hongjoong is pouring his feelings into what he creates because he can't say them out loud.”
You exhale a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. "Well... there's more, too."
You tell him about the library. You walk him through every little detail, lingering on the moment Mingi voiced the unthinkable: that Hongjoong just likes hearing you speak his first language. How Hongjoong's mask had slipped, replaced by a glare so intense it sent Mingi scurrying for the bookshelves, leaving the two of you to deal with the aftermath.
By the time you finish, Yunho is grinning.
"He always just speaks whatever's on his mind," he all but sighs fondly, shaking his head. "Who does that? Who just drops that and walks away?"
"Focus," you warn, already knowing you've lost him.
"I am focusing," he insists, pointing a silencing finger at you. "I'm just saying. Mingi is ridiculous. I've never met someone so unintentionally funny. He makes me laugh at almost—"
"Yunho. The point," you interrupt, deadpan.
He blinks at you, snapping out of his Mingi-induced trance. "Right. Sorry."
The smile fades as he straightens, sobering, leaning back against the cart with a little sigh. Arms attentively cross over his chest again as he tries to understand what you did and why the hell you did it.
You inhale slowly, shoulders rising before you let the breath fall out of you. "I think I just appreciated how honest Wooyoung was," you say quietly. "He didn't try to hide his feelings or pretend he wanted anything different than he did." You glance at Yunho, searching his expression. "I swear, I’ve never met a man like him before."
Yunho nods once, absorbing that. "Yeah," he says after a beat. "I get it." Then his eyes sharpen just a little. "But you also said it was a mistake."
You huff out a soft, humorless laugh. "It was."
"How can it be both?" he asks, tilting his head.
You look down again, fingers brushing the cart handle. "Because I trust you. And Yeosang. When you both told me he’s not the kind of guy I’d actually want to be with long-term… you were right." Yunho stays quiet, giving you the space to keep going. "I now know that I'm one hundred percent a relationship person," you admit. "I like emotional connection. Vulnerability. All of that. I like knowing someone chooses me every day." You shrug, a little self-conscious. "I don't judge people who can do one-night things, like Wooyoung. I really don't. I tried it. But it just doesn't feel like me."
Yunho snorts softly under his breath. "Yeah. No shit. Everyone knows that about you."
You glance up at him, lips pressing together. "Wooyoung doesn’t."
That makes him falter.
"With him," you continue, voice steadier now that you're saying it out loud, "there’s no expectation or pressure. And that makes it easy." You wince slightly at the word.
Yunho exhales, understanding settling into his features as the last piece clicks into place. "So he’s not the point," he says. "You were telling the truth. He's just somewhere to put your feelings so you don't have to deal with the ones you have for Hongjoong."
You bite your bottom lip, then nod, small and resigned. "Yeah," you confirm quietly. "I think he is."
Yunho watches you for a second, considering everything you've admitted. "Okay," he says slowly. "Then why are you meeting him tonight?"
"Not to do that again," you say immediately, slightly too quickly for your own liking. You catch yourself and slow down, exhaling as your thumb rubs along the cool edge of the cart handle. "I just need to talk to him." He doesn't interrupt. He rarely does when you sound like this, your more vulnerable tone. "He won't stop texting me," you continue, gaze fixed on the different Oreo flavors behind your best friend's head. "He even showed up at my dorm the other night. I can't just pretend nothing happened."
The hum of the store fills the silence while Yunho waits, patient, letting you explain the truth on your own.
"But I also can't do another one-night thing," you say finally, quieter now, more honest. "It didn't feel right afterward. I kept thinking about it, and the more I did, the worse it felt. I just want to be honest and figure out what we're doing—or not doing—before it all gets messier."
Yunho nods in approval. "That's actually the right call. You need to be upfront. Especially since..." He hesitates, jaw tightening before he grimaces. "Well. You know his reputation. He's probably been with, like, five other people since that night."
Though you're very aware of said reputation, the reminder still lands unpleasantly. "Yeah," you murmur. "Right."
Gross isn't even the right word to describe how you feel; it's more like a sudden, icy reminder of how differently the night meant to each of you. The thought leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
Yunho senses your discomfort instantly. "Okay," he says quickly, tone shifting as he waves a hand, like physically brushing the moment aside. "Sorry. Not the direction I wanted your brain to go."
You glance at him, still reeling slightly, when his mouth curves into something far too mischievous to be trusted. Something that promises he's about to change the subject into something you may not exactly want to think about at the moment.
"But," he adds, eyes gleaming as he leans closer. "Since we're already here... be honest. Was it at least good?"
"Yunho!" you hiss, mortified, eyes darting to the end of the aisle as heat floods your face.
He bursts out laughing. "I'm serious!" he insists, eyes expectant and shining with curiosity. "What happened?"
You hesitate, weighing how much damage you’re about to do to both of you. You're not sure how much you want to or should say aloud. "We were just... cooking," you begin, vague on purpose.
He narrows his eyes. "And?"
"And I tried some of his pasta sauce..."
He raises an eyebrow at you, knowing there's more.
"...by sucking it off of his finger."
Yunho's eyes practically bulge out of their sockets. "You what?"
Your face burns. "It wasn’t like—I mean, it was just—"
"So it was you, not him! You started things!"
"No! You have no idea what he was saying before that!"
"I really, truly, honestly do not want to know."
You sigh and shrug helplessly. "Whatever. One thing just kind of... led to another... and um..."
He stares at you, waiting, bracing himself.
"...hefuckedmewithaknifeonthekitchencounter."
Yunho makes a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a choke. He stares at you like he’s reevaluating every assumption he’s ever made. "What. The fuck?"
You cringe. "Yeah."
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing half a step before stopping to stare at you again. "Holy shit," he breathes. "I need you to know I will never see you the same way again."
"Shut up," you groan, shoving his arm.
"You're even more of a freak than Wooyoung," he says, half laughing, half in awe.
"Yunho! I am not."
He shakes his head, a stunned grin spreading across his face. "Uh-huh. And then what happened?"
You exhale, long and tired, like surrendering to gravity. “Then we ate.”
The words come out flat and final—an obvious attempt to end the interrogation. You catch the way his mouth twitches anyway and immediately cut him off with a look. "Dinner," you clarify pointedly. "We ate dinner. Like normal people. People who hadn't just..." You trail off, waving a vague hand between the two of you. "Anyway. He did the dishes. And I waited in his room. And then... yeah. You know."
Yunho lets out a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief, blinking repeatedly as if that might reset his brain. "And?" he presses, not relenting.
You pause, feeling the heat creep back into your face, realizing you’ve already told him far too much to pretend dignity still exists.
"...Yeah," you admit at last. "It was pretty good."
For a second, Yunho just stares at you blankly. Then he breaks—laughter spilling out of him as he bends slightly at the waist, one hand braced on the shopping cart like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. "This is insane," he manages between laughs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I can't believe you're dropping this on me in the middle of the grocery store."
You lift both hands, gesturing helplessly at the cart overflowing with groceries and snacks. "You asked!"
You let the moment settle, the echo of laughter fading as Yunho straightens and exhales, still shaking his head like he’s trying to recalibrate. He takes the cart, nodding toward the front of the store, and starts pushing it forward slowly, wheels squeaking as you begin to make your way to the registers.
"So," he says after a beat, casual but not careless. "What about after?"
You know what he means. Not after, as in logistics or who slept where, but after in the way that lingered in your mind for days.
Your pace slows without you meaning to, fingers tightening briefly around the edge of the cart even though he's doing all the work. "After it was done," you say carefully, "it just felt like something was missing." You search for the right words, brows knitting. "I don’t know. I felt weird. Like it was completely normal for him, but for me? It was so much bigger than I expected."
Yunho listens, expression softening, the humor draining out of him. "Yeah," he says, nodding. "That makes sense." He hesitates, then adds gently, "I don’t want to make you feel worse, but… that guy’s kind of a revolving door. Yeosang's mentioned it. People are in and out of that apartment all the time. For Wooyoung, that is normal."
You wince even though you already knew.
"And that's fine if that works for him, but if that's not you," he pauses to look at you earnestly, "you shouldn't be forcing yourself into it just to forget about Hongjoong."
A quiet breath escapes you, one that tastes equal parts relief and defeat. "I know," you admit, voice low. "I know you’re right."
The cart rolls forward again, inching closer to the registers. You lift your chin slightly, trying to reclaim some of the composure you’ve lost. "So," you say, attempting confidence, though it feels like a fragile mask, "I’ll talk to him tonight, and I'll tell him exactly that." You give yourself a small nod as if you're sealing a deal with yourself. "It'll be fine. No hard feelings, just a mutual agreement to be friends and never speak about this again."
Yunho watches you carefully. "You really think it'll be that easy?"
You shrug, trying to infuse confidence into the motion even though your stomach tightens at the thought of the conversation ahead. "Well…" you pause, weighing your words, "he doesn’t want anything more than hooking up, right? So how hard can it be?"
Yunho lets out a low, humorless chuckle. "Easy on paper," he says, eyes narrowing, "but people don’t always react the way you plan. Just… be careful, okay?" He says it with care, but there's a warning laced behind it that you can't ignore.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," you murmur. "I’ll be fine. He’s not Hongjoong. He’s predictable."
Yunho doesn’t push. He simply nudges the cart forward, letting you cling to your sense of control as the lines of shoppers stretch ahead. The checkout scanners beep steadily in the near distance, the squeak of the cart wheels keeping time with your nervous heartbeat. You tell yourself he’s just being cautious, that you know Wooyoung—maybe even better than Yunho does at this point—and that he's overthinking it. Still, despite the nagging warning and the tiny prickle of doubt, you hold onto the stubborn hope that tonight will be simple, that honesty will be enough, and that everything will work out exactly the way you plan.
Wooyoung's car is already idling at the curb when you step out of your building.
It's a sleek, midnight-black BMW, polished to such a high gloss that it catches the yellowed glow of the streetlights and throws it back at you. If Wooyoung were a car, this would be him: expensive, intimidating, and impossible to ignore, no matter how insanely hard you try. You pause on the top step, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.
He’s leaning against the driver’s side door, his weight shifted back in such a way that suggests he’s been there for a while but isn't in any rush to leave. He’s scrolling through his phone, dressed in head-to-toe black: a dress shirt tucked into tailored pants that are just baggy enough to look effortless, topped with a lazily unbuttoned suit jacket.
When he looks up and spots you, his focus snaps instantly. Something bright and predatory flickers across his face as he scans your body before it settles into a grin.
And god, he looks good.
His hair is dark and glossy, styled back with gel to look as though he's just stepped out of the shower, with a few stray, damp strands falling perfectly over his forehead. His features are the same ones you'd see any day, but tonight, his eyes are different—darker and more intense, looking through you with a level of awareness that makes your pulse skyrocket.
Your heels click softly against the pavement as you walk toward him. In the stillness of the street, the sound feels deafening, like a countdown. You suddenly feel very small in the little black dress you'd pulled from the back of your closet. You'd told him casual was fine, and you really meant it. But somehow, with one "dress code" text from him, casual had turned into fabric that skims your hips and a hemline that hitches higher with every step you take under his gaze.
Wooyoung punches his arm out casually, wrist curving back as he lazily glances at his watch. "You're late," he says, his voice a smooth contrast to the running engine. He doesn't move from his spot against the door, just watches you approach with that knowing smirk.
You don't need to dig your phone out of your purse to know it's 6:45 on the dot. "I'm exactly on time," you counter, stopping a few feet away. "You're just early."
His mouth curves. "When it comes to you?" He winks. "Always."
You roll your eyes, biting back the smile that tries to tug at your lips.
He finally pushes off the car, the movement fluid and cat-like. He opens the passenger door for you, dipping his head slightly as you slide inside. As he leans in to ensure you're settled, he lingers, his hand resting on the roof of the car and his body blocking out the rest of the street. He’s close enough that you catch the scent of the BMW’s pristine leather interior mixed with his own cologne.
He flashes a slow smile, his eyes tracing the line of your throat before meeting yours. "We look good together, baby," he says in a gravelly hum, like a fact, an objective truth you'd be a fool to argue with.
Your stomach immediately erupts with butterflies.
No. That is not why you're here. You're not here to be charmed, or to let a five-word sentence undo the boundaries you've been mentally setting for days. You’re here to talk, to deliver the speech you’ve been silently rehearsing since you got home from the grocery store.
You school your expression into something neutral, pressing your back against the heated leather seat and clutching your purse in your lap like a shield.
"Yeah," you say, your voice steadier than you expected. "If you say so."
He lets out a short, airy laugh. He doesn't pull back immediately; instead, his gaze drops to your lips just long enough for you to notice before he finally retreats.
"Cute," he murmurs before shutting your door with an expensive-sounding thud and circling to the driver's side. When he slides into the seat beside you, the engine purrs to life.
You pull away from the curb, the town beginning to stretch out ahead of you in long, blurred streaks of gold and shadow. You watch your building disappear in the side mirror, your own reflection ghosting over the glass, and press your hands together in your lap until your knuckles turn white.
I'm not here to look at him like this, you tell yourself firmly, the mantra repeating in time with the click of the car's turn signal. I'm here to talk.
But as the car glides forward, the logic you spent all afternoon building begins to fray. How is it that just one look from him can make you forget your reason for being here? How does he manage to erase the mountain of guilt and anxiety you've been climbing for the past few days? With a single "baby," he’s managed to make your talk with Yunho feel like a lifetime ago.
Wooyoung rests one hand on the steering wheel. His eyes are fixed on the road, but he doesn't need to look at you to command the space. That half-smile still tugs at his mouth, as if he knows exactly what you're thinking.
The car hums beneath you, the world outside sliding by in muted blurs of light. He doesn't reach for you or even angle his body your way. One hand stays draped over the top of the steering wheel, while the other rests casually on the door’s edge, tapping out a rhythm to the quiet, bass-heavy track pulsing softly from the speakers. He keeps his eyes trained on the asphalt ahead, looking every bit like a man who is exactly where he wants to be.
"Funny seeing you Sunday night," he says suddenly. The smirk is audible in his voice, devoid of any apology.
You roll your eyes, the rigid tension in your shoulders dropping just an inch. "Wooyoung. Why were you there?"
His mouth quirks like he's been waiting for you to ask. "What? Can't I hang out with my friend San? We're very close."
"Wooyoung." You turn your head to look at him, leveling him with an unimpressed stare that usually works on your roommates.
He glances at you for a brief moment before he returns his gaze to the road. A quiet chuckle escapes his chest. "Okay," he concedes. "Okay. I wanted to see you again. Is that such a problem?"
His honesty catches you off guard, forcing you to hesitate. "San was there."
That makes him bark a laugh, cutting through the polished atmosphere of the car. "You really don't want him knowing, huh?" He casts you a sideways glance, eyes gleaming. "You know, most people would kill to be in your position. They'd be running around campus screaming, 'I just fucked Woo—'"
"Well, I'm not most people," you cut him off.
You try your best to keep your tone flat and uninterested, but his ego is so utterly ridiculous that amusement weaves into your voice. You're still annoyed with him, still dealing with the guilt of the past few days, but his demeanor is like a vacuum, sucking the air out of your carefully prepared words.
Wooyoung raises a dark eyebrow, letting the silence hang for a second before he shakes his head. "You’re right," he murmurs. "You're not."
You let the comment slide, choosing not to dwell on whatever he might mean by that, especially as he slows the BMW and pulls into the valet of a restaurant that looks way too expensive and exclusive for the casual vibe you'd explicitly requested.
"Oh, I almost forgot," he says casually as he kills the engine. He reaches into the back seat, his suit jacket straining slightly across his shoulders, and pulls out a bouquet of roses. He holds them out to you with a confident smirk that says he already knows how much you'll love them. "These are for you."
You stare down at them, and for a second, the sheer opulence of the flowers makes your breath hitch. They're absolutely beautiful. A dozen Black Baccaras, their petals a red so deep they look like crushed velvet. They're held together by a silk ribbon that likely cost more than the heels you're wearing, and they're scented with a rich perfume that fills the front of the car instantly.
They are, by every objective standard, perfect.
They're also exactly what you told Yunho you didn't want.
"Oh," you say, your fingers tentatively brushing a petal. It feels cool and unnaturally thick, like expensive fabric.
It isn't that you aren't grateful. It’s just that as you look at them, you’re transported back to the grocery store, back to the moment you admitted to your best friend that you didn't need the "Standard Romance Package." You don't want the clichéd symbols of affection that a man buys when he's following the script. You want the "shrimp chips", the acknowledgment that someone had actually been paying attention to you, not the occasion.
"Um... thank you," you finally settle on, forcing a smile that feels tight and uneasy against your cheeks.
"You're welcome," he says, sounding pleased with himself, missing the uncertainty in your voice and your stiff grip on the stems.
You look at the roses, then at the valet waiting to open your door. That's when it hits you—for Wooyoung, this is an actual date. You hadn't realized it until this moment, not until the flowers were resting in your lap and the engine was silenced.
What have you gotten yourself into?
Earlier, the "effort" you’d described to Yunho was about the intimacy of being seen. And you truly thought Wooyoung actually did see you. He always seemed to know what you were thinking before you said it; he could read the shift in your body language like he’d written the manual on you himself. But as he steps out of the car, running a hand through his hair to settle the loose strands before adjusting his jacket with that same smirk, you get the sinking feeling that maybe he isn't really looking at you at all.
The valet pulls the door open.
You step out onto the pavement, the roses clutched against your chest. Wooyoung is already around the front of the car, tossing his keys to the valet without so much as a glance. When he reaches you, he doesn't just walk beside you; he places his hand firmly on the small of your back, his palm warm through the thin, skimming fabric of your dress.
"The table’s in the back," he says, leaning down so his breath brushes your temple. "Best view in the place. I had to pull a few strings to get it on such short notice."
You walk into the foyer and have to hold in your gasp. Here, the floors are buffed marble that reflects the flickering candlelight, and the air smells of aged cognac and broiling steak. You feel like every eye in the lobby is on you, but they aren't looking at you. They're looking at the image of you and Wooyoung: the sleek man in the tailored suit and the girl with the expensive flowers.
"You bring a lot of people here?" you ask, your voice barely a whisper as you notice the way the hostess's eyes light up the second she sees him. She doesn't even ask for a name; she just grabs two menus with a smile. Even the valet had nodded to him like they were old friends.
Wooyoung just smirks, his thumb tracing a small circle on your lower back. "You ask too many questions, baby. Come on, let’s sit."
The dismissive answer leaves you feeling cold. As you follow him, you suddenly remember what Yunho had said earlier about Wooyoung’s lifestyle: the "revolving door."
You definitely feel like you’re part of the rotation right now.
The hostess leads you to a secluded table draped in dark velvet, tucked away in a private room. It’s undeniably romantic, with a beautiful view of the landscape outside, but as you slide into the seat, an embarrassing heat crawls up your neck. How many people had sat in this exact chair? Does he pick this specific table every time he brings someone here? Is this known as his table? You can’t help but wonder if the staff is watching from the shadows, seeing you as just another one of his toys for the night, a temporary fixture in his permanent reservation.
You set the roses on the black tablecloth between you—a barrier to provide a little security in this unfamiliar territory.
Wooyoung settles into his seat with a contented exhale, surveying the room like he’s checking to make sure everything is exactly as he likes it before finally settling his gaze on you. He looks so satisfied, so sure of himself, that the words you’ve been practicing feel like lead in your throat.
"Wooyoung," you start, your voice muffling against the restaurant's low jazz. "About this weekend... I think we need to clear some things up."
He doesn't flinch. He picks up the heavy, gold-embossed menu, his eyes sparkling over the edge. "Let's order first."
Either he's ignoring your serious expression entirely, or he's so blinded by the glow of his own successful planning that he genuinely doesn't notice it. He leans forward, the candlelight catching the handsome angles of his face as he lowers the menu just an inch.
"Besides," he continues, his gaze dropping to the curve of your collarbone before snapping back to your eyes, "I haven't even told you yet. You look pretty tonight." He gestures at your dress with a flick of his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. "You have good taste. I knew you'd wear something pretty when I told you we were going somewhere nice."
"Oh," you stutter. "Um... thank you." A traitorous heat crawls up your neck. You loathe how your body reacts to him, no matter the situation you're in.
He watches the flush spread across your cheeks, his smile widening into amusement, entertained by how easily he can make you stumble over a simple compliment. He leans back, looking entirely too comfortable in the plush velvet of his seat. "My mom is really going to like you," he says casually.
He says it with the same effortless tone he used when he was stirring aglio e olio in his kitchen, his thumb absently tracing the rim of his glass just like he’d traced the patterns of his tattoos while you watched him.
Your heart skips a beat. "What?" You blink at him, the word coming out a little too high-pitched.
Inwardly, your mind is a mess of sirens. Meeting his mom? What is he talking about? You'd agreed to come here to talk, but he’s already fast-forwarding to family introductions?
Wooyoung's mischievous glint never truly fades. "Because," he says as though it's nothing, "I know better than anyone that you aren't actually innocent, baby. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. But to most people? You have that look. Smart, independent, confident... that's how you carry yourself. But your eyes have that cute, deer-in-headlights look all the time." He lets out a dry, short laugh, shaking his head. "My mom will eat that up. She hates my usual type."
Despite the unease his words stir in your chest, curiosity still gets the better of you. "Which is...?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but he doesn't get the chance.
The waiter appears as if on cue, standing just at the edge of the table with two glasses of red wine. He doesn't offer a greeting or ask if you’ve had time to look at the menu; he just looks directly at Wooyoung with a nod of recognition that practically confirms your "revolving door" fears. Without even glancing back down at the cardstock, Wooyoung starts ordering. He doesn't ask for your preference, and he doesn't pause for your input. He rattles off two entrees and a few sides with confidence.
As the waiter retreats, you realize with a start that he just ordered exactly what you would have picked yourself. Every detail, down to the steak being cooked medium rare, is perfect.
You blink at him. "How do you always...?"
"Baby," Wooyoung interrupts, his smirk returning in full force as he picks up one of the wine glasses the waiter left behind. He takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim, winking as the candlelight dances in his pupils. "You have to know by now. I basically know you better than you know yourself."
I know you better than you know yourself. His words should be romantic, but in the sterile luxury of this special room, nothing feels romantic at all. You stare at the spot where the waiter stood, your mind spinning. Is Wooyoung actually paying attention to what you like? Or is he just that good at this?
You can't help but wonder if there's a mental checklist he runs through for everyone who sits in this booth: the Baccara roses, the medium-rare steak, the "my mom would love you" line. You came here to tell him that whatever "this" is, it has to stop before you regret anything more. But it’s hard to be the voice of reason when you’re wearing a dress and drinking wine that makes you feel like a prop in a high-budget movie. Wooyoung is the director; you're simply following the marks he taped to the floor.
He doesn't say anything for a while. He reaches for his wine glass again, but this time, he doesn't sip it. He finishes the rest of the dark liquid in one heavy gulp, his throat working as he swallows.
Suddenly, the smug energy he’s had all night changes.
He sets the empty glass back down on the tablecloth. He leans back, examining you carefully—how your fingers are nervously twisting the silk ribbon of the roses, and the way your eyes are wide when they land on him.
"I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I met you," he says suddenly.
The air in the private room feels like it’s been sucked out through the vents. "Wooyoung—"
"I know what you've heard," he continues, cutting through your protest. "I know our mutual friends have a lot to say about me. But it’s true. I haven't even thought about anyone else. I swear."
A wave of nausea-inducing guilt washes over you. If he's telling the truth, if he's really only thought about you... You havethought about someone else. You've thought about Hongjoong more than you've thought about Wooyoung's loud charm, and you and Hongjoong haven't even touched.
"I like you," he says, and the way he says it feels like a weight being dropped right on your heart. "I like how different you are. You don't care about being the center of attention. You’re comfortable being yourself." He leans in closer, eyes earnest for once. "You want to keep me a secret, which is new, but I kinda like that you don't want to be known as some girl who got lucky enough to fuck me. You have so much respect for yourself, such a high standard... and I love that we're different. We really balance each other out. While I'm speeding up, you slow me down." He pauses, a small, triumphant smirk ghosting over his lips. "I like that when you're with me, you finally let go of your standards and just let loose. And I really like being the one who brings that out of you."
You're frozen.
You feel the air in your lungs turn to lead as you stare at him, your heart dropping in a panic. What is he saying? Is this a confession?
"I like you," he repeats. "A lot. But I don't just like you. I want you."
You suck in a deep breath and grip the edge of the table to steady yourself, feeling like you're about to faint.
"I'd treat you differently than anyone else," he goes on, confidence threading through every syllable. "You don't need the usual bullshit. You need someone who'll take the lead so you don't have to." The candlelight emphasizes the focused heat in his eyes. "I'll be that for you," he finishes. "I'll be the one person who finally gives you a reason to stop thinking so much and just start feeling."
He doesn't look away, even as your gaze threatens to fall to your lap. "I know Yeosang and San and Yunho and everyone else in the world all think they have me figured out, and I can tell tonight that you think you have yourself figured out, too. But I think you're all wrong." He reaches out, not to take your hand, but to trace the design of the velvet tablecloth with his fingertips. "I realized it on Sunday night in your dorm, after you went to bed. I'm serious about this, ____. I'm serious about you."
In theory, it’s the most beautiful thing any man has ever said to you.
But something isn't right. You keep waiting for that one sentence that will send sparks flying through your chest, that will make everything sound like a fairytale come true, but it never comes.
He’s saying all the right things, but you can't help the gut-wrenching wish that it was your tutor's voice saying them instead.
And as the silence stretches, you start to wonder if he's even saying the right things at all. Every compliment he's thrown your way has been about how you're so different from his "usual type," and you're not even fully sure what that means. Does Wooyoung actually like you, or is he just fascinated by the novelty of you? Is he only feeling this way because he's met someone who managed to surprise him? Is he even really feeling this way at all?
"I'm not saying I want to put a label on it tonight," he adds, his voice smoothing out again. "I just want you to know that I really am serious about you. I want to see where this goes, where this evolves, without a label hanging over us and making things complicated."
Evolves. You don't like the sound of that one bit.
A cold clarity starts to settle in your gut. If he knows, shouldn't he know? If he's truly willing to move past the hookups, shouldn't he want to start something real? Shouldn't there be a desire for loyalty? To you, "seeing where it goes" had always sounded like a polite way of keeping a guy's options open while ensuring you stay exactly where he wants you—and with Wooyoung, it doesn't feel any different.
You're left staring at him, wide-eyed and paralyzed. You didn't expect this. You hadn't prepared for a vow of... whatever this is. You had come here with a speech of your own, ready to tell him that you weren't the type of girl who enjoyed a hookup, and that you were better off just forgetting anything ever happened.
Now, saying any of that to him is absolutely impossible.
Is he saying he doesn’t want the hookup lifestyle anymore, or is he just renaming it? A sickening thought crosses your mind: Is he just saying what he thinks a "relationship girl" like you needs to hear to keep the bedroom door open?
You look at the roses, then back at him. He looks so proud of himself, so certain that he's just given you exactly what you've been dreaming of hearing. But as you study him carefully, you realize that his entire speech was built on the idea of you being someone who needs to let go of your standards. I'll be the one person who finally gives you a reason to stop thinking so much and just start feeling, he had said. He thinks your standards are some cage he can help you escape from. He wants to save you.
But then there's Hongjoong. You can tell by how he treats you during your sessions that he would never ask you to lower your standards or stop thinking. In fact, you believe he would demand that you think bigger. Even with the smallest tasks and assignments, it's clear that he loves the high expectations you hold yourself to—loves them so much he’d be willing to do anything to make sure you actually reach them.
You realize then that while Wooyoung is trying to win you over by telling you that he can make your life easier, your heart is screaming for the man who is willing to make your life harder. You don’t want to be "handled" or "taken care of". You don't want to "evolve" at a pace that keeps you convenient for someone else’s schedule.
The tension in the air is mercifully broken by the return of the waiter, who sets your plates down. The steak is cooked perfectly—seared dark and glistening, juices pooling beneath it—but the sight only tightens the knot already coiled in your stomach.
Wooyoung just smirks at you as the waiter places the sides of greens and potatoes around your main dishes. Whether he realizes you're reeling from your realizations, or if he's simply so confident that his speech has stunned you into a romantic daze, he looks satisfied.
"I don’t expect a response right now, baby," he says, his voice returning to that effortless, casual tone as he picks up his steak knife. "Just eat."
So, not knowing what in the world you could possibly respond... you pick up your fork.
You pick at your food, the expensive meal tasting like nothing. Across from you, Wooyoung eats with a relaxed, healthy appetite, occasionally humming along with the jazz playing in the background, looking every bit like a man who just had a very successful conversation. You're not sure, but you're starting to think he's so convinced that he's "the one who knows you better than you know yourself" that he's stopped looking at you to see if it's true.
"Is the steak cooked okay?" he asks, reaching out to top off your wine.
"It's perfect," you lie, the word feeling like ash in your mouth. "Exactly what I would've picked."
He smiles, satisfied with his own intuition, and settles back into his meal.
Sitting here, staring at him, is when it all finally makes sense.
Wooyoung is offering you a beautiful escape from the weight of your own expectations. He wants to be your vacation, your permanent "out." Throughout the night, he’s made it clear that he views your standards as a burden he's doing you the favor of lifting. He wants to peel back the layers of your ambition until he finds someone simpler, someone who doesn't care about the placement of a subject marker or the perfection of a GPA. He's interested in you because you're a challenge.
You don't want a vacation. You don't want someone who looks at your hard-earned standards and sees a flaw that needs to be smoothed over. You want someone who sees those goals and holds you to them, even if it's difficult. Especially if it’s difficult. You want the person who doesn't soften the "try again" because they know you’re capable of getting it right.
You take a small bite of the steak he chose for you. You'd enjoyed the time you spent with Wooyoung; you enjoyed the low stakes and how easy it all felt. But now, you see that the ease was actually an erasure. He doesn't like the parts of you that strive; he likes the idea of the person you'd be if you just gave in to him. You realize that while Hongjoong sees who you are and respects it, Wooyoung sees who you are and simply wants you to give it up.
"Baby, I can tell your mind is racing again," he pouts, reaching across the table to tap your hand playfully. "Just breathe. Enjoy the wine. Let everything else disappear. Just focus on me."
He says it like a gift, but it feels like a cage.
You're surrounded by luxury, drowning in compliments, being asked to let go of the things that make you you. And suddenly, sitting across from Wooyoung in this private room, you’ve never felt more invisible.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 9.1k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. guys i just wanna say thank you for all the love you've shown this fic!! reading your comments gives me insane amounts of motivation to keep writing, thank you so much for appreciating this story :')))
You reach the library far earlier than planned, the digital clock on your phone glowing with fifteen minutes to spare before the time Hongjoong said he'd meet you. It isn't responsibility or eagerness that brought you here so quickly; it was restlessness. Sitting alone in your room with nothing to occupy your mind but thoughts of him—and how drastically your life has shifted over the last few days—was beginning to become unbearable.
The second floor of the library welcomes you quietly, per usual. As you wander through the space, it feels as though everyone has collectively agreed to move more slowly and more softly than the rest of the world outside. A student flips through pages at a table near the elevator, the rhythm of paper cutting gently through the silence. Somewhere in the corner, a chair scrapes quietly against the floor, followed by a hushed apology. Warm evening light spills through the tall windows, stretching across rows of wooden shelves stacked high with books.
Your AirPods rest in your ears, Sting's voice filling your head as Don’t Stand So Close to Me plays for what must be the twentieth time today.
You know the melody by heart now. All day, you've gone back and forth between the original song and Hongjoong's cover—walking to class, eating lunch in the dining hall, even brushing your teeth this morning. Each note seems to pull at you in a way you can't resist. It's no longer just a song, but an endless loop you’re trapped in. Every time it ends, you find yourself reaching to start it over again.
You scan the second floor and settle at a table in the far left corner, just tucked enough away from the main walkway to feel private without venturing into isolation. The spot is meant for long study sessions and quiet conversations, where you can speak at a normal volume without drawing attention.
Your outfit is a little nicer than usual. If you let yourself acknowledge that you had lingered in front of the mirror this morning, debating what type of outfit Hongjoong would like best, you'd be mortified by how large an effect this man is having on your life. So you shove the thought aside, pretending you dressed this way for no one but you, just trying to feel a little control after a weekend that had thrown you completely off balance.
Your fingers drift up to your hair, smoothing a strand down, tucking it behind your ear, then pulling it out again. Beneath the table, your foot bounces. Your fingers tap softly against the wood.
Every few seconds, your gaze flicks toward the staircase at the sound of distant footsteps.
Not Hongjoong.
You look again a moment later.
Still not Hongjoong.
Your phone lights up briefly in your hand, the song still playing quietly in your ears, the title staring back like a reminder of everything you're trying not to overthink.
"Don't stand, don't stand so..."
You'd obviously been anxious about the tutoring sessions before. But that was different—it was required, and everything was structured. Show up, slog through the recordings, thank him, and leave as quickly as possible. This, however, is uncharted territory. You have no idea what will happen when Hongjoong walks up those stairs, and the uncertainty terrifies you.
This time, you don't blame yourself. You blame him. You blame the way his expression softens when he looks at you, the tone of his voice when he corrects you, and how he somehow turned something as simple as tutoring into something that makes your heart race. And most of all, you blame the way he posted that design and that goddamn song.
You've been thinking about his Instagram all day, scrolling through it with a mix of fascination and an inexplicable guilt, as if stalking his accounts gives you a glimpse into a side of him you weren't meant to see. His design has racked up hundreds of likes, a few comments clamoring to know if it's for sale. Meanwhile, his cover has blown up overnight, the likes climbing past twenty thousand, each comment a tiny probe into his private life: "Is this about someone specific? Who inspired this?"
And yet, not one reply from him.
You aren't surprised. You wouldn't expect him to respond. But that only makes your mind spin faster. Why post it at all if he wanted his feelings to stay private? Was the cover only meant for you? Did he think of you when he hit 'upload,' the same way you've thought about him, over and over, all day long? It feels impossible not to believe it. Maybe none of the comments matter to him—unless they're from you.
But then your brain fires a sharp reprimand: Maybe you're being ridiculous. Maybe it’s not about you at all.
Except you're not stupid. Deep down, you know it is.
You find yourself replaying his cover in your head the way you had a dozen times already this morning. The smirk when he sings "teacher’s pet", like he’s testing the boundary of every rule in place. The brief, almost imperceptible wince of his eyebrows at "temptation, frustration so bad it makes him cry", a pang that you too feel in your chest. The quick grin he fights off, like he's enjoying a joke you're the only one that understands, as he sings about being the object of a "schoolgirl fantasy." And then that direct stare at the camera with a warning in his eyes: "Don’t stand so close to me."
Earlier, you hovered over the like button, thumb trembling. A part of you wanted him to know that you’d seen it, that you'd watched the entire thing, but your finger froze mid-air. You can't—won't—expose yourself like that. In hindsight, you don't think that lurking on his Instagram really compares to what he did when he crafted that entire top, recorded the cover, and posted them both for the entire world to see... but your frazzled brain can't help it: pressing that button feels like exposing too many of your feelings.
You reach up to smooth the same strand of hair for the fifth time, still tapping your nails against the table, trying to create some semblance of control. But there's no controlling Hongjoong. You can't predict what he'll do when he arrives, or how you’ll react when his presence finally fills the space around you. And that, more than anything, is the part you blame him for.
Your eyes snap up at a flicker of movement out of the corner of your vision.
He’s here.
Your gaze lingers on Hongjoong as he catches your eye, a polite smile tugging at his lips from a distance while he makes his way toward your table from the stairs. He's wearing an oversized black nylon jacket, the baggy shoulders and gathered sleeves catching the last warm rays of evening sunlight streaming through the windows. It's sportier than his usual style, but it suits him well.
Then your eyes drift lower, and your breath catches as you realize that you recognize the rest of his outfit. Wide-leg black pants, dripping in crystal scallops, with the looped pattern running all the way down the legs. This is his own design, posted on Instagram a few weeks ago.
He moves calmly, but there's a quiet confidence in him that makes the rest of the library blur away the instant he steps into your line of sight.
You offer a small, soft smile and tug your AirPods from your ears, the music cutting off like snapping a string. He slides into the chair beside you, and for a moment, you catch him glancing down at your outfit—the sleeve of your pink sweater slipping just slightly off your shoulder—and you think you see the faintest blush dust his cheeks before he quickly turns toward his bag, rifling through his books.
"Hi," he says politely, his voice perfectly even, though his eyes conspicuously avoid yours.
You both pull out your laptops at the same time.
"Hi," you reply, your fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure whether to dive straight into the test or linger in the silence a little longer.
Hongjoong clears his throat, a slightly awkward, raspy sound. "It's, uh, getting pretty cold out," he says, nodding toward the window. "Did you feel that wind on the way here?"
"Yeah," you say tightly. "It's, um, really chilly. Winter's coming... I guess."
He glances out at the dead leaves drifting off the branches outside, then back down at his hands. "The library’s nice for this weather, though. Not too crowded."
"Yeah," you murmur, unsure of how else to respond. "Yeah, I… um, yeah. I wanted to go over my test. Do the corrections. It wasn't... my best work."
"Right. Yes. I remember," he says, opening his laptop and lining up his pen. "Okay. Let's see it."
You pull up the file of the test you bombed last week, leaning back as he turns your screen toward him and scrolls methodically through every single red-marked question you missed. The way he works, all business, leaves a strange feeling in your chest. Slowly, you realize it's disappointment; you'd subconsciously expected something more. Not a confession or anything bold, but maybe a hint. A flicker of more warmth or some quiet acknowledgment that maybe he was aware of the thoughts swirling in your head.
But Hongjoong makes sure to keep a careful distance.
And then you catch yourself staring at him again, your eyes tracing the small details of his face that you’ve quietly memorized over the semester. He bites down gently on his bottom lip as he reads your flawed syntax, a soft yet powerful intensity burning in his eyes as he scans his own lesson notes. You watch the clean angle of his jaw as he leans forward to open your textbook, and for a fleeting moment, your mind drifts straight back to the acoustic cover he posted, the timing of it, the lyrics—
You barely remind yourself to breathe before the room snaps back into focus: your test, your laptop, and the actual reality of your situation.
A flicker of foolishness stirs inside you. The song and the outfit were undoubtedly messages meant for you. But maybe that's where it ends. Maybe the "don’t stand so close to me" isn't playful teasing. Maybe it's literal. Hongjoong can't act on whatever this is, not while he's your assigned tutor. You realize he's likely the only one here fully aware of how serious the boundaries are, the one carrying the weight of what could happen if he ever crossed them. If an inappropriate relationship came to light, the university would hold him at fault, not you.
But are the lines really that strict? He's a student tutor, not a tenured professor. Yes, he's employed by the school, but you're in the same graduating year. It can't be that black-and-white, right?
No. You push the thought away. Hongjoong probably knows the rules far better than you do. Either way, you make a mental note to check the student employment handbook when you get back to your dorm.
Hongjoong taps the edge of your screen lightly with the cap of his pen, pulling you out of your thoughts.
"Okay," he says, his voice noticeably gentler now. "Let’s go through everything you missed together. Write the correct answers down as we go. That way, you can resubmit the correction sheet as soon as we're done."
You nod quickly, scrolling back up to the first section of your exam. The bright blue light of the monitor reflects faintly in the lenses of his glasses and across your face.
"Start with the section on choosing the right particle," he prompts. "Those always seem to give you the most trouble when you're working under a time limit."
Heat creeps into your cheeks despite yourself. You swallow, embarrassed to have your flaws catalogued so easily, but oddly comforted by how patient he sounds as you read the first problem aloud.
"교실이 학생회관 뒤...에...?"
Your brows knit tightly together as you stare at the blank, mentally flipping through the grammar options in your head.
"…에서?" you finally guess, unsure.
A quiet exhale slips from his nose. "Not quite."
You glance up from the screen, your eyes meeting his.
"Think about what the sentence is actually trying to communicate," he explains. "Is the classroom doing an action there, or is it just existing in that specific place?"
You chew on your lower lip as your brain processes his hint. "Just existing."
"Right," he says, nodding. “So which particle do you use?”
"...에." You quickly fix your error.
"Good," he says simply.
You move to the next question, your index finger sliding slowly down the touch screen.
"김 선생님 대학교..." you read, the words slowing down as you hit another empty bracket.
Your hesitation doesn't go unnoticed. "Where is the professor teaching?" Hongjoong prompts, tilting his head just enough to firmly catch your eyes.
"At the university."
"So?"
"An action..." You pause before a spark of understanding lights up in your eyes. "...에서."
You quickly write it down on your paper. When you glance back up at him to check his reaction, you see it: a small, unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Correct."
And just like that, the icy stiffness that had defined the beginning of the session begins to dissolve. Your frayed nerves fade back into the background, and you slip effortlessly into the familiar, comfortable rhythm the two of you have spent weeks building: you stumble, he guides, you learn, and little by little, you improve.
Sometimes Hongjoong's tone is gentle and smooth, like a steady hand at your back, keeping your confidence upright when you start to waver over the sentence structures. He walks you through each problem patiently, explaining the underlying rules instead of just handing you the corrections, letting you find the answers yourself.
Other times, though, his tone sharpens just a touch; not harsh, just firmer, more authoritative. It usually appears the moment you start rushing, letting your exam anxiety take over instead of thinking the logic through.
"Slow down," he says at one point, tapping the table twice with his pen. "You've gotten these right before. Stop trying to fly through them."
You let out a quiet groan, tipping your head back against the chair, staring up at the ceiling. "I know," you mumble. "But my brain is starting to shut off."
A chuckle slips from his throat, sending a flutter through your chest.
"It's not shutting off," he says. "You're just overthinking it. Center your thoughts on the specific problem we're looking at now, not every grammar rule you've ever learned."
You lift your head back up and shoot him a loaded look that clearly communicates, Is that really going to help anything?
His lips curve into a real smile now, the relaxed, genuine one you've come to recognize over weeks of studying together. You think it's the one he wears when he's entertained by you.
"I'm serious," he says. "Give yourself a minute. Breathe."
You do as he says, inhaling slowly, letting the library air fill your lungs as you consciously let the tension drain from your shoulders. Then you try again.
You look back down at the screen, and this time, you don't rush. The sentence suddenly flows together in your mind—the particle placement clicks into place, the verb ending makes sense, and your pronunciation is smooth on your tongue when you whisper the completed phrase aloud.
"There you go," he murmurs.
There's an undertone in his voice, maybe pride, or encouragement, or something more tender than you're used to receiving from him, that spreads a warmth through your entire body, leaving you dizzy.
A few questions later, you reach one of the translation exercises that you'd completely butchered on the original exam.
"I am meeting my friend in front of the dormitory," you read quietly. Your spine straightens on instinct, nerves prickling. You glance at Hongjoong for half a second before looking back down at the screen, determined to get it right this time. You break the sentence apart in your head, translating each individual piece before carefully stitching them back together.
"저는... 기숙사... 앞에서... 친구를... 만..." Your mouth hesitates as it parts for the verb, the exact phonetic double-consonant that always seems to trip up your tongue. "많아요?"
Hongjoong shakes his head.
"Close," he says. "But you just said 'to be many' instead of 'to meet'. They sound similar, but you have to extend the 'ㄴ' sound before dropping into the vowel. Try again, focusing on that."
You don't bother to hide your sigh. He's explained this to you over and over again, but your mouth never quite seems to master it. "많아요?" you try again, eyebrows pulling together in concentration.
He shakes his head again, lips pressing into a faint, patient smile.
"No. Listen to me." He turns his upper body slightly more toward you, lowering his voice as he leans in closer. "만나요," he says slowly, enunciating the double consonant perfectly.
You mimic him, careful with each syllable. "만…나요."
His brows lift slightly. "Closer. But you're still not holding the 'ㄴ' sound long enough," he explains. "English doesn't have that double consonant sound, so your mouth isn't trained to hold the placement. Yet."
You frown in frustration, your shoulders slumping back against the chair. "Because it sounds exactly the same."
"It doesn't," he says calmly, though amusement dances in his eyes. "Again."
"만나요."
"Better," he nods. "Again."
You huff out a breath. "만나요."
"Even better, but still not quite. Again," he repeats calmly, his voice carrying a commanding authority without raising a single octave. He leans in closer now. "Watch my mouth," he says quietly, with an undertone that makes your thoughts scatter.
You obey his instruction, praying to everything you can think of that he doesn't notice the way your breath stutters as your gaze drops to his lips.
"만—나요," he enunciates slowly, letting the sound linger longer than before.
You try your hardest to mimic his movement, hating the unfamiliar flow of the consonant and vowel as they roll together. "만—나요."
Hongjoong narrows his eyes slightly, watching the curve of your lips, the small hesitations in your mouth, the way your tongue struggles to catch the precise rhythm. "Slower. One continuous flow."
"만나요," you try again, finally elongating it perfectly.
There's a pause. His eyes meet yours, and something you don't recognize passes through them.
"That's it," he says.
You let out a relieved grin, finally letting yourself relax, and pick up your pen, the tip scratching carefully across the paper as you write the corrected sentence down. A small, triumphant smile curls on your lips. But halfway through the characters, it hits you—the unmistakable weight of being watched.
Your hand falters, and your pen hovers uselessly above the page. Slowly, you lift your eyes.
Hongjoong is looking at you in a way that makes your legs feel weak beneath the table. This is different than the calm patience he usually displays when correcting your mistakes. Like a teacher watching a student, yes—but also like someone assessing every move you make, every word you form, ensuring you do it exactly right. Every minor detail matters to him, and you can feel it: his need for you to rise to the standard he silently sets.
It's unnerving, yet comforting at the same time. Your cheeks heat, and you suddenly feel small and exposed under his gaze, realizing how much you want to meet his expectations perfectly.
Then, as if realizing he's lingered too long, or perhaps feeling the hold of his own intensity, he blinks. He straightens his spine abruptly, reaching for his bag, stiffening like he's remembered the world outside this bubble.
"Uh—" He clears his throat, his tone suddenly clipped and businesslike. "Right. Okay. Let's move on to the next one."
You watch him for another second before forcing your gaze back down to the paper. As you suck in a breath, trying to calm your racing pulse, it hits you fully: you've wanted this all along.
You've spent your entire life craving someone who will hold you to a standard—not just any standard, but the standard, the one you set for yourself. The one you chase relentlessly, mapping out every step, every detail, and every possibility, never leaving anything to chance.
Hongjoong's gaze is a glance into exactly what you need. You don't need easy praise. You need someone who pushes you, someone who effortlessly dominates your attention and calmly insists that you rise to the task at hand. You need someone who sees not just the effort you give, but the potential you have, and refuses to let you settle for anything less. Someone who looks at you and believes you are capable, important, and worthy of the same measured, exhausting effort you pour into everything else. Someone who cares enough to be exacting, even when it makes you nervous or uncomfortable.
You realize right then, the thought slicing through your tightly controlled exterior and leaving every carefully measured wall raw and exposed, that you are completely and unbearably wrecked by Kim Hongjoong.
The next page loads with a soft click of his pointer finger against the keyboard, and the quiet sound snaps you out of the haze your mind had drifted into. The screen refreshes, and the layout completely shifts: this section is longer, with twenty full sentences stretching down the monitor, each featuring blanks that past-you had already filled in—most of them slashed with faint, damning red marks beside your initial answers.
Hongjoong leans forward and taps number six with the end of his pen. "Read this one out loud."
You lean closer to the screen, eyes tearing away from his face and scanning the text slowly as you sound it out. "점심은 학교 식당에서… 친구들과 같이..." Your voice trails off when you reach the final word, your brows knitting together in immediate embarrassment as you stare at the incorrect verb you'd chosen earlier. "...있어요."
"Mm," he hums. "Wrong. But I understand why you picked it."
You sink back against the chair with a quiet sigh, bracing yourself for his correction. As he adjusts his position, his forearm comes down flat against the wooden table right beside your laptop, resting dangerously close to yours.
"있어요 is for existence or possession," he explains, tapping the incorrect characters on the glass. "But look at the context clues in the sentence. What are you actually doing with your friends during lunch?"
You stare hard at the sentence, your lips pressing together as you overthink the question.
"Existing," you say stubbornly.
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Technically, yes," he admits. "But there's a better answer." He points to the blank. "You're eating with them. 먹어요."
You nod slowly, understanding clicking into place as you repeat the entire clause. "점심은 학교 식당에서 친구들과 같이... 먹어요."
"Good," he says, approval in his voice.
Then, he dives straight into the explanation—breaking down how a location noun paired with the particle 에서 almost always requires an active verb, how the adverb 같이 establishes a shared social activity, and how the topic particle subtly shifts the focus of the entire sentence structure. You truly try to listen. You try to follow every word. But your eyes defy your willpower, drifting right back to his face, hijacked by all the thoughts currently distracting you from learning.
He's leaning so much closer now, his chin resting lightly against his knuckles, focused and completely at ease explaining things to you. His dark hair falls softly across his forehead, perfectly parted but looking a little messy from running his fingers through it too many times out of habit. His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose as his gaze follows the lines on the screen, his eyelashes casting faint shadows against his cheeks.
You don't realize you've stopped processing his explanation until—
"—so that’s why 있—"
His voice abruptly cuts off as he glances up, looking straight into your eyes, and freezes. For a heartbeat, he doesn't move at all. His lips part like he's about to continue explaining, but no sound comes out.
"…uh—"
His gaze flickers just briefly down to your lips. Then, it snaps right back up to your eyes. In the dead quiet between you, you see his throat bob as he swallows.
"I—um."
He clears his throat quickly, his shoulders shifting as he straightens.
"So. The verb," he says faster now, the words tumbling out with less of their usual calm. "The verb has to match the specific action happening in that location. You can't use 있어요 in that context."
A faint flush creeps up the tips of his ears. You keep staring at him with the same unguarded intensity you had the exact moment he caught you watching. You don't even bother to pretend you hadn't been watching him so closely.
Was his reaction because of the look on your face—a look that probably revealed just how badly he's dominating your thoughts?
"Oh," you murmur softly, your own voice a little breathless. "Right. 먹어요."
"Yeah," he answers quickly, his eyes shifting away as he tries to steady his breathing. "먹어요."
You finally force your gaze back down to your notebook page and write the correct answer in, though the pen trembles between your fingers.
Even with your head down, you can feel his eyes linger heavily on the side of your face for a second longer, before he finally breaks the connection, clearing his throat again as he looks back to his own side of the table.
The two of you keep working for the next hour.
Time begins to blur in the quiet routine you've grown accustomed to over the semester. Some questions come much easier now, the patterns finally starting to stick. Others still trip you up, earning soft corrections and patient explanations. But with every right answer, Hongjoong's praise comes a little quicker, a little warmer. With every wrong one, his guidance grows steadier. The nerves that once made your palms clammy slowly settle into a shy confidence, like you're finally finding your footing in a language that used to feel out of reach.
Pages scroll by, red marks mentally fade into green, and finally, you reach the very last question at the bottom of the seventh page. It's a pure translation prompt, but this one is exceptionally long. Much longer than all of the others you've tackled today. Some of the words look familiar, fragments of vocabulary you recognize, but many feel completely foreign, as if you've never seen them before. You glance down at the text box where an answer should be and find nothing. You'd left it blank during the exam.
Your cursor nervously highlights and unhighlights the sentence again and again as you work up the courage to sound it out loud.
Next to you, Hongjoong stands up, moving quietly to the other side of the small table to grab his water bottle from the backpack resting on the chair across from him.
"I’m listening," he says casually, glancing back over his shoulder at you as he takes a quick sip.
You swallow hard.
"Um..." you begin, chewing anxiously on your bottom lip as you trace the unfamiliar characters with your eyes. "어제… 어제 저는 친구와 함께…" Your voice falters, stumbling over subsequent syllables. "Hongjoong, I don't—I don't even know how to read half of this," you admit quietly, looking up with a defeated sigh.
He turns back toward you fully then, the hint of a smile softening his expression from across the table.
"Let me see."
Before you can turn your laptop around to show him the sentence, he steps closer.
To get a better look at the line, he slowly walks back around the perimeter of the table and comes up directly behind you, leaning his upper body slightly over your shoulder toward the glowing monitor. One of his arms drops down beside you, his palm resting firmly against the edge of the table, close enough that the posture cages you in. His other hand hovers just near your keyboard, careful not to touch you, yet close enough that every one of your senses heightens.
His chest rises and falls just inches behind your right shoulder. You can feel his steady breathing and how protective the arm braced beside you feels, even if he didn't mean for it to be.
Does he realize the position you're in now? How he's effectively pinned your body between the table and his own?
But if Hongjoong notices, he certainly doesn't show it.
His attention remains fixed on the screen as he reads the long sentence silently, his lips moving just barely before he finally speaks.
"Okay," he murmurs near your ear. "어제 means 'yesterday', and 함께…"
He slowly translates the rest of the text for you, word by word, his cadence calm and patient, as if nothing about the proximity of the moment is unusual at all. You nod along mechanically, forcing your brain to listen and process the vocabulary, though it’s nearly impossible when every slight shift of his weight sends a sharp jolt of adrenaline through you. When his shoulder accidentally brushes against yours, your breath catches.
You wonder if he feels the tension, too.
Once he finishes translating the final verb, he steps back and returns to his seat, the space between you returning just as quickly as it disappeared.
“See?" he says with a small, encouraging smile. "Not as bad as it looks at first glance."
You manage to pull together a faint, "Um.. yeah, I guess not," and immediately cringe inside at how breathless you sound.
You scrawl the English translation down as quickly as your hands can move, trying to capture every nuance of what he said, but it's not the complexity of the sentence that's left you dizzy—it's him.
As you finish numbering the corrections and upload them to Professor Choi’s submission slot, Hongjoong goes quiet. He nudges his chair slightly back, reinstating an invisible barrier that your mind refuses to accept. Everything that had felt so charged moments ago now teeters on a precipice he is suddenly too cautious to cross. He's pulling back again.
But his posts are burned into your mind. And so is the way his eyes lingered when you got an answer right, the way his voice softened over grammar rules, and how his arm just caged you in.
Yet the restraint here in the library is suffocating. It feels cruel, the way the possibility of something more hangs just out of reach. Is that really where it ends? Unspoken feelings, almost-moments, and songs in place of confessions?
Your chest tightens as you stare at your notes. You want this, but your courage is scarce. You’ve never been the one to take the first step; you wait, you observe, and you protect yourself. And this is the worst possible time to test your bravery. Even if Hongjoong feels the same, the university rules and consequences make things complicated. Sometimes wanting someone simply isn’t enough to make the impossible possible.
Just like that, the lesson concludes. Your laptop clicks shut, the screen going black. You glance over at Hongjoong, who is already typing away on his own computer, working on something that isn't even related to your session.
You clear your throat, a little louder than necessary, forcing a sense of normalcy into your voice. "Thanks for meeting me outside of the usual sessions," you say with a small, polite smile.
He looks up with a slight blink, his response restrained, clipped, and visibly awkward. "Yep. Sure. No problem at all." The casualness in his tone doesn't match the tense look on his face.
You push past the awkwardness, forcing a more appreciative smile. "Really… it's, um, it's really nice of you. How much do you get paid for the official sessions? I can match that," you add, letting the financial offer sound entirely offhand.
"No! No, that's okay, really," he says quickly, shaking his head. "I barely get paid anything anyway, so it's not a big deal at all."
You suddenly feel a flicker of curiosity. Your mind lights up, and a little spark of mischief seeps into your thoughts. "Seriously, Hongjoong… what about your other students? When you give them extra help, how much do they pay you? I'll do the same."
There’s a long pause. You see him stiffen, the faintest tension creeping into his shoulders. Then, looking down at his keyboard, he murmurs, "Uh… I actually haven’t met with any of the others outside of the standard hours."
Your heart flutters. So it's true. You really are getting special treatment from him. But on the surface, you keep your expression perfectly light and teasing. "Oh. So I must actually be the worst at this," you laugh softly, pretending it's a self-deprecating joke.
"No! That’s not what I meant," he blurts, waving his hands slightly. You actively suppress a wider smile as he rushes to correct himself. "You’ve improved so much faster than anyone. I promise."
You tilt your head, peering at him. "So… did the others just not want the extra help?"
Hongjoong nervously chuckles. "Um, yeah… yeah, something like that." His eyes avoid yours, but you know the truth without him having to say it: these extra lessons are special, just for you.
And then, a dangerous, thrilling idea hits you. Maybe you can get him to confront his own feelings without forcing yourself into the vulnerable position of the first move. Maybe, just like this, you can somehow coax it out of him—let him be the one to take the risk and cross the line first so you don't end up humiliating yourself.
Though your rational brain begs you to drop it and walk away, you push a little further, keeping your voice perfectly innocent on the surface. "So, since I'm the only one who took you up on the offer... does that make me your favorite student?"
You watch him freeze. His lips twitch, a shy, helpless smirk threatening to break through his careful professional armor, and he meets your eyes.
"Yeah, I... I think it does," he says quietly.
You can't help the soft, nervous laugh that escapes you. You quickly lower your gaze to your closed laptop, desperate to hide the hot, fierce blush currently rushing up into your cheeks. But even with your eyes down, you can feel his gaze on you.
He snaps out of it first, adjusting his glasses and shaking his head as if to dislodge whatever thoughts had just caught him. You pretend not to notice, letting a small, secret smile linger behind your lips.
"So… is that it for today?" he asks hesitantly, his hands resting on his knees. "Or is there anything else you'd like to work on with me?"
You glance at your phone. It's only 7:25. The library is quiet, the warm glow of the evening stretching across the floor, and a thought occurs to you: maybe getting a head start on the next chapter isn't such a bad idea.
"Actually… yeah. Maybe we can start on some of tomorrow's material?" you suggest casually, keeping your eyes on your book.
He nods. "Sounds good," he says. "Let’s work through it together."
You hurriedly flip through the pages of the textbook still open in front of you. The first exercise of the next lesson is a conversation practice, full of sentences that twist and turn in unfamiliar patterns, packed with new vocabulary you've never attempted before. As you try to read aloud, every word feels clumsy and awkward as it escapes your lips. You repeatedly slow your speech in frustration, and Hongjoong leans in each time, correcting you gently. His fingers occasionally brush against the edge of your book when he points to a specific syllable.
As you turn your head to ask whether '왼쪽으로' means to go right or left, you catch a faint smirk at the corner of his lips. You pause mid-word, frowning.
"What's that face for?" you ask, self-conscious.
Hongjoong blinks at you. "What?"
"You’re smiling," you insist, pointing at his lips.
He instantly runs a hand over his face, wiping the smirk away. "What? No, I’m not."
"Yes, you are," you counter. "Every time I mess up a pronunciation, you make that same face."
He shakes his head, looking flustered now. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do!” You finally smile, taking advantage of this opportunity. "Is this funny to you, Hongjoong? Me completely butchering your native language? What, do I sound like a five-year-old when I speak?"
Finally, his real laugh escapes naturally, filling the near-silent space on the second floor. "Well... uh... maybe more like a three-year-old," he admits, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his glasses.
You huff out a giggle. "Really? Is that what you're thinking every time I read to you?"
He just grins now, his eyes softening as he answers. "Not every time. Sometimes you sound closer to four."
You laugh, light and airy, a sound that makes the lesson feel secondary. Your embarrassing mispronunciations bounce across the table, and you watch him soften more and more with every passing minute. A faint smile tugs at his lips, and his corrections carry a teasing tone that he usually suppresses during your hours. Every mistake you make seems to draw him further out of his careful shell.
As you reach the last sentence of the conversation you're reading, you take a deep breath, reading each syllable carefully.
"오른좆… 길 쪽으로 가세요," you say, letting the words roll off your tongue.
But Hongjoong freezes, his eyes widening for the briefest instant. A strange, arrested look flits across his features; it's wild, though strictly contained. Then he exhales, a soft, awkward laugh escaping him, as his attempts at professional detachment fail.
A flush creeps over your cheeks. "What?" you ask, uncertain if you should feel embarrassed or curious.
He clears his throat, shuffling slightly in his chair, his fingers brushing nervously against the side of his laptop. "Uh…" His eyes flick away toward the empty library stacks for a moment, then snap back to you, the faintest, almost shy curve tugging at his lips. "It… it wasn’t exactly the word you were trying to say."
You frown, your heart picking up speed. "What do you mean?"
He hesitates again, like he's deciding whether he should actually explain the mistake to you or not. His gaze drops for just a second. "You were trying to pronounce '쪽', which means direction," he begins, the tiniest trace of shyness threading through his words. "But—uh—you said… 좆."
"And?" you ask anxiously, your mind racing to find the mistake. "What does that word mean?"
He shifts awkwardly in his seat, running a hand through his hair as a faint, dark color dusts his cheeks. "I—uh. It... it means..." He glances away, clearing his throat again. "It means 'dick'," he says hurriedly, like the word itself embarrasses him to say out loud in front of you.
Your entire face burns.
Before you can even process it, your eyes find a mind of their own, flicking downward instinctively—right to the curve of his pants. You snap them back up immediately, heart hammering, utterly mortified because you know that he saw it.
He shifts, just enough for you to catch the awareness in his expression. His head tilts away, a quick, reflexive motion, trying to hide the smirk that's threatening to curl at the corners of his mouth. The sight of his shaken restraint makes your breath hitch.
A flush races up your neck, burning through your body, and your thoughts suddenly won’t stop. Your brain is now forcing you to think about what lies underneath the fabric of your tutor's pants, how impossibly attractive he is, how his broad shoulder is currently resting next to yours, how every look from this evening is still etched into your chest, and your breath goes shallow as your brain can't help but imagine him how it's been secretly desiring for so long... You imagine him taking total control of your body, the way he'd claim you until you forget everything in the world but him, the commanding weight of his thick hands holding you steady underneath him, his gaze harsh and laced with that same fire you've felt all evening, and suddenly every nerve in your body is alert and trembling, your thoughts spiraling faster—how he'd push you, correct you, insist you follow his words, the tension between him and you unbearable and passionate, your mind racing ahead of your body, imagining him thrusting into you while you tremble beneath him, the way his voice would snap you into line, the edge of dominance teasing your every nerve, and you can feel your body responding, desperate, aching, craving, losing itself in the fantasy—
"Yo, guys!" a voice interrupts from afar, hitting you like a jolt of cold water. You snap your head up. "What are you two doing here?"
Mingi's there, paused mid-step in the doorway, his eyebrows shot high as his voice cuts sharply through the intense, private world you’d just spiraled into and gotten lost in. You sink a little lower in your seat, your body still tingling from the thoughts you were just consumed by, and you can’t help but feel a burning stab of embarrassment as you avoid eye contact with Hongjoong.
Mingi walks closer, grinning as his eyes dart between the two of you. "You guys study together outside of the required stuff?" he asks before you can even say hello. "Hey, not fair! Where are my private lessons?"
The light punch he lands on Hongjoong's shoulder makes it obvious he's joking—he doesn’t actually want more tutoring—but despite your lingering humiliation, you see a golden opportunity, remembering the little plan you'd thought up earlier to test the waters. You swivel toward Hongjoong, forcing your voice to sound innocent and hoping the flush in your cheeks from wherever your mind just came back from is no longer visible.
“I thought you said no one else wanted extra help?"
In that instant, you catch the tail end of the lethal glare Hongjoong snaps straight at Mingi.
Mingi's eyes widen in real-time, and he holds up his hands, laughing nervously. "Kidding! Definitely don't want to spend more time doing schoolwork than I have to!"
A few students studying near the main walkway turn around and shush him, and his laughter cuts off abruptly, replaced by a small, sheepish smile. You glance between him and Hongjoong. You don't miss it—that loaded look you've seen men exchange before but never really understood. The silent communication of calculation makes your brain spin with questions.
Mingi leans back while shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, his grin slowly returning. He asks casually, "So... you guys prepping for class tomorrow?"
You glance at Hongjoong, your fingers absentmindedly flicking between the corners of your textbook pages. "Yeah... if he stops laughing at me every time I try to talk."
Mingi's mouth drops open as he turns to your tutor. "Dude—you make fun of her?"
Hongjoong immediately stiffens, shaking his head. "Of course not! I'd never make fun of someone who's trying to learn."
You bite back a laugh at his seriousness. "Whatever you say."
For a moment, Mingi falters, and you catch that same silent look passing between the two of them again—the subtle, unreadable male code you don't fully get—and he chuckles, eyes flicking back to you. "Actually, ____," Mingi says, shrugging slightly, "I don't think he's making fun of you. I think he just likes hearing your voice in his native language."
Your eyes widen. When you immediately glance at Hongjoong, he's glaring at Mingi with a rage in his eyes you've never seen before, a look that could slice straight through steel.
Mingi notices your stunned expression paired with Hongjoong's homicidal stare. His chuckle falters, becoming nervous and a little high-pitched. "Uh… well, it's already almost eight, so… uh. Gotta go get some work done. I'll see you in class tomorrow!"
Before either of you can respond, he's gone, slipping behind the towering bookshelves and practically sprinting to find a spot on the opposite side of the floor.
You sit still, the world around you fading until it’s just you and Hongjoong sitting side by side. Even he seems frozen, his shoulders stiff, as Mingi's careless words settle between you.
Why the hell would he say something like that? Mingi has always been reckless with his mouth, blurting things out before his brain can catch up, usually only to cringe about it later. It probably meant nothing. Just another thoughtless joke from a friend.
But even as you try to brush it off, another part of you realizes that this might be the best—and riskiest—opportunity to figure out Hongjoong's feelings yet. You turn hesitantly toward him, careful not to make eye contact too quickly.
"Is that true?"
His gaze meets yours. The way he looks at you shoots a chill through your chest, electricity lacing through your veins. Despite the careful composure on his face, there's a softness in his eyes. He swallows, jaw tightening just a little before he answers.
"Well... yeah. I do."
Oh my god.
Did he really just admit that? Did he actually mean it? Does he understand what those words could change between you? A thousand emotions flood through you—shock, hope, fear, excitement... What are you even supposed to respond to that?
Then, as if to brutally puncture a hole right into your spiraling thoughts, he continues, his tone shifting back to its usual controlled and professional frequency. "It's really cool hearing someone speak in my native language when they've only been studying it for a few months. It took me a long time to get where you are with English. It's very, uh, impressive."
The flush of excitement crashes down instantly.
Why does he put you through this endless loop, letting you believe he wants you just long enough for your heart to soar, only to drag you right back down to reality moments later? You feel delusional, ridiculous, and irritatingly aware that you've been circling this crush since the first day you met. And now, of course, your hands are tied. You won't be the one to confess anything. Not while there’s even a chance of rejection. The thought of letting him know how badly you want him feels humiliating.
You try to refocus on your textbook, but the words blur on the page. His gaze lingers faintly over the top of his laptop, controlled and unreadable, and somehow, that makes everything worse. Because even in that composure, you know there's something unspoken lingering between you.
Your laptop suddenly pings, the loud sound making you jump as you scramble to turn the volume down. Because it's synced to your phone, the message flashes across the top of your screen.
The second you read it, your heart drops straight into your stomach.
Wooyoung: You ignoring me?
Wooyoung: Let's talk. Tomorrow.
You've barely finished reading it when you feel Hongjoong shift closer, his eyes catching the name.
"Wooyoung?" he asks quietly. "Is he Korean, too?"
Fuck.
You absolutely do not want these two knowing about each other's existence any more than they already do—it would only make your situation a million times more complicated. Desperate to shut it down, you force a casual tone, waving a hand off like the message is entirely beneath your notice.
"Uh—yeah, he’s Korean, but he didn't grow up there or anything like you. His parents are actually from France," you ramble, throwing out whatever random facts come to your mind first.
"Ah," Hongjoong hums softly. "Okay."
But his gaze doesn't leave your laptop right away. It lingers on the message, his brows faintly drawn together, something unreadable swirling behind his eyes.
"He seems upset," Hongjoong adds quietly.
Your stomach twists. There is no way you're letting Hongjoong—or anyone else, for that matter—find out what happened between you and Wooyoung. Not now. Not ever.
So, you decide to tell the truth. Just not all of it.
"Oh—yeah," you shrug, forcing a dismissive laugh. "He’s really close friends with my roommate, San, so he was over at our place last night. He just got annoyed because I went to bed early when he wanted us all to stay up and hang out. He probably wants to apologize... or something."
Hongjoong watches you for a moment longer, searching your face like he's debating something, then finally nods slowly. "I see."
Relief washes through you as he seems to accept it, turning his attention back toward his laptop. You grab your phone quickly, thumb swiping up in a rush to clear the notification from your laptop screen.
But instead of disappearing quietly, your lock screen lights up.
And right there, bold and impossible to miss in the center, is the song you'd paused when he arrived.
Don't Stand So Close to Me - The Police.
You instantly hunch forward, trying to shield the screen from his view with your upper body. Because even though it's the original version, even though it's technically just a classic rock song, there'd be no hiding what it means. Hongjoong would know you saw his post. And worse, he would know exactly why you were still looping that specific song right before meeting him.
Slowly, with dread pooling in your stomach, you look up.
Hongjoong's eyes are wide, fixed directly on your phone.
For a split second, his face is a whirlwind of emotion: shock flashing first, then realization hitting him hard, followed by something you don't recognize. Fear? Confusion?
And then, just as quickly, it's gone. His expression shutters closed. He jerks his gaze away like he's been burned, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle leaps in his cheek.
Your stomach drops straight to the floor. A suffocating heat floods your face as you stare down at the glowing device, inwardly begging for the screen to turn off, or for time to rewind just ten seconds. Anything but this. You don't even know what to say. Do you try to laugh it off? Do you lie and say you just like the song? Blame shuffle? Pretend you've never seen his video?
Without a word, Hongjoong reaches for his things. He packs up quickly, stuffing his laptop inside his bag and zipping the bag shut.
"Uh… is there anything else you need help with?" he asks after a tense moment. He's refusing to look at you. "Or are you good to finish the rest on your own?"
The distance in his tone hurts more than you expect.
You swallow hard against the lump in your throat and nod, forcing out a small, quiet, "Yeah. Um. I’ll be fine."
He nods once in response, slinging his bag over his shoulder like he can’t get out of there fast enough.
You open your mouth to say something to fix things. Your heart pounds violently as the words rise up: Maybe we could meet again this time next week... But they lodge themselves in your throat, stuck there. You chicken out, saying nothing, letting the fear of rejection win. You can only watch as he takes a step toward the staircase, your heart sinking as the distance grows between you.
He pauses a few feet away, not fully turning around, just enough that his shoulder angles back toward you. His gaze fixes somewhere on the wall past you, anywhere but your eyes. "Uh... good luck with the resubmission," he says so quietly it blends into the hum of the building.
"Thanks," you reply just as softly.
He nods once and walks away.
Is that it, then?
Is Hongjoong only capable of expressing his feelings safely through art, pouring them into music videos rather than acting on them in real life? He feels something, you’re sure of it. But the way he froze when he saw the song, the way he always pulls back right after leaning in close, proves his restraint. Maybe he never will cross that line. And that hurts worse than if he felt nothing at all.
You sigh defeatedly as you gather your books against your chest and make your way out of the library, the doors closing softly behind you as you step into the evening air. Almost without thinking, your hand slips into your pocket, fingers curling around your phone. The screen lights up with Wooyoung's name hovering at the top of your notifications, waiting for a reply.
You're still annoyed with him, but beneath it lingers a flush of embarrassment that hasn't faded since you were in his apartment. And there's still that faint guilt sitting in your chest, the reminder that you definitely don’t want to get caught up in the same impulsive mistake twice.
But while Hongjoong just left you suspended in this state of uncertainty, Wooyoung is simple. With him, there's no hidden meaning to decipher; he speaks his mind, reaches out without hesitation, and never leaves you wondering where you stand. You know what you are to him: a girl so different from his usual type that it makes everything more intriguing, someone he enjoys teasing, flirting with, and pulling into his orbit simply because you surprise him.
And to you, Wooyoung is something just as clear. He's a welcome distraction, an addicting temptation, a way to escape the complicated pull of the man who has really managed to steal your heart.
Wooyoung just wants to talk. It's a chance to listen to what he has to say, to finally put words to what happened, and to make it clear that while that night was fun, it was a moment, not a pattern.
You: Okay. But we're meeting in public this time.
His reply blinks back immediately.
Wooyoung: Why?
Wooyoung: Scared you won't be able to keep your hands off me in private?
Fighting off a smile at how easily he gets a reaction out of you, you text back:
You: Shut up, Wooyoung.
You lock your phone, sliding it back into your pocket, and let the evening air envelop you. The breeze brushes over your bare arms, sending goosebumps skittering in its wake. Each step pulls you forward, but your mind lingers, caught between two directions: the certainty waiting ahead of you and the complication you're leaving behind in the library.
You know your heart isn't fully with Wooyoung. It's still upstairs, at that table in the corner of the second floor, with the man who hides his feelings behind rules and restraint and professionalism that you know are slowly cracking more and more each time you're together. Wooyoung's confidence and assurance are comforting, but they'll never fully steal your breath like Hongjoong does. Even if Hongjoong is afraid to cross the line, you know deep down that whatever is between you isn't over.
You just don’t know whether this is the beginning of something… or the closest you'll ever get to him.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 9.2k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. hi everyone! i’m back at school now and have been drowning in work every day which means updates might start taking a little longer than before :') but thank you all so much for being patient with me and sticking around!
The café smells strongly of roasted coffee beans and caramelized sugar, a sweetness that hangs overly thick in the early morning air. Beneath it is the familiar, papery scent of stacked paper cups and steamed milk, a quiet hum that usually comforts you. The espresso machine hisses from behind the counter, punctuated by baristas calling out names that blur together before they reach you.
You're hidden in a booth tucked deep into the back corner, sinking low against the worn cushions, shoulders curling inward as if to make yourself smaller—or preferably, invisible. Your fingers wrap around the cool plastic of your iced chai, condensation dampening your skin. It's your favorite drink, your familiar routine, and currently, it’s the only thing keeping you sane.
Because yesterday... no. Last night.
It replays in your mind in disjointed flashes: the heat and the dangerous laughter. The confident teasing. And the way he treated things like nothing about the night was out of the ordinary, like you hadn't just opened yourself up in ways you never had with anyone else.
You swallow hard, staring into the ice as it clinks softly when your hand trembles. You feel like a mess: raw and exposed and embarrassingly undone. It feels like you left vital pieces of yourself behind in his bed and left his apartment without them.
And the worst part of it all is that Wooyoung never once made you feel that way.
When morning came, he was so calm. Sunlight filtered through his blinds, his slippers padded quietly across the kitchen floor, and a calm R&B playlist droned softly from his phone. He moved around his apartment like it was just another ordinary Saturday, like waking up beside your flushed, tangled body was as routine as brushing his teeth. The normalcy of it all made your skin prickle with anxiety. You hated how easily he slipped back into himself while you were spiraling, your mind already rewriting everything that happened.
You knew going into this what his reputation was. You knew he would be used to the sequence: waking up next to someone, cooking for them, making the morning feel like the easiest, most natural thing in the world. Chocolate chip pancakes stacked high on a plate, orange juice poured without asking, compliments delivered with casual indifference.
I never would’ve thought you'd let me use my knives on you, he'd said lightly, almost in awe, leaning against the counter as if he hadn’t undone you with his hands just hours earlier.
You had frozen, sitting at his kitchen table, your eyes fixed on the pancakes you suddenly couldn't bring yourself to touch.
I figured you'd be pretty submissive, he'd continued, his lips quirking as he reached for a glass, but damn. That was incredible, baby.
He'd winked at you teasingly, detached from the weight crushing your chest. You'd looked away before he could read your face, the heat rushing to your cheeks as humiliation curled in your stomach. Not because of what he said, but because of how normal it was for him to say it.
For Wooyoung, it was just another successful morning. But for you, it felt like standing alone in the aftermath of a storm you didn't know how to name. And now, sitting in the back of this crowded café, your drink sweating profusely between your palms, you wonder how something that felt so intensely real in the night could leave you feeling this hollow in the morning.
You take a slow sip of your chai, hoping the sugar will ease some of your anxieties. But every swallow tastes faintly bitter. You tell yourself that this is what you wanted—a single, reckless night with no strings attached, a fleeting thrill that should've left you satisfied. But the more you think, the less convincing your thoughts sound. Doubts begin to creep into your mind: maybe what you thought you wanted isn't what you needed at all.
And then, as if the universe wants to make things worse, your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You dejectedly pull it out, already bracing yourself for whatever damage your screen is about to display. The message is simple, only one line:
Wooyoung: I wanna see you again.
Terrible timing.
You stare at your phone as your grip tightens, willing your thoughts to start making a shred of sense. A panicked, defensive part of you wants to delete the message, shove the phone back into your pocket, and pretend last night never existed. You want to convince yourself that it was just some fever dream you made up, and not something that still tangibly lingers in the ache of your muscles.
There's a very specific reason you ignored all of Yunho's texts begging to get brunch this morning: you're embarrassed. Embarrassed that you let yourself go so far, so fast, with a guy like Wooyoung. Embarrassed by how easily you gave up control. Embarrassed by how badly you wanted him to keep going. Most of all, you're terrified of anyone finding out. None of the details of last night would ever be shared with another living soul if you could help it. You want everything locked away and sealed off, a reckless, one-time lapse in judgment that would never happen again.
But what makes it hard to just walk away is that Wooyoung is infuriatingly, addictively fun.
He's loud, obnoxious, egotistical, and over-the-top confident. When he wants something, he makes sure you know it. He made you feel more wanted than any guy ever had before—like he had no question, no hesitation, and no doubt in his desire for you. You liked that about him. You liked how he never once pulled back or pretended like he didn't mean every dirty thing he said.
So then why does your stomach twist every time you think about him? Why does the memory of his touch leave you feeling empty?
Why do I feel so terrible about what happened?
You press your lips together, refusing to answer his text. Instead, you shove your phone back into your pocket, slide quickly out of the booth, and abandon your half-finished chai on the table. The melting ice spins softly as you stand. You sling your bag over your shoulder and head straight for the door, telling yourself that you need to snap out of this pathetic pity party and get some homework done while you have free time.
The bell above the door chimes as you step outside, the chilly air hitting your cheeks, but you don't slow down. You keep walking, driving your heels into the pavement. If you stop, you're terrified that everything you've been carefully holding together will spill out right onto the sidewalk. Your thoughts are a mess, and you remind yourself to keep your head down. The last thing you need is to run into someone you know and have to explain why you look like you're barely holding yourself together. You learned that lesson already a few days ago with Hongjoong in the library.
You don't even mean for it to happen. You're not trying to think about him. But it's like your mind keeps circling back to your tutor, no matter how many other, more pressing things you should be worrying about instead.
Suddenly, your brain starts rewriting last night without your permission.
And one intrusive thought lingers inside your head.
What if it had been Hongjoong instead?
Once the thought lands, it doesn't stop growing.
Your mind reshapes the scene into something that feels more fitting. You imagine it wouldn't have started with watching you through the peephole of his front door. No—Hongjoong doesn't feel like the kind of person who treats a first date like a joke. If he brought you to his own kitchen, it would be mature, intentional, and with a perfectly curated plan.
At first, it would be lighthearted and fun. You imagine the two of you standing side-by-side at his counter, cooking together. It'd likely be messy, considering he mentioned that he's not the most talented chef—flour dusting the front of your clothes, a stray splash of sauce on his wrist, and laughter echoing off the walls. You'd talk softly, teasing each other hesitantly, trading quick-witted observations and lingering half-smiles back and forth. It would feel passionate in a way that slowly builds, an undercurrent of tension simmering beneath the playful bickering as you cook.
Would he tease you like Wooyoung did? Probably not. You think he'd be calmer, more measured. Not strict, exactly—but expectant. The way he is when he tutors you. The way he looks at you like he knows what you're capable of and refuses to settle for less. The way he pushes you to your full potential without ever raising his voice.
You swallow.
Maybe he'd be even rougher than Wooyoung, but in a different way. His kind of dominance wouldn't be about control just for the sake of having it, but about standards. About expectation. He wouldn't settle for what’s easy. Wouldn't accept half-effort or hesitation, because he's never let you give that in any other context. He'd push you to your limits, because he knows that's what's best for you. Because he's the one who really knows what you're capable of, even when you doubt it yourself.
And it wouldn't be because he's cruel. It would be because he knows you can handle it.
You stop so abruptly it's almost comical, your feet freezing mid-step in the middle of the crowded walkway. Your breath catches in your throat, like you’ve been yanked back into your own body without a shred of warning.
What the fuck am I thinking?
You shake your head hard, laughing at yourself in disbelief as you turn toward the stone library steps. This is ridiculous. You've officially crossed the line from distraction into delusion. You've read one too many romance novels, and it's finally catching up to you. You need to sit down, open your laptop, and do something—anything—remotely productive before your brain continues to spiral out of control with this mess.
Why are you thinking about Hongjoong like this?
Why him—when you literally just lived through the real thing with Wooyoung hours ago? Why does the idea of Hongjoong make your stomach flutter, while thinking about Wooyoung leaves you twisted up with guilt and regret?
You push the library doors open and step inside, letting the hush wrap around you. You welcome the quiet, hope it'll smother the thoughts, burying them under assignments and to-do lists and the comfort of your routine.
Your phone buzzes again in your pocket, and you don't need to look to know whose name is flashing on the screen.
Setting your jaw, you pull it out and place it face down on the table of your choice without reading the message. You pop open your laptop and log in, choosing the comfort of distraction—anything that lets you delay what you're not ready to face yet.
The library does its job well.
Hours slip by completely unnoticed as you sink into the mindless rhythm of productivity. Your assignments are checked off one by one, all papers are outlined, and all readings are meticulously annotated. Your laptop rests beneath your palms, the cold metal providing something concrete to stabilize your wavering focus. Your brain actually cooperates. You realize that if you move quickly and efficiently enough—if you keep your hands constantly moving—your thoughts won't have the time to catch up and destroy your composure.
Your phone stays face down on the table the entire time. You don't need to flip it over to know that it keeps buzzing with Wooyoung's texts. Once every hour, almost exactly on schedule. You ignore it every time, your jaw tightening and your focus sharpening out of sheer stubbornness. You tell yourself you’ll deal with him later. You just need more time to process.
By the time you finally pack up your things, your body aches in that dull, post-focus way. Your shoulders are stiff, and your eyes are tired. Outside, the sky has turned dark. The night air is cool against your skin the second you step through the exit, and the calm you spent hours building inside the library immediately begins to dissipate.
You walk back quietly to your dorm, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. With nothing left to distract you, your thoughts seep back in like water rushing through cracks in a dam. Wooyoung’s voice, eyes, and of course, his smirk. The messages waiting unread in your pocket feel heavier with every step you take, like they’re burning a hole straight through the fabric of your sweatpants.
You keep your gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to look at the couples walking past. You're so tired of thinking about him. You just want to get back to your room, take a long shower, crawl into bed, and pretend the past twenty-four hours never happened.
The door to your dorm swings shut behind you.
You don't even bother to look up, toeing your shoes off by the door, shrugging your bag off your shoulder, and letting it hit the kitchen table with more force than necessary. The loud crack echoes through the common area, but you don't even stop to worry about whether San is asleep. All you want is your bed. Silence. Sleep. You're already halfway to your room in your mind, mentally counting the steps it'll take before you can disappear from the world.
"Damn," a dangerously familiar voice says lightly. "Rough day?"
You freeze.
Slowly, you turn around.
Wooyoung is stretched out across San’s side of the couch, his long legs kicked up, one arm draped lazily along the back. He’s watching you with that infuriatingly easy grin, like he hasn’t been blowing up your phone all day long, and like finding him in your living room right now is the most natural thing in the world.
San sits right beside him, a gaming controller clutched in his hands. He glances over at you with mild curiosity, completely unaware he’s sitting dead in the center of something much bigger. The TV hums softly in the background, the game paused on a bright menu screen.
For a second, you honestly wonder if you're hallucinating. Has exhaustion finally tipped you over the edge into a nightmare? But then Wooyoung shifts, eyes still locked on you, and reality snaps into place with a merciless clarity.
He's here. Inside your home.
Your body feels strangely heavy, like gravity has doubled just for you alone. Wooyoung is still looking at you, eyes bright with wicked mischief, while San's gaze begins to flick between the two of you, his brow furrowing just a touch. He doesn’t know what he’s sensing, only that something's off. A vibe he can’t put a name to, but definitely feels.
"____," San says finally, his voice cheerful but laced with a faint, sudden note of curiosity that breaks the suffocating silence wide open. "Hey. You’re back."
You force a synthetic smile that doesn't even come close to reaching your eyes. It feels stiff on your face. "Yeah," you say, wincing internally when your voice comes out flatter and colder than you intended. "Late library day."
You make an aggressive point of not looking at Wooyoung when you say it. If you just refuse to acknowledge him, maybe he'll take the hint and disappear like a bad thought you can shove out of your mind.
But only Wooyoung hums, the kind of sound that says he sees straight through your pathetic armor. Or worse, that he knows exactly what you're trying to pretend didn't happen between his sheets last night.
"You alive at least?" he asks, grin spreading slowly and wickedly across his face. "You looked pissed when you walked through that door."
You shoot him a warning look before your self-control can stop you. "I wasn't."
He hums again, a sound that is actually beginning to piss you off. "Just tired, then?" he guesses.
San chuckles, his fingers tapping the plastic controller as he finally unpauses the game. He turns the TV volume down a notch anyway. "She always gets cranky when she's out past her bedtime."
You exhale slowly through your nose, your jaw tightening so hard it aches as you resist the very real urge to scream straight into the nearest couch pillow—or maybe directly into Wooyoung's smug face. Instead, you kick your shoes the rest of the way off, nudging them clumsily toward the baseboard. You hover there awkwardly, unsure what to do with your hands. Sitting down feels like walking directly into a trap, but standing here like a statue will only make you look more guilty.
San, either oblivious or masterfully pretending to be, pats the empty cushion beside him without even looking away from the screen. "Come hang out for a minute before you crash. We're just killing time."
Killing time.
Your eyes flick to Wooyoung automatically.
He's sprawled out on the couch like he's lived in your home forever—one leg hooked lazily over the other, his hoodie loose and worn-in, the dark sleeves pushed up just enough to show off his tattoo. He looks too comfortable for a man who is very much not in their own space, and way too relaxed for someone who spent all day blowing up your phone before casually showing up here.
Why is he here? Did he say something to San? Does San already know what happened? Is this planned? Is this some kind of test?
Wooyoung catches you staring at him. His lips twitch like he's caught you doing something incriminating. He holds your gaze, biting his lip and wordlessly daring you to look away first.
You do. With a quiet sigh of defeat, you sit.
The couch dips under your weight, the cushions still retaining the warmth from San’s body. Through no intentional choice of your own, you somehow end up wedged between the two of them—San steady and comforting on your left, while Wooyoung occupies your right, close enough that you can feel the heat of him through the fabric of your clothes, though his skin isn't touching yours.
From the outside, it probably looks normal. Three friends, sitting lazily on a couch, 'killing time' on a quiet Sunday night. But from the inside, every inch of space feels hyper-charged. Your eyes keep involuntarily darting down to the narrow gap where Wooyoung's knee rests, and you think about how easily it could bump yours with one subtle shift. How casual he looks, like showing up here wasn't a calculated move at all.
San reaches across the coffee table for the remote, bumping the volume up a notch. "We were gonna put something on, but Woo couldn't decide on a movie."
Wooyoung scoffs loudly from beside you, leaning his head back against the cushions. "I gave you a million options, San. You just have shitty taste."
San frowns, genuinely offended. "I just wanted to watch a rom-com."
"And I just wanted to watch something with actual substance. Like an action movie," Wooyoung counters, shrugging his shoulders. His eyes flick to your profile for a fraction of a second before he continues. "Rom-coms are all fake, anyway."
San snorts. "Says the guy who cried when I made him watch When Harry Met Sally."
"Because they waited too long!" Wooyoung objects, sitting up. "It's every fucking movie. Everyone in the room knows how they feel about each other, but no one has the guts to do anything about it."
Beside him, your right leg starts bouncing anxiously.
San laughs under his breath. "You take things way too seriously, man."
Wooyoung shrugs, his eyes sliding back to you. "I just don't get the point of waiting around. If you want something, go for it. Otherwise, you're just waiting for it to slip away."
You finally turn your head to meet his gaze, keeping your voice carefully steady, though a faint hint of defensive challenge sharpens your words. "But what if going for it just makes it harder?"
His head tilts slightly, feigning a moment of deep consideration, though his grin is already there. "Harder?" he murmurs, his voice dripping with deliberate double meaning.
You roll your eyes, a hot flush threatening to creep up your neck. "You know what I mean. I just think some risks aren't worth it."
He shrugs casually, acting like the weight of consequences doesn't affect him the way it does you. "Maybe,” he says. "Or maybe those risks are the only things that make life interesting."
You let a tiny, frustrated huff and cross your arms, shifting uncomfortably against the cushions. He notices the tiny flare of annoyance in the way you slump back slightly, and the subtle tapping of your fingers against your leg.
Wooyoung leans forward, resting his elbows loosely on his knees and turning his upper body just enough that you fall directly into the center of his vision. "Library really did a number on you, huh?" he asks with a crooked grin.
You snap your head towards him. "Why are you here?"
The question comes out sharply. The atmosphere shifts, not enough for San to pick up on it, but more than enough for Wooyoung. His dark eyes flash with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
San doesn't even look away from the flashing screen. "He said he was bored."
Wooyoung lifts a single shoulder. "Am I not allowed to hang out with my friends?"
San looks over now, blinking between the two of you. "You don't mind him being here, right?"
Do I?
You paste another smile onto your face, praying it doesn't look as completely unnatural as it feels. "No. Why would I?"
Wooyoung watches you closely, eyes tracking your expression like he's cataloging it and testing how steady you can keep this little act. Defeated, you sink deeper into the couch, pressing your back against the cushions to create whatever small distance you can. The game flashes across the screen, colors and movement blurring together. But you're not really watching. You let your gaze go distant, trying to mentally remove yourself from Wooyoung’s presence and whatever you feel sitting this close to him.
Beside you, San’s fingers fly over the controller, his concentration absolute. Every so often, he groans in frustration when something goes wrong or cheers under his breath when he pulls something off. You try to let yourself drift into his harmless, predictable rhythm. It’s comforting. It almost lulls you into a false sense of normalcy.
But then the buzzing starts again.
Every time San's focus on the game distracts him from Wooyoung stealthily putting his own controller down, your phone vibrates against your thigh. You glance down reflexively each time, your stomach dropping into a complete freefall, before forcing your eyes straight back to the TV screen.
Ignore it. Do not look.
But Wooyoung’s messages don't stop.
Wooyoung: He'll be knocked out in like twenty minutes
Wooyoung: Won’t hear a single thing from your room
Wooyoung: Or he could watch. I'm not shy, baby
Wooyoung: You got any knives in your kitchen?
You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, the sting of pain the only thing keeping you from jumping out of your skin. You refuse to react. Instead, you desperately fixate on the TV, forcing your eyes to track the tiny digital explosions as though the pixels can hold your fraying attention.
Another buzz. More messages.
Wooyoung is ruthless. You feel an incendiary heat rising into your cheeks, the kind of flush that has nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the man sitting next to you.
San pauses the game abruptly, the controller lowering into his lap as he turns his torso toward you. "I can feel your phone buzzing through the couch," he says, irritation creeping into his voice. "You're throwing off my focus. Who the hell keeps texting you?”
You snap your eyes to him, trying to hide your panic. You can't tell him. You have to come up with an excuse. "Sorry," you blurt out, scrambling for the first thing you can think of. "It's just—uh—automatic notifications. For assignments."
He's clearly unconvinced, but he's polite enough not to immediately call you out on it. "Uh-huh. Sure."
You exhale a slow, trembling breath, silently sweating with gratitude, but the relief is horribly short-lived.
San shifts, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Where were you last night, anyway? I came back pretty late and didn't see you at all."
Oh. So Wooyoung didn't say anything to him.
At least the details of last night aren't out in the open. Yet. But even as that fear dissipates, a brand-new kind of nervousness settles right into your stomach. You can practically feel Wooyoung's eyes on you, just waiting to see how you're going to lie your way out of this.
"Uh," you start, your voice steadier than you feel, "I met with my Econ professor. To get some extra help on my research paper."
San raises an eyebrow, lips twitching with quick skepticism. "Extra help," he repeats flatly. "At what time?"
You glance down at your hands, your fingers fidgeting uselessly in your lap as you dig yourself a deeper hole. "Pretty late," you say. "I started stressing out in the library, and luckily, he was still working in his office."
"Mm-hm," San hums, not sold. "Very convenient of him."
Before you can even attempt to patch up the holes in your terrible story, your phone vibrates again against your thigh, and your heart jumps straight into your throat. Trapped, you sneak a frantic glance down at the screen just long enough to read the fresh notifications.
Wooyoung: Aw. Why am I your dirty little secret?
Wooyoung: Did I fuck the truth out of you, baby?
Heat floods your face instantly, racing up your neck and setting your ears on fire. You stab at the screen with wildly trembling fingers, barely managing to lock it before shoving it face down in your lap.
Not now. You absolutely, under no circumstances, can look at Wooyoung right now.
San leans back against the couch, studying you. "Professor, huh?" he draws out slowly. "Not your tutor, right? Because that'd explain the whole late-night thing."
Your face somehow manages to burn even hotter. "No!" you blurt out, the denial tearing from your throat far too quickly to be convincing. Your hand flutters nervously against your thigh, smoothing down the fabric of your sweatpants. "Not Hongjoong. Just—regular research stuff. Papers. Really important ones."
Your blush refuses to retreat, burning stubbornly skin-deep as you turn your attention to the TV and pretend to follow the game that is still paused. But Wooyoung refused to give you that luxury.
Wooyoung: So his name's Hongjoong?
Wooyoung: I can promise you I tutored you a hell of a lot better than he ever could last night
Your stomach flips. He's not jealous, not in the slightest, but the way he phrases it, the way he makes your nerves his playground, is excruciatingly effective. You're losing this game badly.
What do I do? What do I even say? You refuse to acknowledge the texts, but your silence only seems to feed him. From the corner of your eye, you can see his wicked grin spreading wider.
Wooyoung: You're so cute when you lie, baby
You press your lips into a hard, seamless line, trying to dissociate from his presence, to focus on San's controller, the dust mites dancing in the light of the TV—anything besides the man sitting far too close to you.
San sighs, his attention finally returning to the game as he unpauses it. "Whatever," he mutters, shaking his head. "You’ll tell me the truth eventually anyway."
For San, the awkward moment passes. For you, it doesn't at all.
You feel Wooyoung move before your brain can consciously register the shift. His presence suddenly feels twice as heavy, twice as suffocating, as he leans his upper body just an inch to the left, shifting just close enough to intrude on your personal space without drawing a single glance from San. His shoulder nearly brushes yours. And then, his hot breath ghosts the shell of your ear.
"Relax," he whispers lazily. His lips curve against your hair, even as he keeps his eyes fixed on the TV. You can hear the mocking smile in his tone. "Your little secret's safe with me."
You swallow hard and say nothing. If you open your mouth, you're certain something humiliating will spill out and blow everything you've been trying so hard to keep hidden. So instead, you do the only thing that feels even remotely safe: you stare straight ahead, frozen in time.
You're so focused on the effort of not reacting that you almost miss the next notification. Your phone shifts against your leg, and before your self-control can veto the instinct, your fingers twitch, reaching for it.
And that is the exact split-second San notices.
The TV audio cuts out instantly. The game pauses again as San turns his body fully toward you, his easygoing expression gone.
"Okay," he says slowly, dragging the word out while studying your pale, frozen face. "Seriously, ____. Those aren't assignment notifications."
You stiffen. "San—"
"You've been glued to that thing since you walked through the door," he cuts in, gesturing towards the phone clutched in your lap. "And you're being weirder than usual."
You open your mouth to defend yourself, but Wooyoung beats you to the punch.
"She's very tense," he says lightly, his tone laced with a sickening layer of mock thoughtfulness. "Like she's nervous. Hiding something from us."
You shoot him a look that is half-lethal warning, half-desperate plea. He just expands his grin.
San leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees as the final pieces of the puzzle he's been working on all night suddenly click together in his head. "Okay. Let me guess," he says. "You're texting Hongjoong."
Your stomach plummets.
"What?" you choke out.
Wooyoung's head tilts to the side. "You really think so, San?"
San nods, fully convinced he's cracked the case. "That’s why you won’t show me," he says, chuckling. "You’re embarrassed."
"I am not—"
"You totally are," San interrupts, laughing out loud now. "Come on. You've had a little crush on him since the first day he started tutoring you. It's not really a surprise."
Your face feels hot enough to melt off your skull. "I have not had a—"
Wooyoung turns fully toward you now, propping his chin on his hand, eyes bright with dangerous entertainment. "Wow," he drawls. "So that's where you were last night? You were out fucking your tutor?"
"Wooyoung, no!" you snap, mortified.
San's hand darts straight for your phone without warning. "Come on. Let me see it. I won't read the whole thing. Just a little peek."
You yelp and jerk backward into the kitchen, clutching the locked phone to your chest. "Absolutely not!"
That explosive, defensive reaction seals your fate.
San bursts out laughing, pointing at your phone like he's won. "Yeah, okay. That’s one hundred percent Hongjoong."
Wooyoung's boisterous laughter rings out right in your ear. "Shit," he says, shaking his head as he mocks you. "Didn’t realize you were so obsessed with this guy."
"I'm not," you hiss through your teeth.
Suddenly, San lunges straight at you. One second, his hand is merely reaching across your lap, and the next, he’s half-launching himself off his seat, throwing his entire upper body on top of you to hijack your phone.
"San—!" you yelp.
You twist your body sharply to the left, jerking your arm back and away from his incoming fingers, your shoulder colliding with Wooyoung's chest as you do. The couch jolts under the sudden movement, the cushions shifting as all three of your bodies tangle into a mess of limbs. San laughs, startled by your fierce resistance but entirely determined, fully committing now.
"Come on, just give it here!" he says, already climbing over you, one knee braced against the cushion between your thighs as he reaches again.
"No!" you yell, your heart slamming against your ribs. "What the hell is wrong with you? Get off!"
You clutch the phone with both hands now, twisting your torso away, curling around it like it's a live grenade about to detonate and blow up your social life. San's forearm grazes your shoulder, his fingertips just barely reaching the edge of your phone case.
Beside you, Wooyoung lets out a laugh, beaming with delight at what's unfolding in his lap. "Holy shit," he grins. "Were you guys sexting or something? Is your tutor a freak?"
"Stop talking!" you snap at him, trying to scoot backward, but there's nowhere to go. San is fully leaned over you now, all limbs and weight, laughing hysterically as he tries to playfully pry the phone from your grip.
"You’re acting insane," he gasps out between laughs. "Just let me see the name!"
"I can't—!"
You jerk again, harder this time, twisting to the opposite side to break his leverage.
But your sweaty, trembling grip slips.
The phone slides sideways out of your hands, spinning once as it skims across the cushions. For a split second, it balances perfectly on the tight seam. But then you watch it tilt in slow motion. The phone tips, strikes the wooden frame of the couch arm, and disappears.
It's gone. Swallowed by the pitch-black crack between the couch cushions, slipping somewhere deep into the dusty underbelly of the furniture.
San freezes mid-reach, his laughter instantly dying out as your stomach drops straight through the floor. The phone is right beneath his hand. He can easily beat you to it.
"Fuck," you whisper. "No—"
You're already moving, dropping to your knees on the carpet. You shove your hands between the cushions, every single worst-case scenario flashes through your head at once—San reaching in first, pulling it out, and seeing Wooyoung’s name lighting up the lock screen. San reading the messages. The things Wooyoung said last night. The things he said today. The things he texted five minutes ago.
Wooyoung, meanwhile, is absolutely losing it.
He collapses back against the couch, a roar of laughter bursting out of him. He wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, his breath hitching as he watches you desperately dig around for your phone.
"Holy shit," he wheezes, his shoulders shaking. "This is better than a movie."
"This is not funny," you hiss through a clenched jaw, shoving your arm deeper into the couch.
Wooyoung only laughs harder, his head tipping back. "Crazy," he gasps between breaths. "I've never seen someone fight this hard to hide the fact that they hooked up with me."
Your head snaps up instantly. Your arm freezes, buried elbow-deep inside the couch. Everything inside your body—your lungs, your heart, your brain—seizes all at once. You stare at Wooyoung in pure horror.
San’s head whips toward Wooyoung, his jaw dropping, before his stunned, wide eyes crash straight back down to you. “Y—You what?”
Wooyoung only grins. "Relax," he says with a laugh, waving a hand. "I'm kidding."
You don’t relax. Not even a little.
Wooyoung leans forward, his eyes sparkling like a predator's as he looks down at you kneeling at his feet on the carpet. "But seriously," he continues, his voice dropping, "I’ve never seen anyone fight quite this hard to protect their reputation."
San rolls his eyes, letting out a protective sigh on your behalf. "Don't make fucked up jokes like that about her, Woo," he says, shaking his head in disapproval. "She's not that kind of girl."
San’s words hang in the air longer than is comfortable for you.
She’s not that kind of girl.
You feel the sentence land in your chest like a misplaced label. You don't quite know how to articulate the feeling, but you know it's wrong. You were that kind of girl last night. You wanted to be that kind of girl.
Wooyoung lifts his hands in mock surrender, leaning back against the couch cushions like a scolded child. "Relax, San," he says. "I was joking." Then, with more of a smirk: "But people can be more than just one thing, you know."
San snorts, already crouching to haul the couch's frame forward. "Other people, yeah. Not ____." You wince. "Let’s just get her phone before it slips into the vents for good."
The couch scrapes loudly against the floor.
You're still frozen half-kneeling on the carpet when the phone finally comes back into view. Before San can even think about leaning over to help, you snatch it up instantly.
Wooyoung watches the whole thing with open fascination. He doesn’t say anything—he can't, not with San right there—but the look he gives you is unmistakable: he's intrigued by you, by everything that just happened.
San straightens up, brushing the dust off his palms onto his pants. He glances down at your trembling form with a creased brow. "You okay?"
You nod too quickly. "Fine."
It's a blatant lie, but it’s an efficient one.
That kind of girl.
You’ve never once thought of yourself that way. You never pictured yourself as someone who casually slips into someone else’s bed with zero plans beyond the night, with no expectations waiting on the other side of the morning. You like structure, and you crave predictability. You like knowing where things are headed before you ever dare to take a step into them. You overthink texts for hours. You replay mundane conversations until they lose all their meaning. You build connections slowly and carefully, treating them like fragile glass you don’t want to shatter by rushing.
You didn’t wake up today feeling any different. You still made mental lists of everything you needed to accomplish. You still felt that familiar knot of anxiety over academic deadlines and everyday responsibilities. You still reached for your routine like it could remind you of the person you really are.
And yet—
You did what you did.
You didn’t stumble into his bed by accident, nor were you carried to Wooyoung's apartment by a wave of helplessness. You chose it. You wanted it. For once in your highly controlled life, you didn't pause to protect the safe version of yourself you've always been careful to maintain. You stepped forward into the heat of the moment instead of hesitating and holding yourself back.
That single night doesn't make you reckless or careless, and it certainly doesn't erase who you are. But it does mean there's a side of you San doesn’t quite see—a side that Wooyoung saw fully.
You can't even begin to decipher whether that's a good or a bad thing.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Wooyoung glance down at your phone for a second, then look back to map your face. The corners of his lips curve faintly, the expression telling you everything you need to know: he’s biting back another sly comment.
Your phone vibrates again, but you don't even bother looking down.
You push yourself upright. "I'm tired," you say bitterly. "I’m going to bed."
San stares at you, blinking. "Already? It's not even late."
"Yeah," you say. "Long day."
Wooyoung tilts his head up to look at you. You swear you can see surprise cross his face before it morphs into amusement right away.
"Library couldn't have been that bad," he says.
You glare down at him, your nerves buzzing. "I said I'm tired."
He lets out a short, entertained laugh, unbothered by your bite. "From what? Watching us play video games?"
"Wooyoung."
Your tone makes his grin falter. He reassesses the situation: the tension in your shoulders, your knuckles turning white around your phone, and the exhaustion clouding your eyes.
"Okay," he says quietly. "Go get some sleep."
Beside him, San is already turning back to the TV screen, unpausing the game with a quick flick of his thumb. "Night," he says gently, his voice laced with a hint of guilt. "Sorry for being so pushy about the phone. Try not to stress yourself out too much, okay?"
You don't answer. You simply turn and head for your room, your steps quick and purposeful as your pulse races in your ears. Your phone is still clenched tight in your hand, but surprisingly, it doesn't buzz again.
You don't look back, but you feel Wooyoung's eyes following you until your door clicks shut behind you.
Safely inside your bedroom, you don't even bother flicking on the lights. The soft glow of the moonlight outside filters through your curtains, illuminating your cluttered desk. Papers are scattered in haphazard, overwhelming piles; pens roll half-hidden between heavy textbooks, and a forgotten coffee mug from last week still sits precariously near the edge. Your room looks almost as messy as you feel.
You drag your limbs straight to the bed, collapsing face-first onto the mattress without changing your clothes or even bothering to wash the day off your skin. Right now, you couldn't care about the very strong likelihood of waking up in the morning with a fresh breakout. You just lie there, letting your face turn toward the window, the curtains brushing, moving faint shadows over your eyelids.
A sudden buzz against the mattress makes you groan aloud. Your hand flies to your phone, and for a second, your chest tightens with the same dread you've felt the whole day: it has to be Wooyoung. He won't stop.
You blink at the screen, and you suddenly feel the very real urge to throw yourself out of bed, march right back into the living room, and slap that smug smirk right off his face for daring to ruin your last attempt at peace for the night.
But then your eyes focus on the name.
It isn't Wooyoung. It's Hongjoong.
Your chest loosens with a shaky exhale. His message is simple, straightforward, and painfully normal in comparison to everything circling in your mind:
Hongjoong: Tomorrow at 6, second floor of the library?
It slowly comes back to you: running into him in the library, lying to him about celebrating Yunho's birthday when you really went to Wooyoung's place, Hongjoong telling you not to worry at all before agreeing to meet on Monday instead. But tonight, your brain is taking twice as long to translate his words into a coherent thought because everything inside you is so raw from the day. From the café, the library, and the couch. Specifically, from Wooyoung.
Can all of this please just stop for five minutes so I can get some sleep? you plead inwardly, pressing your warm forehead into the pillow.
But there's no pause button in real life. Reality refuses to stop pressing against you.
You tap the screen before overthinking can convince you otherwise, typing the simplest, safest, most nonchalant reply your exhausted mind can manage.
You: Sounds good.
The words feel impossibly small compared to the storm of emotion in your chest. Your fingers linger on your phone, unwilling to set it down just yet. In the quiet, you realize how much anticipation is gnawing at you. You roll slowly onto your side, curling your knees up, leaving the phone resting on the mattress in front of you. You stare down at the name, at the tiny profile picture that represents Hongjoong.
Your curiosity gets the best of you. You click on it.
Your fingers hover over his profile, scrolling through his page just a little slower than necessary. His profile picture catches your eye all over again—that simple black hoodie, the baseball cap tipped just so, his glasses sitting perfectly on the bridge of his nose. The angle of his jaw, the way the light catches his eyes as he leans over the guitar. You realize suddenly how badly you want to hear him play, how much you want to see him absorbed in something he loves.
And then your curiosity drifts further, your eyes once again noticing the two tagged accounts in his bio: @khj.des1gns and @khj.mus1c. You pause for a moment, a tiny thrill crawling through your chest, your finger taps the first link: his designs.
His portfolio is smaller than you expected—only thirty posts in total—but every single photo makes your eyes widen. Each garment is painstakingly crafted with every single stitch screaming precision. You scroll past sharply tailored jackets, asymmetrical skirts with layered textures, and cozy oversized sweaters with subtle but intricate embroidery. There are so many pieces that twist traditional shapes into modernity: cropped pants with elegant, sweeping folds, hooded tops with hidden seams that flare at the cuffs, and shirts with daring cutouts and layered mesh that still somehow remain tasteful. Every design is clearly Hongjoong's own balance between bold artistic vision and wearability.
Then, something makes you pause.
Your eyes land on one post, his most recent one: a photo of a single red top, long-sleeved and lacy, draped over a mannequin. Your breath catches. The fabric is a deep burgundy, almost identical to the shade you wore the night of Yunho's birthday, but it's somehow more magnetic, more you than you ever realized a piece of clothing could possibly be.
Your eyes trace the details through the screen. The entire midriff area is made of sheer lace, twisting in pretty floral patterns where petals and vines interlock across the skin of the mannequin. The sleeves are elongated, flaring gently at the wrists with loose lace tendrils hanging off the edges, looking as though they're moving with a breeze. The neckline is cut off-the-shoulder, exposing just enough collarbone to make it elegant without being brazen, held in place by a single deep-red button. You zoom in, your heart thumping, to see a tiny engraving on it: KHJ.
Your hands shake slightly as your mind begins to race. Oh my god. This—this has to be inspired by your outfit.
You remember last Thursday perfectly. The tutoring session, his shy compliment about your clothes... the way your heart stuttered as his eyes looked you up and down. Could he really have created this piece because of you? Maybe even... for you?
You check the date of the post. Three days ago. Thursday night. You try to do the math. Did he really go home after tutoring and create this entire masterpiece in one night? It seems insane, but it all fits. The timing, the inspiration, the way the lace curls almost exactly like the pattern on your own top… It can't be a coincidence. It has to be inspired by you.
Your heart is hammering so hard it feels like it might punch straight through your chest. Desperate to escape the lace, you click out of the design account, moving straight to the other as if you can use it to forget about what you just saw: @khj.mus1c.
This one is bigger—so much bigger. Almost two hundred posts, backed by thousands upon thousands of followers. You scroll slowly and hesitantly, suddenly feeling a bit like a voyeur, afraid of breaking some unspoken boundary by looking too deeply into his private world. Finally, your thumb drags the feed all the way to the very bottom. The very beginning. Four years ago. The first video he ever uploaded.
It's an acoustic cover of G-Dragon’s "That XX".
You can't help but smile. You love this song. Even here, his guitar playing is incredible; his fingers slide over the strings with gentle ease as he plays. But his voice is the most incredible part. Smooth, haunting, and aching, carrying an unexpected maturity that makes you unconsciously lean closer to the screen. He looks the same, of course, just younger—his dark-rimmed glasses are a little too big for his face, his t-shirt is baggy, and his hair is a lot messier than it is now—but he has that same look in his eyes. He's completely absorbed in every note, chord, and lyric, like he's trying excruciatingly hard not to forget a single piece of the song.
A laugh slips out of you, quiet and dumb, and your chest warms as you grin at him like an idiot. Watching him do something he's passionate about feels so endearing. You begin to scroll slowly upward through the years, watching his growth and tracing his evolution, seeing just how much of his soul he's poured into this account. Most of his posts are original songs, his own lyrics typed out in the captions, alongside videos of him experimenting with different beats and exploring the depths of his talent.
One post catches your attention particularly—a song he's titled in the caption “Turbulence”. You pause, reading and silently thanking him for putting subtitles since your Korean is nowhere near strong enough to understand it otherwise. The emotion in his voice is so raw, it's as if he's singing directly into your dark room, straight to you. Every pluck of the guitar string, every sharp intake of breath, every poignant little pause in between his words feels so intimate. You can feelexactly what he's trying to convey.
And then you realize: this has to be a universal reaction to him. The thousands of likes, the flood of comments, the endless praise, and the constant requests for him to release his music on streaming platforms all make perfect sense now. People are captivated by this, by Hongjoong, in ways you're only beginning to truly comprehend.
You keep scrolling through his original songs until your thumb freezes on the very last post. His most recent upload. The timestamp glares back at you in soft gray: 30 minutes ago. Only a handful of likes have dotted the corner so far.
The caption blinks at you: Don’t stand so close to me.
Your eyebrows knit together, and your stomach drops. You know this song. The Police.
Your hand instinctively tightens around the phone as the first notes of his guitar hum through the speaker and into your ears. The sound is low, sensual, and frighteningly intimate. There's a new kind of tension to it, one you hadn't seen in any of his older posts before, a magnetic pull that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. His strumming is soft and teasing, and the way his voice enters so smoothly conveys a longing that makes you let out a soft gasp.
"Young teacher, the subject of schoolgirl fantasy
She wants him so badly, knows what she wants to be
Inside her, there's longing, this girl's an open page
Bookmarking, she's so close now
This girl is half his age."
All of a sudden, you feel like you might actually pass out. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god—
You can't look away from the screen, but you want to crawl under your bed and hide. Hongjoong's fingers move over the guitar strings effortlessly, but the way he sings… the way he looks at the camera… it's like he's singing this song just for you. Every note feels like a warning and a confession and a pull that you have no power to possibly resist.
"Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me
Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me."
Your hands shake, curling around the edges of your phone as if holding on can somehow protect you from the vertigo of your own emotions. The lyrics hit so close to home, slicing through every rational thought you had left from the day. You know this song inside and out; it's describing a student-teacher relationship. The forbidden tension, the restraint, and a desire that shouldn't exist but does anyway.
As he sings, Hongjoong's eyes flicker toward the camera with a subtle curve of his lips that feels guilty and shy all at once. It's all pointing directly to something. Or someone.
Is this… is this about you?
"Her friends are so jealous
You know how bad girls get
Sometimes it's not so easy to be the teacher's pet
Temptation, frustration, so bad it makes him cry
Wet bus stop, she's waiting, his car is warm and dry."
Every word he sings wraps around your chest, squeezing and pulling at your heart. The desire, the frustration, the temptation—he's channeling it all. There's simply no way it could be about anything else. Every line is far too specific.
"Loose talk in the classroom to hurt, they try and try
Strong words in the staffroom, the accusations fly
It's no use, he sees her, he starts to shake and cough
Just like the old man in that book by Nabokov."
Watching him now, every note, every glance at the camera... it all snaps into place in a way that is equally terrifying and exhilarating. Maybe your friends were right all along.
Maybe Hongjoong wants you.
The song, the design, the timing—it all adds up to a damning conclusion. Three days ago, he posted the burgundy lace. Thirty minutes ago, he uploaded this video—and he texted you right after posting it. It's practically obvious. Why else would you cross his mind the instant he finished recording such a loaded cover? He rarely even posts covers anymore, sticking mostly to his original tracks. And yet, out of every song he could've chosen to record, he picked this one. It's impossibly specific. You can feel it in your heart: it's for you.
You can tell just by watching his face while he sings that he knows. He knows he's singing about something he shouldn't. He knows this is crossing a line he's not supposed to. The lyrics—the temptation, the frustration, the accusations, the teacher's pet, the Nabokov references—they fit too perfectly to be mere chance. This is him, laying himself bare, openly confessing to what he's been trying to hide from you.
"Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me
Don't stand, don't stand so
Don't stand so close to me."
Hongjoong's eyes flicker toward the camera one final time, strumming the very last notes before the video cuts to black. You can't breathe properly. Your stomach is erupting with butterflies. Every nerve in your body is screaming, alive in a way you've never felt with anyone else.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel Wooyoung, the one who'd left marks on your body and your mind last night, becoming more distant. The thrill, the chaos, the heat he brings… it suddenly pales compared to the way Hongjoong is currently making your heart race without even being in the room. You hadn't even meant to think about him tonight, but here he is, inescapable, rewriting your entire day.
Your eyelids grow heavy, but sleep refuses to come just yet. Not when every beat of your heart is still tangled in him and the possibilities that suddenly feel terrifyingly real.
With a shuddering exhale, you finally set your phone face down on the mattress, letting the screen go dark. You tuck it beside you, out of sight, but never out of mind. You pull the covers over your shoulders, curling inwards, and let your face fall into your pillow.
Eventually, exhaustion drags you under, pulling you toward sleep. But even as your eyelids close, your mind refuses to let go of him.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow's private lesson with Hongjoong could be the first step toward something real. Something you haven't dared to let yourself want, but something you want so badly that just thinking about it makes you nervous.
There are rules, and there are risks, and tomorrow at six o'clock, you're going to have to look him in the eye and decide exactly what you're going to do about them.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33
pairing(s): tutor!hongjoong x f!student!reader (ft. playboy!wooyoung x reader & tutor!hongjoong x reader x roommate!seonghwa)
genre: college au, slow burn, romance, fluff, angst, smut
summary: struggling in your korean class, you're assigned a tutor—but there might be more than studying happening during your private lessons.
warnings: MDNI. 18+. cussing, explicit sexual content, heavy dom/sub dynamics, harddom!hongjoong, meandom!wooyoung, switch!seonghwa, sub!reader, threesome, consensual non-consent (cnc), degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, bondage, sex toys, unprotected sex, fingering, p in v sex, voyeurism, cockwarming, impact play, spanking, pussy spanking, spit kink, dacryphilia, oral sex, mirror sex, daddy kink, knifeplay, biting/marking, choking, finger sucking, sexual roleplay, punishment, pet names, derogatory names, hair pulling, rough sex, begging, throat fucking, creampie, fearplay, dubcon, nipple play, mentions of blood/violence, derogatory language, possessive behavior, manipulative behavior. please tell me if i missed any!
word count: 11.8k
note: this is purely a work of fiction and does not accurately represent ateez in any way. i haven't written smut in SO LONG so i apologize for what you're about to read but i tried :)
chapter-specific warnings: minors, this is your final warning!! dni!! explicit sexual content, p in v sex, power dynamics (d/s), unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, mild dubcon, loss of virginity, fingering, knifeplay (wy fucks reader with the handle of a knife), slight fearplay, degradation, derogatory language/names, mentions of blood/violence, hair pulling, marking, biting, very very brief nipple play/spanking. please tell me if i missed any!
You pause outside Wooyoung's door longer than you planned to.
It's not nerves. At least, that's what you tell yourself. You just need a second, one steady breath in through your nose, then a slow exhale out through your mouth.
The narrow hallway of his off-campus apartment building smells faintly of someone else's laundry detergent mixed with recycled warm air from the baseboard vents, the kind that never truly feels fresh. Your heart is already beating at a dangerously accelerated velocity. Talking to Wooyoung in a crowded bar, surrounded by blaring music and what feels like hundreds of bodies, is one thing. Standing alone outside his front door with no witnesses, no distractions, and no easy escape is another.
You finally lift your hand to knock, but before your knuckles even make contact with the door, it swings inward.
Wooyoung's wide grin hits you first. His eyes gleam with that mix of mischief and excitement, his signature look that makes your heart skip a beat. He already seems immensely pleased with himself.
"I was watching you through the peephole," he says casually, his grin teasing as he leans his shoulder against the doorframe. "Was someone nervous to see me again?"
You blink twice. "No," you blurt out. "No! Of course not. I was just…" Your voice trails off into nothing, useless against the slow rise of his eyebrow and his expectant smirk.
Unable to come up with a remotely convincing cover story, you settle for a defensive frown. "Why were you even watching me through a door anyway? Creep."
He laughs, a charming sound that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him. Stepping back into the entryway, he swings the door open to its full clearance, his arm arching in a dramatic, playful bow. "Welcome. Come on in, m'lady."
You side-eye him, but step inside anyway, moving slowly, pretending that his goofy, confident charm isn't making your heartbeat hit double time.
The door closes behind you.
You kick off your shoes near the entryway, feeling slightly more anxious now that you've officially crossed into his world. His apartment honestly looks exactly like you imagined it would during the walk over, which is a little unsettling in itself.
Despite the visible age of the building's exterior, his specific unit feels surprisingly modern. Dark wood tones and even darker shadows dominate the visual field, softened only by warm lamps that cast a cozy glow. The kitchen opens directly into the living area, with a large island slicing through the space like a boundary marker that doesn't actually keep anyone out. Above you, exposed metallic ductwork runs along the high ceiling, giving the whole layout an industrial edge.
All of his furniture is black, including the low, deep-set couch in the center of the living room with a matching knit blanket casually tossed over one of the arms. Everything feels so lived-in yet meticulously clean. It feels so Wooyoung.
"You look cute," he says, and the compliment snaps your attention right back to him.
You glance down automatically at your outfit. Earlier this evening, you'd agonized over what to wear for almost an hour, finally settling on a simple little skirt and an oversized sweater that hangs off your shoulder in a way that looks casual. You wanted to look nice without looking like you tried, and under his gaze, you feel a quiet sense of success.
"Thanks," you mumble, tugging the hem of your skirt down, though your hands feel more nervous than adjusting.
He's dressed in all black again, matching the aesthetic of his home. A simple, well-fitted T-shirt and dark jeans, nothing flashy, yet somehow, it all looks perfect on him. His hair is noticeably messier than it was at the bar, like he ran his hands through it one too many times, which makes him look even more attractive to you.
"Don't start getting all shy on me already," he says lightly, already turning away and motioning for you to follow him further. "C'mon."
You trail after him into the kitchen, your steps naturally cautious but also curious. Wooyoung moves with such confidence, completely at home in his own skin and space, and there's something so intriguing about the way he exists that it feels impossible for you not to just fall into step behind him.
He dips a wooden spoon into a pot simmering on the stove atop the island, stirring the contents lazily. The scent of garlic and crushed tomato blooms through the air, and it suddenly reminds you of why you're here—dinner.
You linger a few feet away, watching him cook. He's in short sleeves, and now that you can see him fully, your attention catches on his forearm. His veins stand out as he applies pressure to stir, framing the dark lines of the rose tattoo etched permanently into his skin.
You don't quite realize you're blatantly staring until his eyes slide over from the stovetop and catch you red-handed.
A familiar smirk curves his mouth. "You like guys with tattoos?" His tone is teasing, the kind that makes you feel embarrassed, mixed with something you don't want to explicitly name. "I should’ve known—it’s always the ones who look innocent that have a thing for it."
Your cheeks warm instantly. You shift your gaze, torn between looking at him and pretending the tattoo doesn't exist. "Well…" you start. "What does it mean?"
His smirk softens a little, but he doesn't give you a straight answer. Instead, he taps the spoon twice against the rim of the pan, scraping off the last traces of sauce, then sets it aside on a small dish. Leaning back against the island countertop, he crosses his arms loosely and studies you.
"What do you think of when you see a rose?"
You blink at him. Your fingers curl around the hem of your sweater, a nervous habit you can usually suppress. You study his tattoo more closely now, tracing the shading of the petals with your eyes, imagining the pain it must have taken to etch it.
Slowly, you formulate your answer. "Well… they're one of my favorite flowers. But not because they're supposed to be romantic. They’re beautiful, sure—but when you get too close, you come face to face with their thorns. You're allowed to admire them from a distance, but... choosing to get closer comes with a price."
The entire apartment seems to quiet down around your words. Wooyoung doesn't offer a witty retort this time.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Exactly."
The look he gives you pins you in place. The playful glint in his eyes is gone, replaced by something more serious.
Then, just as suddenly, he's the Wooyoung you met at the bar again. His smirk returns, sharper now, brushing the tension aside. "You’re doing a great job of making me sound tragic and misunderstood," he says lightly. "I kinda like it." He flicks a sly glance your way before turning back to check on the bubbling sauce.
You swallow against the dryness in your throat and turn your attention to what he's cooking.
He glances over his shoulder at you like he's been waiting for you to notice the food. "By the way," he says rather casually considering how proud he clearly is, "it’s aglio e olio."
You watch as he points to the stove with his spoon. "But I added tomatoes for extra flavor," he continues, already grinning. “Something I learned in my culinary class this semester." He emphasizes culinary class like it's supposed to impress you.
You blink, surprised. The pasta noodles are already cooked, resting neatly in a colander by the sink, while the sauce simmers separately on the burner. The olive oil is shimmering, the garlic is turning gently golden, and the tomatoes are breaking down just enough to stain everything a deep, rich red. The pot on the stove radiates heat, steam curling toward the metallic ductwork above, and everything about it looks surprisingly professional.
You didn't really expect this from him.
Of course, Wooyoung notices your expression. His chest puffs out just a little as he stirs again, his movements exaggerated this time for your benefit. "What?" he says, smugness creeping into his tone. "You look shocked."
"I’m not shocked," you lie quickly, though you absolutely are. "Just… um..."
He scoffs. "I told you I could cook." He points the sauce-stained spoon at you. "I told you. Multiple times. I thought you believed me."
"I didn't not believe you," you argue back, folding your arms even as your eyes drift back to the food. "I just—"
"You doubted me," he interrupts, delight shining in his eyes. "It’s okay. Everyone does. Then they eat my food and suddenly it’s, 'Oh, Wooyoung, wow, you're so talented,'" he mimics in a mockingly sweet voice, batting his eyelashes.
You roll your eyes hard, but you can't stop the smile tugging at your lips. "Alright," you say skeptically, humoring him. "But I have to taste it to know if you're actually good or if it's all just for show."
He lifts an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?" he says. "You wanna try it, then?"
You suddenly feel a wave of shyness crash over you. His grin widens, enjoying your reaction. Before you know what's happening, he dips his bare pointer finger into the simmering pot, scooping up a bit of sauce, steam curling around the tip of his finger. He turns back to you and holds his hand out, right in front of your face.
You stare at it. Then at him.
He just waits, finger hovering. "Well?" he prompts.
Your pulse thrums in your ears. Maybe it's bold of you, but you can't help yourself—you let out a small, breathy laugh and give in to his teasing. You lean forward, holding eye contact as you slowly wrap your lips around his finger, tongue licking the sauce off in swirls, sucking your cheeks in just enough.
Something changes in Wooyoung immediately. His teasing melts away. His eyes darken, and you realize he's looking at you in a way you haven't seen yet: pure lust, so intense that it becomes too much for you to witness.
You look away first.
Your attention snaps to the stove, to the bubbling pot beside you, and you reach for the mixing spoon just to give your hands something to do. You stir a little too quickly, cheeks warm. "It’s… pretty good," you say, aiming for casual. "I think it could use a little more salt, though."
A low laugh slips from him—and it's not a playful one this time.
He steps in behind you, close enough that you feel his presence before you feel him touch you. His chest presses into your back as he reaches around, taking the spoon from your hand and continuing the slow, steady stirring himself.
You're pinned against the island by him, held tightly against his chest. With his free hand, he brushes your hair away from the side of your neck, his knuckles grazing your skin. He leans in just enough that his breath ghosts over your ear, his lips barely brushing it as he speaks.
"I love it when you get shy, baby," he murmurs, his voice threaded with amusement. "The second I look at you like that, your eyes go all wide and scared." Another soft laugh, closer to your ear now. "But you should watch how you talk to me about my cooking," he adds quietly, stirring the sauce with ease. "I don't take corrections very well."
Your breath catches, an involuntary hitch that you know gives you away. Heat floods your face, then spreads lower, and your shoulders tense, caught between the instinct to pull away and the far stronger urge to lean back into him. He can probably hear your heartbeat, every beat betraying just how deeply his words—and the way he says them—have gotten under your skin.
Wooyoung's hand moves slowly, his fingertips trailing from the side of your neck down over your shoulder unhurriedly, taking his time to learn the shape of you. When his touch reaches your waist, your breath wavers despite your best efforts to keep it steady. Still, you keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the sauce, afraid of what will happen if you look up at him.
Then, his grip tightens. He grabs your waist and flips your body around, causing a gasp to slip from your mouth. Your back arches as he traps you against the counter, the cool surface pressing into you while he leans in close. He looks down at you with that same darkness, nothing playful left in him now.
"You could at least look at me while I’m talking," he says with a smirk as his hand holds your waist. "It’s rude to ignore your host."
He glances past your shoulder for half a second, his lips curling with that teasing grin, and he reaches back to set the wooden spoon down on the island behind you.
Then, his hand is in your hair. He gathers it gently, drawing the strands forward and laying them over your shoulder, his fingers sliding through it.
Then he tugs. Hard.
A quiet, high-pitched whimper slips out of you before you can stop it.
"Oh," he murmurs, clearly pleased. "You like that?" He gives your hair another tiny pull. "Good to know. Just try to keep your hair out of our dinner, okay?"
You nod obediently, still frozen beneath his hands. Your gaze drops to his mouth without your brain's permission, transfixed by the way his lips curve, the way he speaks to you like this—so mocking, like he's already figured you out. It makes you feel small in the best way, all your walls broken down.
He chuckles and gives your cheek a patronizing pat before stepping back. You blink, still pressed to the counter, trying to process what just happened.
He turns back to the stove like nothing monumental just occurred, picking up the spoon again with complete nonchalance and continuing to stir. He glances at you over his shoulder and winks.
"I'd keep going," he says conversationally, "but I don’t want to ruin my dessert before dinner."
You let out a shocked laugh at the audacity of his words and finally push yourself away from the counter, remembering that you are, in fact, allowed to move.
You turn away from the stove and let your eyes wander, really taking in the apartment now that your brain is slowly rebooting. It's relatively compact, but it's so unmistakably him. There's a neat stack of vinyl records leaning against the wall near the flat-screen TV, but the sleeves aren't worn at all, proof that they're only there for decoration. A half-finished Harry Potter-themed Lego set sits on the coffee table, the remaining pieces carefully sorted into little piles, looking as if his attention span simply expired halfway through and never came back to it.
There are photos pinned to a corkboard hanging near the entryway: friends making stupid faces (you giggle as you recognize Yeosang and San in a few of them), blurry concert shots, and one of him grinning wildly with his hair being blown by the wind, clearly taken without his permission. You smile at that one without realizing your face has changed.
Behind you, Wooyoung keeps stirring, acting as though he doesn't notice you snooping around. You can feel him grinning without even turning around to verify it.
You glance back toward him from your spot near the door, trying to sound casual. "So… what's your roommate doing tonight?"
He lets out a chuckle, still focused on the food, not even bothering to turn his head toward you. "Don't have one."
You freeze. "Oh," you say, a full beat too late. "You don't?"
He laughs this time, a little louder. "Nope. This is my place." He shrugs like learning this piece of information didn't just flip an entire switch in your brain. "Lucky me, right? Generous parents who fund my own apartment."
"Oh," you repeat, softer. "Yeah."
Your thoughts begin to race, projecting unhelpfully vivid scenarios at lightning speed. No roommate. No closed bedroom door down the hall that belongs to a third party. No careful volume control. Just the two of you. Alone.
You must go very still again, because he finally glances over his shoulder and smirks. "So," he continues, "you can be as loud as you want, baby. No one will hear a thing."
He turns back to the stove, humming a little song under his breath.
You blink rapidly, blushing again, and wisely choose not to respond to that at all. Instead, you drift back over to where he's cooking, trying to act indifferent but failing spectacularly. You lean slightly over his shoulder, watching the way his hand controls the spoon.
"Where’d you learn how to cook?" you ask, looking up at his profile.
He glances down at you, eyes softening just a touch. "My mom," he states simply. "Taught me everything I know. The first time I ever cooked dinner by myself, I was ten years old. And guess what I made?" He lifts a finger to emphasize the point. "Pasta. Just like this." He smirks at you. "Obviously, it wasn’t this fancy. I burned the meatballs. And my hands. And spilled the noodles all over the floor.”
You can’t help but smile, imagining little ten-year-old Wooyoung in the kitchen.
"My mom helped me clean up, walked me through it. And laughed at me a lot," he continues. "But she never let me quit. She said, 'If you can make it once, you can make it again. And next time, it'll be even better than the first.'"
He leans his torso closer, his smirk returning. "Little did she know," he murmurs, "she was just prepping me to cook for pretty girls in my apartment someday."
His free hand dips back into the cooling sauce. His fingertip smears a streak of bright red on your nose. "Boop."
You yelp, swiping at your nose with a paper towel you quickly grab from the dispenser on the counter. "Wooyoung! Seriously? My makeup!"
He just chuckles, unfazed. "Don't worry about it. Your makeup will be ruined by the time we're done here, anyway," he says.
You freeze mid-wipe, heart thudding in your chest.
"Stop saying stuff like that," you manage, your voice faltering. Your hands still grip the paper towel, knuckles white as you pivot to deposit it into the stainless steel garbage can.
Though your back is turned to him, you feel his hand slowly snake back around your waist, tugging your center of gravity into his.
"I can’t," he grins, gazing down at you as he turns you around. "I like it too much. Getting you all shy and flustered."
You feel heat crawling up your neck, your ears burning, and you try to mask it, rolling your eyes with a little huff. "Whatever…" you mutter, though the defense is compromised by how breathless you are.
He just grins wider and yanks you even closer, his chest pressing against yours.
"By the way, I added more salt," he murmurs lowly, "just like you said. Wanna try it again?"
You pause. What does he mean this time? Your stomach twists, but the word comes out anyway. "Okay…"
He slowly dips his middle and pointer fingers into the sauce again. You bite your lip, thinking you know what's coming. But he doesn't hold them near your mouth this time. Wooyoung licks his own fingers clean, keeping a lock on your eyes the entire time.
Heat pools low inside your abdomen, spreading through your body. Your hands clench at your sides, your breath hitching slightly, but you can't look away.
He holds eye contact while tightening his grip around the curve of your waist. "You sure you want a taste?" he asks teasingly, testing you.
Your mouth opens, then closes. Words stick. You want to say something, but your voice feels trapped. So you just nod, your eyes widening.
He shakes his head, amused. "Nope. I wanna hear you use your words, baby."
You finally force the air out of your lungs in a shaky, unstable exhale. "…I… I want a taste."
His smirk deepens, and his free hand slides under your chin, tilting your head upward, giving himself full control.
"That's a good girl," he whispers, smirking down at your lips.
Wooyoung leans in, his lips brushing against yours first in a teasing, torturous graze, before pressing fully into a kiss that feels immensely slow and patient. Your body responds on instinct, leaning into him, the rest of the kitchen and the food on the stove forgotten.
After a moment, he pulls back, his eyes dark as they sweep over your flushed face. His smirk curls with infuriating confidence. "I guess a little appetizer won’t spoil dinner," he murmurs smugly.
He pulls you back into him, this time with an intensity that makes your knees weak. The kiss is nothing like before—it's passionate, the kind you would have imagined only in daydreams about him. One of his hands slides around your waist while the other snakes up to your hair, fingers tangling ruthlessly in the strands.
Without warning, he tugs harshly at the roots, and your breath catches in a gasp. He uses that moment to slide his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss further, savoring the way your resistance melts into him. The taste of the sauce mixes with him, and it somehow makes everything even hotter.
The hand that had been on your waist shifts, settling on the curve of your ass and squeezing. You can't help it; your body arches into him, pressing your chest harder against him.
He bites down on your lower lip hard. Pain and pleasure rip through you at once, a jolt that makes you feel like you'd sink to the floor if he weren't holding you up. You whimper, the sound small and helpless, and he licks over the spot he's bitten, smirk brushing against you even through the kiss.
Wooyoung pulls his lips away slowly, retreating just far enough to look down at you dangerously.
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches back and turns off the stove. The burner clicks off loudly.
"Shit, baby," he growls, his voice deeper than you've ever heard before. "Good thing I have self-control, or I'd fuck you over this counter right now."
You gasp again as he lifts you with ease and sets you on the edge of the island. The cold stone seeps through the fabric of your skirt, a shocking contrast to the heat pooling between your legs. You suck in a breath, bracing your hands against the counter behind you.
He smirks as he slowly spreads your legs, giving him full access to what he wants.
"I'm really trying to be patient with you, ____. Usually, I'm actually quite the gentleman," he murmurs as his hands begin to trail upward, brushing over the bare skin of your thighs. "But you're making it so fucking hard." He pauses, smirk growing, as if he's realizing what he said. "In more ways than one."
He slowly pushes the hem of your skirt higher, inch by deliberate inch, his fingertips tracing along the insides of your thighs. His touch is close enough to make your breath stutter, but far enough to deny you any relief. Each second stretches longer than the last, the anticipation tightening until it borders on unbearable.
"Wooyoung…" you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, the tingling heat building in your core until it’s almost too much to withstand.
He looks at you then, and the grin that spreads across his face is wicked.
"Yeah, baby?" he pouts mockingly, his tone sickeningly sweet as his fingers graze your panties, right over your throbbing clit.
A quiet whimper slips from you, your body betraying how badly you want more, every nerve igniting with want.
Wooyoung chuckles under his breath. "Don't tell me you're already this desperate for my cock."
He takes his pointer finger and flicks your clit through the fabric, and this time, there's no holding anything back. A soft moan escapes you as your legs tremble, the craving and sensation overwhelming. His cruel grin widens.
"Fuck," he murmurs, shaking his head slowly. "I knew it." His gaze drags over your body slowly. "Coming all the way here just for my cock. Acting all shy and innocent." He leans in slightly, voice taunting. "But I knew who you really were the moment I saw you in that bar."
A finger hooks into the side of your panties, tugging them to the side just enough to expose your bare cunt to the cool air. "A desperate, needy little slut."
He slides a finger into your dripping hole, and your entire body reacts, your breath breaking as your eyes fly open. It's been so long since you've felt anything like this that the sensation shocks you, overwhelming and foreign.
"So fucking wet for me already, huh, baby?" he says with cruel amusement. He tsks, his finger curling slowly inside you, eliciting a high-pitched moan from you. "You really are easy to read."
He's controlling with his touch, giving you just enough to keep you right on the edge, his sick gaze never once leaving yours. It's obvious he loves this part—the way your body gives you away and how much power he has over you with the simplest touch.
"Woo..." you whisper, words faltering before they even leave your lips. You want to say more, to beg, to ask him for something, but it gets caught in your throat.
He leans closer, eyes lighting up with mischief. "You have a mouth," he murmurs, almost a growl. "Use it."
"Please," you manage, the words slipping out in a shaky breath, "Wooyoung, I... I need more."
He tilts his head mockingly. "Already begging for me? Is that all it takes to get you shaking like this? One finger?"
He suddenly sinks a second finger deep inside you, drawing the exact reaction he wants. Your whole body jerks, your breath breaking as you cling to the edge of the counter. You don't even notice the sting of tears forming in your eyes until your vision blurs.
He pouts, mock sympathy dripping from every word. "Aw, someone can't handle getting fucked by more than one finger?" he asks. "Surely a slut like you has been fucked by plenty of cocks, no?"
Your face burns. You squeeze your eyes shut, too humiliated. You shake your head once.
"No?" he repeats, more surprised than mocking now. His fingers slow inside you. "Huh," he murmurs. You open your eyes to see the way he's watching how you react to his touch. "You could've told me that, you know." He leans in again, carefully wiping the single tear falling slowly down your cheek away with his thumb. His voice is softer but still teasing. "I might've gone a little easier on you."
A pause.
"Although... you seem to be handling my fingers just fine."
You feel yourself stretch even more as he slips a third inside. The sensation builds again—too much, too fast—and it knocks the breath right out of your lungs. Tears slip free, warm against your cheeks, not from pain but from how overwhelming it feels, how full you are.
Wooyoung quickly pumps his fingers in and out of your dripping cunt, curling them so they hit that spot that makes you moan embarrassingly loud. Your hand flies out blindly, fingers grasping the first solid object you can find to keep yourself from falling off the counter. Wood presses into your palm as you cling to it.
He chuckles at your embarrassment. His gaze follows your hand, then drifts back to your face as his grin widens.
His fingers suddenly pull out of you, and the pressure eases instantly, the absence hitting you almost harder than the intensity did. A soft, needy whine escapes you. You barely recognize the sound as your own.
"Look at you," he says, lifting a hand to brush his thumb along your cheek, wiping away the last traces of dried tears. "So desperate, already whining for me. But honestly... I'm a little worried."
He leans back, his hands resting on your trembling thighs, holding you steady. His thumbs drag in slow circles against them.
"I don't know how you plan on handling my dick if you've never done this before."
His eyes flick back to your hand—and this time, he actually pauses. After a few moments of thought, he reaches over calmly and wraps his fingers around your wrist, lifting your hand away from whatever you’re grasping onto.
That's when you finally look down and realize what it is.
A wooden knife block.
Wooyoung exhales a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching as he releases your wrist. His fingertips drag along the tops of the knives, and you're surprised at how practiced it looks—and then you realize it's because these knives are his. Chosen carefully, owned, and used, all by him.
"You know," he says, "when you cook as much as I do, you get picky about your knives."
He taps the first one, closest to you. "This one’s a paring knife. Small and precise. I use it for detail work."
His finger slides to the next. "This is my chef’s knife. The one I use the most. Everyone thinks they know how to handle one of these, but if your grip’s wrong?" He clicks his tongue softly. "It’ll slip."
Then his hand skips over the rest, landing on the last knife in the block. The biggest one. The longest blade and the thickest handle.
For a moment, he doesn't pull it free. He just rests his palm over the handle, fingers curling around it naturally.
"And this one," he continues, slower now, "isn't usually for beginners. You don't grab it unless you're absolutely sure of your grip." His gaze finds yours, unblinking. "Most people get scared off when they see it. Which is a shame—because when it’s handled right?" His thumb presses lightly into the handle. "Nothing works better."
He pulls it from the block, the silver blade singing softly as it slides free. You flinch at the sound, breath catching in your throat, and your eyes widen at how sharp the knife actually is.
The blade is long and slender, gleaming dangerously in the light. The black handle is heavier and longer than you expected, fitting perfectly in Wooyoung's hand, and for a moment, you can’t look away, feeling both captivated and, for some reason, aroused.
Wooyoung twirls the knife effortlessly between his fingers, studying your expression like it's an open book, and when that flicker of arousal crosses your face, he tilts his head, twirling the knife one last time before letting it rest in his hand. He leans ever so slightly closer, eyes gleaming with excitement.
"On top of everything," he murmurs, "you're into knives, too?" He grins when he hears you suck in a breath. "I know we met on Yunho’s birthday, but holy shit. It feels like it's mine."
He lifts his free hand and lets it rest lightly around your neck, his touch firm but more careful now. "Lie down for me, baby," he orders lowly. "I want your little virgin cunt relaxed for this."
You tense for a moment before you obey, allowing your body to be pushed down by his grip. The surface is cold beneath your back, intensifying the thrill.
Wooyoung removes his hand from your neck, letting it drift down, only to catch a strand of your hair between his fingers. He sweeps it aside, letting it fall over the countertop and leaving your neck exposed.
Then the predatory grin returns. He lifts the knife and dangles it tauntingly in front of your face, lowering it until it hovers just above your neck. The cool touch of metal against your skin makes you gasp.
"Shh," he murmurs, reaching out to hold you still. "You know, when working with a knife, a chef learns very quickly. You have to stay still. One wrong move, and..." He grins, letting you fill in the rest of the sentence in your own mind.
You lift your gaze to him, your eyes meeting. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, you nod—just enough to let him know you understand. That little gesture seems to spark something in him.
Wooyoung leans in closer, the blade tracing the curve of your body as it moves down with a languid grace. It glides over your collarbone, slides past the line of your shoulder, tracing the curve of your clothed breasts, never once sinking deeper into your skin.
"Don’t be scared," he murmurs. "I'll only break skin if you want me to. You know, it could be a good addition to the sauce."
The comment makes a shiver run down your spine. The threat of the knife gliding across your body is sharp, and you're not sure if you can fully trust that he won't let it hurt you. His eyes roam your face, catching every nervous flutter of your lashes. That devilish smirk never once fades from his lips.
The blade glides over your stomach, covered by your sweater, before sliding to the side. It curves over your hip and upper thigh, teasing along the line of your body. He moves it carefully across one thigh to the other, circling your core, while his free hand rolls your skirt the rest of the way up, letting it ride higher and leaving your lacy panties fully exposed.
Wooyoung flicks at the little bow above your crotch. "Cute," he muses. "Exactly what I pictured you in." He lets the knife hover just a whisper above your panties, then tilts his head. "Such a shame I have to ruin them."
His free hand follows the curve of your folds, tracing over the fabric. He lifts an eyebrow, grinning, when he notices the wet spot already soaking through. "Though it looks like you've already ruined them for me."
He loops the knife under the fabric and slices through, eliciting something between a gasp and a moan out of you.
"Wooyoung! My—"
"Shh," he interrupts you, smirking dangerously, "I'll buy you new ones." He throws your now ruined panties somewhere across the kitchen. Your bare pussy is now fully revealed to him, and you feel heat coil inside you—half embarrassment, half arousal. You start to close your legs, and he lets out a tsk.
"Are you really stupid enough to think I'm letting you back out now?" he asks, one brow lifting as he angles the knife between your thighs so that if you close them further, it'll draw blood. "I told you to relax." His voice stays calm, but it's clear that it's a warning. "I'm being nice and fucking you with this knife before my cock. You want me to be meaner?"
The thought makes your breath stutter. You shake your head quickly, panic combining with something hotter, the idea of him fucking you raw without any preparation sending a rush of nerves straight through you.
He clicks his tongue. "Words, baby."
"N—no," you manage breathlessly.
"Then be quiet and let me play with you the way I want."
Your lips press together. Wooyoung holds your gaze for a moment longer, daring you to test him while already knowing you won't. Then, slowly, he guides your legs apart, his attention dropping to your cunt with a grin so unapologetically dirty it burns your whole body.
"Your pussy is so fucking pretty, baby. So wet." His eyes flick back up to yours. "All for me."
The blade never touches it directly. He lets it glide up your thigh, tracing a careful path over your skin.
"Now," he says darkly, rolling his wrist as he twirls the knife between his fingers, now holding it by the blade instead of the handle. "My dick is much, much bigger than this. Which I'm sure you've already imagined."
He lowers the handle, letting it trace your folds. When it glides over your clit, he applies just enough pressure to make your breath stop.
"But," he adds, playful and dangerous in that way only he can manage, "everyone knows you don't jump straight to the main course. You savor the build." His smile curves. "This is just our appetizer."
He aligns the end of the handle with your dripping hole, pushing it in slowly. Your back arches off the counter as you let out a loud moan, eyes burning as the sensation becomes too much. The knife is so much bigger than his fingers, and it stretches you in a way that makes your entire body tremble. The pain is almost unbearable. Tears welling in your eyes threaten to fall.
But Wooyoung doesn't let up. If anything, his grin sharpens as he pushes the knife deeper, shushing you with soft, mocking murmurs whenever your moans fracture into cries.
"Just relax, baby," he says calmly, though his eyes tell a different story—like every sound you make only feeds his arousal rather than tests his patience.
You try your best to steady your breathing, but the moment your cunt fully swallows the knife with one hard, final push, you break, something between a moan and a sob escaping your lips. Your hands clutch the edge of the counter.
Wooyoung pouts every so slightly at you from above, his eyes locked on the way your cunt fully engulfs the handle of the knife. "Huh," he murmurs. "Look at that. A perfect fit."
He holds the knife in place, the blade all that's left visible as the rest disappears from view. He watches you as your breathing gradually evens out, your body adjusting to the sensation. The feeling begins to shift, and what started as pain twists into pleasure.
"Wooyoung..." you whisper, your voice trembling as you look up at him through misted eyes. "It's... it's too..."
He shakes his head, smirking. "You're taking it even better than I thought, baby. Stay relaxed for me, yeah? Trust me, it'll feel a lot better if you do."
You throw your head back as he draws the knife out, only to quickly push it back in, hitting a spot deeper than anything you've ever felt before. A loud moan slips from your lips.
He fucks you with the knife harder, faster, dragging almost totally out of your cunt before pushing it back inside just as quickly, his rhythm relentless, grinning the entire time. Your body jolts with each penetration, tears spilling freely now, the sensation toeing the line between overwhelming and intoxicating.
"Fuck—" you cry out, your fingers curling around the edge of the counter and your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Wooyoung grins like a maniac, picking up the speed, pressing down lightly on your stomach with his free hand.
"Feels good, right, baby?" he asks. "I knew you'd love this."
“So… so good,” you moan out. You're not even fully aware of what you're even saying. Your mind feels foggy, your head swimming as pleasure takes over. Everything else fades into the background—the room, the noise, even him—until all you’re aware of is the steady, consuming feeling of the handle inside you.
Wooyoung grins menacingly. "Fucking whore," he all but growls. "Little virgin about to cum around a knife." His words only make you moan louder, your back fully lifting off the counter. "Say my name, baby."
"W—Wooyoung," you breathe out, the sound barely more than a whisper as your legs begin to tremble, the feeling of getting closer to your climax building.
He flicks your clit lightly, clicking his tongue in quiet disapproval. "Louder."
"Wooyoung!" you cry out, his name tearing free as the last of your thoughts dissolve, your mind going blissfully blank as you give in to the pleasure. He plays with your clit, fingers working in quick circles, knowing exactly how close you are.
"Now be a good little slut and cum on my knife, yeah? Think you can do that?" he asks tauntingly, flashing a dangerous grin as he watches you unravel. Both his fingers and the knife pick up speed, the pace just fast enough to bring you closer, the feeling coiling tight in your core. Your eyes sting, vision blurring as the stimulation builds. Your walls spasm around the knife, waves of orgasm crashing through you as you cry out. Wooyoung groans loudly at the sight, burying the handle in your clenched walls and holding it there, rocking it gently to ride out your climax.
When you calm slightly, Wooyoung finally pulls the knife out, smiling at the wet sound it makes. He lifts it to his eyes, staring at it with a look of satisfaction before dragging his tongue along its length and groaning. The sight alone sends a shiver through your worn-out body as your breathing gradually steadies.
"Tastes so good," he murmurs, tossing the knife casually into the sink and turning his attention back to you. His hand comes up to brush away the beads of sweat at your hairline. "If that's just a hint of your flavor, I'm gonna need a proper tasting later."
You blink at him, wide-eyed, brain still fuzzy.
Wooyoung just smiles. "Alright," he says lightly, clapping his hands together and turning back towards the stove, "let's eat. Hope the sauce didn't get too cold."
But your body isn't ready to move on so quickly. Your core aches from being stretched and tested. "Wooyoung…" you say quietly, your thoughts refusing to line up into full sentences.
He pauses, eyes softening when he catches the flustered haze in which you're looking at him. Leaning closer, he presses a steadying hand to your back, helping you sit up.
"You did good, baby," he says, pulling down your skirt to shield your body from the air. "I knew you would. You just have to trust me."
He helps you down from the counter and guides your feet safely to the kitchen floor. You wobble a bit, and he chuckles softly at your unsteady legs.
"Go sit at the table," he instructs. "I'll serve you. Like a good host."
You obey, carefully shuffling toward the dark wooden table just next to the kitchen, your brain starting to work again. He casts you one last amused glance before turning back to finish the food, humming softly.
Left alone, your thoughts begin to settle—but your mind feels like it’s floating just above your body. You stare at the table, feeling both dizzy and dazed.
What did I just let happen?
The apartment is quiet except for the faint clatter of him plating the pasta, but the memory of him, his lips, and the knife leaves your heart racing long after he's turned his attention to dinner.
Wooyoung steps back from the stove, balancing the warm plates easily in one hand. You notice him pause, eyes flicking to the floor, where the ripped fabric of your panties still lies. His grin twists as he crouches just long enough to scoop it up into his palm. Without a word of explanation, he slips it right into the front pocket of his jeans.
"I'll be keeping these," he says casually. "You know. For the memories."
You blink at him, disbelief breaking through your haze. "The... memories?"
His eyes light up with playfulness. "Yeah. I've never fucked anyone with a knife before. Wouldn't forgive myself if I ever forgot it."
You shake your head, lips curving into a tentative, flustered smile. It’s unfamiliar, this feeling—but it isn't necessarily a bad one.
He straightens and strolls over to your spot at the table, setting the plates down in front of you with the casual swagger of a man who's won the day. As he takes the seat next to yours, your eyes widen at the sight of the food. The pasta is plated beautifully: perfectly al dente spaghetti, glistening with golden olive oil, flecks of bright green parsley, and just the right hint of garlic clinging to the strands. Even the extra tomatoes thrown in add a mouth-watering pop of color. It looks incredible.
"Looks perfect, right?" Wooyoung chuckles. "But you said you needed to taste it to know if it was really that good." Resting his elbows on the table, he leans in, confidence practically radiating off him, a single eyebrow cocked. "So… try it."
You pick up your fork, hesitating just a moment before twirling a small bite of pasta. The second it hits your tongue, your eyes nearly widen enough to pop out of your head. The flavors are unreal. The garlic is perfectly savory, the tomatoes burst with a warmth that lingers beautifully, and the olive oil coats the pasta like silk. It's genuinely the best pasta you've ever had.
You glance up at Wooyoung, whose smug grin says he already knows how good it is. "Come on," he teases, "Let me hear it: 'Oh my god, Wooyoung, this is insane! You're amazing, Wooyoung! Teach me your secrets! Oh, Wooyoung, please, cook for me every single day!'"
You roll your eyes, trying to look unimpressed. "It's fine, I guess."
Wooyoung doesn't even flinch. "Uh-huh," he grins. Spinning his fork lazily in his hand, he lifts a large bite to his mouth, inhales it, and hums with content. "Wow. You're a lucky girl. This is some of my best work, if I do say so myself."
You scoff softly, giving up on trying to hide your smile. "Relax," you say, lifting your fork for another bite while avoiding his amused stare. "It's just pasta."
You take the bite anyway, knowing damn well he sees right through your act. A speck of sauce falls from the fork to your cheek, unnoticed by you but immediately caught by Wooyoung.
His eyes flick to your face, and without asking, he leans in closer, thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he wipes the spot away. "Careful," he whispers, eyes locking onto yours as he pulls back. He gives you a quick, heart-stopping wink. "I worked too hard on this for you to wear it."
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. "You're so corny."
"Hey!" His jaw drops in mock offense, but his eyes look pleased. "That's just part of my charm."
You drop your gaze to your plate, suddenly very interested in twirling your pasta. "If that's what you want to call it."
He watches you for a beat, noting how you won't meet his eyes. "Mm," he hums. "Didn't even argue. Must be true. Well, since you're clearly an expert on me—"
You let out a soft groan. "Oh my god."
"—tell me more about my charm," he finishes anyway. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "What'd you think when you first met me, huh?"
You pause, fork hovering uncertainly over your plate. "You're seriously asking that?"
"Very seriously," he nods, leaning his chin on his hand. "I'm curious."
You hesitate, searching his face for a punchline, but he’s genuinely waiting. You let out a resigned sigh. "I thought you were annoyingly attractive," you admit. "Like, confident in a way that I really shouldn't have liked."
Wooyoung's eyebrow lifts. "Shouldn't have?"
You nod, setting your fork down to explain. "Remember when San said I was gonna hate you? Normally, he would've been right," you say. "Any other guy with an ego like yours would've turned me off immediately. Loud, cocky, always needing to be the center of attention."
"But," he prompts lightly, leaning back in his chair, loving every second of this.
"But," you continue, a little quieter, "with you... I don't know why, but it just worked. You were so sure of yourself, like you didn't need anyone's approval. Not even mine."
He watches you closely now. "You like confidence, but only when it's accurately placed," he says.
A few seconds pass before you add as an afterthought, "You also weren't trying to force me to like you, either. You didn't just say what you thought I wanted to hear. You said what you wanted to."
Wooyoung nods. "I liked that night a lot," he says. "You were content just doing your own thing. Drinking, talking, people-watching. Most people force themselves into the center of the room when they know they don't belong there."
You shift in your chair, suddenly wondering something similar. "What about me?" you ask. "I'm not really your usual type, am I?"
He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he takes his time finishing his bite, chewing slowly before setting his fork down.
"You're right," he says easily. "You're not."
Your expression stays neutral, but you don’t look away. You wait.
That stubbornness alone makes his mouth twitch.
"That's why you stood out to me," he continues, crossing his arms over his chest. He huffs a quiet, self-aware laugh. "You think I didn’t notice? The second I walked in, half the bar turned to stare. I'm used to that." He shrugs like it’s nothing. "People wanting to be seen. Wanting me to notice them."
He pauses. "But you didn’t do that," he says. "You only looked up because of San."
You tilt your head, not quite following, and he notices.
"I’ve met a lot of people who look good in a crowd," he goes on. "People who know exactly how to take up space and make noise so no one ever forgets them. But you didn’t care about the crowd at all."
His voice lowers.
"You made me forget it was there, too."
His showy smile returns. "Guess we’re opposites," he says, offering a shrug. "You disappear into your own little world, while I crash into every room I enter."
His eyes flick over your face, certain in his words. "But somehow," he adds, "it works."
Oh. That's probably a lot more than someone typically says to a hookup over a plate of pasta. Your thoughts take over as you look down at your plate, unsure of how to respond. He hadn't said any of it to impress you; he'd said it like it was simply the undeniable truth. People don't usually talk about noticing you like that. About remembering the quiet parts, and choosing you over the noise.
Wooyoung sees it right away—the moment your walls start to slide back up as your thoughts turn entirely inward. So, naturally, he does what he does best: he dismantles them.
His eyes flick down to your half-eaten plate before lifting back to your face, the familiar glint coming back. "So deep in thought," he teases. "Keep looking like that, and I'm gonna start assuming you're imagining things you shouldn't be at the dinner table."
Your head snaps up. "What?"
His smirk slowly returns. "I'm just saying." His gaze dips lower, this time unmistakably dragging over your skirt. "You're not wearing much under there anymore. I wouldn't want you getting my chair all wet from—"
"Wooyoung!" you hiss, glancing around the room like someone might overhear, even though you know for a fact you're completely alone. "The only reason that would ever happen is because of things you keep saying."
He grins, wholly unrepentant. "Yeah," he says. "I know."
He lets his eyes drop to your lips before he speaks again. "Think about everything you just let me do to you. All of it." He pauses for a second as you look away, heat crawling up your neck, embarrassed to be talking about it out loud. "You're so shy, but you're not innocent. You want the same things I do, you just don’t always permit yourself to admit it. Not out loud… and maybe not even to yourself."
You flush, your eyes falling to your plate. Your fingers twist around the handle of your fork.
His expression turns smug, like he's won a game you weren't even playing. "I can help with that," he says, leaning in. "I can break those bad habits for you. Make you feel a little freer."
Your brow furrows. You're confused. "Break them?"
"That's why I'd have to treat you differently," he goes on, confidence threading back into his voice. "A girl like you needs someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. Someone who actually takes care of things. You're the type to spend so much time wrapped up in your own head, trying to keep everything controlled and contained, no?"
You don't argue with his conclusion.
"I'd cook for you," he says. "Every meal, if you’d let me. I'd make the decisions so you wouldn't have to think at all. You'd never have to be anxious, all worried about staying in charge ever again. You'd feel so carefree and loose, just like you did five minutes ago." He grins, his voice dropping. "That's how I'd do it," he finishes with his eyes locked onto yours. "That's how I'd treat a girl like you."
You draw in a long, steady breath. You don't say anything right away.
What is he saying?
Yeosang’s voice resurfaces immediately, uninvited and annoyingly clear: Wooyoung doesn’t do serious. You remember the way he said it. He was so certain, like it was an established law of nature instead of campus gossip. Wooyoung has never had a real relationship. He's never wanted one, and he's never needed one.
And now, he's sitting beside you, talking like this. Like he's thinking about you as something more than just a hookup.
You didn't come to his apartment tonight looking for that. You came here to forget... things. Things that have been completely absorbing your mind during classes, ruining your focus while studying, and haunting your dreams at night. You came here to feel wanted without having to feel seen.
And instead, Wooyoung is doing both.
You feel your shoulders tense, a nervous knot forming in your stomach. Is he serious? Or is this just Wooyoung being his dangerously confident, charming self, saying pretty words without meaning to promise anything at all?
You don't voice a single one of those fears. You just look at Wooyoung, at the easy certainty in his posture, and you offer a small, careful smile.
"Yeah," you say quietly, simply, and entirely noncommittal. "That sounds really nice."
"Nice?" Wooyoung repeats, amused. "That's it?"
You shrug, a hint of a real smile tugging at your mouth. "Don't push it."
He laughs under his breath, entertained. His eyes flick briefly to your plate, then back to you.
"Well," he says casually, shifting gears, "if dinner's been taken care of..." He pauses just long enough for you to know it's on purpose. "...that leaves dessert." His eyes drift over your body, unhurried. "Something sweet. I've got a few ideas."
Your face ignites instantly. "Wooyoung."
He laughs. "What?" he says, flashing a grin. "I'm a chef, baby. I always think about how a meal ends."
He then pushes his chair back and stands up, gathering both empty plates with an ease that suggests he's done this a hundred times before. As he carries them to the sink, he glances back over his shoulder at you with a smirk.
"First door on the left," he says, nodding in the direction. "Go wait for me in there while I clean up."
Then he turns back to the sink before you can respond. The faucet clicks on, water rushing over porcelain as he rinses the plates, completely relaxed, and pointedly not looking back again.
You hesitate for barely half a second before pushing your chair back and standing.
The domestic sound of running water follows you down the short hallway, making your heart beat a little faster. You reach for the door he pointed to and ease it open with slightly trembling fingers.
Wooyoung’s bedroom greets you.
It's dark, mirroring the rest of the apartment. Warm light spills from a few small fixtures, catching on the dark walls and wood accents. The bed sits low and wide in the center of the room, the black sheets rumpled just enough to look lived-in rather than messy. A couple of posters and framed prints line one wall, bold and graphic, ones that quite honestly look like they were ordered in bulk off Amazon instead of curated to his specific interests. A desk sits tucked into the corner, neat but unmistakably used: textbooks stacked, a laptop closed, and headphones resting where they belong.
You take a few careful steps inside, leaving the door ajar behind you. It's a little jarring, standing alone in his room. Nevertheless, you perch on the edge of the bed, fingers pressing lightly into the mattress, and let your eyes wander again, taking it all in.
From down the hall, you can still hear him moving around the kitchen like he's in no rush at all.
After a few moments, however, you hear the sound of the sink shut off. For a second, there's only quiet. Then you hear slow footsteps approaching, and your breath immediately hitches. Your fingers curl slightly into the bedding as the doorway fills with his frame.
Wooyoung leans against the door instead of coming all the way in, arms crossing loosely over his chest as his eyes sweep over your form sitting on his bed. "Comfortable?" he asks.
Your throat feels suddenly dry. "I— yeah."
A slow smile curves his mouth. "Good." He pushes off the frame and steps inside, letting the door close behind him. "You'll be here for a while, so I was hoping you’d like it."
He closes the remaining distance between you, tilting his head slightly as he studies your face. "You look nervous again," he says softly, brushing a loose strand of hair back behind your ear and letting his hand slide under your chin, guiding your gaze up to him. "There's nothing to be scared of, baby," he promises, but with a sick, dirty look in his eyes. "You did so good for me earlier."
His hand stays firm at your chin, guiding your gaze as he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed beside you. You don't get the chance to look away. His thumb presses lightly, insistent, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
His other hand rises next, fingers sliding into your hair, gathering it gently before drawing it forward to spill over one shoulder. The touch isn't rough, but it still makes your pulse stutter. He adjusts your posture, turning your face forward again, then tipping your head back enough to bare the skin of your neck to him.
"Mm," he murmurs, satisfaction dripping from his voice as he leans in close enough that you can feel his warm breath against your neck. "I like you like this. You listen so well... I don't even have to use my words."
Wooyoung's lips brush against your pulse point so lightly you think you might be imagining it. But then his mouth opens, his teeth baring, and he sucks in hard. Your breath shatters on a gasp, but his grip on your chin holds you in place.
He holds the pressure, teeth sinking into the soft curve of your throat, not hard enough to break skin but certainly hard enough to leave a mark. When he finally pulls back with a wet pop, his tongue smooths over the tender spot he’s left bruised.
"God, baby," he whispers, grinning down at the mark. "You taste so good." He tilts your face back toward him and groans when he sees your wide eyes looking up at him. "I'd love to get a taste of your pussy too," he says, voice thick with desire, "but fuck, the way you're looking at me? I don't think I'll have the patience to savor this like I planned."
His hand slides from your chin to the hollow of your throat, thumb pressing down harshly right over the sensitive, bruised spot he just made. He pulls you in, crashing his lips against yours in a rough, impatient kiss.
You gasp as his mouth claims yours. The force of the kiss sends shockwaves through your body, and his hand, squeezing tightly around your throat, only amplifies them.
"Open up for me," he growls against your lips, pressing more firmly against the side of your neck, eliciting a desperate moan from you. "That's it, baby."
Wooyoung takes advantage of the sound again and shoves his tongue down your throat with raw need, groaning as you give in to him without thinking. His tongue melts against yours in a deep, hungry rhythm, his free hand fisting the fabric at the bottom of your sweater and tugging harshly.
"I want this off," he says roughly, breaking the kiss to pull your sweater over your head in a single, impatient motion, grinning when you're left in only your bra. His dark, lidded eyes drift over your body, already consuming you with just his gaze. He trails his hands up your back hungrily. When his fingertips reach the clasp of your bra, he undoes it easily with one hand, your breasts immediately spilling free as the bra falls forgotten to the floor.
His hands palm your breasts roughly, rolling your nipples between his fingers as his smirk deepens with dark delight. "I should punish you for hiding these from me all night," he murmurs, thumbs and pointer fingers suddenly twisting hard, sending sparks of pain shooting through you. Your body arches under his touch as you cry out, craving more, the pain feeling more pleasurable than you ever could've imagined. "But unfortunately," he continues, thumbs brushing over your nipples teasingly, "my dick can't wait any longer for you."
He pushes you back against the mattress, your head bouncing slightly from the force. Rising to the edge of the bed, his eyes rake over your body as he peels his shirt off and tosses it carelessly onto the floor. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his defined torso.
"Like what you see, baby?" he asks, mockery lacing his tone, smirk growing as he unzips his jeans. He doesn't even bother to take them off as he climbs over you, his body pinning yours to the sheets. His lips suck on your neck as his hands pull your skirt off, leaving you naked beneath him.
Wooyoung lifts his head, staring down at your bare pussy with a wicked grin. "Holy shit, baby... you're soaked again," he laughs, dragging his fingers slowly between your folds, shaking his head in disbelief and muttering something about how much of a slut you have to be to get that wet so quickly. He bites his lip as he spreads you open with two fingers, eyes darkening when your hips jerk, betraying your desperate need to be touched.
"So impatient..." he mutters, grinning as he starts pulling down his jeans just enough to free what he needs. "Think I stretched you out enough earlier, yeah? You think a virgin pussy like yours is ready to take my cock?"
You whimper, nerves tangling as he pulls out his length. Your brain malfunctions for a second—he's huge. At least four inches longer than the knife, and much, much thicker. Your eyes go wide, and suddenly, your apprehension overcomes how desperate you are for him.
"Wooyoung, I... I won't be able... to..." you start nervously. His smirk deepens, eyes brightening with delight. "It's too big... I—"
"Shh, baby," he hushes you, one hand sliding behind your head to tilt it, angling it perfectly down so you can watch the tip of his cock line up against your entrance. "The only thing I wanna hear coming out of that mouth from now on are your pretty moans, okay?"
Without any warning or preparation, Wooyoung slowly pushes inside you, his hands pressing against the sides of your hips to pull your body towards himself. You cry out an involuntary, deafening moan as you feel the sudden pain practically splitting you in half, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You're still too tight, nowhere near loose enough to take his length, but he forces it anyway, insistent on taking you the way he wants, groaning deeply at how tightly your cunt is swallowing him.
"Fuck..." he groans, eyes wild with lust as he bottoms out, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. He hooks his arms under your legs, spreading them even wider, gripping your hips with a strength that makes you whimper. "Filthy slut, taking my entire cock, a fucking virgin..." You can feel him twitching inside your tight, warm cunt, and you see it in his eyes: the urge to forego all worries of hurting you and pounding into you the way he desires. "So fucking hot like this, all desperate for me."
Your body trembles beneath him, tears welling as he begins to move inside you slowly with long, deep strokes. His eyes stare down at you, so dangerous and intense that it melts your thoughts. Each thrust makes you gasp, each one a thin line between pain and pleasure that leaves your body wanting more.
"W—Wooyoung!" you cry out as his thrusts pick up speed, your stomach coiling with pleasure. Your body is achingly sensitive and sore, but he doesn't relent, using you as his own fucktoy. Your breath hitches out, ragged and whiny, and he grins down at you sickeningly.
Every drag of his cock inside your trembling pussy makes you moan out, your throat quickly becoming raw. He growls at the slick sounds of him slipping in and out, your arousal making it easier for him to thrust faster.
"Knew you'd be so—fuck—fucking perfect for me," he groans, angling his hips up to fuck you deeper, finding that one spot that makes your back arch off the mattress. You clench around him so hard that he releases an uncontrollable moan, his mouth parting in pleasure as his eyes squeeze shut. "Shit, baby, is my dick that good?"
"F—fuck!" you cry, your cunt clenching and your eyes rolling to the back of your head. "So—so good!"
Wooyoung suddenly pulls out, looping an arm around your waist as he flips your body around, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pushing you face-down into his pillow. With one hand tangled in your hair and the other gripping your waist, he drives each inch of his cock back inside you, pulling your hips against his so you feel every throb of his length inside you.
He starts moving again, yanking on your hair with every thrust. He fucks you like you were made just for him, and you take his dick with a hunger that matches his own, tears streaming down your cheeks as the sensation overwhelms you, the pressure being all too much for your first time.
A slap against your ass makes you gasp as a low, cruel laugh rumbles from behind you. His chest presses against your back as he thrusts with more force, sucking and biting all over your neck.
"Look at you... taking my cock like this," he murmurs. You can hear the wicked curve of his lips. "All marked up for me... tastes so fucking good... best meal I've had."
Your knees wobble beneath you, a cry spilling from your lips as his name leaves them over and over. Wooyoung has gone feral now, lost in the moment, pressing into you with a reckless abandon, slamming his hips into yours with no sense of rhythm, just chasing his own high.
"Come on, baby," he breathes against your neck, nibbling hard on the skin just under your ear. His dick pulses and twitches inside you. "Be the good slut you are and—fuck—come around my cock, yeah?"
Each word of his hits harder than the last, sending sparks down to your core and dragging you closer to the edge. With a few more deep thrusts, you're doing exactly what he asked, coming around his cock, your thighs shaking violently as you scream out his name.
"Wooyoung!" you moan, your muscles quivering uncontrollably as he rides your high, picking up speed like he's drunk on your juices. Your orgasm shocks through you in waves, and with one final, shuddering moan, your body surrenders fully as you feel him come inside you, painting the inside of your cunt with his own release.
He stays inside you for a few long moments, his heartbeat thudding against your back. Both of you are breathing hard, your breaths slowly syncing as the intensity ebbs away.
Your eyes flutter shut as the adrenaline finally starts to drain from your body. Every muscle feels spent, overworked, and trembling. Your thoughts soften as exhaustion pulls at you, tempting you toward sleep.
Eventually, Wooyoung shifts, pulling out of you and rolling over. He collapses onto the bed beside you, one arm flung out.
It takes effort, but you manage to roll onto your back. Your body feels heavy yet boneless, like you might just melt straight into his sheets at any second. You lift your head to look at the damage done to your body—the faint marks on your skin and drops of his release left behind.
The room is quiet now except for the sound of your breathing. You lie there, staring up at the ceiling, letting the reality of what just happened sink in while your worn-out body slowly comes back to itself.
Wooyoung, unsurprisingly, is the first to break the silence. He lets out a quiet laugh, eyes half-lidded as he turns his head and looks you over.
"Be honest with me," he begins, and you turn your head to look at him through your lashes. "What was better: dinner or dessert?" He pauses, clearly pleased with himself. "Actually... I'll be generous. I'll even count the appetizer, if you want."
You let out a quiet laugh despite not really feeling up to joking around. Your eyes roll once before drifting back up to the ceiling.
"You really never miss an opportunity to be full of yourself, do you?" you murmur, your voice hoarse.
He laughs easily, hooking an arm around you and pulling you in closer until you're tucked against his chest. He dips his head, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice intentionally quiet.
"I'm pretty sure you're the one full of me right now, baby."
You let out a weak giggle, letting your eyelids slowly flutter shut against the dark room. There’s a faint smile on your lips, but it doesn’t quite settle. The humor fades almost as quickly as it arrived. You swallow, your fingers curling into the sheets at your sides as your chest rises and falls.
Wooyoung feels so effortless in the way he takes up space. He fills his bed, his room, and your reality without ever asking for permission. That's what makes him so dangerously magnetic, you think distantly.
And then, your mind starts doing what it always does—wandering just a step too far ahead. Wondering what this is, and what it isn’t. Wondering how something can feel so good in the moment and yet still feel entirely devoid of a future the second you look at it too closely.
You don't open your eyes. You don't say anything. You let yourself fall asleep there, suspended in the afterglow of something intoxicating, wondering if this could ever be something real, or if it's the kind of connection meant to burn blindingly bright, but not forever.
@ queenofsa1gon, 2026. please do not steal, copy, or translate my work! thank you <33