🎧ྀི end up here by 5sos, drop dead by olivia rodrigo, packing it up by gracie abrams, mrs all american by 5sos, chest by 5sos
in which you're trying to buy tickets to see your favorite band at a concert in korea, only to find out that you need a foreign address to register for tickets. you complain to your brother, who suggests you use the address of his friend who lives abroad, jake. how do you proceed when you and jake have more in common than you'd planned?
synopsis: air ball after air ball jaeyuns pathetic attempts get unoticed by his instagram crush until….
warnings: language, suggestive, & hot loser jake
“man whose homeboy” taglist: open!!
enhypen permanent taglist: open!!
status: started
𝐈 𝐈𝐈 𝐈𝐈𝐈
♛ i’ve had this cooked up in my drafts for a while but i didn’t know who i wanted as the love interest but i left like jake was the best option lmao. this will be a short lil smau hopefully you guys will like it!!!
England lost, Heeseung left, f1 a mess, sunoo hiatus, messi still alive, newjeans gone, im constipated, tell me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill myself
in which . . . your favorite online shopping site, EN-line, has been slacking on your packages lately. almost every night you find yourself contacting customer service over one issue after another— and every time, you get connected to the same representative, riki.
→ contains — smau (27 ss) ࿐ crack && fluff ౨౿ cursing ⁘ keonho & james (cortis) & wonhee (illit) mentioned . . ∿ strangers to lovers Ꮺ humor × sexual jokes ᶻz riki n reader r both sleep deprived . . .
💌 — 01 ꒱ 02
ᵔᴗᵔ authors note — i got this idea from an ad i saw on tiktok Bye😭😭and bc i was scrolling through aliexpress earlier
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
wc: 30451
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (but can be a standalone)
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
synopsis: It was supposed to be a joke. a simple experiment after one too many 'but what if we could' questions. but now the college golden boy is convinced he's in love with you, and you have to figure out a way to remind him he's not. unless, of course, the experiment isn't the reason he can't seem to leave you alone.
wc: 22.1k
warnings: romcom, fluff, humor, hockey captain!sunghoon, a lot of chemistry nonsense that is not realistic or accurate, slow-burn (i did not mean for that to happen but it did so sorry), love potion (?), severe yearning, reader is a bit oblivious, reader is a woman in stem, reader AND sunghoon are down baddd, one scene inspired by “better then the movies” // p in v, fingering, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, soft dom!sunghoon, super sweet and giggly sex (they’re in love your honor), praise kink
ab thinks... i rewatched descendants and this came to me...so thank ben's rendition of "ridiculous" for this LOL. also the chemistry plot kind of got away from me towards the end but i promise the concept is there! this fic meant so much to me to write. it's one of the longest I've ever wrote, and i seriously think that despite how much i complained about writing this, it helped me fall back in love with writing. special thanks to @arischacco @ickbite @ewstain @heedimples and @clearlyhoonie for listening to me complain while also supporting all my ideas. ily guys ok?
the playlist: "black magic" - little mix / "if only" - dove cameron / "slut" - taylor swift / "supernatural" - ariana grande / "ready to love" - seventeen / “too close” - enhypen
It’d sounded like a good idea at the time.
But now, as you watch Park Sunghoon–campus golden boy and the boy you’ve been (secretly) in love with for three years–literally drink your experiment, you’re starting to think you might have messed up somewhere.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
“Okay, but, like, what are the odds a person could make a real life potion? Or something like it?” Jungwon asks, eyes racing back and forth on the screen as Harry Potter brings back Cedric's dead body.
Yunjin shoots him a glare, her eyes brimming with tears. “Are you seriously asking that right now? Cedric just died!”
He blinks, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "We’ve seen this movie, like, a hundred times.”
“That doesn’t make it any less sad!” She scoffs, reaching for the throw pillow behind her head and tossing it at him.
It hits him square in the chest, but he barely reacts. Just lets it fall into his lap like it'd always been there. “I’m being serious, though!”
Beomgyu hums, popping another pretzel in his mouth. “I’m pretty sure you’re just thinking of chemistry.”
Jungwon rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat so he can better face the three of you. “I mean like an actual potion. Like ones that make you fall in love or something dumb like that.”
You finally decide to speak up, tucking your feet under yourself and pulling your gaze away from the glowing screen. “You want to know if it’s possible to make a love potion?” You ask, voice laced with disbelief.
But Jungwon doesn’t laugh. If anything, he just looks ten times more serious. “Exactly.”
The three of you go silent, glancing between eachother like Jungwon might reveal he’s joking and he knows something like that isn’t possible.
Right?
See, there's a lot of issues with being a Biochemistry major. Some of the more obvious being that you’re a woman in a male-dominated field–which is a problem in and of itself–and the other being that it’s extremely difficult.
But the one people don’t talk about is your extreme crave for knowledge. Even if that knowledge has to do with finding out whether or not it’s possible to make a fucking love potion.
And you should shoot the idea down as soon as it comes to your head, really, you should. But there’s that little flicker in the back of your mind, the one that usually gets you into trouble, that has you saying: “It wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”
(Newsflash: it really, really would.)
Three weeks. That’s how long it takes the four of you to work out numerous formulas, some which nearly exploded in your face, others that did nothing at all. It wasn’t until you suggested using a bit less magnesium does the whole thing seem to be less far-fetched.
Despite her initial scepticism, Yunjin was insistent on finishing it as soon as possible so that she could make Jay–her second situationship of the month–realize he was in love with her and finally ask her on a proper date. You couldn’t help but feel like maybe that was a little unethical.
Besides, you’d already agreed you weren’t actually going to use the substance on real people. You’d test it on rats, see if it worked, and then go to sleep feeling completely and utterly satisfied.
That was the plan, anyway.
You crossed your legs, pencil tapping against your chin as you read over the equations in your notebook. The experiment was nearly completed–but you just couldn’t figure out how to make sure its effects wore off. Beomgyu had suggested maybe substituting the sodium for something else, but you just weren’t sure what.
Jungwon groans next to you, letting his forehead rest against the desk. “Remind me again why electives insist on giving more work than necessary? Like, why do I have to write a 15,000 word essay on the history of the internet?”
You snort, shaking your head slightly as the eraser of your pencil rubs furiously against your paper. “Remind me again why you chose to take a class on the internet?”
He lifts his head up, glaring at you the entire time. “I wasn’t aware the curriculum included 15 page long think pieces on the significance of Damn Daniel.”
You really laugh at that, lips curling up in a cheeky smile.
You and Jungwon usually had nightly study sessions at the campus library. It was a good way to unwind while also getting some work done. Well, more like you were getting work done and he was decoding Vine’s cultural significance.
It’s hard for you to focus though.
Park Sunghoon is considerably the most beautiful man you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, with raven hair and a smile that stops girls in their tracks, he has officially claimed the title of Campus Golden Boy and local heartthrob.
So how can you be expected to focus when he’s sitting in front of you, looking like that?
He’s wearing glasses, something you weren’t even aware he needed, slightly hunched over his glowing computer screen with an adorable knit in his brow. The sight should be illegal, honestly.
You don’t even notice you’re staring until Jungwon nudges your foot with his, a knowing smirk on his face. “If you keep staring at him like that he might think there’s something wrong with you.”
You immediately flush, forcing your gaze back onto your notebook and trying to ignore the fact that your ears have begun to burn something mean.
“I hate you.” You mumble, fully expecting Jungwon to reply with something witty, but it never comes. Instead, when you lift your gaze up, Sunghoon has left his table and begun to make a beeline for you.
Your eyes widen, throat already closing up and panic swelling deep in your chest. You’d definitely been caught and now he was going to confront you about your stalker-like behavior. You briefly wonder how long it takes for the police to arrive when they’re called, because he was definitely coming over to inform you that he’d done just that.
“Stop looking like your five seconds away from combusting.” Jungwon whispers, tone strangely serious.
You do your best to straighten your posture and make it look like there weren’t three-week-old eye bags under your eyes or a mysterious stain on your sweats, but it’s all futile when he flashes you that smile. The one he gave everyone when he was being friendly, something you’d been on the receiving end of before. But, for some reason, this time it feels different.
This time it feels like the start of something new.
He stops at the other end of your table, hand shooting up in a brief wave. “Hi,” He breathes out, “We have chemistry together.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Jungwon kicks your shin and you remember that you should probably reply. ‘Uh–Yeah!” Your voice cracks, tone pitching up higher than you meant it too. You clear your throat with a slight wince, doing your best to give him a smile. “Yes. Yeah. We do.”
He chuckles, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. And, wow, maybe Jungwon was right–you really are about to explode.
“I was having trouble with this last assignment,” He sighs, clearly exasperated, pointing a thumb back at his computer. “What are the chances you might be able to help me?”
Okay. This is fine. Amazing, actually. You’d finished that assignment the other night and you understood it pretty well, so helping him should be a piece of cake.
At least it would be if you didn’t seem to forget everything in his presence. Because you can definitely smell a bit of his cologne right now, sharp and clean, and you think you’re going to die. Yep. You’re going to pass away from cologne.
“Yes,” Jungwon answers for you, already ushering you out of your chair. “She can help you. Trust me, she’s crazy smart.”
Your eyes widen, staring at your friend in horror as he practically pushes you out of your chair and closer to Sunghoon.
“I know.” Sunghoon replies easily, tone light. Two words, but they’re enough to nearly send you melting into the floor.
You do your best to stay composed as Sunghoon leads you back to his table, but you aren’t entirely sure you’re even going to be able to think next to him. Which is definitely a little pathetic when you think about it, but seriously, look at the man. You are not ashamed in the least.
Jungwon shoots you two thumbs up, dimples showing as he smiles like he’s just won the fucking lottery. You don’t return the sentiment, instead shooting him a harsh glare.
Sunghoon pulls out the chair next to his computer for you, and you sit down shakily. Your nerves feel completely shot, face on fire and your palms becoming uncomfortably moist.
He gestures to the problem on his screen, murmuring something about how he’d been stuck on it for the last hour.
You nod along, chewing on your bottom lip. The equation he was stuck on was thankfully something you knew how to do, so after taking a breath and reminding yourself that he is simply a boy and you are a very smart woman, you manage to explain it to him.
“You put a negative there, but the equations actually positive,” You explain, voice still shaking the tiniest bit, but stronger than it was earlier as you gain back some confidence. “You also wrote the wrong unit over here.”
Sunghoon listens as you explain everything to him, your hands gesturing wildly and words going a mile-a-minute. It’s obvious to anyone watching you that you’re passionate about the subject.
By the time you finish, he’s already fixing his mistakes and taking the steps needed to get the right answer.
He shifts closer to you, finger dragging over the paper with a light touch, “Is this right?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. He says it loud enough that only you hear, eyes flickering over the side of your face.
You feel that familiar flush building when his knee brushes yours under the table, but do your best to swallow it down. “Uh, yeah. All you have to do now is figure out the correct configuration, which you’re pretty close to doing, and you’ll be good to go.”
He hums, leaning back in his seat and flexing his palms. “How are you so good at this stuff?” He asks with a laugh, eyes raking over yours like he’s trying to fully understand you.
You swallow, playing with your fingers in your lap. “It’s just always interested me, I guess. Like, the fact that we breathe in air and breathe out carbon? And the earth needs carbon to survive, so really we’re helping power the world. It’s all just so fascinating to me!” You’re smiling now, talking animatedly, “It’s difficult, yeah, but it’s also rewarding. Like, watching your experiment work is such a rush and I–”
You cut yourself off, realizing you’re rambling about fucking chemistry like you’re in love with it. He must seriously regret even asking.
“Sorry,” You mumble, nervous laughter bubbling out of you like a defense mechanism.
He shifts, leaning forward onto the table now, face turned so he’s still looking at you. “Don’t be sorry,” He reassures, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I was listening.”
Okay, wow. You are seriously either about to throw up and die or…yeah that’s it. There aren’t any other options.
By the time you make your way back to your table you’re practically shaking, breaths coming in shallow and rushed, your entire body on fire. You feel like you’re in some weird kind of fight or flight.
Jungwons bouncing in his seat, bottom lip sucked into his teeth. He practically pulls you down next to him, beginning to ask you a million questions, but you can’t see him.
All you can focus on is the subtle glance Sunghoon gives you when he leaves.
You should’ve known something was going to go wrong the moment Beomgyu called you.
“I swear I’ve almost figured it out,” He sighs into the phone. You can’t see him, but you can tell his nose is scrunched up the way it always is when he’s thinking too hard about something. “I think we got the units wrong, but if we can figure out the correct ones it should work.”
You kiss your teeth, bumping your silverware drawer with your hip and letting it slide shut. Your phone rests snugly between your shoulder and ear, your head tilted uncomfortably to accommodate it. “Are you in the lab right now?” You ask.
Beomgyu hums, “Jungwon and Yunjin are here too, but I don’t really know why considering neither of them are doing anything to help.” He says sharply, and you can hear the subtle cries of retaliation from your two friends in the background.
You snort, rolling your eyes slightly. “Okay, well,” You sit on your couch, attempting to get comfortable and placing your plate of food in your lap. “I’m gonna eat this and then I’ll be over, okay? Try not to blow anything up before I get there.”
“No promises.” He groans, tone laced with annoyance, but you know it’s all out of love.
You get there twenty minutes later, hair thrown up and sweats hanging off your body. Very professional, you know.
When you push the metal doors open the first sight that greets you is one you’re quite familiar with. Jungwon and Yunjin fighting with each other over something stupid, and Beomgyu ignoring them like they're his children. Nothing says friendship quite like that.
Yunjin immediately shoots up when you enter, her eyes narrowed with anger. “Can you please tell him that Jay is in love with me before I kill him?”
Jungwon’s quick to follow her, knocking his shoulder with hers so that his frame blocks her from your view. “Can you please tell her she’s known him for a week?"
You roll your eyes and scoot past them, making your way over to Beomgyu. He’s diligently writing down formulas; bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He's giving off a mad scientist vibe right now. Or maybe just a stressed-out university student vibe. Both are interchangeable.
You nudge his shoulder to get his attention, but he barely even glances at you. Just continues mumbling out questions like he's expecting the universe to answer him.
“What can I help with?” You ask, throwing on your lab coat and snapping on a pair of medical gloves.
He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He gestures lazily to the counter top, where a small gatorade bottle is sitting where the glass test tubes usually do. “Those two idiots broke the glass tubes I was holding the liquid in so now I have to use this janky bottle,” He mutters, throwing a glare at Yunjin and Jungwon.
Your experiment was currently sitting in a Blue Crush Gatorade bottle, floating around the bottom unsuspectingly. You snort at the sight, rolling your eyes slightly. “I think they have some extra next door,” You sigh, turning on your heel to go grab them.
But before you can even think about pushing the door open, Sunghoon reveals himself on the other side.
He’s still in his hockey uniform, helmet hanging from his hand and cheeks flushed a lively pink. You both stand there for a moment, blinking like you’re waiting for each other to make the first move. Jungwon and Yunjin even stop bickering, the both of them staring at you with wide eyes and cunning smiles.
Sunghoon clears his throat, gripping his helmet just the tiniest bit tighter. “Sorry for bothering you,” He murmurs, “I, uh, forgot something in here. Just stopping by to grab it.”
You’re silent for a moment too long, trying to string together a sentence without sounding it’s your first day on earth. It turns out, it’s a bit difficult to do that when Sunghoon is staring at you like that.
Like he’s trying just as hard as you are to not burst at the seams.
“Can I scoot past?” he asks, tone small and light, a shy smile playing on his lips.
You swallow, managing a small nod and moving to the side weakly. His fingers brush yours when he scoots past, sending a cool shiver down your spine, one that shouldn’t feel as electric as it does.
He waves at Jungwon and Yunjin, who both give him polite smiles, but you can see the way their eyes shine at him. Like they know something he doesn’t–which they do–but still.
Yunjin hurries over to your side as soon as his back is to you, giving you the brightest smile you think you’ve ever seen. She grabs your bicep with her manicured hand, squeezing it so tightly you have half the mind to think it’ll bruise.
“Oh my God,” She whispers, eyes flickering between you and Sunghoon, whose eyebrows seem to be narrowed in confusion as he looks for whatever it is he left. “Did you see the way he looked at you?”
You immediately flush, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.” You grumble.
“I’m being serious!” She defends, wiggling her eyebrows. “Even I got butterflies.”
You run a hand over your face, head shaking slightly. “Yunjin, seriously, stop talking.”
She laughs, but you can’t find it in yourself to laugh with her. Even if Sunghoon was looking at you a certain way, it didn’t mean anything. Not when Sophia was still around.
Sophia was the complete opposite of Sunghoon. A rude party girl who assumed the world revolved around her and her perfectly blown-out hair. And somehow, someway, she’d gotten the dark-haired man wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.
Their relationship was constantly off and on, mostly because Sophia could never seem to make up her mind on what man she was interested in that week. And Sunghoon, poor, beautiful Sunghoon, always went back to her. Sometimes you wondered if she had some kind of blackmail on him. Or maybe he was just a secret masochist. Both answers were equally concerning.
They seemed to be on one of their breaks right now, but everyone knows it's only a matter of time before she's showing up at his games again. You hate that the thought of it fills your chest with green smoke.
You turn around on your heel to continue your walk to the classroom next door, but the sound of Beomgyu shrieking stops you.
You whip around, half expecting something to have exploded, but instead the sight you’re met with is worlds more alarming.
Sunghoon, the campus golden boy and secret love of your life, is drinking your experiment. Literally. Lid to mouth, chugging it like it's water.
Beomgyu rips it from him, but it’s too late. Almost all of the liquid, aside from a few measly drops in the bottom, is gone.
The four of you freeze, watching Sunghoon like he’s grown three heads. But the boy in question just blinks at you with confusion. His tongue flicks out to lick a drop off his bottom lip, eyes flickering between the three of you. “What?
Beomgyu takes a cautious step towards him, arm held out like he’s worried Sunghoon might go rabid and lunge at him. “Do you feel anything…strange?”
Sunghoon swallows awkwardly, lips curving into a concerned smile. “Um,” he murmurs, letting out a nervous laugh. “Should I?”
You share a glance with Jungwon, who just shrugs his shoulders. The four of you are in different stages of shock, because why would somebody drink a mysterious liquid in a lab? What is the thought process behind that?
Yunjin looks like she's holding back a laugh, which isn't that shocking since she always laughs at the most inappropriate times. Meanwhile Jungwon looks nearly amused, like he'd known this would happen, and Beomgyu just looks pissed.
“Sunghoon,” Jungwon murmurs, circling the ravenette like he’s studying him, a hand on his chin. “Why did you drink out of that bottle?”
Sunghoon watches him, head twisting around his shoulder every time Jungwon makes his way out of his line of sight. “Because it’s mine? I left it here last night.” He answers casually.
Your eyes snap to Beomgyu, watching as his eyes trail down to the bottle in his hand.
“You guys alright?” Sunghoon asks, tone laced with suspicion. Not that you can really blame him.
Yunjin’s the first to answer, a honey-sweet smile on her face. “Oh, yeah, we’re good! Just…deadlines. You know how people get.”
Sunghoon nods, eyebrows knit together. “Right,” He mumbles, pursing his lips slightly. His eyes flicker between all of you once more, like if he stares at you long enough one of you might break.
When his eyes land on you, he pauses. It’s just a moment, something you wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t paying attention, but something you aren’t quite sure how to place flashes in his gaze. Something far too real and confusing.
“I should, uh,” He swallows, gesturing lazily towards the door. “I should go.”
You nod, lips parted slightly as he slips past you.
Beomgyu clearly wants to stop him and ask more questions, maybe try and keep him for observation, but you shoot him a look that tells him to let it go. Your experiment being gone sucks, yes, but if he seems fine then there isn’t any reason to scare him. And if he isn’t fine later then you can deal with it then.
Sunghoon glances back at you before he leaves, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he decides against it. Instead, he pushes the door open and steps back outside, leaving the four of you to try and come to terms with what happened.
Theres a pregnant pause, mostly because you think nobody really knows how to approach the situation. How do you move on with your day after your personal campus celebrity drank your fucking experiment? It's seriously a valid question.
Yunjin clears her throat, arms crossing over her chest. “So... does this mean I can’t use it on Joshua?" She asks, expression completley serious.
Beomgyu lets out a large sigh, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose like it might ground him. “Yunjin,” He murmurs, “Shut up.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "It was a genuine question."
Your lips tighten, hand reaching out to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You weren't going to be able to use it on him anyway."
"You don't know that!"
You can’t help but feel on edge when you walk into your Chemistry lecture the next day, hands gripping your computer tighter than necessary.
Would Sunghoon be here? Would he be okay? Did he die sometime in the night and the campus just wasn’t aware? What if the police were waiting for you so they could question you?
What would you even say? Well, you see officer, he kind of drank my experiment. So sorry it killed him! Yeah, no. That wasn’t gonna work.
To your relief, there aren’t any police officers waiting for you in the lecture hall, and Sunghoon seems to be perfectly fine.
Except, he’s sitting in Yunjin’s usual seat right next to yours.
You immediately pause, heart dropping to your stomach. This has never happened, ever, and you already know it must mean bad news.
He’s writing something in his notebook casually, hair curling over his forehead in a way that makes him look hand-sculpted by the Gods themselves. Your mouth goes dry, eyes flickering across the room until they land on a sly looking Yunjin. She curls her fingers at you in a sultry wave, like she knows exactly what she’s done–which you’re sure she does.
And, conveniently, every other seat in the room is full. Which means you have no other choice than to sit by Sunghoon.
Which is perfectly fine. Yep. It’s fine.
You force yourself to make your way to your seat, feet dragging the entire way, head hanging so that your hair covers your face. Is it a little pathetic? Yeah, definitely. But you’re way past caring.
You try to sit down as incredulously as possible, making sure your body is conveniently facing away from him. And for the first few minutes it works! Sunghoon doesn’t glance at you when you open your computer and pull up the assignment, doesn’t even blink when you sneeze right next to his ear.
And when you think you’re finally in the safe–finally feel like you can let yourself relax–it happens.
Sunghoon turns to you, his cheeks flushed a strange shade of pink, eyes strangely bright and pupils blown, and says in a scarily serious tone, “How are you, beautiful?”
You don’t even register it at first. It feels so absurd, so out of reach that he could even be thinking about saying that to you, that you completely ignore him. You assume he must be on the phone with Sophia, because there is absolutely no way Park Sunghoon just called you beautiful. It just wasn’t possible.
But then his foot finds yours under the table, and he starts trying to play fucking footsie with you. You freeze momentarily, brain trying it’s very hardest to catch up with whatever the hell it is that’s going on right now.
You swallow, finally forcing yourself to look at him. For a moment you really wish you hadn’t, because he’s got this cheeky smile going on, like he’s content just being in your presence.
You clear your throat, looking around once more for confirmation that he isn’t talking to anyone else. Your pointer finger comes up to point at yourself hesitantly, voice coming out in a small whisper when you say, “Are you talking to me?”
His foot stops nudging against yours now that you’ve finally answered him, and his smile widens. “Who else would I be calling beautiful?”
You nearly choke on your own spit, hand flying up to your mouth as you fall into a coughing fit. Sunghoons hand comes up to rub soothingly on your back like he’s done it a million times.
“What are you talking about?” You manage between coughs, eyes wide like you’ve just seen a bomb go off.
Well, this certainly feels like one has.
Your mind can't even make sense of what he's saying. It almost feels like he's speaking another language and you're using google translate to try and communicate with him.
Sunghoon laughs, head shaking as his hand travels up to ruffle your hair. “You’re so funny sometimes, really. Did you know that? Honestly, I’ve always thought you were the funniest girl I’d ever met. And the prettiest.” His eyelashes flutter, leaning his cheek onto his hand like he’s got some type of school-girl crush. “I want the whole world to know just how perfect you are.”
You’re too shocked to even respond, lips opening and closing while you rack your brain for anything to say. This is so out of character for Sunghoon. Not just because his admiration is aimed at you, but because you’ve gone to university with him long enough to know he doesn’t act like this.
And then it hits you.
The fucking experiment.
You are so screwed.
You clear your throat, glancing around warily. Your professor started lecturing a few minutes ago, but you were so busy with Sunghoon you had no idea what it was he was even talking about.
You suck in a shaky breath, “Okay, listen, I know you’re probably confused right now." You attempt, voice quiet as to not draw any attention to what’s going on. “But you drank something you shouldn’t have yesterday, which isn’t your fault! Me and Beomgyu just have to figure out how to reverse its effects! Unless, of course, it wears off by itself. That would definitely be ideal.” You mumble the last part, bottom lip finding its way between your teeth just like it always does when you’re thinking too hard.
Sunghoon watches you with a dopey smile on his face, clearly not caring about anything that you’re saying. The sight makes your heart stutter, which you know shouldn’t happen. Personal feelings about Sunghoon aside, he doesn’t actually feel anything for you. He just thinks he does.
“You’re so cute when you’re focused.” He murmurs, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Your breath catches when the tips of his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch soft and intentional. He's gazing at you with so much love, so much genuine feeling, it breaks your heart the tiniest bit.
And you wonder for the briefest moment what would happen if you let yourself indulge in this. Even if just for a day. Would it be so bad?
He pulls away from you slowly, the tips of his ears pink and his lips curled into a shy smile. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs again.
You sigh, letting your head fall into your hands. “Sunghoon–”
He stands from his seat abruptly, his chair scratching against the floor obnoxiously. You wince, head whipping up to figure out what the hell it is he’s doing.
“Everyone!” He announces, voice booming through the lecture hall. You immediately scramble to stop him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt to try and pull him back down. He just ignores you, instead choosing to continue to address the whole class like he’s giving some big speech.
“I’m in love–!”
Yeah, no.
You practically wrestle him into his chair, pulling on his arm so hard he nearly collapses into your lap. You push him into his chair, a shaky smile on your face.
The class stares at you with unamused frowns, all clearly annoyed at having the lecture interrupted by Sunghoons near-declaration.
You clear your throat, hands waving in front of you. “He’s just not feeling well,” You attempt nervously, a humorless laugh bubbling out of your lips like it might save you from embarrassment. It doesn’t.
Your professor fixes you with a stern look, one that you’d never been on the receiving end of until this moment. Now, you’re starting to understand why people say she’s so icy.
You murmur out apologies to the room, hoping to ease at least some ofthe growing tension between you and your peers. Yunjins looking at you with genuine shock, her hand covering her mouth like she’s hoping to spare you any kind of embarrassment. It doesn’t work.
You turn your attention back to Sunghoon, who’s giggling in his chair like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing ever.
“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, beginning to pack your stuff as well as his. You’d thought you’d wait until class was over to go find Beomgyu, but after that stunt you’re starting to think your social life might go down if you don’t figureout how to fix this ASAP.
Sunghoon shrugs, fingertips tapping against his thigh. “Is it a crime to tell people about the girl I love?”
You tense for a moment, but don’t stop gathering the rest of your things. “You don’t love me.” You manage out, voice cracking slightly. “You’re just confused.”
Sunghoon grabs your wrist and stops you from closing his notebook, his thumb hovering over your pulse point. “I’m not confused.” He insists, and, God, for a second you almost believe him. It’d definitely be easier to.
But you know he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s confusing his emotions for you with something else—something that isn’t there.
Something that will never be there.
You pull your wrist out of his grip, a sad smile on your face. “C’mon,” You manage, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “Let's go talk to Beomgyu.”
The walk to Beomgyu’s apartment is filled with endless yapping from Sunghoon and mostly silence from you. You aren’t sure how you should reply to his advances considering he doesn’t actually know what he’s saying. You keep telling yourself to imagine he’s on some weird drug that makes him more open than normal. And ten times more flirty.
Beomgyus apartment is just on the cusp of campus, close enough that it wasn’t a long walk, but far enough to get some sense of individualism. You’d been there a thousand times, whether it was for a casual hangout or to catch up on homework, but never in a million years did you imagine you’d be knocking on the door with Park Sunghoon staring at you like you’d hung the moon and the stars.
“Stop,” You mumble, fist rapping onto the door again. You know Beomgyu’s home right now.
Sunghoon raises a brow, arms crossed as he leans against the wall next to you. “Stop what?” He asks, maintaining his false facade of innocence.
You shoot him a glare, hands gesturing at him wildly. “Stop looking at me like that!”
He just hums, like he’s amused at your reaction. And you know none of this is technically his fault–well, it is but it isn’t–but there’s a growing annoyance in your chest that you can’t seem to get rid of. If you were going to be subjected to another public embarrassment like what he’d pulled in your lecture you think you’ll die.
You huff, fist tapping against the door again. “I know you’re in there, Beomgyu! Stop trying to pretend you aren’t there so I’ll leave!”
There’s a momentary silence, and then the door clicks open and an unamused Beomgyu stares at you from the other side. He’s wearing a white stained shirt, hair sticking up in numerous places.
He’s a sight for sore eyes, honestly.
“What?” He sighs, staring at you like you’ve interrupted his very busy schedule.
You point over at Sunghoon with your thumb, “We’ve got a massive issue.”
Beomgyu’s eyes trail towards where you’re pointing lazily, like you’re somehow inconveniencing him. He looks Sunghoon up and down, lips twisting into a frown. “I don’t see the problem.” He mumbles.
You sigh, running a hand over your face and letting it slap back down to your thigh. “It worked.”
Beomgyu raises a brow. “What worked?”
You groan, “The experiment worked.” You hiss, nodding towards Sunghoon slightly. “And now he’s convinced he’s in love with me.”
Beomgyu blinks, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he processes what you said. He’s been your closest friend for long enough to know that under different circumstances, Sunghoon confessing his love to you would’ve had you over the moon. He knows you would’ve had a much different reaction to the one you’re giving now, at least.
He licks his lips, glancing around the hallway like he’s expecting someone to jump out at you, and then ushers the both of you into your apartment. Sunghoon tries to grab your hand when you go inside, but you pull away and shoot him a sharp glare. He just smiles back, like your annoyance is the most amusing thing in the world to him.
Beomgyu gestures to the couch, mumbling out a hasty sit before disappearing into his room. You sigh when you plop down onto it, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursued.
You know it’s not Sunghoons fault. This whole thing was a complete accident. But…some part of you couldn’t help but feel like this entire thing was only going to end one way–with you getting hurt. Sunghoon doesn’t love you like he seems to think. The issue is, you aren’t sure just how long you’ll be able to resist him before you finally start believing him.
That’s why you need to figure out how to reverse this before it gets to that point.
And what about the effects it must be having on Sunghoon? Sure, you were taking emotional hits, but what if you had accidentally seriously messed him up mentally or physically? What if he never recovered and then you’d have to live with the fact that you’d indirectly messed him up for life?
Sunghoon sits down next to you wordlessly, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes trail over the living room, eyes pausing on a framed picture of you and Beomgyu from highschool. In it, the both of you are laughing at something on the other side of the camera, your hands clenching your stomachs and wide smiles on your faces. You don’t remember what exactly had been so funny at the time, but your heart still melts all the same every time you look at it.
Sunghoon hums, nodding towards the picture. “You look happy.”
Even though you don’t mean to, and there's definitely no reason to do so right now, you crack a small smile. “Yeah,” You mumble, “That was a good day.”
The space between you isn’t uncomfortable, it never really has been despite everything, but it’s tense. Like there’s some sort of gravitational force pushing you towards him, and the harder you resist, the more it wants to persist.
Sunghoon must feel it to, because his tongue darts out to wet his lips, his adams apple bobbing slightly. For the first time since this entire fiasco started, he looks almost unsure, like there’s something he wants to do or say, but he can’t.
You frown, hand instinctively coming up to rest on his bicep, “Sunghoon,” You murmur, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you alright–”
“Okay, here's the plan,” Beomgyu interrupts, finally emerging from his room. He looks much more put together now and not like he’d just rolled out of bed. He points to himself, “I’m going to figure out how to fix…” He gestures to Sunghoon warily, “This as soon as possible. You,” He points to you next, “Are going to watch him while I do.”
Immediately, alarms go off in your head. You can’t watch over Sunghoon. You just can’t.
You sit up straighter, arms crossing in an X over your chest. “I can’t,” You blurt, heat rising to your cheeks. You slowly lean back again, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I have…plans.”
It’s a lame excuse, you know. And you know neither of them believe you. (Honestly, does Sunghoon even understand what’s going on?)
Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “Okay, first off, no you don’t. And if this is like, a one in a million time in which you actually do have something going on, cancel it.” He lowers his voice slightly, hand covering his mouth so Sunghoon can’t see what he’s saying. “He can’t be alone right now, and I’m guessing you’re the only person he’ll willingly go with. So, either take him or deal with the repercussions.”
You hate that he’s right.
Maybe, if you had any energy left in you you’d fight with him on it. Or maybe you’d just deal with the consequences of sending Sunghoon out there on his own. But one glance at the man in question, and you immediately cave.
He’s gazing at you with hopeful eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side, like he’s hanging onto every word you say. It really shouldn’t tug at your heart strings like it does. It shouldn’t make you want to say yes until the word doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
You sigh, forcing your gaze to the ground. “Fine,” You huff, “I’ll watch him. Whatever that means.”
Beomgyu grins, glancing between you and Sunghoon cheekily, like he knows something you don’t. “Great,” He rolls his neck, letting it pop once. “Now get out so I can get to work.”
Campus is never busy on Mondays. You think it’s because most people don’t like the idea of morning classes on the first day of the week, which you can’t really blame them for. But that also means that it’s just you and Sunghoon on the street, and while it feels completely awkward for you—he looks like he just won a million bucks.
He’s smiling, as if the harsh winds blowing across your faces is anything to smile about. As if anything about this situation is something to smile about.
And you know you shouldn’t be upset. Anyone in your situation right now would probably be ecstatic. The man you’ve been secretly in love with for the past three years is finally returning your feelings, even if they aren’t completely genuine.
But that’s the issue, isn’t it? He doesn’t really feel this way towards you, he just thinks he does. And it would be so easy to let yourself indulge in it–to let yourself forget that none of this is actually real.
But you can’t. You know you can’t.
Sunghoons arm brushes against yours, a complete accident, but you still flinch and pull away like he’s burned you.
He glances at you, eyebrows furrowing. His breaths coming out in uneven puffs of white fog. “Everything okay?”
You clear your throat, trying to act like the shiver that goes down your spine is from the frosted air and not because his smooth voice makes your body flush with heat. “I’m fine,” You murmur, “Just…hungry. Tired.”
He hums, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “You know,” He drawls, trying to keep up a nonchalant front. “We could go eat. Together. Just me and you.”
You blink, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Is he asking you on a date right now? If the past two hours hadn't happened, you probably would've been more surprised.
You sigh, shaking your head slightly, “I’m not going on a date with you Sunghoon.” The words nearly don't make it out of your throat, feeling more artificial and practiced than anything else. If you would've told yourself a week ago you'd be rejecting Sunghoon, you probably would've slapped yourself for even thinking about it.
He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Who said anything about a date?” He asks, looking at you like you've just uggested the craziest thing he's ever heard. “We're just two friends eating lunch together, right? Even if I am irrevocably in love with you.”
He throws the word love out like he's saying hello, not like he's pulling at the strings of your heart every time it leaves his lips. It almost sounds fucking natural, like he'd been saying it to you for years, which makes it even worse.
You pause in the street, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Okay, I get that your brain isn’t in the right place right now, but stop saying things like that.”
His head tilts slightly to the side, eyebrows raising in amusement. “Why?” He asks, tone innocent, but you know better. You know he’s finding this funny. It’s frustrating and annoying and your heart fucking stutters every time he looks at you like he knows exactly what makes you tick.
You stumble over your words, hands gesturing wildly in front of you. “Because It’s annoying! And weird! How would Sophia feel if she knew you were saying all of this?”
The air goes still at the mention of Sophia, like the thought of her is enough to push away the sun. Sunghoons expression hardens, his jaw tightening for a moment before he releases it. It’s almost like the sound of her name has sucked all of the joy out of him. “Why would I care what she thinks?” He mutters.
You blank, unsure of how to respond to that. You know the two have always had a more than toxic relationship, but you’ve never seen him have so much distaste towards her before. You’ve never seen him have so much distaste towards anyone before.
“I don't know, maybe because she’s your girlfriend?” You attempt.
His eyes harden as he looks away from you, like he doesn't want to point his annoyance towards you. “She’s not my girlfriend.” He mumbles.
Your neck cranes up so you can look at him, arms crossing over your chest in a silent defense. “Besides,” He continues, taking a small step closer. “Why would I care about her when you’re right in front of me?”
You feel that familiar heat rush up your neck, the one you know you have no right to feel. And it’s strange how something good on the surface can cut you so deeply. How something you hoped to hear from him for years can suddenly feel like the biggest insult.
But, you are hungry–you weren’t lying about that, and Beomgyu has already assigned you to practically be his babysitter anyway, so might as well get something out of it, right?
You let out a breath, kissing your teeth as you do. This is a very bad idea, and you know it. “We can go to lunch as friends, but that’s it, okay? And no more flirting.”
His lips curl into a grin, eyes flashing like he’s just won a prize. “Perfect, because I already made a reservation for us off campus.”
Of course he did.
You open your mouth to argue, or really say anything, but his hand makes its way onto your lower back so he can lead you away and you suddenly forget how to speak. Because, yes, you’re still a strong woman who would rather die than ever be rendered speechless by a man–but Park Sunghoon is an exception. One that you know you shouldn’t indulge, but doesn’t it feel oh, so good when you do?
That’s how you find yourself thirty minutes later in the nicest restaurant in a fifteen mile radius, wearing jeans and an old ratty t-shirt. You cross your legs, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach at being so underdressed.
Sunghoon doesn’t look the least bothered by it though, reading over the menu with sharp eyes and a slight furrow to his brows. He asks you your opinion occasionally, mumbles about calories and his protein intake. All things you’d never really felt the need to look at yourself before. Maybe hockey people have to worry about that stuff? You’d always assumed it was just wrestlers and weightlifters.
“Do you like Alfredo sauce or marinara? I like both, but I want you to be able to pick off my plate.” He mutters, saying it so casually. Like ordering his own food based on what you like is just common sense. If any of this was real, he would make the perfect boyfriend.
It makes you wonder again how Sophia could just let him go so easily.
Your eyes flicker up from your own menu, heart stuttering in your chest. “Just get whatever you want,” You sigh, “You don’t need to ask me.”
He’s silent for a moment, the gears in his head turning. He slowly sets his menu down, and then plucks your own from your fingers.
Your eyebrows furrow as you go to reach for it, “Sunghoon—“
“Why are you so set on rejecting me?” He asks, keeping his eyes on yours. The eye-contact nearly makes your throat close up from how intense it is. “I know you think none of this is real or whatever—“
"Because it isn’t.” You interrupt. You wish you understood how this experiment worked, because then maybe you'd know how to get it through his thick skull that none of this was real. You run a hand through your hair before continuing, “You drank an experiment, Sunghoon. Everything you’re feeling—everything you think you’re feeling—it isn’t real.” Your voice cracks slightly, like it’s a manifestation of your own hurt.
Sunghoon, for the first time since this entire thing started, goes silent. His jaw ticks, breathing going slightly uneven. The air crackles between you, tension that neither of you really want to admit is there.
And then, without even so much as a stutter, he says, “I’ll prove it then.”
You falter, lips parting as a laugh bubbles out of your throat. You don’t mean to laugh, really, you don’t, but Sunghoon's insistence is almost admirable. And, unfortunately for you, his stubbornness only makes you fall for him the tiniest bit more.
“Why are you so set on this?” You ask, mimicking his question from earlier.
He shrugs, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hand. “Does it matter?”
Yes, it does matter. But you know there’s no way you’re going to get an actual answer from him, so you won’t push anymore. So, instead you just shrug, fingers tapping against the table. “I guess not.”
Sunghoon grins, his tongue poking against his cheek slightly. “Atta girl.”
You should drag him out of the restaurant and back to Beomgyu’s apartment after that. Should refuse to even speak to him until Beomgyu figures out how to reverse this whole thing. Should protect your heart from the hurt that you know is coming.
But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you laugh along to his jokes. You don’t protest when he pays for your food. You let him walk you home like he’s your boyfriend and try to ignore the deep ache beginning to bloom in your chest every time he looks at you like he loves you.
And when you lay in bed that night, sheets tucked to your chin and green glowing stars shining on your ceiling, you let yourself believe that all of it was real. That all of it meant something.
Even if that was only true for one of you.
You aren’t sure what you’re expecting the next morning, but it certainly isn’t sunghoon at your door with a jersey in one hand and hockey stick in the other.
You blink at him, still in your pajamas with leftover mascara flakes covering your cheeks. You’re sure you look the picture of attractiveness right now. You sigh, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles. “What are you doing here?”
Sunghoon holds the jersey out to you, and it’s then that you realize it’s his. Or, at least, one with his number and name on it. “This is for tonight.” He says casually, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
Your eyebrows furrow as you cautiously take it from him, inspecting it like it was a bomb and not a piece of fabric. “Uh,” You chuckle humorlessly, “What’s tonight?”
The jersey is your size, but the only other people you can think of who wear these are family members, die-hard fans, and…girlfriends.
But there’s no way that’s why he’s giving this to you. Besides, you’d seen Sophia wear the same exact thing enough times to know what wearing it would mean--to know what it would make you, as well as everyone else on the campus, aware of.
That you were Sunghoons.
That is not happening.
He leans against your doorframe, arms crossed against his chest. His hockey stick pokes out from under his armpit awkwardly, and the sight nearly makes you crack a smile.
“For the game,” He says, “You’re coming.”
You immediately shake your head and attempt to shove the jersey back into his arms. “Yeah, no, I’m not going to that. Thanks for the offer though.”
You turn on your heel after forcing him to take back the shirt, and while you know you should tell him to leave, you let him follow you into your apartment.
He trails behind you like a lost puppy, a slight pout twisted onto his features. “You have to go,” He insists, “You’re my girlfriend–”
You whip around and glare at him, “I am not your girlfriend.”
His lips curl up into a shy smile, a hand coming up to brace the back of his neck. “That’s a technicality.”
You give him a look before finally turning back around and continuing your walk to your bathroom. He tries to follow you in, but you quickly shut the door in his face. You half expect that to finally be the hint he needs, but of course it isn't. Instead, he just keeps talking to you through the door. “Okay, fine, you’re not my girlfriend.” He sighs, voice slightly muffled. You just roll your eyes and throw your hair up, grabbing your toothbrush from its place in the barbie cup on your sink.
“But you said I could prove to you how serious I was,” He continues. You can hear his body slide down to the floor, and you assume he’s sitting with his back against the door. He’s silent for a moment, before mumbling out so quietly you nearly don’t hear him, “Let me do what I said I would. Please.”
You are a weak, weak woman. You’ve always known this. When it comes to school and things of that nature you’d always known you excelled. But, people? That was something that was way out of your league.
Your mom used to call you a people-pleaser. Said it’d end up in you getting hurt if you didn’t learn how to step away from things before they got out of hand. And you thought you had.
But maybe you hadn’t.
You sigh, finishing up brushing your teeth and washing your face. By the time you're finished the ends of your hair and the sleeves of your shirt are soaked, but you don’t care. He wouldn’t care what you looked like right now anyway. His brain is all jumbled up and you doubt you looking like a hot mess is the thing that'll fix it.
You open the door cautiously, and just as you’d expected he’s sat on the other side with his knees tucked into his chest. He looks so small here, so boyish. Not like the Park Sunghoon you’d seen from the spotlight, not like the school's star player and pride and joy. From here, he looks like a boy trying to find himself in a world too big for him.
You tug your bottom lip into your teeth, eyes choosing to look everywhere but at him. “I’ll go,” You finally mumble, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “But I’m not wearing the jersey.”
He smiles, shoulders sagging in relief. He tilts his head up so he can see you. “Jersey?” He smirks, crumbling up the fabric and shoving it behind his back. “What jersey?”
You grin despite yourself and nudge your foot into his lower back. “Whatever. Go home so I can get ready.”
He stands, knees popping as he does. He grabs his hockey stick from where it leans against your wall, fingers wrapping around it and giving it a firm squeeze. “Six pm, alright? I’ll get you and your friends a spot up front.”
You shake your head, “You don’t have to do that–”
He grins, and before you can even think about swerving him, leans in and places a gentle kiss at the crown of your head. You freeze, body flushing and eyes going wide.
His lips are softer than you thought they’d be, coated with a scentless chapstick that you’d seen him carry around with him for years. He pauses for a moment, his spare hand lingering at your waist. He never touches you directly, doesn’t even attempt to. But you can still feel the slight heat emitting from his hand, and it almost feels more intimate than if he'd just taken that final leap.
He swallows, taking a step away from you. There’s a slight pink blush dusting his cheeks, like he’s shocked by his own actions, but he’s quick to clear his throat and pretend like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what he’d just done. Like the entire thing was a regular occasion for the both of you.
“I’ll see you there, okay?” He mutters, raising a brow. Like he needs more reassurance that you’ll stick to your word and show up.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips for a moment, eyes searching for any indication that maybe he understands what he did. That maybe the experiment's effects are starting to wear off. But when you look at him, you see the same exact thing you’ve been seeing since yesterday morning.
Pure, unbridled, love.
You suck in a breath, nodding your head slightly. “Yeah,” You manage, though your voice comes out low and breathless. “I’ll be there.”
He smiles, mumbles out a soft goodbye, and then leaves you in the middle of your hallway, body flushed and mind jumbled.
Yunjin, to your dismay, comes over as soon as you ask her too.
She looks ecstatic. You’d called her last night and explained the entire situation, but she, of course, couldn’t see how it was a very bad thing.
“Why are you so upset?” She’d asked over the phone. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was practically beaming. “The guy you’ve been secreltey obsessing over like some kind of stalker is in love with you! That sounds like a complete win to me!”
You’d winced, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. “Yeah, It sounds great! But he doesn’t…” You swallowed uncomfortably, “He doesn’t actually feel that way for me. He just thinks he does.”
You heard her take a drink of something before she sighed out, “How do you know that?”
You went silent, unsure of how to answer. What did she mean how did you know? It was obvious. Sunghoon accidentally drinks a love potion and now thinks he’s in love with you. That’s what had happened.
You tucked your legs under you and adjusted your phone against your ear. “I think that’s obvious, Yunjin.” You murmured.
She hummed, “I don’t know, [Y/N].” She said, tone strangely teasing. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
So, when you’d called her and asked her to help you get ready for tonight’s match, she was ecstatic. And you appreciated her support, of course, but you weren’t sure she really understood what was happening here.
You and Sunghoon are nothing. When all of this was over, you’d go back to being two strangers who sometimes smiled awkwardly at each other out of obligation. And you needed to be able to be okay with that. You had to be.
“Okay, I think you should wear something super sexy so that Sunghoon’s knocked on his ass.” Yunjin quips, scouring through your closet and inspecting everything you own like it owes her something.
You sigh from where you lay on your bed, staring up at the stars on your ceiling like maybe they’ll save you. “We’re going to his game, Yun. I don’t want him to fall on his ass.” You chuckle, throwing up air quotes around the end of your sentence.
Yunjin rolls her eyes and throws another pair of jeans onto your desk chair. “I don’t mean literally. I just mean maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wear something different."
You sit up, bracing yourself against your elbows. “What's wrong with my usual clothes?” You ask, eyebrows raising teasingly.
Yunjin pauses, cautiously turning around so you’re face to face. “There’s nothing wrong with it," She attempts, lips twisting thoughtfully as she tries to come up with the softest way to say it. “But I don’t think a pair of sweatpants and some random shirt you got in middle school is quite the look we’re going for.”
You scoff, flopping back down onto your bed and pushing the palm of your hands into your eyes until white dots fill your vision. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with what you usually wear, even if it isn’t the nicest clothes ever.
But you can’t lie and say there isn’t a part of you that wonders how Sunghoon would react. Would he even care? If he did, would it even be real?
“I think that you’re blowing this way out of proportion.” You mutter, letting your arms wrap around yourself.
Yunjin snorts and tosses a shirt at you. You cautiously inspect the fabric–a blue long sleeved top with a deep neckline that you’d bought to make your ex-boyfriend jealous and then never wore. You scrunch your nose slightly at it and then toss it back at her.
“There’s no way I’m wearing that.” You snort.
Yunjin nods, grabbing a pair of dark jeans from your closet. “That’s what you think.”
The hockey arena, to no one's surprise, is full to the brim with die hard fans and half-way drunk college students. You, personally, have never been to a game before. Mostly because you know what they consist of, and you’d rather skip watching men fight over a puck on ice when you could be doing much more important things. Like rewatching New Girl.
But, alas, you, Yunjin, and Jungwon all find your seats right at the barricade. Beomgyu had chosen to skip so that he could keep working on some kind of fix for your current situation, but you had half the mind to believe it was because he simply didn’t want to come.
Jungwon takes a sip of his fountain drink, letting the red straw rest on his lip. “So, you’re telling me that Sunghoon drank the experiment, thinks he’s in love with you, and invited you here because he wants to prove to you that it’s real?”
You nod, shrugging your jacket off and laying it across the back of your seat. The players are warming up in front of you, their skates scratching against the ice as they yell instructions at each other. You can see Sunghoon talking to another boy with a serious expression, his hands moving admittedly as he does. You can tell he’s being stern with him, but the boy doesn’t look upset or scared in the least. If anything, he’s taking his lecture with pride–like getting told off by Park Sunghoon is a privilege.
And you think that goes into show just the kind of person that he is. He's kind, and funny, and defientley doesn't deserve what you're putting him through.
"Um," You sniff, adjusting yourself in your seat. “That’s pretty much it, yeah.”
Jungwon hums, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Is it weird that that isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened to us?” He asks.
You furrow your brows, “What could possibly be weirder then that?”
“Remember freshman year?” Yunjin chimes in, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “There was that full two weeks where Beomgyu was stained pink.”
“Oh,” You draw out, chuckling at the memory. “I do remember that.”
You giggle at the memory. Beomgyu had had a rouge experiment blow up in his face--literally--and spent two weeks looking like he'd just stepped out of the Barbie movie.
Jungwon shrugs, “I would argue that seeing Beomgyu walk around campus like a real-life monster high doll was definitely weirder than this.”
You don’t respond, instead turning your attention back towards Sunghoon. He still hasn’t noticed you–which you’re mostly grateful for, but it also makes you anxious for when he does.
While you’ve never been to one of the matches in person, you have seen them online. You know that they can get heated and violent. You’ve seen Sunghoon walk into class with the occasional black eye or scabbed over knuckles.
It makes worry build in your stomach, thick and strong and nearly overwhelming. And you know you shouldn’t care. Sunghoon isn’t your boyfriend, even if he seems to think he is. But, still, the thought of him getting hurt makes you want to throw up.
You lean back in your chair, leg bouncing anxiously, and then you see it. It’s a subtle movement from the corner of your eye, but you catch it nonetheless.
Two seats down from you, Sophia sits down with her friends, all of them looking like they just stepped out of fucking vogue. And Sophia, with her perfectly blown-out hair and sickly sweet smile, is wearing Sunghoons jersey.
Your heart drops, stomach becoming an endless pit as you stare at her. You’d assumed they broke up, but what if they hadn’t? That was the only explanation you could think of for why she was here wearing that. What if you had accidentally ruined her relationship with Sunghoon?
Not to say that their relationship wasn’t already on the brink of disaster, but still.
You nudge Jungwon with your elbow, forcing your gaze onto the rink. The other team has come onto the ice now, and you can see Sunghoon's jaw tick. But he isn’t watching the other team, no, he’s searching the stands.
Searching them for you.
You suddenly feel a wave of guilt at what you’ve done, even if it was an accident. You’ve inadvertently forced yourself into the middle of a relationship that was never any of your business. Does this make you a homewrecker?
“Jungwon,” You mumble, “Tell Yunjin we’re leaving.”
“What?” He asks, eyebrows knitting together. “The game hasn’t even started.”
You sink into your seat as you watch Sunghoons gaze get closer and closer to you. “Sophia’s here.” You say through your teeth, “And she’s wearing his jersey.”
Jungwons gaze shifts past you, lips parting when he spots her. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” You murmur, “Oh.”
Jungwon turns and tells Yunjin, and you watch as her head pops out from behind him, her lips pulled into a frown. “Oh, this is so fucked.”
You cover your face with your hands and groan, “I’m a homewrecker!”
“Okay, no,” Yunjin scoffs, still eyeing Sophia like maybe if she stares at her long enough she’ll disappear, “This is all just a really small misunderstanding.”
You groan again, dropping your hands to your lap and looking back onto the rink. Sunghoon finally spots you then, a smile curling onto his lips as he skates over. Your stomach churns, letting yourself steal a glance to Sophia, who is also smiling at Sunghoon.
You sink further into your seat.
“Y/N!” He calls once he approaches, placing a hand in the glass separating you. You can practically feel Sophia’s gaze burning into your skull, and for once, you can’t even be mad that you’re on the other side of her icy glare.
“Um,” You manage, clearing your throat and cocking your head as subtly as possible towards Sophia. “Sunghoon, you should probably go say hi to your girlfriend before you say hi to me.”
You can feel Jungwon and Yunjin holding their breaths, like they’re scared any sudden movement will set off some kind of bomb. But Sunghoon either doesn't notice the tension, or he’s actively choosing to ignore it.
He cocks his head to the side, smile faltering a bit. “What are you talking about—”
“Hoonie!”
There’s something very distinct about Sophia’s voice—just the right amount of feminine to be cutsey, but still bordering on the edge of nails on a chalkboard. Normally, the sound of it would make you roll your eyes and resist the urge to pull your hair out, but now it just makes you feel sick with guilt.
Sunghoons expression immediately shifts, his smile curling downwards, eyes narrowing slightly. When he spots Sophia, he almost looks bored. Like the sight of her is nothing special.
She climbs over the people next to you, a mom and her toddler, both of whom she doesn’t apologize to when she steps on the tips of their shoes.
“Hoon,” She sighs, adjusting her skirt. “I missed you.”
She doesn’t even spare you a glance, which you’re partially thankful for. But, you also can’t help but wonder if it’s because she doesn’t even see you as a threat.
Which, you’re not—but still. It’d at least be nice to be considered one.
Sunghoons jaw ripples, gaze icy and nearly angry. “What’re you doing here Sophia?” He asks. His gaze falls downwards, onto the blue jersey she wears proudly across her chest, and scoffs. “And why are you wearing that?”
Sophia doesn’t even flinch at his tone, if anything she seems to revel in it. “Why wouldn’t I be here, silly?” She giggles, “I’m supporting my boyfriend!”
Jungwon glances over at you, but your eyes stay on the floor. What are you supposed to say? Actually, you’re boyfriend thinks he’s in love with me, so sorry! You’d just sound crazy.
Sunghoon leans closer, voice lowering an octave. “Are you forgetting that I caught you fucking my roomate last weekend?” He spits, gripping his hockey stick so hard you’re convinced it’ll break. “Or am I supposed to just get over that like everything else?”
You can’t help the gasp that leaves you. A small sound, but it’s enough to catch her attention. She whips her head around, dark eyes catch yours, nose scrunched like she’s staring at the trash on the side of the sidewalk and not a person.
You half expect her to apologize for having such a private conversation in front of you, but she doesn’t do that. Why would she? Instead, she barks, “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation? Go somewhere else.”
You blink, lips parting as you try to come up with something to say. But, Sunghoon beats you to it.
“Don’t talk to her like that.” He defends, eyes blazing something nearly protective. It makes your heart flutter and heat fill your stomach for all the wrong reasons.
Sophia takes a moment to process, but when she does, you would’ve thought Sunghoon had just told her he’d made out with her mom.
“Why are you defending her?” She asks, letting out a humorless laugh. She really takes you in then, eyeing you up and down. You sink into yourself instinctually, arms wrapping around your stomach like a shield. “Don’t tell me this is my replacement?” She chuckles, like the thought of you even being near Sunghoon is amusing.
You shake your head, hands shooting out in front of you. Even though she doesn't deserve it, you don't want to be the other woman. “No, no, that’s not—”
But Sunghoon doesn't let you finish. “She can’t be a replacement when there’s nothing to replace.” He mutters, tongue leaking venom.
Sophia, for what you’re sure is the first time in her life, is rendered speechless. Her glossy lips part, eyes widening a fraction. “Sunghoon—”
He turns to you then, completely ignoring her like her prescense isn’t even a blip on his radar. His eyes soften, cheeks flushing the lightest shade of pink. “Meet me after the game, okay?” He mumbles.
A buzzer sounds, and both teams on the ice skate over to their respective coaches to get ready for the game. Your lips part as you wrack your brain for a response, but it’s hard when Sophia is sneering at you like you’d just said the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.
Sunghoon sighs, throwing you a final glance before pushing off the glass and beginning to skate towards the rest of his teammates.
His jaw ticks once, throwing Sophia an icy look over his shoulder. “Go home, Sophia.” He mumbles.
Sophia doesn’t say anything else, just shoots you a glare and then stomps back to her waiting friends. They all look sympathetic when she tells them what happened, shooting you not-so-subtle death glares. As if you did something. Well, you did—you unintentionally home wrecked her relationship, but still, it was all accidental!
Yunjin lets out a low whistle, crossing her leg over her knee and clasping her hands around it. “Can we make more of those love potion things?” She asks with a chuckle. “This is reality tv kind of entertainment.”
Jungwon nods, “Rivals love island, honestly.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, “This isn’t a reality tv show.” You mumble.
Yunjin shrugs, popping a piece of candy into her mouth. “We know, but it might as well be. Or maybe the plot of some super bad fanfiction.”
And, well, you can’t really argue with that.
But you’d never been good at confrontation, and Sophia keeps looking at you like you’d owe her something. Her lips pulled tightly together, friend whispering in her ear like she knows your deepest darkest secrets.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a subtle prick of insecurity. One that forces you deeper into your seat and into your own head.
The game goes by in a blur, one that you barely pay attention to. It’s not that you don’t want to, but it’s a little difficult when Sophia keeps glancing over at you and laughing with her friends.
You aren’t stupid. You’ve been laughed at before--been the victim of bullies who thought they had the upper hand for whatever reason. But that had been in high school, never in college. And even though you try to push it away—try to block it out—those awful thoughts still crawl their way from the depths of your mind. Thoughts that you hadn’t had since you’d sat alone in a chemistry classroom in tenth grade, back before you’d met Beomgyu.
So, when the game is over (Sunghoon led the team to victory of course, because why wouldn’t he?), you don’t hesitate shrugging your jacket back on and climbing your way over people to get to the exit.
Yunjin and Jungwon stumble behind you, calling your name in an attempt to get you to slow down, but you don’t. Can’t, really.
You didn’t sign up for any of this. Didn’t sign up to be the target of Sophia’s stares, didn’t sign up to be the girl Sunghoons convinced he’s in love with.
You just wanted to go back to your life before. When you were still just in the background with your select circle. You wanted to go back to watching Sunghoon from afar—to being the girl he’d never look twice at.
Because this? This was too much for you.
And you know none of it is his fault, but that almost just makes it worse. He has no idea how much all of this is really hurting you. How much it breaks your heart every time he looks at you like you mean something to him.
The wind hits your face when you step outside, neon lights of the stadium lighting up the parking lot around you. You finally let out a breath, eyes glassy and lips chapped. Maybe you’re being dramatic, but you really don’t care.
“[Y/N]!” Yunjin calls, jogging slightly to catch up with you. Her jackets hanging off her arms awkwardly, purse dangling from her elbow. “Where are you going?” She presses, grabbing your bicep gently and forcing you to a stop. “What’s going on?”
You force your gaze to the ground, shoving your hands in your pockets. “I’m going home,” You tell her, voice raw. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. If I had known he was still with Sophia—”
“Woah, hold on,” Yunjin interrupts you. Jungwon approaches then, his blonde hair blowing over his forehead awkwardly. “Did you not hear Sunghoon? They’re broken up.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “They’re always broken up.”
Yunjins lips pull in tight, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Is this because she was here?” She asks you, tone serious and deadly. "You know you don't need to care about whatever it is her and her friends think."
It’s rare for her to speak to you so seriously, always the one looking towards humor to lighten up situations. So when she does, you tend to listen.
“Sophia is a bitch, plain and simple. Sunghoon is not. And he’s actively trying to prove to you that he wants you, and you’re not letting him.” She insists.
You pull your arm from her grip at that, eyebrows knitting together. Does she seriously think anything Sunghoon is doing he actually means? If that were the case, you wouldn't even be in this situation.
“Yunjin, he doesn’t know what he’s doing!” You spit, tone harsher then you mean it. You don’t mean to aim your anger towards her, but she just keeps pushing and pushing until you finally explode. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t feel like that towards me.” Your voice breaks, eyes brimming with tears. “He doesn’t feel anything towards me.”
Jungwon swallows, his eyes downcast. He was usually good in situations like this, usually the one to take the lead and get you laughing again, but now he can’t even meet your eyes.
Yunjin reaches for you again, sympathy written all over her face, but you pull away. You don’t want her comfort right now, even though you know it comes from a place of love.
You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze onto the sidewalk in front of you. The pavement is wet from rain earlier in the day, collecting in small puddles below your feet. “I’m just going to go home, okay? Tell Sunghoon I’m sorry.”
“[Y/N]…” Yunjin mumbles, but you’re already walking away, arms wrapped around yourself and bottom lip trembling.
Is it pathetic to be crying over a stupid boy and a mean girl? Maybe. But you also know that having feelings is human, and sometimes, when the time is right, it’s okay to cry.
And you think right now is one of those times.
You don’t cry hard. Not full, chest-heaving sobs, just occasional hiccups—a steady stream of tears flowing down your cheeks that you stain your sleeves with every time you wipe at them.
Your apartment is cold when you enter, the air brushing harshly against your face. You shrug your jacket off and toss it onto the couch, padding over to your room with exhaustion sinking into your bones.
You peel off your clothes–the top Yunjin had insisted you wear for Sunghoon suddenly feeling suffocating and tight. It isn’t often you let yourself wallow in self-pity like this, but tonight was going to have to be an exception.
You change into a stained t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a rip in the knees and collapse onto your couch. You wonder if Sunghoon said anything when he noticed you weren’t there. Was he disappointed? Or had he finally realized it wasn’t you he should be chasing after?
Your heart hurts at the thought, aching and heavy in your chest.
It isn't fair to him that you feel like this. It isn't fair to you that he's unknowingly playing with your heart. The entire thing is a bad dream you wish you could just wake up from.
You barely register the knock at your door at first, too stuck in your head while trying to pretend you’re paying attention to whatever sitcom’s playing on the TV.
But then it comes again, not harsh, just louder. More insistent. Like whoever’s on the other side is desperate to see you.
You roll your eyes, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders and forcing yourself to pad over. “Yunjin,” You sigh, clicking the lock and swinging the door open. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
But it isn’t Yunjin standing on the other side. It’s Sunghoon.
His black hair is a mess, bangs covering his eyes in a way you know can’t be comfortable, a pair of black-rimmed glasses resting against his nose. He’s not wearing his jersey anymore, but the black compression shirt he wears under it is still there, a pair of gray sweatpants laying dangerously low on his hips.
He looks dangerously handsome without even trying.
Your breath catches before you can stop it, gaze falling down his body like you’re commiting it to memory. You’re both silent, just staring at eachother, waiting for the other to cut through the tension first.
It shouldn’t hurt seeing him right now as much as it does. You don’t have any claim on him. He loves Sophia, you’ve known that from the start.
So why does it feel like tonight was just one big slap in the face? Like the universe was reminding you of exactly what your place with him really is?
Sunghoon swallows, eyes shaky as they try to search your own. You don’t let him though. You know if you look him in the eye right now, you’ll break, and that’s the last thing you want him to see.
“You left,” He whispers, tone low. You can hear the hurt seeping through his voice, but it’s masked by a weird kind of warmth. Like even though you hurt him, he can’t physically be mad at you.
You think that’s probably a side effect.
You shift your weight uncomfortably, twiddling your thumbs in front of you. You can’t look at him—too scared of what you’ll find if you do.
“Sunghoon,” You start, voice trembling. “You don’t want me.” You don't say it like a question, instead it's a statement.
His fingers tighten into fists at his sides, knuckles going pale. “Why do you keep assuming you know what I want?” He asks.
You shake your head, “You’re just confused—”
“Stop,” He interrupts, taking a small step towards you. “Stop saying that when I know I've never been more clear headed in my life.”
You stiffen, unsure of how to respond. You know for a fact he has no idea what he’s doing or talking about. And that’s what makes it hurt the most. He genuinely believes he loves you, and fuck, you’d give anything for it to be real.
His hand reaches out, but he hesitates and drops it back to his side. "Let me prove it to you, okay? Just like I said I would. No games. No Sophia. Just me and you.”
You force your gaze up then, eyes narrowed. You shouldn’t say yes, not when your heart is already on the brink of collapse. But Sunghoons staring at you like he’ll break into pieces if you say no—like the thought of you rejecting him is too much to handle.
You lean against the doorframe, lips twisting slightly. “I don't know,” You attempt, “it’s already so late and I look a mess—”
“Please,” he breathes out, voice wrecked. “Stop thinking so hard and let me show you how much you mean to me.”
Your knuckles tighten until your fingernails dig into your palms, forming little crescent-shaped marks into the soft skin. Everything inside of you is telling you to say no. To tell him to go home and lock himself in his room until Beomgyu figures out how to fix this.
But there’s still that small part of you—the part that wonders if maybe he really did mean every sweet word that fell from his perfect lips. If maybe, just maybe, all of this was real.
And that part of you wins.
Sunghoon doesn’t let you change—just ushers you into your jacket and leads you with a hand on your lower back out of your apartment and back towards the rink.
You don’t notice that’s where you’re heading at first, not until the lights outside the parking lot come into view. Your stomach twists at the memory of your last conversation with Yunjin and Jungwon, but you push it away. You’d fix things tomorrow.
“Why are we here?” You ask, glancing up at the raven-haired boy. His palm hasn’t left your back since you started walking, almost like he was staking his claim there. Imprinting the shape of him into your skin like it’s second nature.
He shrugs, mischief flashing in his smile. “You’ll see.”
You’ve never seen the stadium empty before, but now that you are, it makes you realize just how daunting it really is. The lights pointed at the rink are still on, reflecting off of the ice and glinting across its surface. You can see the slight scuff marks and dents from numerous skates, small puddles forming in their wake.
Sunghoon jogs in front of you, pulling out a set of keys and opening the gate that the hockey players use to get onto the rink. He holds an arm out to you, gesturing for you to come over to him.
You do so cautiously, arms wrapped around yourself. The ice from the rink makes the air frigid, crawling up your spine like a garden snake. Menacing, but not dangerous.
“I don’t have any skates.” You mumble.
Sunghoon smiles, reaching out and wiggling your hand out from where it rests under your arm, “That’s okay,” He says softly, intertwining your fingers. His hands are large, this is something you’ve always known. It’s hard not to notice when he makes his pencil look like a fucking mini-brand every time he writes down his notes—but now you realize just how much they dwarf your own. “We don't need them.”
He pulls you onto the rink then, and feet immediately slip on the slick ice. You yelp when you feel your foot begin to slide from beneath you, back arching and spare arm flinging to your side, but Sunghoon grips your hand and pulls you to his chest like he’d been expecting it.
You huff when your face meets his chest, heat crawling viciously up your neck from embarrassment. Sunghoons chest vibrates with laughter against your cheek, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head and pull you closer to him.
“Finally falling for me?” He teases.
If only he knew.
You scoff and cautiously step away from him, tightening the muscles in your legs so you don’t slip again. “You wish.” You say, meaning for it to come out harsh, but instead it sounds soft. Playful. Everything it shouldn’t be.
He rolls his eyes and drags you to the middle of the ice, careful not to tug too hard or walk too fast, instead matching his pace with yours.
You look around at the thousands of seats surrounding you, the blinding lights on the ice. There isn’t even anyone here, and you still feel slightly intimidated. It makes you wonder how he’s able to deal with all of it so efficiently.
He stops suddenly, forcing you to as well. For a split second, you think he almost looks nervous.
He sucks in a breath, brown eyes finding your own. You just raise your brows, staring at him expectantly. You assume he must’ve brought you here for something—it’s just whatever that is that puts you slightly on edge.
“Do you remember that glass duck you carried around at the beginning of the year? The one with the weird monocle and pink jacket?” He asks, releasing your hand and shoving it into his coat pocket. You can see something round in there, you just have no idea what it is.
You frown. You do remember that duck. You’d found it on your trip with Yunjin to Europe over the summer in some rundown antique shop. It was stupidly overpriced and honestly kind of ugly, but you’d fallen in love with it for whatever reason. Maybe because it was a little different then the other ducks, with a weirdly shaped beak and slightly bigger beady eyes. But it was perfect to you.
At least, it was until Jungwon accidently broke it on Halloween weekend. He’d drunkenly slammed into you and knocked it loose from its place on your bag, and it ultimately shattered as soon as it hit the floor. You remember you’d been devastated and refused to talk to Jungwon for a week after, but that was it. You hadn't really thought twice about it for a while now.
But, how did Sunghoon know about it? Why was he asking you? You’d never talked about it with him—hell, you barely said two words to him back then.
Your chin lowers slightly in suspicion, “I do, yes. Why?”
He swallows, and you can see his free hand twitch. “Well, I saw it break at that party on Halloween. And you looked so sad. And…I really hated it. So,” He takes a breath, finally revealing whatever it was he had in his pocket. “I fixed it.”
You blink. Once. Twice. He’s holding out the duck to you, cracks from where it'd shattered all over its little glass body but ultimately put back together.
It takes you a second to fully process what’s going on, but once you do your lips part in a gasp and you take it from him. You hold it up to your face, cradling it in your hands. “How did you—what? Why? I-I don’t understand—” You’re talking so fast you barely even understand yourself, but Sunghoon just laughs, and you notice the way his shoulders slowly relax in relief.
He shrugs, like this is any other day and he didn’t just reveal to you he’d fixed your most prized possession. “I didn't want you to lose it,” He admits, taking a careful step towards you. “You don’t deserve to lose things you love.”
You glance up at him then, and you realize just how close he really is. The last time you’d been in this position he’d placed a soft kiss on your hairline, and although your heart feels like it’s skipping a beat, it’s not out of fear this time.
It’s something more dangerous, something you shouldn’t be allowing yourself to feel. Not with his condition. You glance back down to the glass duck, hesitation gnawing at your stomach.
Ultimately, you know that what you feel for Sunghoon is not returned. But this... this changes things. He’d taken the time all those months ago, before the experiment was even thought of, and fixed something you’d deemed unfixable simply because he didn’t want you to be sad. Usually, you’d think that meant something.
But isn’t that also just the kind of boy he is? Kind, golden-hearted Park Sunghoon. Campus golden boy. Star hockey player. Everything you could never have.
“Sunghoon,” You breathe out shakily, still holding the duck in your palm. “Thank you.”
Although you're feeling conflicted about where he really stands with you, you know you're overall grateful. You've never had someone do something so kind for you simply because they can.
He doesn’t respond, just gives you a shy smile. It’s the first time you’ve seen him look so bashful. It’s cute. “It wasn’t any problem.”
You hum, tapping your nails against the duck's glass tail. “Can I ask why you needed to bring me here to give me this?” You question, a teasing lilt to your voice.
He shrugs, “It’s more romantic here then in the middle of your living room.”
You laugh aloud at that. For once, the mention of romance with him doesn’t make you want to throw up and die all at the same time. Instead, it leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy and all the things you know are going to hurt you in the end.
Because while this entire illusion is going to be over at some point, right now, in this moment, Sunghoon is in love with you. And you’re starting to wonder just how wrong it’d be to let him.
Your heart is heavy in the morning as you fidget with the duck. It’s hanging off your purse again, safely locked into place with a keychain. You’d asked Jungwon and Yunjin to meet you for coffee so you could talk, and both had agreed easily.
You guys never really did well with bad blood. Any arguments you had were always resolved fairly quickly, because otherwise it would simmer until you thought too hard about it and ended up doing something you regretted.
And you know you owe them an apology–Yunjin, especially. She’d only been trying to help, and you’d spat venom at her like she’d done something wrong. You didn’t want to be like that, and it was important to you that she knew how sorry you were. That they both knew.
They arrive together, steps slow as they approach the table you’d saved. You shoot them a sad smile, unsure of just how angry they were.
They sit next to each other across from you, sharing a glance that makes your stomach churn. You suck in a breath, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry,” You start, choosing to skip the awkward pleasantries and getting straight to the point. “You guys didn’t deserve that. At all. And I–”
“Stop,” Yunjin sighs, not letting you finish. Your heart drops, immediately assuming she's about to end your friendship. But she doesn't--instead, she points between herself and Jungwon and says with a quiet finality, “We should be the ones apologizing.”
You raise a brow at that, spine straightening in your seat. “What? No–”
“Yes,” Jungwon interrupts now, his eyes full of concern. “You were rightfully upset with everything going on, and we pushed it aside simply because we didn’t understand how you were feeling.” He sniffs, head tilting to the side slightly. “I didn’t realize how hard this must all be for you. Having the guy you like constantly telling you he’s in love with you, and then not even know if he means it? It’s unfair to you.”
You’re silent, a wave of relief and guilt crashing over you at once. You’re relieved that your emotions are being validated, but you also feel guilty that they think they need to apologize to you when you yourself are struggling with what you should feel. Before last night, you would've agreed with them wholeheartedly, but now you weren’t sure. You glance down at the figurine hanging from your bag once, heart filling with so much warmth you think it may burst.
“You’re right,” You murmur, leaning back in your chair. “It is unfair, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe…maybe I was wrong.”
Yunjin’s eyes widen, confusion written all over her face. “What?”
You smile softly, reaching for your purse and spinning it around so they can see the once-broken glass duck. They both study it for a moment, and you watch as recognition flashes in their eyes.
Jungwon frowns and looks back at you. “I thought I broke that ugly thing?”
“It’s not ugly,” You scoff, snatching your bag back and carefully unclipping the little duck from where it hangs. You place it in the middle of the table with a small shrug. “He fixed it.”
The three of you stare at it, studying the cracks the run along it’s surface.
“What do you mean he fixed it?” Yunjin asks.
“I mean,” You sigh, “He saw it break on Halloweekend, and took it upon himself to fucking glue it back together.”
A beat. And then, “Are you serious?”
You don’t laugh, even though you want to. It is entirely ridiculous, but it happened. You’ve spent the last twelve hours mulling it over in your mind, and you can only come to one conclusion.
Maybe Sunghoon noticed you more than you thought.
And if that were true, what did it mean now?
You manage a soft smile, picking at the skin around your fingers mindlessly. “Yep,” You hum, popping the P. “Gave it to me last night.”
Yunjin squeals, gripping Jungwon's bicep and shaking him. He huffs and rips his arm from her grip. “Quit!” He hisses.
Yunjin just ignores him, her full attention on you. “I know I shouldn’t be feeding into this anymore, but that,” She gestures towards the duck, “That is more than some stupid experiment.”
You sigh, voice small when you say, “I know. I just…I don’t know what the right thing to do is anymore.”
And for the first time, you’re starting to feel like you’re finally being honest with yourself.
“Well,” Jungwon shrugs, leaning back in the booth. The waitress comes around and drops off three milkshakes, vanilla for yourself, and chocolate for Jungwon and Yunjin. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try it out.”
Your eyebrows furrow, “Test it out?” You repeat, taking a small spoonful of whipped cream and stuffing it into your mouth. You'd always been a sucker for ice cream.
Jungwon nods, “There’s a party tomorrow night to celebrate the hockey team's win last night. Sunghoon will obviously be there, and maybe you can test out what he does when it’s not just the two of you.”
Yunjin sucks in a sharp breath, “But,” She draws, “Sophia will be there too.”
Jungwon snaps his fingers, “My point exactly.”
You aren’t really understanding where he’s trying to go with this. “So what?”
Jungwon continues, “We don’t really know if he’s still under the influence of the experiment,” He explains, nodding towards the duck, “that changes things. So, I think we should see if his feelings are real or not at the party.”
Your lips twist in thought, “How do you plan to do that?” You push. It's not that you don't understand what he's trying to say, it's just hard for your head to fully wrap around it.
He smiles then, that same mischievous smile he’d given you all those weeks ago when he’d initially suggested this whole disaster, and it’s then that you know you shouldn’t listen to anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Simple,” He shrugs, taking a sip of his milkshake. “We ask.”
Your lips part to respond, but your phone ringing in your pocket interrupts you. Beomgyu’s name flashes across the screen, bold white letters that usually bring you comfort, but strangely are now doing the opposite.
You clear your throat, “Hello?”
Beomgyu’s voice sounds from the other side, exhausted and groggy, but he’s got that spark he always does when he says, “I did it.”
You glance up at Yunjin and Jungwon, stomach twisting low. “Did what?”
“I figured it out,” He swallows, “I’ve got the cure or whatever we’re calling it.”
And while it should be relief that floods your chest, instead what you’re met with is a cold pinch of disappointment.
You’d never been one for parties. Even now, dressed in some slim black dress Yunjin picked for you, a vial of something you aren’t even sure works in your purse, you’re reminded just why you don’t like them.
They’re overcrowded, filled with college students all looking to either pass out drunk or find someone to fuck until they forget why they were even there in the first place. It wasn’t your crowd, and you’d found peace with that a long time ago.
And yet, you're still here.
Beomgyu nudges your shoulder, eyes searching around the crowd of sweaty bodies. He wasn’t one for parties either, but when you explained to him just why you were coming, he insisted on joining. Of course, Yunjin and Jungwon had been ecstatic and you had to explain to them that you were not coming just to have a good time.
You were coming to find out the truth, and that was it.
“Are you sure he’s here?” Beomgyu asks.
You nod, “He texted me earlier and invited me. Said he’d meet us here.”
Sunghoon had been slightly surprised but happy when you confirmed you already planned to come. He’d told you he might get a little busy with people trying to talk to him, but he’d make sure to try and come find you at some point. You'd scoffed, in disbelief that you seemed to have to schedule a time to talk to him. You knew he was popular, but people here seriously treated him like some celebrity and not a normal college student.
Yunjin smiles next to you, plucking a drink from the countertop. She tips it back against her mouth and chugs it, wiping off the small droplet that spills from her lips.
Beomgyu makes a disgusted face, “You don’t even know where that came from.”
“Does it matter?” She asks, grabbing another one and shoving it towards you, “It all ends up in someone's stomach.”
You push her hand away and take a cautious step back. “I’m good, thanks.”
She just shrugs like she’d been expecting that and hands it to Jungwon, who happily accepts it. “Suit yourself.”
You don’t respond, instead unknowingly floating closer to Beomgyu. Your eyes rake along the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar head of black hair, but instead you’re met with the one person you didn’t want to see.
Sophia is wearing a soft baby pink skirt and a white top that make her look like the picture of innocence, lips red and tempting. The guy she’s flirting with clearly isn’t immune to her strategy, because his eyes keep falling down to her soft neckline like he’s hoping he’ll suddenly develop x-ray vision.
Normally, the sight of her wouldn’t bother you. It really shouldn’t considering you haven’t interacted with her at all outside of the hockey incident. But, for some reason, all you can see when you look at her is Sunghoon.
Sunghoon looking at her like she’d hung the moon and stars. Sunghoon dragging her to his games. Sunghoon fixing things for her simply because he didn’t want her to be sad. Sunghoon telling her he loves her.
You have no right to feel it, but jealousy curls deep in your stomach.
You recognize the boy she’s talking to. Jay, The hockey teams co-captain, and Sunghoons roommate. The same roommate who you’re assuming slept with Sophia.
You don’t know any of the details–never thought it appropriate to ask, really. But you do know that if Sunghoon saw this, he’d probably be pissed. You wonder if that’s why she’s flirting with him so openly, because she wants Sunghoon to see. You wouldn’t put it beneath her.
The night continues like that, with you and Beomgyu hanging around awkwardly while Yunjin and Jungwon drink until their vision goes blurry. You keep catching glimpses of Sophia, and each time she’s talking to a different guy. A different pawn, actually.
You haven't even seen Sunghoon once, which is kind of strange considering this party is kind of for him. You’d even texted him, a quick "you here?" and had gotten no reply.
The antidote feels heavy in your purse for reasons you can’t exactly explain. You were going to give it to him tonight no matter what, you’d already decided that. Even if you found out that this entire thing meant more to him then you thought it did, you were going to give it to him. Your heart flutters in your chest at the thought, forcing yourself to bite back a smile.
You know you shouldn’t get your hopes up, but it’s hard. The duck had to be proof that this whole thing wasn’t just a massive fuck up–maybe it was exactly what you’d needed to finally lead the both of you to each other.
And then, as if it’s fate throwing it in your face, you see Sunghoon.
He’s laughing at something someone's saying, his cheeks flushed and hair falling over his forehead like he’d deliberately placed it there. He looks good–but when does he not?
You nudge Beomgyu (Yunjin and Jungwon are too busy on the dance floor) and nod your head towards the black-haired man.
Beomgyu exhales lowly and grips the strap of your bag. “No matter what he says, he has to drink this.” He insists, “I know it might be easier to keep up with the lie–”
“I know,” You interrupt, placing your hand atop his. You give it a light squeeze, “No matter the outcome, he has to drink it.”
Beomgyu physically exhales and then shoots you a small smile, “For what it’s worth,” He murmurs, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Yeah,” You reply, “Neither do I.” And you really mean it.
Sunghoon doesn’t notice you approach at first, not until you push past one of his friends—Heeseung, you think his name is—and his attention snaps to you.
The look he gives you isn’t one you’re used to seeing from him. It’s softer. Like light rain on a warm day. Like the beginning stages of a love that lasts a lifetime.
Every other time it’s been strong. Fierce. Like a house fire at its peak. But now…now it makes your heart melt just like it did when you’d seen him for the first time three years ago.
“Hi,” You breathe.
“Hi.” He replies.
His friends have dispersed now, leaving just you and him in the sea of bodies. The moonlight filters through the windows, reflecting across his face in a way that really should be illegal.
“You came,” He says after a moment, but he doesn’t sound surprised.
“I did.”
The air crackles between you in a way it never has before. Real and raw and entirely strange. It should scare you—it does scare you—but you lean into the feeling. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned the past couple of weeks, it’s to embrace the fear.
You reach into your purse and pull out the vial. It’s small, with a few drops of a see-through pink liquid that you don’t think anyone should ever be drinking.
“I need you to do something for me,” You tell him, voice shaking slightly. Embrace the fear, you remind yourself. “I need you to drink this.” You say, pushing the vial towards him.
His eyes flicker down to it, and then back up to yours, and for a moment you think he looks guilty.
“Look, [Y/N]—”
“Hoonie!” Your blood feels like it goes cold. Sophia approaches from behind you, shoving past and making her way in front of you like weren’t even there.
“I got your text,” She grins, voice sweet. But you know she knows what she’s doing. You know she’s doing it on purpose to upset you, but you’re not going to give her that satisfaction. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to your senses.”
Oh.
Your eyes widen slightly, something mean twisting in your stomach. Your heart feels heavy in a way that physically hurts. Of course. The experiment must’ve worn off, and he was trying to figure out the best way to tell you that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said. That’s why the air between the two of you had been so different.
You look at the antidote in your hand, and suddenly it feels pointless. Beomgyu did all that work just for it to wear off on its own. But you’d promised that you’d get him to drink it no matter what, and you weren’t planning on breaking that.
Sunghoon shakes his head, “Sophia, that’s not why I texted you.” He practically spits, “Stop trying to spin this into something you know it’s not.”
She looks genuinely taken aback for a moment but recovers swiftly. “I’m not trying to do anything,” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re the one who asked me to meet you, yes?”
His eyes flicker to yours, like he’s begging you to hear him out before you jump to conclusions. “I did, but—”
“Then what else am I supposed to assume? Unless,” She turns back to you then, finally acknowledging the fact that you’re there. The sneer on her face when she looks at you is nearly enough to make you feel small. “You didn’t want to say it in front of your rebound.”
Sunghoon visibly bristles, “She’s not—”
But you've heard enough. “It’s fine,” you say, not letting him finish. You manage a small smile, but it feels like poison against your skin. “I just need you to drink this so we can make sure everything goes back to normal without any hiccups.”
You push it back towards him, but he refuses to take it. “[Y/N], just let me explain.” He begs.
“You don’t need to explain to me.” You reply, and you mean it. You’d done the exact thing you’d been afraid of since the beginning, and that wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that you’d taken everything too seriously despite knowing it was all manufactured by your own hands. He’d just been an accidental victim. “Just drink it and then we can pretend none of this ever happened.”
When you let your eyes meet his, it hurts so bad you think you’ll collapse right there and then. He looks genuinely devastated, eyebrows pulled taut and lips parted. But you can’t for the life of you understand why. He was getting what he wanted, right? He was getting Sophia back. He was getting his life back. And so were you.
So why does it feel like nothing will ever be the same again?
He looks like he’s going to protest again, but holds back. Whether it’s for his own sake or yours, you aren’t sure.
He takes the vial from you with shaky hands, unscrewing the cap and swallowing it down in one gulp. He doesn’t make a face, even though you’re sure it can’t taste pleasant.
Once it’s done, you don’t bother saying bye. You just nod at him and turn on your heel, ignoring the smirk you can practically feel growing on Sophia’s face.
Sunghoon got what he wanted. So did you. That’s all that should matter.
But you still can’t stop the tears from flooding your eyes.
You don't look for your friends, you just get out of there as fast as possible. You knew this would happen, it was exactly why you'd been so worrued at first. And you did exactly what you said you would, you got too involved. You let his words seep through the cracks in your walls instead of strengthening them.
And now you weren't sure they'd ever be fully put back together again.
You spend the next few days locked away in your dorm. You skip class, even though you know you shouldn’t, and spend your time watching reruns of New Girl and eating bowls of Lucky Charms.
Usually, hiding away for a few days and letting yourself marinate in your ugly helps. But it’s been days since the party, and the ache in your chest hasn’t subsided at all.
Sunghoon tried to text you once, just to check up on you since you hadn’t shown up to class, but you didn’t respond; just shut off your phone and shoved it in between the couch cushions.
You’d known this would happen when it started. Knew you’d end up hurt, and the worst part was that it wasn’t even anyone’s fault. There was no one you could shift blame onto; no one you could justify being angry with.
It’d all just spiraled out of control before you could fix it.
The following Monday you finally decide to suck it up and go to class. You weren’t going to let a boy get in the way of your schooling, even if the thought of seeing him made you sick to your stomach. (Also because Yunjin had threatened to call your mom if you didn’t show up again, and you really didn’t want to have to deal with that.)
Your feet drag when you get there, head hanging low. You’re expecting Sunghoon to have gone back to his spot before, but when you look up, he’s still in the chair next to yours. He looks different. Tired, almost. Like he hasn’t gotten proper sleep in days. You doubt you look any better.
You approach cautiously, hoping and praying that he won’t try and say anything to you. Does he even remember everything that happened? Was memory loss a symptom? You weren’t really sure, and you weren’t that interested in finding out.
You feel his eyes on you when you sit down, pulling out your computer and crossing one leg over the other. You’re hoping you look the picture of casual, not like your heart was just unknowingly crushed by the boy next to you.
Sunghoon, for what its worth, doesn’t talk to you for the majority of the lesson. Just shakes his leg anxiously and sneaks not-so-subtle glances your way. He keeps biting his bottom lip like he wants to say something, but stops himself before he can. Truthfully, it takes everything in you to not look at him. It’d be so easy to look into those brown eyes and remember everything he’d said–to remember every almost-kiss and every i love you that spilled from his lips like oil spilling into an endless clear blue sea.
It’d be so easy to pretend that nothing had changed between you. That the last two weeks had never happened and things were still how they were before–when he was the moon and you were the star blinking just for him, hoping for just a sliver of attention.
But, you know things will never be the same.
You barely even register the lesson ending, not until you feel Yunjin at your side. She must’ve known you’d need her support right now, and that much you can appreciate.
“You good?” She mumbles, glancing over at Sunghoon. The lecture hall has begun to clear out now, only a few stragglers remaining. Everyone must be ready to get out of this weather.
You nod, but it’s not sincere. “Yeah,” You manage, stuffing your laptop into your bag. It clinks against the glass duck softly, and your heart twists again. “I’m all good.”
Yunjin gives you a look that says she doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. You stand, starting to make your way down the stairs and finally away from him–but he stops you.
“[Y/N].”
You almost don’t hear him at first, but you’d recognize that tone anywhere. The same one he’d used when he asked you to come to the rink with him. Insistence teetering on the edge of pleading, but there's something that underlines it. Something you’ve been recognizing within yourself a little too much lately.
You make the mistake of turning to look at him, and your breath catches in your throat. That look in his eyes is one you’ve seen before, the same one you’d convinced yourself meant nothing.
Pure, unfiltered, love.
Except now there isn’t any experiment to fall back on.
“Can we…” He glances back at Yunjin and clears his throat. “Can we talk?”
Everything inside of you screams at you to say no–to turn around and ignore the way your body feels like it’s being pulled towards him. Like the world has tilted on its axis and he is your only source of gravity.
Against your own will, you hear yourself say, “Okay.”
You’ve only ever felt genuine fear three times in your life.
That time in the second grade when your dad thought it’d be funny to take you on a roller-coaster despite your fear of heights, and you’d cried so hard you ended up throwing up onto the lady in front of you. Then, there was the time you’d accidently switched up a water bottle and literal acid your freshman year of college and watched as your professor drank one of the liquids (It’d been the water, thank God). And, of course, the time you watched Sunghoon drink your experiment.
But now, standing in some empty corridor with Park Sunghoon, you think you might have to add this to the list.
Embrace the fear, you remind yourself.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at you with this unreadable look in his eyes. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets, posture slightly slumped. He doesn’t look like the put together golden-boy you’d fallen in love with. He looks more vulnerable; more like a person instead of an idea.
He sniffles and juts his chin towards the duck hanging off your bag, “You aren’t scared it’ll break again?” He asks softly.
You glance down at the cracked glass, reaching out and holding it between your fingers. “I guess I wasn’t worried,” You mumble, “Because last time it shattered someone put it back together.”
You hear his breath catch at that, and he takes a small step towards you. He’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne, can feel the ghost of his lips on the crown of your head.
“Do you know why I fixed it?” He asks.
You swallow, having to lift your head slightly to see him. “Because you’re a nice person, Sunghoon.” You murmur, forcing yourself to take a small step back. Enough distance that his presence doesn’t feel like it’s consuming your very soul. “You would’ve done it for anyone.”
He breathes out a disbelieving laugh, “That’s not true.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyebrows knit together, “I know you’re smarter than that.” Even though his words are harsh, his tone is soft. Like he can’t even conceptualize the concept of being upset with you. Like it's an emotion he’s never even experienced.
He’s right, you are smarter than that. But last time you let yourself believe, you’d ended up exactly where you knew you would be–with a broken heart and tear-stained cheeks.
“You don’t understand,” You manage, voice breaking slightly. “You don’t feel that for me. I know you don’t.”
“How do you know that?”
You pause, bottom lip finding it’s way between your teeth. “You’ve been with Sophia for so long, and I’m just-just me. She’s beautiful and popular and I spend more time watching fucking Harry Potter with my friends then I do actually socializing and–”
Sunghoon cuts you off, voice level. “Exactly.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sure, Sophia is popular and objectively beautiful, but she isn’t you.”
It takes you a moment to fully process what he’s saying. But still, all you can find in yourself to manage is a quiet, “What?”
He takes another step closer, enclosing in on your personal space like he's always belonged there. “She isn’t you.” He repeats.
You’ve only felt genuine fear four times in your life. But only once has it ever melted into something so genuine–something so raw and real that your heart has felt like it was bursting at the seams.
“That night Jungwon shattered your duck, you said something. Do you remember what it was?”
You shake your head softly. All you remember from that night is how upset you’d been that it’d happened and trying to find it in yourself to forgive Jungwon.
Sunghoon’s lips twitch softly, “You said you loved it because it was different. You said you didn’t care that it was a little strange on the outside, because you knew it had a good heart.”
You don’t even remember those words coming out of your mouth. Honestly, you don’t even remember Sunghoon being close enough to hear them.
“I think that’s when I fell in love with you,” He admits quietly. “I didn’t know it at first, but it was there. Everytime you sat down in class and tried not to laugh at something Yunjin said, everytime I saw you and Jungwon studying at the library, I felt it.” He sucks in a breath, “And then I drank the experiment.”
You shudder at the memory, lips twisting slightly in discomfort. You’re expecting him to say that it made him realize his feelings for you weren’t actually there–that this was all just an elaborately cruel way to reject you.
But then, without even blinking, he says, “But it didn’t work.”
Your world stops for a moment. There’s no way that’s possible. You’d seen him with your own two eyes acting like a fool to get your attention. Constantly following you around, texting you late into the night, tucking your hair behind your ear–all things he’d done because the experiment gave him the confidence to. But, if that wasn’t true and the experiment hadn’t worked then that meant that all of it had been real. There’d never been any pretend. There’d never been any accidents.
It’d all been real.
Your eyes widen, hands gesturing in front of you. “But that doesn’t make any sense.” You insist, “You were acting like you…” Love me. The words linger in the air, like mistletoe teasing you.
You think at first, part of you still didn’t believe that he loved you even with him standing here pouring his heart out to you. It just didn’t make any sense in your head. But now it was undeniable. It was a burning truth that had forced its way into the light without so much as apologizing.
“Because I do,” He murmurs, “And maybe it was stupid to go about it this way. I won’t argue with you on that. But, can you blame me? Do you know how hard it was to approach you?”
You scoff, “Me? What about you? And what about Sophia–”
He shakes his head, “That’s done. Has been for a long time now. That’s why I texted her at the party, I wanted to make sure she finally got it through her head that there was nothing there.”
“Oh.”
Sunghoon chuckles, voice deep and soft. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Oh.”
You look up at him now, into those swimming pools of chestnut. His pupils are slightly dilated, light reflecting off of his irises in a way that looks serene. The air around you fills with a soft tension, one that you’d have to focus on to even really notice.
You don’t miss the way his eyes glance down at your lips, silently asking for a permission you’d given him years ago.
He leans in closer, breath warm against your lips. “I really want to kiss you right now,” He murmurs. Your skin tingles when his fingers brush the apple of your cheek, before cupping it softly.
You lean into him, reaching a hand up to cover his own. “What’s stopping you?”
He smiles, a big toothy grin that shows off his canines, and then leans forward slowly.
It isn’t really a kiss at first, more like he's just lingering there, letting your breaths intermix. His hand travels from your cheek to the side of your neck, gently holding you in place.
And then he surges forward, mouth moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize you. He’s gentle, holding you like you’re something fragile—like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he pushes too hard.
He pulls away slowly, grinning from ear to ear like he’s just won the lottery. “You have no idea how bad I've wanted to do that.”
You giggle, heat crawling up your stomach and swirling around your cheeks. “Maybe you should do it again just to make sure it sticks.”
Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate then. His hand finds your waist and pulls you into him, lips colliding with yours in a way that makes your head spin. You think colors swirl behind your eyes, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“I love you,” Sunghoon murmurs against your lips, “I love the way your nose scrunches when you’re focused,” He kisses the tip of your nose. “I love how kind you are even when people don’t deserve it,” Another one to your cheek. “I love that you’re unapologetically you.”
Your heart stutters, laughter bubbling out of your chest uncontrollably.
“You sure it isn’t because you accidentally drank a love potion?” You tease, reaching a hand up to tangle in the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.
He huffs, finally pulling away so he can get a good look at you. “I don’t think I’d need a love potion to find my way to you.” He says, voice so sincere it nearly makes tears spring to your eyes.
So, yeah. The thing about Biochemistry is that it’s extremely difficult and sometimes shows you that maybe you should let your curiosity remain exactly that—curiosity.
But sometimes, if you’re lucky, it can lead you to exactly where you’re supposed to go.
Sunghoons hand traces down your arm until it finds your hand, and he easily intertwines your fingers like he was always supposed to fit there. “Let me take you home?”
For the first time, you see no reason to argue. No reason to protect your heart or turn him away. So, without a single protest, you say, “Okay.”
You aren’t sure exactly how it happened. One minute Sunghoons walking you home, smiling like a kid in a candy store, and the next he’s kissing you like he’ll die if he isn’t touching you. Your apartment door shuts softly behind you, leaving just the two of you in your space.
You remember the last time he’d been in here, how he’d kissed the crown of your head with tender care. He’d seemed nervous then, like the action was scandalous. Now, it was nearly the opposite.
He isn’t rough, no, he’s deliberate. Fingertips tracing across the curve of your waist, teasing against the hem of your shirt. He kisses you like you’re the oxygen he needs to survive, like he's an addict and your lips are his fix.
It steals your breath away and breathes the air into your lungs all at once.
“Tell me to stop and I will.” He grunts against you, hands tugging at your waist and pulling you closer against him until you’re flush against his body.
“Sunghoon,” You gasp when you feel the growing bulge in his pants brush against your thigh. “Don’t you ever stop.”
That’s all it takes before he’s tapping your thigh once and lifting you into his arms. His hands take up half your thighs, kneading the skin as he carries you to your bedroom. You’re giggling the whole way there, hearts in your eyes and cheeks flushed.
He places you down on the bed gently, your hair fawning out around you like a halo. He sucks in a breath and crawls over you, eyes trained on your face. His knuckles brush your cheek, and you lean into it on pure instinct.
“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, voice tender. “Can’t believe you’re letting me love you.”
You smile, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. “There’s no one in this world for me except for you, Park Sunghoon.”
He grins, burying his face in the nape of your neck like he’s embarrassed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You answer, not even having to second guess yourself. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”
He whines at your words, lips tracing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the space behind your ear, tongue darting out occasionally to mark you as his.
He tugs gently at your shirt and you arch your back so he can pull it over your head and toss it across the room, but it gets stuck on your elbow and he has to tug it loose. You laugh when it finally comes off, your hair falling in places it isn’t supposed to.
Sunghoon giggles and pecks your lips. “You’re making this difficult," he teases.
You just shrug and settle back down, ignoring the way his fingers trail over your bare stomach and pop open the button of your jeans. “I have to make you work for it.”
He smirks, devilish and no longer with any of that boyishness he’d had earlier. “Yeah, baby?” He whispers, voice husky. “Want me to beg you to let me taste you?”
Your breath hitches, bottom lip finding its way in between your teeth. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore.
He unzips your jeans and slowly drags them down your legs, tossing them to the floor and out of sight. “Want me to beg you to let me fuck you?” He continues.
You whimper, the sound escaping you without your permission. You’d be lying if you said the idea of Sunghoon on his knees for you doesn’t make something burn deep in your belly, but the thought of admitting that to him make your nerves spike with embarrassment.
He chuckles, sinking down to his knees until his face is level with your cunt. You can’t help but squirm in place, because even though your panties still cover you, you feel completely exposed. If you would’ve known this was going to happen today, you would’ve worn something much cuter. Not your days of the week pantied and an old bra that was a pathetic excuse for lacy.
Sunghoons breath ghosts against your growing slick, and you know your panties are already damp. “You gonna let me touch you, baby?” He asks.
You nod your head insistently, hips searching for any kind of relief. He just chuckles and places a hand on your tummy to hold you down. “Need to hear you say it.” He murmurs. You can feel his lips brushing against your core, his nose nudging in the junction of your hip. He’s so close to giving you what you want, but he won’t. Not until he hears it coming from your own lips.
“Please,” You gasp. Your own voice sounds so needy, completely foreign to your own ears. “Wan’ you to touch me, Hoon.”
He groans, but immediately obliges. He doesn’t devour you at first, just lets his tongue lick small little kitten licks over your panties. You jump at the feeling, but he uses his spare hand to grip your hip and hold you down.
He’s messy with it, even when he’s being gentle. He licks you open until you’re teary eyed and your panties are so drenched they look nearly see-through. He just sighs dreamily, like he’s enjoying some five-star meal and not like he’s eating you out like his life depends on it.
Pretty soon though you get over feeling everything without actually feeling it, because yes, it feels fucking insane–but you want to actually feel his lips against your bare folds. Want to feel him suck against your clit while his fingers get you ready to take him. It’s just actually admitting that that’s the hard part.
“Sunghoon,” You whine, hips stuttering slightly. “Stop teasing me.”
He pulls off of you, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I’m not teasing you, baby.” He chuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the skin of your hip.
You huff, “You are.”
He raises a brow and begins to stand, and your stomach immediately drops. “You want me to stop then?”
“No!” You cry, shaking your head furiously. “God, no, don’t-don’t stop.”
He nods slowly, finding his place on his knees in front of you once again. “Then be a good girl and tell me what you want.”
It shouldn't be as embarrassing as it is. You’re a twenty-something year old woman with a sparkling GPA and enough experience under your belt that asking for something like this should be easy. But Sunghoons looking at you so tenderly, his hair a slight mess and eyes fucked out without even having been touched, and you’re finding it difficult to get the words out.
“I want…” You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze to the ceiling. “I want you to eat me out. Properly.”
He grins and presses a chaste skin to the inside of your thigh. “See?” He hums, “that wasn’t so hard was it?”
You don't bother giving him a response, because he’s already pulling your panties off your legs and plunging back in like a man starved. His lips wrap around your clit and suck the bud into his mouth, causing your back to arch and a loud moan to fall from your lips.
He doesn’t stop after that, licking and sucking with such expertise you wonder how Sophia could ever want anything else. She had all this and genuinely thought she was going to get better? What a fucking joke.
“S-Sunghoon–” You gasp, fingers tightening into fists in his hair. He groans when you tug lightly, and you swear you see his hips roll against nothing.
The hand on your belly travels down until he reaches your fluttering hole, gently pushing his middle finger inside of you. The stretch isn’t intense, more like just a subtle pressure between your hips, but it’s drowned out by the stimulation against your clit.
His fingers aren’t abnormally large, but they are long. So long he finds your g-spot with ease and curls his finger against it until you swear you’re seeing stars. You let out a choked whimper, hips stuttering against him.
He seems to take that as a good sign because he’s slipping another finger inside now, intensifying the stretch and making your eyes roll back. His fingers move in tandem with his tongue, licking and thrusting until your vision starts to blur at the corners. You’re close, you know it–can feel it tightening deep in your stomach.
“Gonna-gonna cum, fuck, m’cumming–”
Sunghoon hums, and the vibrations are exactly what you need to reach your peak. Your back bows off the bed, mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut. You release with a silent cry of his name. He fucks you through it, and you can feel his eyes on you as he does. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your legs shake slightly with aftershocks. He’s studying this image of you, fucked out and empty-headed, like he’s committing it to memory.
When he finally pulls away your vision is slowly starting to come back to you. You barely register him maneuvering to come up next to you until you watch him rid himself of his shirt and you come face-to-face with the hard plains of his chest. His skin is soft and milky, the soft lines of his abs rising and falling as he takes in breaths of air.
You reach for him and he complies, falling over you until you’re chest to chest. You don’t waste any time before you’re kissing him again. You can taste the saltiness of your own slick on his lips, but you don’t care–instead, you kiss him deeper.
His tongue slips until your mouth, brushing against your own. It’s wet and gross and fucking perfect. “Sunghoon,” You manage between pants, “Fuck me.”
A beat passes as his eyes find yours, “Yeah?”
You nod, and that’s all the answer he needs. He wastes no time ridding himself of his pants and lining himself up with your entrance. He pushes in slowly, taking in every expression you make like he’s scared he’ll hurt you. And, yeah, he’s big. Like, bigger than anything you’ve ever taken. But the stretch is also perfect, filling you so completely your eyes nearly roll back.
“Fuck, you’re warm,” He mumbles, words slurring together. He sounds drunk on you.
When he bottoms out, you swear you’re seeing soundwaves and hearing colors. His tip nudges against that spot in you perfectly, curved at just the right angle.
He takes a moment to let you adjust, but you can tell he’s holding himself back. His fingers drip the sheets with effort, bottom lips in between his teeth. You roll your hips once, testing the waters, and the pleasure that floods through you forces a moan out of the both of you.
“Don’t do that,” He says breathily, voice on the verge of collapse. “Fuck.”
It takes a second, but his hips slowly start to push into yours. His thrusts are shallow at first, just little pushes that help you to accommodate his size, but it’s not long before they turn rougher.
He pulls out halfway just to slam back in, and your breath actually gets ripped from your lungs. Stars swim behind your eyes as he finds his pace, “Fuck,” You breathe.
Sunghoon gasps, burying his face in your neck. “I love you,” He groans, “Fuck, I love this pussy. I love the way you sound. Love the way you fucking feel. You’re perfect,” He babbles.
You part your lips to reply, but all that comes out is a sob when he thrusts particularly hard. You tighten instinctively around him, and he falters for a split-second before he’s finding his tempo again.
He fucks you like you’ve been denying him for years, like he’s spent every night dreaming of this. Tears of pleasure begin to streak across your cheeks; each he kisses away without so much as a hum.
It’s so intimate, so perfect, so full of love that you don’t even notice you’re approaching your climax until it crashes over you.
“Fuck, just like that,” Sunghoon whimpers, reaching down and rubbing light circles over your clit. “You’re so perfect. Such a good fucking girl. My good girl.” And then he’s releasing inside of you, hot spurts of cum painting your insides.
He stays inside of you after he comes, both of you panting hard, sweat and fluids leaking from your bodies. He eventually pulls out and lays down next to you, his arm across your middle.
You’re silent for a moment, collecting your thoughts. You just had Sex with Park Sunghoon. Not only that, but Park Sunghoon is in love with you. He’d said it enough times tonight for you to finally really believe it.
“You okay?” He asks softly, reaching up and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. The gentleness in which he treats you now is such a stark contrast to the brutalness of which he just fucked you that you nearly laugh.
“Yeah,” You hum, voice a bit raspy. “I’m perfect.”
Sunghoon grins and pulls you into him. He kisses you again, but there aren’t any intentions behind it. Instead, it’s slow and sweet, like he’s hoping to convey every emotion he’s ever felt into the kiss.
“Good,” he says, pulling away slightly. “Because I’m going to remind you of how much I love you as much as I can.”
You laugh, “Are you asking to fuck me again?”
He shakes his head, “No,” He whispers, “I’m asking if I can make love to you again.”
And it doesn’t take much for you to say yes.
You’ve been dating Park Sunghoon for nine months and fourteen days. Nine months of hockey games, late night study session, and weekly dates (all of which he insisted he pay for). Nine months of surprise gifts, of sweet words, and daily reminders of just how lucky you are to have him.
Yunjin groans next to you, typing away furiously on her phone. “I can’t believe this is happening again!” She whines.
“I told you that a man you met on snapchat quick add wasn’t going to end up the love of your life.” Beomgyu sings knowingly, shoveling popcorn in his mouth.
“For what it's worth, he really wasn’t even that cute.” Jungwon adds.
She shoots him a glare, “Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Jiung was fucking beautiful and now he’s ghosting me!”
You shiver slightly, watching Sunghoon glide on the ice. He’s instructing his teammates to do something; you aren’t really sure. He’d tried to explain the rules of hockey to you months ago, but your brain was very clearly made for science and not sports.
“Try not to worry about it, Yunjin,” you say sympathetically, placing a comforting hand on her back. “You just haven’t met your person yet.”
She scoffs, gesturing at your shirt. “Easy for you to say when you’re already practically married to, like, the most perfect guy on the planet!”
You glance down at what you’re wearing–a blue jersey with the number 23 sprawled in the middle. Sunghoons hockey number.
You would argue with her, maybe try to make her feel better, but your eyes lock with Sunghoons across the rink for just a moment, and you stop yourself.
Because, well, she’s right. You did get lucky. You glance down at the duck hanging off of your bag, the very thing that had unknowingly started this entire thing.
“Yeah,” You shrug, “You’re right.”
And when you go home that night, listening to Sunghoon ramble about scoring the winning goal, you know that there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
thank you guys so much for reading 🥲 this story took everything out of me but i’m mostly happy with how it came out. ily guys <3
summary: much to Jungwon’s dismay, his lovely girlfriend will always be 100% fangirl at heart
idol!jungwon x fem!reader
cw: slightly suggestive, boynextdoor and why don’t we mentions, jungwon is just being a brat.
a/n: this is the product of me being bored at work! I was also feeling very inspired after that last Jungwon text fic :P. Hope you all found it as funny as I did :)
summary. making a fool out of himself in front of three thousand people on the regular sure never taught heeseung how to talk to pretty girls—a realization he only has when you (the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen) walk into his soul-sucking economics class and all he’s got in manpower is himself, his idiot friends, and a deeply unhelpful twitch chat.
pairing. streamer!heeseung x y/n
↳ ft jay, jake, sunghoon, and twitch chat
genre. college au, twitch streamer au, fluff, classmates to lovers
word count. 12.0k
disclaimers. heeseung-centric/pov, swearing, alcohol use, kissing/suggestive activities while drunk, smoking, some crudeness bc they're stupid college guys, pacing is highkey ass i'm sorry
released. 03.09.2026
author's note. this is a prequel to sparks but the events are slightly tweaked and can be read entirely as a standalone! my take on loser heeseung and the pinnacle of my streamer!enha career. i hope no one minds that it's told from hee's pov :( pls tell me all ur thoughts about everything!!
masterlist
any feedback is appreciated ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ᗜ<)
burgermuncher123: what fucking idiot streams their course selection
When Lee Heeseung goes live at a time of day that isn’t four in the morning, people fear the worst.
The most widely accepted explanation is that he was kidnapped because he “looked kidnappable.” Some propose that he must’ve been beaten up by those kids he was cyberbullying on Among Us VR a few days ago. Something, something, “Mr. Beast video”—the stream notification might as well have been a national emergency alert.
But as they flood into his corner of Twitch, everyone quickly realizes that their streamer was, in fact, perfectly fine.
There he is, in all his unassuming, wonky headset glory. The storage room he passionately defends as a bedroom is still comfortably barren, bathed in a cozy golden light by the morning sun that filtered in through the dented shutters—something softer on the eyes than the blinding white of his ring lights. His keyboard collection is tucked away in one corner, a bulky dehumidifier running in the other.
gopissgirl: Bro this fucking ragebaiter. look at his Stupid ass
mavuikasbikecanrunmeover: HE’S NOT DEAD!!!!!
xyz_: yo his bald spot finally isn’t reflecting the light peepoCheer
Heeseung cracks his knuckles. Twists his neck, then his back.
“Alright, chat.” A sigh from the depths of his soul leaves him. “We’re fighting a war today.”
It turns out the earth-shattering event that warrants a Heeseung stream at nine-thirty in the morning is his second-year course selection. Or, in more efficient terms, war—because if he had to spend one more second in the torture chamber that is Professor Jenkins’ circuits lecture, he will die in those trenches.
hoonbot: ARE YOU TAKING 12 COURSES HELLO
jeikeushim: i will NEVER regret switching to accounting
user14: why the fuck are u taking econ1130 man 😭😭
“Okay, okay, chat,” Heeseung hunches forward, elbows knocking into a crumpled Monster can before firmly planting on the desk. His hands are steepled, voice low and dead serious, as if he’s about to deliver the most unrivaled, undeniable justification for why he, an engineering student, is going to take Economic History in the Twentieth Century.
“Listen. I need to fulfill a breadth credit this year and Jay said the prof is super chill. Plus, I saw a guy on Reddit say this was a bird course. I’ll be fine.”
applesauceeater: oh this guy’s so Cooked
girlqueenpussyboss67: whenever sunghoon starts talking about coding i like to come watch u cuz it reminds me that it’s ok to be a little stupid in the head <3
“I like to come watch you because it reminds me that it’s okay to be a little stupid in the he—” A loud, indignant sputter. He pushes himself up, walks to the back of the room (“the gall,” the microphone manages to pick up) before sitting back down and scooting back towards the camera.
“Mods, ban the guy who said that. Also, ban the guy who brought up the bald spot I do not have, and ban the word ‘bald’ from my chat.”
Heeseung needs to kill Jay.
And that one guy from Reddit. And himself from two months ago.
Some would argue that he’s being too much of a hater barely a week into the term, but Heeseung can barely find enough fucks to give about this class at all, let alone question the ethics of his internal Death Note.
Circuits with Jenkins, Heeseung decides, was heaven compared to this. The classroom hadn’t been bad. Jake and Sunghoon had shared it with him, so he could spend his classes fucking around on Roblox Fruit Tycoon Simulator rather than paying attention. Sometimes, Jenkins would grace the class by rambling on about her ongoing divorce with her good-for-nothing husband. In retrospect, what had he been complaining over? Certainly nothing worse than this.
The Economics department holds its courses in one of the campus’ oldest buildings: a quaint, beautiful thing—Romanesque in its turrets and arched windows and brickwork. It’s a shame the outside is the only part of it that seems maintained at all, since Heeseung’s lecture hall seems a cough and two sneezes away from falling apart completely.
No windows, awful ventilation, sticky tables. The sound of the professor’s gnarly smoker voice. Heeseung laments about how he can’t enjoy the daylight he never enjoys anyway—and promptly decides to make it Jay’s problem.
Jay—who’d been having a steak burrito in the student commons between classes before being intercepted by Heeseung and cursed out so colourfully he’d have thought he’d killed his parents—blinks at his friend.
“Dude,” he says, more dumbfounded than anything. “Do you not background check your classes? Even a little? The economics building is straight dogshit. Everyone knows that.”
Heeseung wonders why his hands are still at his sides and not wrapped around Jay’s throat. “That’s not the point. You said that he was chill,” he seethes.
Jay takes another bite, voice muffled by the food in his mouth. “He is chill. Plays golf with my dad on Sundays at our country club.”
“He sounds like he chain-smokes twenty-five cigs a day. He calls everyone ‘kid’, but it’s, like, condescending. Not in a cool way like Brad Pitt does it.”
“Nothing to do with how chill he is, man. Besides, you’re lucky you only have to take an easy course and not something like econometrics.”
“I know you did not just say that to me of all people,” Heeseung grits out, having to physically restrain himself from making a colouring book joke.
A thinly veiled snicker, hastily covered up by a weak cough. “Well, you’re outta luck. Can’t drop courses until next week.”
“Whatever, I’ll just skip until then—”
“Go and I’ll give you fifty dollars for it.”
Unbothered by how Heeseung is gawking at him, Jay finishes the last bits of his food, crumpling the foil into a little ball. For all the pity he felt that Heeseung actually took the class he’d only recommended as a half-joke, he also felt a strong urge to make his friend suffer, to put it ineloquently. One of his eyebrows is slightly quirked, as if to ask if it was a deal or not.
God, rich people are freaks, Heeseung curses in his mind. On what planet does he benefit from that? What am I, his little show pony? This is ridicul—
“Deal, you son of a bitch,” he hisses, snatching his bag and storming out.
Making bank, Heeseung resolves, has to take priority.
Not that he particularly wants to indulge Jay’s sick, twisted wishes—but rather because fifty dollars is fifty dollars, and to someone like Jay, fifty dollars is a tissue to blow his nose with.
Three more agonizing lectures go by before the day miraculously arrives: the last time Heeseung would ever have to attend this godforsaken class. Never again would he have to hear a lick about post-war economic development or anything of the sort.
The lecture hall is still as dreadful as ever, though noticeably emptier than it’d been the first week, which Heeseung decides that he cannot wait to contribute to. He slumps into an empty seat (still uncomfortably warm from whoever was sitting here before him), slots his headphones over his ears, and prepares to mentally clock out for the next two hours.
Perhaps the universe is finally on his side.
Sure, having to be here at all is a huge drag—but for once, the walk to the Economics building hadn’t been polluted with the smell of chemicals from neverending construction. His Discover Weekly had refreshed and wasn’t ass.
And now, in a few hours time, he would officially be fifty dollars richer, spending his sweet new free time playing FIFA and fucking up a bag of M&M’s and—
Someone taps his shoulder.
Heeseung jolts at the touch, eyes sliding half-open. Despite half his vision being blocked by his hood and music blasting him towards deafness, he can vaguely sense a presence next to him. Figuring it’s someone passing through, he moves to pick his bag up from where it is at his feet—but the tap comes again.
One of his hands moves to pause his music, the other sliding his headphones off one ear.
“—cuse me, sorry. Is this seat taken?”
Heeseung finally bothers to look up, and—
Fuck. Oh, fuck my life.
There’s little that can phase a guy who accidentally ripped his pants on stream and made “BUZZ LIGHTYEAR BOXERS” the number one trend on Twitter for a full twenty-four hours. He’s seen it all, done it all—worn the maid outfit, read fanfiction of him and Sunghoon, the works. Figured he'd already been enlightened to the highest degree after watching Megan Fox in Jennifer's Body when he was fourteen.
So, maybe he should feel a little pathetic about how openly he's gawking, but he's far too busy trying to figure out if he's hallucinating the ridiculously pretty girl in front of him.
Lips pursed, you manage a small, nervous smile. Your head swivels to look around the lecture hall. “Um, if it’s taken, I’ll just—”
“It’s not taken,” Heeseung blurts out, as if his tongue had finally screwed itself back on. “It’s— no one’s sitting here, no. You can sit.”
Your eyes soften with relief, mumbling a quiet “thanks.”
Heeseung closes his eyes. Shuts them so hard that they start to hurt from the pressure and colours start exploding behind his eyelids. Anything to distract himself from how his throat is closing up because the prettiest girl he never even fathomed could exist had just knocked her knee into his as she's settling into the cramped seat.
So much for mentally clocking out.
The lecture hall quiets as the professor coughs into the mic. Lights dim, and a PowerPoint that was easily made ten years ago is projected onto the pull-down screen, crooked from the audience's point of view. Heeseung can feel the drowsiness from the warm, stuffy air threatening to pull him under.
Breathing in heavily, he’s ready to drown himself out again, but a whisper comes from beside him, making him stiffen. “This class has been going on for a while, right? Did I miss anything?”
He swallows, voice rough. “Uh, no. Just standard syllabus stuff… this guy drones a lot.”
A giggle, followed by a sarcastic sigh. “Read his reviews so my hopes aren’t high. But it’s required, so what can you do?”
Your elbow is propped up on the seat arm between him and you, jaw cradled in the palm of your hand—just shy of brushing against the fabric of his hoodie. “I would’ve taken it in the winter term, but there was one person in a group chat I’m in who said he was ‘super chill’, so he can’t be that bad, right?”
Heeseung could kiss Jay on the mouth.
For the remainder of the lecture, the two of you are silent. You’d since slipped on a pair of clear-framed glasses, perched on the slope of your nose as you diligently take notes—while Heeseung’s trying not to piss himself every time you tuck a loose lock of hair back behind your ear in the corner of his vision.
When noon hits, the lecture hall rumbles with noise again as everyone is filing out. Heeseung from literally two hours ago would be bewildered by his current self still being in his seat rather than having already sprinted out the door.
“I never caught your name,” you say, cutting through the noise. He can hear your voice clearly now that you aren’t whispering. “I’m Y/N.”
He wets his lips. “Heeseung,” he manages.
“Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around?”
“Y— Yeah.”
Heeseung does not drop Economic History in the Twentieth Century.
He'd spent a good ten minutes logged into his student portal—the 'withdraw' button he'd been so ready to press staring him down as if daring him to even think about it anymore—before closing out of the tab. Admitting defeat.
Which means he doesn’t free up any time in his schedule to play FIFA, nor does he get fifty dollars from Jay (despite his negotiations that he’d technically fulfilled what he’d been asked to do).
All he really got out of this ordeal was unsolicited emotional turmoil over a girl he’s had barely half a conversation with.
Two full days have passed since he's met you, and not once had you strayed from his thoughts for more than a few minutes. In all honestly, he's can't remember exactly what your features look like from off the top of his head—but he remembers that you had outrageously pretty eyes and hair and a sweet lilt to your voice that makes him want to tear his hair out. The feeling you'd caused to stir in his chest lingers, stubbornly refusing to leave.
heeshings: alt revived bc my streamer got action. we all cheered
washingmachine42069: Yo you talk to women ?
Heeseung groans loudly, hands dragging down his face. “You don’t get it, chat,” he fake sobs. “She’s so fucking pretty. Like—”
Shooting up, his arms wave around as he attempts to defend himself. “—I literally sat down, ready to honk, shooo, mimimimi pass out, and then I feel this tap on my shoulder. I’m like ‘bro, who the fuck is this’. I turn my head and boom. I'm at the pearly white gates. It's God. I saw God—I literally entered heaven. You guys wouldn’t drop the class either! Stop pretending you would!”
user8: based on how you’re reacting to this i can tell u had No game
jayparkk_ ✔: respond to my msgs
jayparkk_ ✔: shouldn’t u be thanking me licking my shoes or some shit i literally locked u in for life
“‘I literally locked you in for life’ you didn’t lock me into shit,” Heeseung grits out, pointing an accusing finger at the webcam. “All you’ve done is made it so I have to keep going to these fucking awful classes.”
jayparkk_ ✔: aint no one forcing you into anything lil bro 😹😹😹
rima_ovo: “all you’ve done is cause a gorgeous woman to enter my life” my steak too juicy. my lobster too buttery. We need to kill this guy
xddd111: dw bout it we’re gonna manifest her for you KEEP YO CHIN UP KING 💯💯💯
The aged playground swing creaks as Sunghoon settles into it.
“I thought you dropped that class,” he comments, offhanded.
Perhaps it's a bit concerning—and sad—for three grown men to be loitering at the local children's playground at one in the morning. Even the stray tabby that likes to wander around the area is giving them what could seriously be a stink eye.
But Heeseung had been throwing so egregiously in Valorant that it was making Sunghoon rank down, so the latter had to put his foot down and stage an intervention.
Heeseung's quiet from his spot in the whale spring rider.
His lanky form is folded up in the small space, chin perched on his tightly drawn-up knees. Frigid air chips at his cheeks as he stares at no particular spot on the ground. “I was going to. Jay was even gonna give me fifty bucks for it—” neither Jake nor Sunghoon comment on how that makes no sense, “—But I raise you this: pretty girl.”
Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “You didn't drop the course that made you want to kill yourself because of some eye candy?” he asks incredulously.
Jake snorts loudly, fishing a pack of cigarettes out from the back pocket of his jeans. Flicking the top open, he slips one out with slender fingers. “Hoon, haven't you been eye-fucking your stats TA for weeks now? Don't think you're reaaaaally one to talk.” —to which Sunghoon shamelessly ignores.
“First of all, speak on her with some respect,” Heeseung retorts. “She's not just eye candy. Have you considered that she had a good impact on my mental health? Exhibit A: I don't want to kill myself when I think of that class anymore.”
“Man, if this girl is as great as you make her out to be, you gotta shoot your shot or something,” Jake says, voice slightly muffled. “Cig?”
Heeseung declines. Lighting a flame, then taking a drawn-out drag, Jake continues: “'cause you can't just sit around on your ass all day, hoping she'll pick you if you ogle her stupidly enough.”
“Fuck off, I wasn't gonna do that anyway. Either way, literally what business do I have shooting my shot? I don't know anything other than her first na—”
“Y/N L/N,” Sunghoon's drawling cuts through the air.
“Philosophy, politics, and economics major. Wants to go to law school. Transferred from Hanhwa Women's College. Sister's...” he squints at his screen. “—sister's a big shot lawyer downtown.”
Silence. “How the fuck did you do that?”
Shrugging, Sunghoon plucks the cigarette from between Jake's fingers, bringing it up to his own lips. “Not hard. Here, want to see it again?”
He taps around on his phone for half a minute or so. “Jason's seeing Charlotte Kim. The volleyball one.”
Jake shoots up from where he's been lying on the ground, several woodchips stuck to the back of his hoodie. “He is?”
Sunghoon pulls up a photo on his screen, which Jake immediately snatches into his own hands. “Yeah. He's your neighbour, dumbass. How the hell do you not know this?”
“Dude, I've been crashing at Lambda recently 'cause Minjun's on exchange, so his room's empty. It's fucking sick, Ren's girl makes the craziest Belgian waffles—”
The sound of a car horn blares through the quiet of the night, causing a flock of birds to flee from where they'd been nestled in the trees. Heeseung's gaze snaps over, squinting as Jay's familiar figure locks the sleek convertible before slinking up to the group.
He's baffled at the sight. “The fuck are you guys doing?”
“Therapy,” Jake calls out, shaking the cigarette pack in the air. “Cig?”
Jay takes one, catching the lighter Sunghoon tosses his way. “I saw you guys on 360. You know you look really fucking weird, right?”
“We, gang. If we went down right now, you'd be part of it.”
Heeseung's hates how Jay turns to him with a gleam in his eyes.
“Listen, Heeseung,” he starts. “I know you already sorta owe me your first-born child for being the best wingman ever, but since I'm so gracious—I have a plan, and on my balls it's going to end your bitchless streak.”
Planting a solid hand on Heeseung's shoulder, he says, with all the seriousness in the world: “You've gotta talk to her.”
The three of them stare at him in complete silence, broken only by the woodchip Sunghoon chucks at the back of his head. “Shut the fuck up, dude. You're pissing me off.”
Jay hisses, shooting a scathing glare at Sunghoon while rubbing at the spot he'd been struck. “If you'd let me finish,” he snarks, turning back to Heeseung. “You've gotta get her to warm up to you. Be proactive. Women love that shit. But only if they like you.”
“And what if she, I don't know, doesn't like me?”
“That's what the talking part is for, idiot. You've gotta gauge whether she fucks with you or not. She's friends with Chaewon, so I can even help you on that front. Then, if she seems sorta into you, invite her to the Lambda party.”
Heeseung blinks. “You want me to win her over by talking to her and then inviting her to a frat party?” he sputters. “Who am I, Jake?”
“Do you want to become co-president of the eye-fucking club with Sunghoon and expect her clothes to magically be on the floor?”
Another woodchip is aimed at Jay's head, which he manages to dodge this time—only for another to fling square into his forehead, this time from Heeseung.
“Ow!” Jay yelps. “Fuck's your problem?”
“I'm not trying to fuck her, dickhead.”
Jay gives him deadpan look. “What I mean is that the bar's in hell. You've gotta raise it at least a little.”
His gaze is determined. Unwavering. Freakishly inspiring. It has Heeseung nodding along, despite not knowing and, frankly, being scared of why. As if a weird seed of motivation was planted inside of him, growing, snowballing.
Jake's cigarette is on its last legs. He's about to let it drop and snuff it out with his sole until it's snatched out of his grasp by Heeseung, who hastily presses it between his lips.
A rough inhale. Nicotine courses through his thrumming veins. A calm exhale.
He nods firmly. “I'm going to do this.”
Slam.
The wood of his desk is cold against Heeseung's forehead. “Chat, I can't fucking do this.”
Something might have genuinely possessed him last night, because whatever speck of conviction Heeseung had about getting to know you was nowhere to be found the second he woke up that morning.
He's been spiralling in a whirlpool of preemptive humiliation and despair since—so much so that he went live with the stream title “FUCK MY STUPID BAKA LIFE!!!!!!”, which his mods, fearing the wrath of Twitch's Terms of Service, lovingly re-titled to “heeseung girl crashout #2”.
Jay accompanies him this time, sprawled out on armchair at the back of the room. Legs propped up on an ottoman as he plays Geometry Dash on his phone.
“I don't know what you're freaking out about,” he says wryly, not looking up. “Plan's not flawless, but it is flexible.”
“She's gonna think I'm a sleaze!” Heeseung exclaims, dropping his face into his hands. “I'm gonna fuck up my shot before I even have a chance to shoot it!”
Setting his phone aside, Jay crosses his arms. “Alternatively, she might be into you and think that you're not into her because you're not doing anything about it.”
ikeuekeu: TRUTH NUKE
xx_gamer42_xx: my brother in christ how are u gonna get a golden ticket and be too much of a pussy to go into the chocolate factory
The last message is read out by the text-to-speech, sending Jay into a fit of howling laughter, having to muffle it against the nearest cushion he can grab onto. Heeseung hardly manages a weak “shut up” that sounds lame even to his own ears.
He lets his eyes close, expecting respite. Reprieve, even.
He sees your face instead.
An aching groan rumbles from his lips. “Fine, fine! I'll do it!”
user12: any updates on the girlfriend arc ?
“Fuck.”
The sharp curse flies out of Heeseung's mouth as he watches his Valorant agent fall to the ground, shot dead. He cards a hand through his hair, murmuring a low “52, Chamber” into his comms before letting his gaze flit over to his vertical monitor.
“'Any updates on the girlfriend arc?'” he scoffs. “Is that what we're calling it?”
At that moment, a notification pops up on his phone—a small ding that vibrates against his desk.
Heeseung flips it over in his hand. The blue light of the screen reflects in the sheen of his eyes. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth, the faintest trace of a smile threatening to appear.
shinramyeo_n: IS THAT A SMILE I SEE
jakelikestobake: oh my god bruh my streamer's the Rizzler
Heeseung has never, in the history of his existence, ever been this indecisive.
After fucking around the whole summer after first year, he put hardly two thoughts worth of deliberation into choosing which branch of engineering he wanted to major in. Only went to one showing when he was apartment hunting because “as long as there's an ethernet port and I can run 144 Hz, it's chill.”
Yet, he's on the path to the Economics building—a walk he's made way more times than he expected—for the sole reason that he might hit it big and catch a glimpse of you again, and he's been stuck in a never ending push and pull the entire way there.
Passes the construction site that's started up work again. ('Jay's a— a no nonsense type of guy. Straightforward and logical. Isn't he trying to bag a job at McKinsey or whatever? He's good at this solution-giving shit, right?')
Stops at a wooden bench in front of a courtyard fountain, burying his face in his hands. ('Who am I kidding? Jay? Jay made his LinkedIn in ninth grade! He doesn't have a soul—')
Eventually, Heeseung manages to back-and-forth himself into the threshold of the lecture hall's northernmost entrance, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes scan down the rows of seats.
('Alright, well. Didn't instantly see her the second I stepped in so my life's over. Time to lea—')
A hand waves at him from three rows down.
Face lit up with recognition, you turn around in your seat, whispering something to your friend before waving him over a little more energetically.
Heeseung's breath catches as he spots you. Several thoughts are whirling around in his head (the most coherent one being slight confusion about how you still recognize him). Panic seems to keep the soles of his feet glued to the floor—until they're suddenly moving.
“Heeseung, right?” A smile graces your lips, small but warm. “Do you wanna sit? I was originally saving this seat, but someone—” you shoot a playful glare at the girl next to you, “—has an interview she has to leave for.”
He vaguely recognizes her as Chaewon, one of Jay's friends from high school. She's looking at him knowingly, head cocked to the side—a look he conveniently doesn't meet.
“I...” He dares to peer into your eyes for a half a second. Doesn't catch the slightly optimistic glimmer in them before already looking away. “...Yeah, sure. That'd be great, thanks.”
Class goes by relatively similarly to the first time he met you: in sum, you're actually paying attention to the lecture while Heeseung does anything but. It's only at the end where, rather than leaving, you're still hovering next to him.
Waiting for him, he slowly realizes. “You're staying behind?”
It's the first time he sees your expression shift into something more timid. “If you're free—” you start, “—would you wanna come to the library with me? I have some things to work on, and... I'd like the company.”
It's noon on a weekday. Sunghoon would probably be at the library, slaving away at whatever computer science assignment currently had him shackled to the wall. If Heeseung, God forbid, runs into him at any point and he sees him trailing behind you, there would be a clowning in the group chat like never seen before.
And, sure enough, about two minutes after he walks by a Sunghoon-shaped figure slouched at a bureau, Heeseung feels his phone start to buzz violently in his pocket.
You tilt your head to the side, lips quirked in a teasing smile. “Popular much?”
Embarrassed, he chuckles dryly, silencing his phone with a swift click. “I wish.”
Heeseung's friendship with you is a simple one.
Uncomplicated in a way that, despite the two of you not doing too much actual talking, puts him at ease—a boat drifting on a calm wave. He's never been the type to try and fill dips in conversation by piling on more, but he'll still feel the weight of it—whereas with you, you'll simply be studying, spinning a pen between your fingers and humming a soft tune under your breath, while he tries to peek at you as discreetly as possible.
Silence with you is comfortable.
Then, when momentum builds (“I've gotta go. They're having tryouts for the moot court team in half an hour.” “...Wait—” “Hm? What's up?” “...I've got a ton of physics work to do. Uh, so I'll probably be locked up in the library for the rest of the week, haha.” “Then... then I might join you sometimes. If that's okay, of course.” “Yeah, yeah, no yeah, that's okay. Feel free.”), conversation weaves itself into the space between you.
Heeseung learns that you transferred here from the women's university across town on a scholarship. Your sister had gone here for law school, and you, wanting to do the same, figured it give you the best chance if you did your undergrad and built a network here.
All very academically diligent things that Heeseung, to put it frankly, couldn't really resonate with—but he likes watching your eyes glint as you talk about it. You're determined, he knows that much.
He learns that you're quieter than he'd assumed, based on how readily you spoke to him the first time you met. A bit clumsy, he realizes as the two of you trudge to the nearby shawarma truck and you occasionally bump into his shoulder. He has to pretend like he isn't holding his breath each time you do, and when he finally swallows his nerves down, he manages to puff out his chest enough to tease you about how you “can't walk in a straight line.”
It's sweet, he thinks. You're sweet.
fluffydogpng: someone clip this RIGHT NOW
0148593: hardstuck gold 3 but there's a pretty girl in his dms so maybe we're the real losers in this scenario 💔💔💔💔
The notification is from you. Some create mode reel that you're losing your shit over.
It's stupid. So stupid.
Eyelids drooping, Heeseung reads through it a second, then a third time, before finally flipping his phone back face-down.
Jay's gritting his teeth, trying to ground himself as the muscles in his upper body sear with heat. Two beats goes by—then, he forces himself to push the barbell upward from his body, finishing the last rep in his bench press set.
Metal clangs against metal as he deposits the bar back into its hooks. A gruff sound is drawn from his throat. He stays lying down, taking a few moments to catch his breath before his eyes dart to Heeseung, who's hovering over him.
“That's it? Just classes and the library?” Jay huffs out.
“Pretty much.” Heeseung leans his weight against the equipment. “Food, sometimes.”
Slowly sitting up, Jay unwraps the black wrist straps bound around his wrists, just to wrap them around again more tightly. “Okay, she's clearly not disgusted by you. Invite her.”
“I don't want to, man. She doesn't... seem like the type. She really cares about school.”
“What, so she's a nerd?”
Heeseung kicks him in the shin.
A loud hiss of pain. “I was kidding,” Jay mocks, trying (and failing) to swat him back. “This isn't a teen movie from the 2000s, dumbass. You think that just because she cares about school, she's not gonna want to go to a party? Look at Hoon—those aren't mutually exclusive.”
He gestures for Heeseung to toss him the G Fuel bottle at his feet. “Think about it. A party gives you an excuse to dress real fucking slutty. She'll be yours by the end of the night.”
“Do you ever shut up?”
Jay clicks his tongue. “There's no harm in inviting her,” he emphasizes. “If this goes anywhere, she's gonna eventually find out all the stupid shit you do on the internet anyway. I know you want to 'get it right' or whatever, but if a party is what turns her off from you then it's only doomed from here on out.”
A sigh from the depths of Heeseung's soul is pulled from him. He rubs at his temples as an attempt to clear his mind, even if just for a brief moment.
“Did Chaewon say anything?” he eventually asks, voice quiet—not really sure what answer he's looking for.
“Nope,” Jay says, popping the 'p'. His back collides with padded leather as he lies back down. “Something about 'not tossing her to the wolves'. Says you're an open book, though.”
“Oh, fuck my life.”
Everyone knows that the voices in your head clock in each night at nine o'clock to make you go through a micro crisis where you become increasingly miserable about your life. Usually they don't get to Heeseung until really, really diabolical hours—but apparently, when it comes to you, he can barely last a few.
(11:02PM) HEESEUNG: had a quick question
The slices of moonlight that pour into the room through half-closed shutters are the only thing preventing Heeseung from wallowing in pitch-black darkness. One arm draped over his forehead, he scowls at the sent message like it personally offended him with its lameness.
“Who am I fucking kidding,” he mutters to himself.
But just as he's about to unsend it, a small, green dot appears next to your name. His thumb pauses mid-motion.
His heart starts to speed up when he sees you've read the message.
It plummets to his ass when he starts getting a call from you.
In Jay's rundown of seven different possible outcomes that Heeseung forced him to give, not once did he mention you calling him would be involved. He's half-delirious, voice shot to hell after his earlier stream with Jake and Sunghoon—and the girl he has a massive crush on chooses now, of all times, to call him for the first time.
Holding his phone in a death grip, Heeseung represses the instinct to fling it across the room like a hot stone. He prepares himself. Clears his throat. Lightly smacks himself a few times.
He uses a shaky finger pushes accept, phone then hastily pressed to his ear. “Hello?”
“Heeseung?”
Your voice is soft. Somehow melodic through the static of the line. A gentle stream of freshwater.
Heeseung's eyes flutter shut as it washes over him, subconsciously pressing the device harder against the side of his head.
“Hey, I saw your message. I would've replied, but the thing is my hands are sort of occupied. Hope this is okay?”
Slowly, Heeseung rolls over in his bed to lie on his side. It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “No, yeah, it's fine. You're busy, then?”
“No, not busy. It's just that I just did my nails, so they're still drying.” A breathy laugh leaves you. “What's up? Is this about this week's homework?”
“Oh, it's—” A feeble cough. “It's nothing important. I was actually wondering if you, uh, wanted to come to a... party. This Friday,” he says, cringing at how the words feel on his tongue.
The small 'oh' you let out makes his stomach churn, but it doesn't carry displeasure more it simply does surprise. “What kind of party? Like a frat party?”
“Yeah, a frat,” Heeseung mumbles, fidgeting with the loose thread of his blanket. “It's at one of the better known ones. Lambda Delta Nu. I don't know if you've heard of it— I know some of the brothers...” he trails off. “...This Friday's the first one of the year, so it's gonna be really big, I guess.”
You're quiet for an uncomfortably long time.
“You don't have to—”
“No, no, I've just— God, you're gonna think I'm lame,” you laugh wryly. “I've just never been to one.”
Heeseung blinks, before a grin unknowingly appears on his face. “Why would I think you've been to one? You went to an all-girls college.”
“I don't know!” you whine. “I didn't do anything in high school, either. Do you like, bring your own drink? Do you have to pay to get in?”
“No, they have drinks. And girls don't.”
“That's... shameless.”
“Tell me about it.”
Suddenly, a loud, incessant vibration comes from your end. Even Heeseung, with his questionable track record of emotional cues, can pick up on the frustration in the sigh you let out. He cautiously prods. “Something wrong?”
“No, I'm just getting a call from my mom,” you say, tone not as light as before. “I've gotta go, sorry. But I'll be there.”
A small pause. “Good night, Heeseung.”
Heeseung's fingers twitch. His heart clogs his throat.
By the time he finishes dwelling on whether to tell you 'good night'—the words already forming on his lips—you've already hung up the call.
The weight of his leather jacket—Jay's leather jacket, technically, that he'd forced him to wear—is heavy on Heeseung's shoulders.
Even though the party doesn't properly start for another forty minutes, a considerably large swarm of rowdy, half-drunk college students have already accumulated on the house's front lawn, lining up to get in.
Nothing out of the ordinary—Lambda Delta Nu always kicks off the ground with a big, flashy rager. Heeseung can only wrinkle his nose at the thought of how crowded and sweaty it'll get later.
Beer case in hand, he skips past the line, approaching the low, rickety folding table stationed at the foot of the porch. Jake, who's supposed to be helping handle payments, is quite glaringly not doing so—instead sitting backwards atop the table, the neck of an empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers.
“Drinking on the job?” Heeseung deadpans, lightly slamming the case down on the space right next to where Jake is leaning back on his free hand, making the latter startle.
When he turns around, Jake's face splits into a grin. Notoriously lightweight, his cheeks are already flushed a pale red. “I'd personally call it multitasking,” he drawls.
Launching himself up, Heeseung swiftly hops over the table, making his way up to the house and greeting the guys he recognizes along the way. Jake tails along behind him.
“I wanna do some crazy shit tonight,” he says, the scheming evident in his tone. “You gonna match me shot for shot?”
The kitchen island is decked out with all sorts of drinks—beer, liquor, soju, seltzers, coolers, fruit juices. Heeseung's gaze travels over the labels, landing on a Smirnoff Ice.
It opens with a satisfying crack. “Can't. Haven't finished the programming problem set yet.”
Jake stares at him. “Are you deadass?”
“You think I want to be?” Heeseung counters. “Does Minjun have a working PC in his room?”
“I mean, yeah, he does. Wait, so you're going to spend the night doing a fucking problem set?”
“I was busy with stream earlier. I'm basically already done. I'll play one game, go up, do it, and then come back down. It'll take like twenty minutes, max.”
Jake, being familiar with Heeseung's working pace, is thoroughly unconvinced.
Heeseung can't blame him—on any other day, he would be unconvinced too—but today, he would force himself power through.
Because you would be here.
Earlier in the day, you had sent him a voice message (that he replayed an embarrassing number of times) asking him when you should get there, if there was a dress code, and a small catalog's worth of other questions.
You sounded nervous, and he was so, very endeared by it.
Which is why he's so determined to finish his work, submit the shit half-assed if need be, and then come back down. He already isn't fond of the idea of getting to know you at a musty frat party, so he's resolved on at least trying to be a good host.
Fuck, why did he care so much about your opinion?
“Yo, Lee Heeseung! Get your sexy ass over here!” One of the frat brothers, Ren, hollers from beside the beer pong table, echoed by Jake's cackling in the background.
A year older than him, Ren roughly throws his arm around Heeseung's shoulder, messing up his hair as if he were a little kid. “You ready to get shit on?”
“Pfft,” Heeseung scoffs, tongue poking the side of his cheek. “Give me the fucking ball.”
Heeseung's drunk.
He's tipsy, to be more specific. Not fully drunk, but definitely on the way—and far drunker than he expected to be at this point in the night.
In his defense, it had been the game's fault. The opposite team had gotten lucky with a streak of successful shots that kept him stuck in position, so now he's about four shots (give or take, he hasn't been keeping count) deeper than he'd like to be. A guttural groan is ripped from his chest as another one lands in a cup, drowned out by sound of multiple slaps on his back and the cacophony of people yelling 'shot!' over and over.
“No, no, fuck off, I'm done for now,” Heeseung says semi-coherently, a lazy grin on his face. There's a shot cup that someone's trying to thrust into his hand from every direction. “Fuck off to hell, all of you.”
Deafening music—some shitty rap song—blares through the air, slightly fuzzy at the edges. It thrums through every single one of Heeseung's nerve endings as he drags himself out of the living room.
If someone told Heeseung that half the fucking city was in the Lambda house right now, he would fully believe them without hesitation.
Every inch of property is flooded by people. Some choose to lounge by the pool in the backyard, some chat with their friends in the kitchen. Some choose to swap spit in the most absurd corner of the house. The air is hot and clammy and smells heavily of cigarette smoke.
“My hair's gonna smell like this for days,” he groans to himself.
Heeseung nearly misses the staircase under the mountain of people piled on top of it. There isn't a single fuck in his body he has left to give about all the sweaty people he's pushing aside, his sole objective just to drive through the throng and get to the second floor without being trampled.
The sooner he can get up there, the sooner he can finish his work. The sooner he can finish his work, the sooner he can go back down and get hammered and find you.
You. Fuck, he’d gotten distracted.
You’d gotten here earlier, didn’t you? He should probably text you.
A chipped banister is Heeseung's saving grace, acting as leverage for him to haul himself up the stairs. Soft, erratic pants escape him when he makes it to the top, body bending at the waist as he leans his weight against the wooden railing.
Nearly the whole first floor can be seen from up here. Heeseung's eyes idly scan the different rooms, taking note of certain things—like how Jake's shirt is now off, Jay's drinking with some of his friends from high school, and Sunghoon's hogging the entirety of a couch to himself with a girl stretched out on top of him.
When they break apart so he can trail sloppy kisses down the side of her neck, Heeseung makes eye contact with him over her shoulder.
He cocks an eyebrow, as if to say: That's her?
Sunghoon promptly flips him off.
Snickering, Heeseung pushes off the railing to leave.
The house's bedrooms are all located along a lengthy hallway, decorated with painted oil portraits of the frat's original founders and framed photos of prior generations of brothers. Dragging himself further down, Heeseung tries each of the doors to find the one with a fucked up lock, knowing that one would be Minjun's. Eventually, he finds it at the very end of the hall, pushing into the room without much grace.
Minjun's room is actually nice, to his credit—minimalistic, sleek black walls, accentuated by silver grey details. A flag of the Lambda Delta Nu letters hangs from the dark oak bed frame, next to a hockey jersey slightly dusty from going unworn for a while. Heeseung recognizes some of the miscellaneous things (namely stray clothes) he knows belong to Jake that are scattered around the room.
Then, to top it all off, the lights are switched on, suddenly plunging the room into a deep shade of red.
He snorts. LEDs? Really? Is he fifteen?
Whatever. It doesn't matter. He has all the time in the world to flame him for it when he gets back from Barcelona.
Gingerly, Heeseung peels the weighty jacket off, the leather having begun to stick to his skin. It's draped over the back of the desk chair, leaving him in a white cotton tank top. The air hitting the bare skin of his arms and chest causes a shiver to run through him at the sudden drop in temperature.
He takes a moment, letting clean, smoke-free air circulate through his lungs, before steeling himself.
Heeseung realizes very quickly that trying to code while tipsy fucking sucked.
What he thought would only take twenty minutes to do absolutely does not take only twenty minutes. Trying to parse through walls of code is hard enough sober, let alone with his brain fighting for its life through the dense fog that had settled over it from the alcohol. The only words that leave his mouth during the process are a litany of 'fuck' and 'shit' variations grumbled under his breath each time the code doesn't run properly.
But if there's one thing that studying engineering does for someone, it's teaching them to accept that their fate is doomed from the start—so he tanks the grade, submitting the shitty code just so he doesn't have to look at it any longer.
Heeseung exhales a long-suffering sigh. He had sobered up a bit, having fished a rare water bottle from Minjun's mini fridge that is otherwise entirely filled with Red Bull and soju. The edges of the chair dig into his back as he slumps against it. His right hand aimlessly palms around on the desk, gripping his phone when he feels its boxy shape.
There's a text from Jay, he muses. Several texts.
(11:52) JAY: Yo where the fuck r u
(11:52) JAY: Y/n's looking for you
(11:53) JAY: Tell me Jake isn't serious is your bitchass actually doing homework rn
(11:53) JAY: Do u want an award for being virgin of the year
(11:53) JAY: I sent her ur way
(11:53) JAY: I'm actually going to beat the shit out of u
Heeseung's brain short-circuits.
He's suddenly very conscious of how much of a mess he looks like right now—probably dead to the world, eyes bloodshot from staring at dense code, hair sticking up in a hundred different directions from how many times he's run a frustrated hand through it.
Meeting you in frat guy's bedroom at a party he invited you to probably looks really bad on his part. What if you came up and he ran his mouth? Scared you off? He shouldn't have let those fuckers shovel shots down his throat. He had to fix his hair. Wipe his sweat. Kill Jay—
There's a soft, hesitant knock at the door.
Heeseung freezes.
His heart beats four counts before he calls out hoarsely, “Come in.”
Hinges creaking, the door is carefully opened from the other side. Your head slowly peeks in, uncertainty marring your face. It relaxes with relief when you register that it's actually him in the room.
“Oh, good,” you breathe out, finally pushing into the room. You're clutching a solo cup in one hand, phone in the other. Your skin shines with a light sheen of sweat. “I was really worried that I was gonna walk in on people fucking.”
If you had looked anymore carefully, you'd notice how Heeseung's Adam's apple bobs up, then down.
The music from downstairs gets noticeably more muted. Or maybe turned off entirely? His fists clench, trying to quell his twitching fingers.
You're drenched in crimson in front of him, the red lights painting you in a way that has his mouth running dry. Every shred of his pitiful dignity seems to evaporate as he trails his trembling eyes over your body, latching onto how your shorts delicately squeeze around your thighs. How elegant your neck stretches when you crane it to the side. How your top is cut just low enough.
God help me, I am no better than anyone else.
If Heeseung wasn't so busy staring at you, he might've noticed you staring at him back.
At his tousled hair. How the muscles in his arms rippled as he flexed them unconsciously.
At his lips, maybe. Who knows.
It takes Heeseung longer than he's proud of for him to reel himself back in and tear his gaze from you. The fog clears, music returning to the volume it was at before.
“Are you drunk?” he blurts, finally standing up from his chair.
Your face breaks into a lazy smile. The alcohol in your system has your tongue feeling heavier than usual, honeying your voice and making your words connect with a barely-there slur.
“Nuh uh. I'm not that lightweight. This is only my second drink of the night.” You hold up the half-full cup, the contents swishing around inside.
Suddenly, you tilt your cheek towards him. “Here. Feel.”
Heeseung's eyes widen. “H—Huh?”
“Feel my face,” you repeat, tilting closer.
Just how drunk are you?
Lifting a hand, Heeseung hesitates for a moment before letting the back of his hand carefully press against your offered cheek. The touch is electric, sending a surge from the tips of his fingers up the length of his arm. Your skin is impossibly soft. It yields under his touch like a cloud.
It's also flushed hot, which he makes sure to point out.
You scoff lightly, feigning offense. “That doesn't mean anything.”
“It really does, Y/N,” Heeseung finds himself murmuring softly. He isn't sure what possesses him to then move his hand from your cheek to your forehead—liquid confidence, maybe—but he does.
You don't lean away.
“I met your friend. Jay, I think,” you finally say, breaking away to walk over to the desk.
Heeseung's gaze flickers with disappointment, following your figure as you plop down into the chair. Quite possibly the worst thing you could've told him, but he bites his tongue.
“He seems nice. Turns out we're in the same Econ program group chat. Was he being serious about you doing homework up here?”
The code he'd been writing is still pulled up on the computer screen, which you take the luxury of scrolling through, much to Heeseung's dread. He moves to try to steal the mouse away, which you respond to by immediately snapping your arm out to keep it out of his reach. “Don't look at that.”
“Why?” you ask, as if you're a kid being denied candy.
“Because I did it while drunk. The code can barely run. I don't even know what I wrote.”
“I'm just curious! It's not like I'm gonna judge you— I don't know jackshit about coding.”
Your brows are drawn in a knot that Heeseung has grown familiar with after a lot of staring during library sessions. It's the same look you get when you're stuck on something—whether it's some theoretical concept you can't wrap your head around, or a flashcard you can't seem to remember, no matter how many times it comes up in rotation.
Now, you're glaring at his code as if it's at fault for not magically bestowing you with god-tier computer science powers the second you'd glanced at it.
Suddenly, you're swivelling around in the chair to face him. “Teach me how to code.”
Heeseung sputters. “What?”
“Teach me how to code,” you repeat, batting your lashes.
Pursing his lips, he tries to push down a smile. “You came to the biggest party of the year and you want to learn how to code?”
“Am I high or are we not at the same party?”
“I wasn't coding willingly. Shit, you really are a huge nerd.”
You whine. “I already did all the party stuff! Chaewon introduced me to her friends and we danced and I watched a few games of beer pong. I already hit the quota I set for night. And... and I want to spend time with you,” you say, voice growing quieter towards the end.
Heeseung knows it's probably the alcohol talking, but that doesn't stop him from instantly softening around the edges.
You're just so— so cute right now. Talkative and clingy in a way that stirs something gooey in his chest, in a way that he never expected to see. He wonders if this is real at all, and yet would actively still jump into the deep end even if he knew it wasn't.
“Okay,” he murmurs softly, poking your forehead. “Don't sulk.”
Heeseung shifts so that he's leaning over you from the side, and this time, you don't resist when he takes the mouse from you, letting your hand fall away. Seconds later, a blank program is pulled up on the screen.
“Three basic things you gotta know about writing code,” he starts. “Variables, conditionals, and loops. Variables store stuff—”
His breath stutters when he feels your chin perch innocently on the nook of his bicep.
You're unfazed when he glances down at you, simply staring ahead at what he's typing. He finds his voice again, meeker than it was.
“—conditionals decide what happens, and loops loop things. So, if I wrote an if statement, like if x is greater than five, then...”
The wonderful world of Python can only keep someone entertained for so long—Heeseung thinks it a miracle you lasted as long as you did before starting to not-so-subtly hint at wanting to do something else.
Drink, that is. Fiending to drink.
The smart decision was probably to get you to pace yourself, yet Heeseung's never claimed to be smart. Nothing he's ever done really has.
He's selfish. Selfish and tipsy. He wants to savour this endearing side of you because he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to see it again.
That's how you both end up here: sat side-by-side on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame, drinking from soju bottles—yours strawberry, his grape—that Heeseung had taken from Minjun's mini fridge. Somewhere in his mind, he makes a mental post-it to buy them back for him.
Conversation flows. You talk about what it was like spending your entire life in all-girls schools, and he might've let it slip that he's a streamer (to which he immediately shuts down all attempts you make at trying to get him to show you his channel, not matter what you said or how you pouted).
Things about school, things about people, things stupid beyond imagination (“D'you think I could get Clavicular to collab with me?” “What?”)—it all comes out in a natural stream of thoughts.
At some point, you start to grow quiet. As if you're sobering up, even though your bottle is getting emptier.
Heeseung notices. He matches you. “Tired?”
You shake your head. “Not yet. This is just how I get when I drink. I get loud and then I get quiet,” you explain, words slurring a bit.
It's later in the night, so the rush of the party had settled down, though there's still a decent amount of commotion, mostly from people hanging out in and around the pool.
“Heeseung?” you mumble.
“Yeah?”
“Do you ever feel like you're just floating through your existence?”
Heeseung's in the middle of taking a swig from his bottle. The question sends him into a mild coughing fit, the corners of his eyes instantly watering. “Don't you think that's a bit—cough—bit too loaded of a—cough—question?”
You give him a sheepish smile before letting your head drop back, a soft thud against the mattress. “Sorry. I'm a little out of it right now. Forget I said anything, actually.”
Wiping his mouth with his hand, Heeseung turns to look at you. “I've done viewer counselling sessions for my streams. My chat says I'm a good listener.” He sounds so lame to himself, but you laugh, and that matters more.
Silence falls over the two of you. Just when he thinks it's cemented itself and you no longer want to talk, you mumble: “I dunno if I actually want to be a lawyer.”
A pause. “Okay,” Heeseung says slowly. Processing the statement, turning it over a few times in his head. “Why?”
You rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms, dragging them down your face. “That's the thing—I don't know,” you groan, words garbled from alcohol. “Like, my mom wanted to be a lawyer but didn't get into law school, so that's why she's in real estate. Then, my sister passed the bar with flying colours and is now this big, successful lawyer who brings home two hundred grand a year. So... so I'm sorta supposed to do all that too, you know? Do my diligence. I'm as much my mother's daughter as my sister is. And I am! That's why I'm here in the first place—”
Heeseung's hands gently grasp your own flailing ones, stilling them before placing them back into your lap. “Woah, woah, chill. You're rambling. A lot.”
“—I just—I know I'm succeeding. I have medals and titles and resources and a scholarship here and yet—when I look at my mom and see how happy she is whenever she brings these things up, I don't... feel what she feels.”
You trail to a close like air escaping a punctured balloon, voice thin as insecurity seeps into your pores. “I don't feel what she feels and I don't know what's wrong with me.”
Heeseung remains quiet for a long time.
Horror is the only fitting word that describes the expression on your face. A shaky hand cards through your hair as you scramble to apologize. “S—sorry. I don't usually... overshare like that, fuck—”
“Y/N,” he cuts you off. “You know I'm only an electrical major because Jake is too, right?”
You blink a few times, trying to clear the dense fog shrouding your mind. “Seriously?” you croak after a moment.
“Okay, no, not fully,” he chuckles dryly. “But like, half seriously. I chose electrical because my highest grades last year were in the electrical courses they make us take. Having a friend sorta tipped it over, I guess.”
Shifting his body so that he's fully facing you, Heeseung props his elbow up on the mattress, resting his head in his hand. “Other reasons were if I chose a major I'm good at, I might have a better chance at scoring internships. Or doing a masters or some other bullshit that would "further my professional career". Point is none of those have anything to do with what I want because I don't know what the fuck I want.”
“Streaming's fun,” he hums. “My dad doesn't think it's a real job, though. So I get what you mean. At least, I hope I do.”
He takes a moment to carefully select his next words, going over them in his head to make sure they'll sound fine rolling off his tongue.
“There's no rule that says you're 'supposed' to do anything. You have free will,” he says. “Right now, being a lawyer sounds more like your mom's dream, not yours. But maybe that'll change, and you actually do want to be a lawyer in the future. Who knows. Either way, you'll be the only one to make that decision when the time comes. Not your mom. Not your sister. You.”
Heeseung can't decipher the emotions that are pooling in your eyes. He's worried it's a bad sign—he's never been the best with empathy or knowing exactly what to say, and he's certain that he's not more graceful while tipsy than he is sober—but you shift to face him.
Legs unfurling from your chest to cross on top of each other. Inching closer until your face is a breath's away from his.
Tension permeates the small space, so thick and palpable that Heeseung can practically taste it. His eyes trace the slope of your nose, the curve of your cupid's bow, the strands of messy hair that he ached to brush out of your face. Unknowingly, he wets his lips—a movement your eyes follow.
Hope is scary. Fragile. All it takes it one wrong step, one toe out of line, and it can be extinguished with the gentlest gust of wind.
Heeseung dares to hope.
“If you ask me... I think you're enough just as you are.”
You lean in. He lets you.
You hesitate. He doesn't pull away—and a hundred, thousand fireworks set off in his chest when your lips slot against his.
They're soft, tentative. Just a little bit awkward and uncoordinated in their movements, but Heeseung doesn't mind. He lets you steer the ship where you want it to go.
The kiss is brief, only lasting a couple seconds before your mouth detaches from his with a soft smack. He expects you to pull away, to no longer be able to breathe in the faint notes of jasmine in your perfume on every inhale—but you don't.
You keep the sliver between you an inch wide, nose nudging against his, breath still fanning against his skin in warm puffs. Lingering.
You push yourself up onto your knees, a yelp escaping you as you stumble, the ends of your hair skimming his face. Heeseung's hands instinctively find your waist to steady you. He revels in the way the dip feels against his palms. A meek sorry comes from you, which he returns with a small it's fine.
Shifting closer, the front of your thigh presses against his side. He sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath as you sling yourself over him, helping you down as you settle into his lap, thighs bracketing his.
Heeseung has to crane his neck up ever so slightly to meet your gaze.
You're gorgeous. He's thought that since the very day he met you, but this—your bare skin scorching his hands, the sight of you on top of him—has his mind going mushy and blank. A barely audible groan slips out of him as your arms sling around his neck, fingers gently threading through the hair at his nape.
“You're pretty.” The words come out in a rush, not caring if you know. Needing you to know. “God, you're so fucking pretty.”
“You're buttering me up,” you say, your retort lacking any real contempt. He only shakes his head, reconnecting your lips, deeper, escalating.
Heeseung's heartbeat is in his ears. The ache that's been sitting his chest, tamped down but constantly brewing, springs forth the moment he feels your tongue swipe against the seam of his lips. They part instantly, letting your tongue press in, wet and hot—the strawberry flavouring mixed with the slight bitterness of alcohol you'd been drinking hitting his taste buds.
“I want you.” You sigh the words into his mouth, and he swallows them fervently. “Please...”
Heeseung breathes out a shaky laugh. “Neither of us are sober.”
“You don't want me?”
“Fuck, I never said that.”
Eager hands fist at the hem of his tank, which he lets you slip off and toss aside, his entire top-half left bare. His skin is flushed hot, chest heaving as your lips trail down his neck, his collarbone, his sternum—unable to control the low moan he lets out as they latch onto his abdomen, sucking a hickey into the skin. “F—fuck...”
When you come back up, Heeseung pulls you back down flush against him. One hand slides under your thigh, the other slipping into the back of your shorts, lightly running over the skin there. A full-body shiver runs through him as the tips of his fingers brush against the texture of your waistband.
“Lace?” he muses, as if it doesn't undo him.
“Shut up.”
“I didn't say I was complaining. You know I'm not complaining, right?”
“Shut. Up.”
And how quickly he complies, slanting his lips to yours again. Heeseung feels feverish—choking out a high-pitched gasp as your hips grind down. He's throbbing against your ass, his entire arm wrapping around your waist like an iron band to pull you against him harder, coaxing you to give him more friction, his head lolling back when you do. He finds the ribbon of your top at your back, tugging it loose—
“Shit, someone get him out!”
Someone's shouting outside. Heeseung doesn't hear it, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra—
It grows louder. Fucking hell, shut up, he thinks, brows knitting together as he tries to focus on you, on how you feel against him—but your movements slowly come to a halt.
“What's that noise?” you whisper.
Heeseung shakes his head before feverishly kissing down your neck, trying to reassure you. “Nothing, nothing. C'mon, baby, keep going—”
But the commotion only seems to multiply, growing until it's a cacophony of panicked and confused voices. Concerned, you look over your shoulder towards the window, your grip in his hair loosening.
He groans into your skin as he feels you start to shift off his lap. It feels like he's never wanted anything more desperately than to keep you against him—but he lets you climb off, hands falling limply to the side.
Head tilting towards the ceiling, Heeseung blinks a few times, trying to clear the hazy fog from his head (and calming himself down so he doesn't explode) before standing up begrudgingly and dragging himself over to the window.
Heeseung peeks outside. His brow furrows with confusion, then concern. Instead of everyone being littered around the backyard doing their own things, every head is turned towards the pool.
Jake is currently being hauled out of the pool like a wet dog by Jay and Sunghoon, face contorted in pain.
“What's going on?” Your voice is quiet. Uneasy.
“I don't know. I think something happened to Jake,” Heeseung says gravely, breaking away from the window to pick up his shirt from the floor. “I— fuck, I'm going to kill him.”
Pebbles dig into Heeseung's socked feet—he couldn't be bothered with shoes—as he rushes out into the backyard towards where Sunghoon, Jay, and a couple other Lambda guys are crowded around Jake. He calls out, “What's going on here?”
Jake's leaning back against his hands, one of his legs outstretched in front of him. He's red as a lobster, from his face down to his neck, and also soaking wet, clothes sticking to the outline of his body, dripping water down that washes the concrete a darker shade—yet he only waves a dismissive hand.
“Nothing,” he slurs. “I'm—hic—fine.”
Sunghoon scoffs, hands on his hips. “Einstein here decided to jump from the roof and didn't realize he was jumping into the shallow end because he's shitfaced.”
He then turns to Heeseung, looking him up and down. “Where've you been? I haven't seen you in, like, two h— do you have a fucking boner right now?”
Much to his horror, Heeseung looks down to find a very noticeable tent in his pants. He exhales—zen, he thinks, be zen—before slipping his leather jacket off to tie around his waist. “Shut the fuck up.”
Apparently, Jake is coherent enough to stare at Heeseung's crotch, see that he's hard, and put two and two together. “Holy shit, did I cockblock you?”
“Yes, you fu— whatever. It's not important. We need to call the ambulance.”
“Jay's already on it,” Sunghoon says, jerking his head over in Jay's direction.
A small distance away, Ren—who's also visibly drunk but somehow still manages to climb onto a patio table with falling—cups his mouth to create a makeshift megaphone before yelling at the top of his lungs: “Alright, wrap it up! We're done here! If you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get the fuck out!”
Loud groaning resounds throughout the yard. People are evidently upset that they'd been cut off for the night, but eventually, the crowd disperses. Some staggering as their sober friends haul them out, some laughing on their phones—Jake would probably be on a hundred people's Snapchat stories and at the top of the university's subreddit by the morning.
Heeseung finds you standing in the doorway of the sliding screen door that leads to the yard. You look noticeably worried.
His eyes soften.
“What happened?” you ask as he approaches you.
Standing in front of you, Heeseung brings his hands up to cup your face, smoothing out the crease between your eyes with the pad of his thumb.
“Jake's jumped into the pool and fucked up his leg. An ambulance is on the way,” he says, chuckling at your deadpan expression.
Heeseung peers into your eyes. His heart stutters. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “About us getting interrupted, I mean.”
You shrug, arms wrapping around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. “'s whatever. In fact, I was kinda going into this whole frat party thing with the expectation that there would be some bullshit.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Were your expectations met?”
A soft, pondering hum leaves you. “Quite.”
The hospital waiting room is deserted at this hour, save for the anxious mother and her sleeping son huddled together. Heeseung's shoes click against tile as he makes his way back to the area, two paper cones filled with water in his hands.
Jake had broken his leg. With his parents not in the country, Heeseung had offered to stay and wait until he gets settled with a room.
You had stayed with him.
Rounding the corner, he sees you yawning. A faint smile tugs at his lips.
“You don't have to stay here, you know,” he says, handing you a cone. It's the third time he's said it since the two of you got here—and you've been stubborn about it each time. “I'll call you an Uber.”
You accept the water, taking a sip before giving him a shrug.
“You'll be bored. Besides, I'm not tired,” you say, as if he hadn't just caught you in the act.
Heeseung looks like he's about to refute you again, but ends up dropping it. He plops down into the hard waiting room chair, throwing the water back like a shot. Ice cold water slides down his dry throat.
Silence. There's an elephant standing in the corner, staring the two of you dead in the eye.
“So,” he starts awkwardly.
You smack your lips. “So.”
“I, uhm, I think you're cool.”
He sees you turn to face him in the corner of his vision, and absolutely refuses to meet your eyes. “Heeseung, you had your hand in my pants.”
Absentmindedly, he starts folding his empty paper cone, sealing the edges to make a rectangle while grumbling something about how you 'can't just lead in with that.'
“I might like you,” he gets out.
“I might like you,” you copy mockingly.
“I'm being serious!”
“You just told me that you 'think I'm cool.'”
Sighing, Heeseung drops his face into his hands, wrestling with his nerves and feelings and the stupid little flips you make his heart do. Eventually, his words come out in an embarrassed mumble. “I think you're really pretty and sweet and I'd like to go out with you.”
If he had been looking at you, then he would've seen you pursing your lips, trying to hold back a smile.
A few seconds pass before Heeseung feels your head rest on his shoulder.
“I'd like that.”
“Chat,” Heeseung claps his hands together, closing out of his browser so that his camera can be set as full-screen. “I posted on Twitter earlier that we have a special guest joining us today.”
user888: oh my god this is so exciting
heeseungism: DAD PLEASEEE LET US SEE MOM PLEASEEEEEE
Heeseung glances out the corner of his eye.
You're sitting beside him just out of frame, fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of your cardigan. The sight makes his chest tighten with fondness.
“You look nervous,” he points out.
You shoot him a look, despite letting him pull you up to stand. “Am not.”
He only laughs in return, hands warm on your hips as he guides you into view.
“Alright. Chat, this is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Heeseung announces, chin hooking over your shoulder. “She's a little shy, so don't be fucking weird and scare her off.”
cherryxxi: HELLO!!!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹
applejuicemaster: bruh why am i lowkenuinely proud of u
reynakisser_: Wtf she's so out of ur league. pick ME!!!!! HE DONT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE ALLAT
Half-lidded eyes scanning the racing chat, Heeseung's lips quirk upwards at everyone's reaction.
nerd!jake x altgirl!reader (college!au, fluff, smut +18, jake is so clumsy and whiny idk idk)
"even though you're not a fan of physics, you learned perfectly well that opposites do attract after meeting your new coworker, jake sim."
wc.: 14.7k (im sorry i dont even know how this happened)
author's notes: to begin with i just desperately needed to write about jake, and then someone on twitter shared that video of him talking during bs about einstein and relativitys law like it was the coolest thing in the world, and idkkk he's like the most puppy nerd coded person ever i want to EAT him. anyways, AS ALWAYS ive reread it a dozen times and still have mistakes so!!! im not gonna share the playlist this time because its SHAME!!! thankyou for supporting my writing! happy friday! love yall sexies, have a good time! PS: please notice the change in the text messages like while they were strangers then comfortable and then back to feeling nervous towards each other please tell me if i did good ><
tw: english is not my first language!!! use of yn and (lmao) heeseungs english name, lowercase writing, use of legal substances (alcohol and cigarettes), cursing, dirty talk, manhandling, size difference, oral (f. and m. rec), cunnilingus, pussy drunk jake, big dick jake (yeppyyy), unexperienced jake, library sex, masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap yo willy), coming inside, cervix kissing, LOTS of praising, love confessions, LET ME KNOW IF I FORGOT ANY!
the orange glow of the late afternoon sun made the college library feel weirdly cozy. different from the mornings when you had to work, when the place was just painfully cold and way too bright, enough to see tiny dust particles floating in the air if you focused hard enough. working there wasn’t that bad, aside from the boredom and the monotony of doing the same tasks over and over again. the paycheck covered your weekend concerts and your impulsive online shopping sprees, so whatever.
you were sitting on the swivel chair - headphones resting around your neck, messy bun, smudged eyeliner, flavorless gum in your mouth - behind the oak counter, scanning and cataloging a few new titles that had arrived earlier that day. you picked them up one by one, stuck the barcode label on, registered them on the website, and tossed them into the cart beside you. you’d shelve them later.
you were paying attention to everything and nothing at the same time. a group of students had taken over one of the study rooms, two girls were studying together near a table by the windows, and an old lady wandered around looking for the next book she’d reserve.
the calm of the day was interrupted when mr. clint’s nasal voice echoed behind you.
“yn, i’d like to introduce you to your new shift partner”
you stopped what you were doing and sighed before spinning around in your chair, ready to deliver your best uninterested “hi,” but your eyebrows shot up instantly. behind the old man stood a guy who looked like he’d walked straight out of some cliché teenage romance movie.
he wore a plaid shirt over a white tee, light-wash jeans, and a backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. his brown hair was slightly messy and, behind a pair of glasses that kept slipping down his nose, dark attentive eyes shined like a puppy’s. he gave you a goofy, almost shy smile and lifted his hand in a simple wave.
“jake, yn. yn, jake,” clint added. “hope you two get along”
what the hell is a guy like this doing here? it wouldn’t be weird to see someone like him at a campus football game or promoting some frat party down the hallways, but here?
“is there a problem?” the old man asked, noticing your silence and confused expression, making your eyes widen as you quickly shook your head, trying to look normal again. hopefully the shock wasn’t that obvious.
“none! it’s a pleasure… the job sucks, hope you know that” you said casually before turning back to what you were doing.
you heard jake’s soft laugh and mr. clint clicking his tongue, probably paired with the eye roll you’d witnessed at least a hundred times before. it didn’t take long before they left again, going back to the little orientation tour and leaving you alone once more.
since your shift started at 1pm and ended at 6pm, you always left the last - and most unbearable - task for 5pm. that way you never finished it and could dump it on the idiot from the night shift; a nearly forty-year-old guy who had hit on you on your first day. you pushed the book cart between the shelves, searching for the right sections and double-checking alphabetical order to put the new books away.
one of the cart’s metal wheels made an irritating scraping sound against the wooden floor; the screw was loose and apparently the college’s finance department couldn’t care less about the dozens of emails you’d sent asking for a new one. you had been listening to music earlier, but your playlist had ended, leaving you with the library’s sepulchral silence.
“did you know that, technically, time passes slower at the top of a mountain than at sea level because of gravitational time dilation?”
the unfamiliar voice caught you off guard, making your body jolt and your hands tighten around the cart’s handle. your heart, which had been beating calmly, suddenly sped up, leaving your legs weak.
“holy-, you scared me” you complained, frowning and placing a hand over your chest as you turned around. jake was there, leaning against the shelf. he held a thick applied physics book that almost slipped from his fingers when he got startled by your reaction.
“shit, sorry! my bad…” he sucked air through his teeth. “wasn’t my intention, it’s just that we… i mean, we couldn’t really introduce ourselves and i thought-” he ran a hand through his hair and then pushed his glasses back up his nose, like a nervous tic. “and this book is amazing, you know? it’s fascinating how einstein predicted that before we even had atomic clocks to prove it. it’s like reality is just a suggestion, you get it?” he smiled awkwardly, glancing away.
unbelievable.
you figured he had to have some flaw. maybe he’d gotten written up for hooking up in the locker room and getting caught by the janitor, maybe he was failing some insanely hard class and the boring library job was his only option; especially since the position had been open for months and literally no one had applied. you just didn’t expect him to be an incurable nerd who tangled himself in his own words because he couldn’t keep up with the speed of his thoughts and somehow knew everything about every possible subject. and the worst part? he was so pretty you might not even care.
“sounds awesome. i don’t know shit about that, but that’s definitely impressive” you crossed your arms, looking up at him with a subtle smile.
and he kept going. he spoke at a moderate volume - his voice would crack mid-sentence whenever he realized he was getting too loud - gesturing, pulling faces, and you followed every single one of them, studying his perfect face, thick brows, slightly big nose, well-shaped lips. he also was a good few centimeters taller than you. not to mention his veiny hands showing whenever he grabbed the cart to help you push it.
jake was stupidly attractive and completely clueless about it. the way he bit his lower lip while thinking, the way his eyes drifted upward trying to find simpler words to explain something to you, or when he hurried to place a book on the highest shelf, stretching his arm and leaning toward you.
and that’s how, over the course of an entire hour, he talked so much that somehow the topic went from einstein to rpg systems, and you ended up shelving all the books together.
“it’s just that the final boss has a 40% elemental damage resistance, which totally breaks the mage build, so in that case the best option would be a tank knight-”
your alarm went off inside your apron pocket, cutting him off.
“shift’s over,” you said simply, turning off the repetitive sound.
“for real?! i thought it’d drag more…” he licked his lips, looking at you. the two of you held each other’s gaze for a few seconds. “so, uhm… can i get your number? i’ve got, like, the perfect video to show you about that turn rotation i was talking about” he explained, and you held back a laugh before handing him your phone, he didn’t needed to explain you had given it to him anyway.
you waited while he typed his number in and gave it back so you could save it and send him a dot just so he’d have yours too.
“well… that’s it. congrats on your surviving first day” you teased, already reaching behind your back to untie the knot of your uniform, exposing the band tee you wore underneath. his eyes scanned carefully.
“thanks, i guess?” he gave you a confused, amused look. “you’re leaving already?”
“mhm. if i stay more than five minutes past my shift it’s like my soul starts leaking out of my pores” you mimicked dramatically, twisting your arms with a funny face. “and i wouldn’t recommend staying either, or clint’s gonna ask you to cover the night shift too”
you turned your back with a small wave in the air and headed toward the tiny staff room, pushing the door open and going straight to your locker. you shoved the apron in carelessly, grabbed your bag, let your hair down, and got ready to leave.
***
the walk home felt longer than usual. you normally rushed it, headphones in, mind somewhere else, but this time you caught yourself thinking about your new coworker more than once. you didn’t understand shit about physics, and you’d never played anything remotely close to an rpg. honestly, your only real concerns lately were what to wear to the cover show you were going to that weekend and what kind of makeup you’d do.
still… you hated admitting it. he was adorable.
and somehow, your peaceful, painfully boring job had just become the most interesting part of your day.
[jake🤓🐶]: hii, it’s jake. from work! hahah
[jake🤓🐶]: after i left i realized we didn’t actually talk about ourselves at all. that was my fault… i always end up talking too much about the stuff i like…
[jake🤓🐶]: you can tell me to stop! i mean, my friends do that sometimes.
[jake🤓🐶]: anyway! tomorrow i’ll definitely talk less and let you talk more!
[jake🤓🐶]: so see you tomorrow?
[jake🤓🐶]: oh yeah i was about to forget. this is the video i was talking about!
[jake🤓🐶]: link attached
[jake🤓🐶]: it’s literally the best way to defeat a high-level boss in dxd! but of course you’d still need a bit of luck with the dice to roll a crit or something close to that
[jake🤓🐶]: … i did it again
[jake🤓🐶]: so sorry, really. see you
lying in bed, already halfway ready to call it a day and sleep, you covered your eyes with your forearm and smiled at absolutely nothing after finishing his messages. ew. you felt like a pre-teen.
[you]: i’ll watch it! see you tomorrow!
***
as the days went by, the closeness between you and jake grew almost miraculously. not that it couldn’t have happened naturally, considering you worked the same afternoon shifts, but despite all the differences that made you orbit distant galaxies - you with your worn combat boots and smudged eyeliner, him with his geek-print t-shirts and the curiosity of someone still discovering the world - you still chose to get to know each other little by little.
like the night he practically tortured you through chat messages talking about some damn console he’d found at an antique shop, only to bring it in his backpack the next day and hook it up to the old monitor behind the library counter.
he spent a full twenty minutes explaining pixel logic and how the gameplay was “revolutionary for its time,” while you just watched his hands messing with the cables, amused by his excitement. when you finally started playing, he was confident, giving you tips on how to hold the controller and how to get the timing right. but by the second round? you got the hang of it. one quick move and you smashed his score on the screen.
“no way” jake stared at the screen with his lips parted before looking at you. “how???”
“just pressing the buttons… seemed pretty easy to me” you teased, making a smug little face.
“yeah right… that’s beginner’s luck!” he said, rolling his eyes, face all red and flustered, pretending to be annoyed even though the tiny smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him completely.
or the time your favorite band had surprise-dropped a remastered album and for an entire week literally everything that came out of your mouth was about it. poor jaeyun got so curious he said he wouldn’t mind if you played it during break.
and that’s exactly how you started spending every break together in the staff area (cubicle), sitting on the floor, shoulders brushing, sharing a bag of chips, one earbud each, your phone replaying your playlists while his soft, slightly citrusy perfume mixed with the smell of old paper.
“shut up, this is literally one of the best ones!” you’d exclaim, nudging him lightly with your elbow after he called the lyrics “exotic”. you’d close your eyes and rest your head against the locker behind you, taking a small pause while he laughed under his breath at the way you protested like he’d insulted a family member.
when you opened your eyes again, he’d still be paying attention to the music, drumming his fingers on his thigh, before turning to you with a wide smile. you hated when he did that, it was unfair that he was that pretty in every tiny detail. you’d smile back automatically, feeling your stupid heart take off at a full gallop.
the tension between you evolved as you both became less ignorant about the interest you clearly showed in each other. like the day you were on the verge of a nervous breakdown over an epistemology and statistics assignment. seriously, why would a humanities major require math of any kind? couldn’t you just… use a calculator or ask google? you huffed, slumped over the table and papers when jake nudged you, asking to see it and almost instantly offering help.
“let me help you, yeah?” he gently took the pencil you were holding loosely between your fingers. “the epistemology part here is simple if you apply the law of large numbers to validate the statistical sample the prompt gives you” he explained calmly, in that soft didactic tone of his, dragging his chair closer to sit beside you.
jake solved the questions one by one, filling the pages with his tiny, rounded handwriting, a mix of print and cursive, explaining step by step while you barely paid attention; your focus entirely on the cute sound of his breathing and the profile of his nose illuminated by the nearby desk lamp.
“and if we isolate the variable-” he stopped, realizing you were staring at him instead of the paper. he cleared his throat, laughing awkwardly, eyebrows lifting quickly. “want me to explain that part again?”
“uhm?” you looked down at the paper and then back at him. “no need. i got it. you’re good at explaining…” you murmured softly, holding back your smile when you saw him stutter a little, completely shy, before returning to the assignment.
but you’d bet the most challenging day was when you both decided to get some air behind the library, where there were a few patio chairs with umbrellas and the herbology department’s garden, full of different little plants. jake was reading some random comic, occasionally adjusting his glasses and licking his lips in a way that was way too attractive for you to ignore. you watched him while pulling a cigarette from your pocket, lighting it and taking a slow drag, blowing the smoke to the opposite side and lazily tilting your head toward your shoulder. what you didn’t expect was that in the brief moments you drifted off into nothing, his eyes were watching you back.
“you know something?” he closed the comic and leaned back better in the chair. “you are like the coolest person i have ever met”
you were completely caught off guard by the compliment, one that would’ve sounded cheap coming from anyone else, but from him felt like one of the sweetest things you’d ever heard. you blushed and shook your head, embarrassed. he didn’t take it back, though.
“do you wanna try?” he had once said he’d never smoked, but the curious look in his eyes now suggested he might be tempted.
“i-i don’t know if i should…”
“well, it’s not a crime”
you finished for him, leaning forward and extending your hand to pass the burning tobacco, watching him take it carefully, his eyes flicking from your face to the cigarette and back. “relax… inhale slowly and breathe calmly when the smoke gets about here” you pointed to his throat.
“promise you won’t laugh if i cough?”
he did as you said, squeezing his eyes shut when they watered, managing a tiny drag before releasing the smoke, lips pressed together and brow furrowed.
“wow… like a pro, huh?” he handed it back to you, laughing hoarsely.
“i guess it’s because my mom made me use an inhaler every day when i was little” he added casually, and that made you burst out laughing, not because you were mocking him, but because it was such a jake thing to say, like he hadn’t looked insanely hot just seconds ago exhaling smoke.
“good boy… that’s better for your health” you said simply, taking another drag before scrolling through your phone on the small table.
“why do you smoke then?” he asked, pretending not to care about the praise you’d thrown at him, sinking deeper into his chair while watching you.
“got to keep it cool for you i guess…” you taunted, using the word he’d said earlier, making him laugh softly and kick your chair.
***
and of course, there was the complicated part too.
the library job itself wasn’t hard, that was the best thing about it. people rarely asked for help beyond reservations. most of the regulars knew exactly what they wanted, how long they’d stay. it was the easiest job in the world.
it hadn’t happened out of nowhere too. it started after two girls noticed him while he was fixing the flyers on the shelves. they practically melted when he hurried to help one of them pick up the pencils that had fallen from her case after he accidentally bumped into her.
you couldn’t even blame them. he really was… something.
after that, of course they started coming back more often. and not just them, a few other girls too. they’d stop by the counter asking random questions, clearly annoyed when you were the one answering while jake just stood beside you nodding along. some of the bolder ones would lean over the wooden counter when you were alone and ask if you knew where the “cute employee” was.
“have you tried the law section? he had some books to shelve there” you’d say flatly, not even bothering to look her in the eye.
“yeah… maybe he went on break?”
“maybe” you’d shrug, unimpressed.
“i really needed to talk to him, he recommended a game earlier but i forgot the name… do you perhaps have his number so you could pass it to me?”
you’d let a small smile tug at your lips before finally looking up at her, raising your brows in a way that made your shock at the audacity very clear and enough for her to shift awkwardly, mutter a quiet “whatever” and walk away.
“i’m back, did i miss anything?” you’d hear a few minutes later, jake sitting by your side and already splitting the stack of books to catalog together.
“nothing at all.”
and in moments like that, you felt so selfish it hurted.
it was almost impossible that jake felt anything beyond the happiness of having a friend at work instead of just someone to exchange half-words with. for you, liking someone so out of your league felt ridiculous. he was different, smart, beautiful, too kind for his own good, so you didn’t try.
but you weren’t about to hand him over to the competition either.
***
after all, being jake’s friend wasn’t hard. you had learned how to listen to his monologues, and in return he’d gotten scarily good at reading every single one of your moods just by the look on your face. you talked about everything… well, almost everything. he didn’t exactly have much experience, and you were actively avoiding romantic topics after your last thing with a jackass you’d met at some indie bar.
after two months, all your friends knew about him, and all his friends knew about you. by the third month, you’d installed a few casual games just to play with him on discord calls, and he’d even bought some cds from bands you liked so you could listen to them together.
and still, you rarely hung out outside of work.
maybe because you saw each other every single day.
so you were genuinely surprised when he invited you somewhere.
“a friend invited me to a party” he brought it up while you were both dusting the tables before the shift ended. “i said i’d think about it. i get kinda lost in those environments, i don’t know…” he said, eyes still lowered.
“have you ever been to one?”
“no” he answered immediately before looking at you. “will you go with me” he added quickly, the words spilling out like if he didn’t throw them up right then they’d get stuck in his throat forever without the courage to actually exist.
“is that an invitation or a demand?” you joked, lifting your gaze to him and catching the way he inhaled sharply before managing to answer.
“i’m begging actually… please?” he pressed his lips into a thin line and straightened his posture, holding the dust cloth stiffly at his side. oh. he was serious.
“i’ll have to check my schedule…” you sighed dramatically, putting on a brief little act just to watch his shoulders slump again, like a puppy getting tired of waiting for its owner to throw the ball. you laughed when you looked at him again and found him still staring. “just kidding. send me the details” finally said, watching his face light up instantly. “and you’re washing the cloths this time!” you tossed the rag in his direction. jake caught it midair with a soft nasal laugh and looked at you quietly, that strange little sense of victory blooming in his chest.
***
the atmosphere of the party was a sensory shock. the air, saturated with the smell of cheap beer, chlorine, and the sweet vapor of vapes, felt heavy in your lungs as you tried to make your way through bodies. you had expected something lowkey, maybe a bunch of nerds debating rpg mechanics on a couch, not that the friend in question would be the fucking evan lee, aka the most desired guy on campus for countless reasons, including the fact that his parties were always a straight-up project x knockoff.
his house looked like a human anthill. the dj, clearly high, distorted the bass until it vibrated through the structure of the place, and every scream coming from the beer pong table or the crowd watching bottle-flip challenges seemed to crank the temperature higher. people sprawled over couches and bean bags, others making out in hallways, girls in micro shorts and bikinis. everything in excessive amounts.
you couldn’t lie, you’d been to plenty of these. way before college, actually, when your high school friend group would lie to their parents about sleepovers for “early projects” and end up in random basements of houses owned by people you’d never seen before. but ever since a bit of common sense had finally settled in your brain, you preferred cover gigs, bars, clubs. here, under the led lights and the frenzy of campus popularity - where you recognized more faces than you’d like - everything felt too loud.
you checked your phone again in his chat, making sure there were no new messages.
[jake🤓🐶]: im already here
[you]: wtf? ur being dead serious?
[jake🤓🐶]: yes... why? it was saying 11pm
[you]: i know but parties like this never start at the right time
[jake🤓🐶]: but like are you coming already?
[you]: in 30min??? im doing my makeup
[jake🤓🐶]: by then my anxiety will have eaten me alive, i’ll have a breakdown, collapse, hit my head and die of cranial trauma
[you]: boooo👎🏻 stop that, crybaby
your eyes scanned the pool area, water splashing rhythmically whenever someone jumped in, then drifted back inside the house searching for that familiar silhouette: hair pushed back, shoulders slightly curved. it was impossible not to feel a pinch of anxiety too; the idea of jake, with his golden retriever energy and slipping glasses, loose in that sea of social sharks was almost concerning. you stepped up on a stair to get a better view of the backyard, ignoring some guy who smelled like straight tequila bumping into you.
and then you saw him.
in a more isolated corner of the veranda, away from the epicenter of the dance floor but still swallowed by the buzz, jake stood near a snack table. he looked like a cute island of discomfort. he held a red cup with both hands like it was a shield in front of his chest and talked to a guy who clearly just wanted access to the pretzel bowl.
even from afar you noticed that there was a damp stain on the shoulder of his shirt - probably from someone spilling a drink - and in an automatic gesture he pushed his glasses up with his wrist while starting to gesture, possibly explaining the aerodynamics of a bullet dive to absolutely no one in particular, just because that was the only strategy his brain had developed for when he got nervous.
the chaos of the party seemed to lower its volume the moment you spotted him. he was, without a doubt, the most out-of-place thing there, and for you, the only one that made sense to look for.
you walked through the crowd and loud laughter until you reached the boy, and when jake’s eyes finally found yours, the brightness that burst out of them was instant. relief mixed with astonishment. the random trapped in the physics monologue didn’t even say goodbye; he just took the opening and disappeared.
jake looked you up and down, swallowing hard as he processed the image. at the library, you were the flare jeans and sneakers and customized shoes girl. but here, under the erratic party lights, you looked like something else entirely. the skirt, the spiked belt, the fuzzy animal print jacket outlining your body. it short-circuited his brain.
took him a full minute to process your “hi” and when he finally reacted, he leaned in with clumsy urgency to leave a quick kiss on your cheek, his face heating up at the scent of your perfume.
“you look gorg-” he started, only to be interrupted by a group passing behind you carrying a massive bucket of ice, forcing you to step forward with an awkward smile. the space between you vanished, leaving you almost pressed against his chest; the poor boy lost every ounce of ability to finish his sentence.
“idiots…” you muttered under your breath, stepping back once they disappeared through the sliding doors. “anyway, why didn’t you tell me your friend was the evan lee?” you looked up at him, arms crossed.
“i tutor him on wednesdays… he’s not really a friend friend” he explained, his voice coming out a little rougher than usual.
jake tried to maintain eye contact, but the proximity was a trap; his gaze dropped involuntarily to your cleavage before he forced it away, releasing a heavy breath like he was trying to remember literally anything other than the fact that for the first time in his life he felt a very physical urge to touch something.
“i don’t know…” he admitted shyly. “truth is, i don’t really know anyone here… i don’t even know what i’m supposed to do” his tone was low, only you could hear it over the music.
that vulnerability was the dirty hit. jake was unbearably lovable exactly because of that innocence. he wasn’t one of those guys who filled their phone storage collecting random girls’ nudes, nor was he the smelly nerd who forgot basic hygiene in the name of academic decathlons. he was clean, smelled good, ridiculously handsome, and had this genuine purity about the trivialities of social life that made you want to protect him from everything. seeing him there, so misplaced and so honest, made your heart jolt.
you were fucked.
you bit your lower lip, internally debating whether to just kiss him already and ruin any chance of preserving the friendship, or show him how to actually enjoy the party since you were already there and finals would start in two weeks. another excuse for the two of you to unwind a little.
“well… you don’t wanna go home yet, right?” you pouted slightly, tilting your head as he quickly shook his. “then let’s grab some drinks” you grabbed the denim jacket he was wearing and pulled.
you had a determined smile on your lips while jake let out endless “sorry” “excuse me” “my bad” like he was asking permission from the air itself to exist, as you crossed the packed living room until you reached the improvised bar in what looked like lee’s parents’ small wine cellar.
you scanned the menu written on cardboard with a disturbing amount of glitter and nudged his arm, encouraging him to pick one of the suspiciously named drinks. he alternated his gaze between the colorful letters and your face, laughing in pure indecision, genuinely grateful that you took the lead and chose for both of you.
the song blasting was straight 2000s pop nostalgia, making you sway lightly without caring, aware of his shy glances dropping to your hips, caught by the movement of your skirt and the metal details of your belt. jenny by studio killers was playing somewhere in the background and your ego mocked you internally.
jake’s head was an absolute mess of sensations. the denim jacket suddenly felt too warm over his shirt; the loud music made his organs vibrate in a rhythm he couldn’t predict; the inevitable brushing of sweaty skin against strangers… and most of all, you, in that damn outfit outlining every curve and doing violent things to his imagination, challenging the logic of just coworkers.
when the drinks were ready, you lifted your plastic cup with a casual “cheers” taking a long sip and watching over the rim as jake tried to imitate you, only to pull the most priceless grimace seconds later.
“okay. what the fuck is in this?” he coughed, throat burning.
“you don’t wanna know” you laughed, already feeling the light buzz hit your empty stomach.
and as if the stimulation wasn’t enough, seconds later jake felt a sudden weight on his shoulders. none other than evan appeared, clearly deep into drunken territory but radiating that captive energy of someone who owned the house and half the campus.
“heyy, if it isn’t my boy and… with a hot girl?! wow, i knew you had potential, jakey, but not this much…” he said to jake without taking his eyes off you; a crooked smile forming as he shamelessly stared at your cleavage and the pendants resting between your breasts. “wait, i know you, right? yn from anthropology… you called mr. nero sexist or something in the first week! holy shit!”
evan laughed loudly, beer breath hitting jake straight in the face, making his eyes water from the sting. he leaned his weight against the nerd’s shoulder to avoid collapsing, the bottle in his hand threatening to slip as he swayed.
“damn… you hit the jackpot, buddy…” he looked at jake, who stared at the situation with slightly furrowed brows, caught between embarrassment and confusion. “you know what they say… the ones who hate men are the best in bed”
he whispered it in what he clearly thought was a low tone, but it landed directly in both your ears.
jake’s ears burned a violent shade of red, the raw bluntness of the drunk comment hitting his shyness dead center. he was not subtle. evan chuckled, ruffled jake’s brown hair messily, and staggered away, but not before throwing you a wink.
the silence left between you and jake was palpable, loaded with a new, strange vulnerability that the comment had dragged. he stood frozen, unsure where to look, feeling the weight of that insinuation hovering between your spiked belt and his glasses. you held each other’s gaze for a few seconds, the bold words still floating in the air. then you, either to break the tension or to deal with the sudden heat crawling up your own neck, tipped back the rest of your drink in one sharp motion, nodding for jake to do the same before turning to order another round from the girl behind the counter.
***
the two of you were already on the fourth drink each, alternating between sips of that indecipherable mix and observations about the ecosystem of the party. you shared some random gossip about the people walking by, standing on your tiptoes to whisper into his ear; the warmth of your voice and the sudden proximity made jake bite his lower lip, keeping the corner of his eyes on you. at times, you steadied yourself with your palm pressed against his abdomen, feeling the firmness beneath his shirt, especially now that your balance was beginning to float and the floor seemed slightly tilted.
jake widened his eyes at every touch, and the urge to hold you by the waist was automatic whenever your legs faltered, his hands hovering in the air before settling the touch, making you laugh to yourself at the exaggerated care.
"you good there?" he asked quietly, bending his body to be able to look at you up close.
"i'm fiiine" you confirmed cheerfully, trying to rise above the volume of the music and failing; obviously.
you wondered - in some part of your consciousness that drifted far from reality sometimes - why he still seemed so under control. maybe he was one of those guys with strong genes for alcohol, who would take centuries to completely loosen up.
you looked at him with a silent challenge and then, after placing your cup on the counter and taking his from his hand doing the same, you grabbed the boy's arm with determination. taking a few steps back, pulling him out of the safe little corner where he was leaning.
"you know what? i think there's one last thing missing for you to fully experience a college party..."
jake looked without understanding, giving in very reluctantly while his feet were dragged by yours.
"yn, i think we've already overdone it..." he denied smiling, that smile of someone who is about to be convinced to do something reckless.
"uhm uhm" you shook your head, the expression in your face being the same as a mischievous child. "you're going to dance with me first..."
"oh… no no no" he refused placing his hand gently over yours trying to pull away. "i'm terrible at these things"
"pretty please? it'll be just a little..." you pouted and he froze.
and for god's sake, jake stuttered with the air he breathed, feeling his own fingers tighten on the hem of his jacket, his heart stopped and came back irregularly. he followed you, half uncertain, half hypnotized, to the center where the bodies danced and where disco lights, colored lasers and tutti-frutti scented smoke wrapped around everything.
"i've never danced like this..." the brunette looked around trying to find any example he could use to imitate, but none of that was possible, in public even less.
"just feel the music..." you urged, disappearing a little more into that human wave, while jake was sucked into the whirlwind that was being by your side.
and when you started dancing, for him, it was as if the world around lost focus and slowed down just so he could watch that scene.
you were so freaking beautiful.
blue and yellow beams cut through the dimness, lighting up your face, your makeup and the shine of your piercings, which became small sparkling blurs thanks to his nearsightedness, since his glasses insisted on not cooperating in that stuffy humidity.
his tense jaw from before dropped a little, his hands inert at his sides while he watched the sensual way you moved.
your fingers traced from your hip up to your neck in a fluid gesture, and when your eyes closed and you tilted your head back, jake felt the air in his lungs thinning. it was then that you took the final step: you grabbed his wrists and brought him into an unimaginable nearness, guiding his hands - which were sweating with anticipation - so that they fixed on your waist, following every movement you made.
your hand moved up his shirt until it reached the collar, curling your fingers there with a possessiveness that made him lose the ground. you pulled him down, forcing him to bend his posture until your faces were dangerously close, to the point that he could feel your breath and the scent of the drink mixed with your smell.
"imagine it's just me and you" you whispered, but the lip reading and the intention were so evident that he didn't need sound to understand.
jake nodded instinctively, his heart beating so hard that he was sure you could feel it through the layers of clothing. in that moment, logic, algebra studies and paralyzing shyness were replaced by something new; desire, in its most primitive form. his fingers closed with a little more strength on you, and he stopped fighting the environment. under the effect of the lasers and the absurd enclosure, his 'little world' reduced itself to the square meter where you brushed against each other to the beat of the music.
***
song after song, the minutes got lost between little comments and bass, sentences left hanging in the air, with no importance whatsoever compared to what was happening on a carnal level. jake was no longer just a spectator he moved with you, in sync, one of his thighs positioned between your legs while he felt his head spiral with the way you intentionally grinded, challenging every ounce of self-control he had left.
in an impulsive movement, thanks to a courage he didn’t even know where it came from, he made you turn your back to him, pressing your lower back against him; if his body were a machine, it would be in a critical state of overheating. his lips, damp and warm, brushed against your neck in a shy graze that soon became more provocative, while his thumbs slipped under your shirt from below, mapping your waist and feeling the unfair way your ass rubbed against his covered cock. jake was rock hard in there, even panting, his vision blurred and his judgment completely clouded.
"yn..." he murmured your name like it was a prayer or a cry for help.
he lost count of how many times the thought of kissing you crossed his mind, and he internally tormented himself for not being able to look away from your cleavage, which became even more exposed with the friction of your bodies. he tried shaking his head to chase the ideas away, pushing his glasses up with a trembling finger and wiping the sweat from the corners of his eyes, but he was surrendered. all it would take was for you to turn to him with those spoiled eyes and he would give up resisting.
"i wanted to do something..." you admitted, turning back to face him, pressing yourself against him to wrap your arms around his neck. "but i would hate if you ended up hating me for it" the words came out like a breath against his skin. jake paid attention, the world outside slowly ceasing to exist.
"i would never hate you" he laughed, biting his lower lip as usual while staring at you.
"are you sure? what if you"
you didn’t even get to finish. driven by a desperate decision, he himself ended the short distance between you in a brief seal, a touch of lips that lasted only a second before he pulled back slightly, looking at you for approval and dying of fear of your reaction.
"sorry, yn, i-i"
but you didn’t give space for the apology. you slid your hands from the back of his neck to his face, holding the boy’s cheeks and kissing him for real.
holy fuck
jake numbed. his wide eyes behind the lenses took at least five seconds to close, his brain processing that this wasn’t an alcohol-induced delusion. it took him even longer to relax his tense posture, but when he finally did, it was like a dam breaking.
his hands slid down urgently to your ass, squeezing it while his slender body curved over yours, giving in to the rhythm you dictated. when you deepened the kiss, asking for his tongue, jake let out a low sound in his throat, a mix of surprise and total surrender.
your mouths clashed in a needy, messy kiss that had been stored away for months, a tension accumulated between bookstore shelves that finally exploded. jake bit your lower lip with an urgency you didn’t expect, before tilting his head to the side and fitting the kiss perfectly against yours; it was sloppy, full of saliva, even starting to drip. you let out small sniffles, feeling your body soften in his arms. he definitely didn’t kiss like a nerd and there was no way to tell if he was just learning fast under pressure or if he had been hiding that talent all along.
you only pulled apart when someone, in a hard shove, hit his shoulder, making your teeth clash together. the scare disconnected your swollen lips, leaving you both staring at each other under the strobe lights, breathless. the air between you was heavy, dense, and neither of you wanted to stop yet.
"let’s go to my place..." you asked, your fingers still tangled in his hair, subtly pulling him closer; if that was even possible.
jake didn’t argue. there was no logical analysis, no concern about the time or what his dormmate would think since he was always home by 11pm at the latest.. he just held your hand and pulled you through the crowd until you found the house’s exit.
the cool night air hit your faces, but the desire still burned. you didn’t even know it, but jake had a scooter parked nearby; a small bike in coffee tones that, strangely enough, looked just like him.
he guided you to where the vehicle was and you couldn’t hold back a laugh.
"what?" he asked, looking over his shoulder while opening the compartment to grab an extra helmet for you.
"isn’t this way too imprudent, mr. jake sim?" you teased, amused, watching him approach.
jake didn’t answer immediately. he stopped in front of you, focusing on putting the helmet on your head, fastening the buckle with almost surgical care. his face was serious, concentrated, but that broke when he held your chin tilting your head a little to look up.
"as if you cared about prudence, miss" he finally replied, in a friendly tone, shrugging and making you raise an eyebrow.
the silent confidence that the alcohol and the kiss had brought him made you want to shove your entire wrist into your mouth. he still helped you get on the back seat and murmured for you to hold on properly which didn’t even take a second to happen, you wrapping your arms around his waist, playfully sliding your restless fingers over the fabric of his plain shirt, feeling his abdomen contract under your touch. jake knew the way. he had the address memorized since the day he offered to lend you his father’s record player. he felt unrecognizable, completely tamed by the need to have you, almost impatient, while you, feeling the wind hit your face and the warmth of his body between your arms, could only regret that your house was ten minutes away and not on the next block.
***
you stumbled in your boots on the stairs, the sound of your heels echoing through the quiet hallway until you finally reached the door of your apartment. you felt your fingers loose, a side effect of the liquor you had downed without thinking earlier, but it was the presence of the boy right behind that truly made you dizzy. when you finally managed to turn the key, you pulled him inside by the wrist in an impatient movement, tossing your bag into some random corner and his jacket into another.
you fell sitting on the edge of the bed when your calves hit it, and you saw jake kneel in front of you without you having to ask. he helped you with the laces of your shoes, his long and agile fingers undoing the complex knots with surprising skill, as if he were solving one of his magic cubes.
by that point, jake looked like a dream in your field of vision; his image was blurred because of the drunkenness, but the tension growing in your womb was very real. needy, you pulled him so he climbed onto the bed and, in a quick movement, switched positions, pulling a surprised gasp from him when you settled onto his lap.
"w-wait..." he tangled in his words, but you didn’t give him time, kissing him again with voracity.
"i fucking can't..." you mewled against the boy’s lips before asking for entrance with your tongue again.
the kiss was deep and deliciously clumsy, hands roaming over bodies that were still discovering each other. jake groped your skin, testing where to touch you and how to grab you, and you responded by lightly scratching his skin with the tips of your nails when you slipped your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, trying to pull the fabric down.
"take it off..." you murmured with a weak but commanding voice, which made jake swallow hard, his adam’s apple jumping in his throat.
"yn, i've never..." his sentence made you stop for a few seconds.
you interrupted the kisses that were now trailing down his sensitive neck, placing your hands on his firm chest and staring at him from above with a pleading expression, your eyes heavy with lust.
"you can tell me to stop then, ikeu..." you challenged in a whisper.
jake couldn’t stop even if his life depended on it. you were too much for him, a force of nature he had no way and no wish to contain. in response, he just pulled you into another urgent kiss, holding the back of your neck. he broke the seal only for a moment to look down, his trembling hands helping with the button and zipper of his own pants. and you moved like a cat in heat on top of him, eager to slide the fabric down his long legs.
your lips traced a trail of fire brushing from his collarbone down to his lightly sculpted abdomen, nibbling the pale skin and licking slowly, feeling the larger body tense. when you reached his pelvis, feeling one of his veins pulse under your wet tongue, you sucked right there making the small moans that escaped him turn into a low groan.
jake looked at your arched body over him, your ass raised and the ends of your hair spread across the sheets, and he cursed softly in a tone you had never heard him use. he was above average, a doctor had once said, which always made him cautious, fearing that any advance would be... overwhelming. but the thought was cut off the second you squeezed him over his underwear, with a curiosity stripped of any hesitation.
"hmm.. big.." you commented, your voice melting, while sliding your hand along his entire length.
"a-h... i-it’s okay if you don’t want to... it can be a little uncomfortable... and i-i don’t mind, we can just..." the instinct to explain and protect activated, and he started talking nonstop, the words tripping.
but the explanation died in his throat when you licked him slowly through the fabric. jake rolled his eyes back, throwing his head against the pillow and feeling his toes curl.
"what do you mean? i like it like that..." you said, with a simplicity that almost destroyed him.
you began spreading wet kisses along his thighs, which instinctively parted to give you more space. meanwhile, your hand continued the work, stroking him over the cotton, which quickly began to darken and dampen where the head rubbed. jake pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white, closing his eyes to try to keep the little control he had left.
until... everything stopped.
the sudden silence was more deafening than the party music. jake, with his head sunk into one of your pillows, stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, waiting for the next touch, the next command, anything. but the only thing he received was the sound of your breathing, which had become strangely light.
he propped himself up on his elbows, his heart still hammering in his chest, and looked down. you were completely passed out, lips slightly parted, cheeks squished and lashes resting. your head lay heavily on one of his thighs, and your hand was still resting over his member, which pulsed and twitched insistently under your now motionless touch.
jake sank back into the bed, letting out a low muffled whine, covering his face with both hands. the realization hit with the weight of a ton: the way the night had escalated, the fact that he had almost let himself be carried away by desire even knowing how much you had drunk, and the perception that he was completely in love with you. the moral panic colliding with the physical frustration of a man. he stayed there, in absolute silence for several long minutes, frozen, afraid to move and wake you.
***
the next morning you woke up feeling like death itself. your hair was full of knots and apparently you had slept in such a crooked position that your neck was even burning with pain on one side. the makeup? printed onto the bed sheets and your clothes twisted on your body. a trail of drool also marked from the corner of your mouth down to your chin. but the worst part was the headache. it wasn’t just pain, it was like someone had personally poured liters and liters of water in there and it was hard even to keep your balance.
after you finally managed to take off your clothes and get into the shower, you stayed almost half an hour there under the warm water, cleaning your face and body, trying to come back down to earth. you remembered very little from the night before. you remembered arriving, drinking, pulling jake to dance and kissing… after that everything had turned into a blur. but judging by the fact that you were at home, he had probably given you a ride.
you left the bathroom wrapped in a towel and went to throw yourself onto the bed again; you would have to change the sheets anyway. you grabbed your phone from the nightstand and noticed the notifications, pulling them down to open.
[jake🤓🐶]: good morning… about yesterday… thank you for going with me to the party. we ended up overdoing it with the drinks and you passed out when we got to your house haha
[jake🤓🐶]: i locked your door and slid the key under it, so if you can’t find it just look on the floor…
[jake🤓🐶]: i looked it up and you’ll probably wake up feeling bad, so try to eat light things, drink plenty of water and sleep 👍🏻 text me if you need any medicine
[you]: hi. yeah, my head is about to explode… but it’s fine. thanks for worrying. hope it was fun for your first party
so no comments about what REALLY happened huh? you wanted to drag the conversation out, but your pride spoke louder, so you just decided you weren’t going to do that on a saturday morning. maybe jake was still processing everything, or maybe it just hadn’t meant anything. you felt a knot in your throat having flashes of the night, his mouth so soft against yours and the hands squeezing your waist, how could that not mean anything? you tossed and turned in bed, kicking your legs.
you got up and went to make something to eat and some chamomile tea to calm down. you spent the whole afternoon under the covers watching a show and only when the sun was setting you decided to get up and go to your computer. usually you and jake played together from that time on, but as soon as you logged into discord, entering the server you shared, ready to join the call where he was, apparently alone, he left; the little green circle around the icon disappeared and he changed his status to invisible. you gave an annoyed smile, squeezing the mouse in your hand.
had you done something beyond the kiss? actually, you clearly remembered that he had been the first to kiss you, regardless of whether the thought had crossed your mind before. you curled up in the chair and brought your finger to your mouth, biting the tip of your nail. your stomach churned, and you couldn’t tell if it was still because of the remnants of the alcohol or because you were feeling guilty and afraid you had ruined everything.
sunday was another day of zero contact. he didn’t even send you some random curiosity in the chat and you had already written and deleted countless attempts to call him. but what would you say? “hey sorry for ruining our friendship”?
in monday’s class your head was in the clouds, you didn’t even talk to your friends who were chatting about some pub they had gone to. you were irritated, if you couldn’t tap your mechanical pencil on the binder, you were biting your nails, and vice versa. you felt like you might die before it was time to go to work, but you didn’t, you just arrived late because you stayed fifteen minutes locked inside one of the college bathroom stalls, going over countless possibilities of what would happen when you saw each other in person.
when you walked in through the back door, heading to the staff room, you saw jake’s things already in the locker, meaning he would be at the counter when you went there. you put on your apron with difficulty and slipped your phone into your pocket before walking over.
jake had his back turned when you passed through the little wooden door, and he gave you a sideways glance, pressing his lips together and nodding… strangely quiet, no rambling about physics, about calculus, no news about superhero movies and games, not asking how your day had been. you felt your lunch come back up your esophagus, but you controlled yourself, sitting down just as silent, and for the first time in 3 months putting your headphones back on.
next to you, jake hunched his shoulders even more, pretending he was focused on reading the comic when his head couldn’t even put two sentences together because it was so overwhelmed with thoughts. he still felt horrible for thinking he had taken advantage of you… he had simply gone from someone with no experience at all to someone awfully bad. he didn’t feel entitled to be your friend anymore, or whatever you really were. his foot kept tapping against the chair support nonstop, making the rest of his body tremble a little. the tasks you used to do together, he split into a spreadsheet that would stay on the library computer. he would handle cleaning the tables, you would organize the counter. you cataloged the books and he shelved them, it was practical, you didn’t even have to talk.
***
a week passed like that. and by friday, both of you were a wreck. it was the first time you had seen jaeyun with dark circles under his eyes. when you were about to leave the locker room, you ran into him as he was coming in just to grab something.
“sorry” you said quietly.
“it’s okay, i’m sorry too,” he replied and then stepped aside, holding the door for you to pass.
you couldn’t even look at each other for more than half a second.
when the door closed you still stood there, staring at the little sign that read ‘staff only’, parting your lips thinking about saying that you didn’t want to keep going like this… that he could at least go back to talking, that you missed the way he talked about things you had zero curiosity about but ended up remembering because the sound of his voice was addicting, how you wanted to know about the games he was playing and if he had customized any other character to look like you…
“yn?” you heard, being pulled forcefully from your trance as jake opened the door again.
“jake…” you replied and looked at him, but nothing came out after that.
“can i get through?” he indicated, pointing down, you were standing in front blocking the way.
“can we talk?” you retorted, looking away and not noticing how at that exact moment the boy blushed and lowered his head.
“l-look, yn… i, i don’t know what to say. what ended up happening last week was a mistake, i admit it. it’s just that…” he said hurried and hesitant, even up close, avoiding you.
his words hit you right in the chest.
he thought it had been a mistake.
your heart hurt. if you had thought your poorly resolved one-night thing had been shitty, this was about to become your biggest trauma. you felt your eyes water, but you held back, smiling and swallowing hard, with difficulty.
“no, you are totally right. it was a mistake. and it won’t be repeated, i am really sorry”
“am i interrupting something?” you both heard a third voice coming from behind. clint approached holding a clipboard. “why is the central counter empty?”
“i was just heading there” jake answered quickly, nodding to the older man and looking at you one more time before leaving.
“and you, ms. yln? any problem?” the nasal voice turned to you.
“no. just… dust allergy” you lied, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand and sniffling before turning around.
***
you couldn’t take it anymore.
after that short and dry dialogue that had felt more like a sentence, everything stayed the same: another week of complete silence, tasks coldly divided and your music playing low in your headphones, in a ridiculous hope that he would start any kind of conversation with you during the afternoon. you were sure that quitting the job was the best thing to do; that way, the worlds that had once collided wouldn’t have to meet again.
you were at the dean’s office, waiting to be called in by mr. clint. you felt nervous, with the sensation that you might throw up at any moment as you stared at your own feet.
“you can come in” the secretary called.
you stood up and walked into the office, watching the old man close a file book and lift his gaze to you. you tightened the strap of your crossbody bag and remained standing.
“anything I can help you?” he went straight to the point.
“mr. clint, i needed to-”
“ah, before you say it, i need to ask you a favor” he cut you off, with a tired voice and demeanor of someone who had already exhausted all options and didn’t want to deal with the matter anymore. “i know you hate it, but i’m going to need you to take the night shift tomorrow. the guy who usually comes is sick”
you froze, mouth slightly open, completely stunned.
“do you think you can do it? want to tell me what brought you here first? if it’s about the new cart… finance still hasn’t released the funds”
there was an immediate internal conflict. maybe if you asked to leave next month… it would be a way to show respect to the job that had paid for your concerts and your clothes until now… it would also give you time to do interviews and find something somewhere else…
“no… it’s fine, i’ll do it” you confirmed with a faint, unenthusiastic smile. “great, i’ll confirm it with jaeyun too” he stood up, already grabbing his phone and walking out of the office, leaving you there with a bitter taste in your mouth.
***
the library at night took on a different vibe. the huge windows weren’t enough for the streetlights and the moon to illuminate the interior, leaving most of the aisles submerged in total darkness since the led lights focused only on the central and study areas. to make it worse, one of those winter rains was falling, the kind that starts slowly and promises to last all night, leaving the air icy. normal hours were until 7pm, which meant that from 8pm till 4am you would stay there with not much to do, just waiting for the moment to open the back gate for the cleaning staff, which consisted of two old ladies.
you arrived carrying a small bag with an energy drink and some sour candies to trick the sleep away. you stored your things in the locker and went back to the counter, feeling the cold crawl up your calves. you hadn’t even bothered to put on the apron, staying only in your tank top with a windbreaker over it. the manager was giving final instructions to jake while you finished adjusting yourself.
“if anything happens, call me or the police, alright?” it was just precaution, according to him, it wasn’t like the campus had some kind of book maniac.
as soon as the man left, the silence of the library seemed to triple in size. jake, without saying a single word, started cataloging some books, adjusting his glasses on his nose from time to time. he had switched the tasks, avoiding any activity that required him to stand still beside you at the counter.
you sighed and put on your headphones, but didn’t press play. you wanted to hear the sound of the rain… you opened a social media app and started scrolling without really seeing anything. the tension between you was like an elephant in the room, a heavy presence that made the air hard to breathe.
jake was only a few meters away, the desk lamp casting dramatic shadows across his face. he seemed more uneasy than usual, and the way he turned the pages was almost mechanical, stripped of that clumsy and goofy little way you loved so much about him. you sighed, feeling your stomach tighten. it was your last chance to understand why the boy who had kissed you so hungrily on the dance floor now acted like you were an unwanted ghost.
suddenly, a louder thunderclap made the windows vibrate. the library lights flickered violently, the filament of the old bulbs letting out a dry snap. jake stopped what he was doing, looking up and then at you. you kept your focus on your phone…
the truth was that those days had been the worst jake had ever faced in his life. worse than the bullying in high school or when he had fucked up his freshman year because he felt so out of place in a class with almost 100 people that he had simply stopped showing up for an entire month. and he swore he tried to understand, he had rationalized the situation in every possible way, he had even written a letter in his phone notes.
he had never felt that before, it was suffocating not to talk to you, not to hear your voice humming songs all afternoon or see your confused expression when he said something bizarrely scientific.
he wanted to comment on the storm outside. he wanted to say he found it interesting how the atmosphere could become a giant conductive plasma in a matter of milliseconds, as if the skies were trying to balance an unbalanced equation… like the two of you in that moment. he held himself back, squeezing the book in his hands, but as soon as he turned ready to say something, you suddenly stood up and grabbed the cart already full of books to shelve them.
of course, he had divided it that way.
jake sank into the chair and threw his head back, huffing and massaging his temples, where was he not understanding? why had everything gotten so strange? why didn’t you seem angry but sad?
you, on the other hand, couldn’t rationalize anything. you pushed the damn broken cart toward the romance section, grabbing three heavier books into your arms before pulling the small ladder to climb. you held on tight, going up at least three steps before starting to rearrange the stories to make space for the new ones.
a harsh flash tore across the sky, lighting up the library windows as if it were daytime, followed by a crack of electricity that seemed to whip against the walls. the thunder came right after, so loud the floor vibrated beneath your feet, and in the same instant, the hum of the machines and the artificial light died. the darkness that followed was absolute. you waited for the click of the emergency lights, but the silence continued.
“great” you muttered into the void. you hugged the books against your chest and felt along the metal ladder, trying to climb down carefully. the mistake was careless: the untied shoelace. as you tried to take the first step, your foot got caught and the world spun. you fell backward, your body hitting the ground with a dry impact while the ladder collapsed beside you with a deafening crash. in the middle of the fall, the back of your head struck one of the shelves behind you.
you let out a sharp groan, curling up on the cold floor. the pain was throbbing. you brought a hand to your head, feeling the spot of impact, praying you wouldn’t feel the sticky warmth of blood.
“yn? yn…!” jake’s shout came from the start of the aisle.
a beam of light appeared - a flashlight that stayed in the second drawer of the counter - and soon he was kneeling beside you, his face pale under the white light. he dropped the flashlight to the side and held your face with both hands, his fingers trembling.
“fuck, i’m sorry. so sorry! no, don’t do it! don’t move! if you hit the back of your head, you can’t turn your neck, the impact could’ve affected your spine or caused a displacement we can’t see! i’m calling an ambulance!”
you hissed in pain, but managed to grab his wrist before he dialed.
“calm down… it was just a fall” you murmured, your voice weak.
“do you have any idea how dangerous a concussion can be? the glasgow coma scale exists for a reason! if you show retrograde amnesia or cognitive dysfunction in the next few hours, that indicates a mild to moderate traumatic brain injury and-” he rambled, words fumbling over while he checked your pupils.
“jake!” you said louder, looking at him firmly despite the dizziness. “i’m fine, okay? just… help me up, please”
he stopped immediately, swallowing hard. silence returned for a few seconds while he helped you stand with almost sacred slowness. jake scanned every inch of your body looking for any other sign of injury, his arms hovering around your waist without quite touching, like an invisible protective barrier ready to catch you if you faltered. you lifted the ladder together and you tossed the dented books into the cart, noticing how he dusted his hands on his jeans, his eyes still fixed on you.
“are you sure you don’t want to go? i… they can come get you, i wouldn’t go with you, i wouldn’t bother you” he tried to reassure you. “seriously, i’m sorry. i should’ve taken that task, like i always do. if i hadn’t stepped away, you wouldn’t have”
the rambling started again and you gave a small smile before letting out a soft laugh, raising the white flag, almost in disbelief, lowering your gaze…
“what? what’s funny?” he asked, confused.
“you… the way you are” you answered, rubbing the sore back of your neck and taking a step to the side. “the fact that i had to go through a near-death experience to get you talking like before… when things were normal” your body swayed a little, but you supported yourself with your hand.
his shoulders dropped and he chewed on the inside of his cheek, thoughtful.
“i don’t get it…” he whispered.
“what don’t you get?” you looked up at him, your heart beating harder than the pain in your head. “tell me, jake, what got unclear between us? because if there’s anything i can do to change it, i’ll do it”. the words came out without permission, and you meant every single one of them, not backing down now even with the imminent urge to cry and the exhaustion of several badly slept nights.
jake sighed.
“that day… the party. i’ve never felt that way before, i’ve never felt the need to touch something or someone like that… it was almost… intoxicating, like i wasn’t in control…” he started slowly, still figuring out how to put his thoughts together. “and when we kissed… it was… it felt so right, you know? but then we went to your house and fuck… you were so hot, so determined, and so… my god, so drunk” he said almost whining. “you blacked out, and all i could think afterward was that i was really going to do that, even with you that drunk… and now, i feel like i don’t even deserve to be around you” he admitted, sniffling and adjusting his glasses.
you looked at him and then your gaze drifted to the space between you. that was what had happened and you didn’t remember it at all.
you tilted your head back and closed your eyes, covering your face with your hands and pressing.
“you thought i was mad?” you asked, just to fit the final missing piece into place.
“well… if you felt like i used you, wouldn’t that be the most likely outcome?” he shot back.
you laughed again, first softly and then almost crying. you looked at him once more and pressed your lips together.
“that day, jake, i wanted you more than anything” you said directly. “not just that day, but the day before and every moment, since the first day i saw you until just now…” you spoke with a lighter expression, watching through the movement of his eyebrows as jake tried to connect all the dots.
“so you didn’t think i was some kind of asshole?”
“that was the last thing i would ever think about you” you stepped forward and reached for his hand, looking down as you intertwined your fingers.
“yn…” he called one last time. “hm?” when you lifted your head, his eyes said enough.
***
at first your lips only brushed each other, a chaste kiss almost apologetic beginning slow. your bodies still kept a minimal distance, but jake soon took care of eliminating it by holding your wrist up, pulling you close to him, while his free arm finally wrapped completely around your waist. you melted right there, feeling all the negative feelings - the guilt, the silence, the doubt - fade like smoke as your muscles relaxed at the slightest touch. there was nothing in your mind that wasn’t him, him and him.
jake called your name, his voice hoarse and drawn out between your lips, but you denied any interruption, just continuing the seal, wanting to recover every lost second.
when he let go of your wrist, your hand went straight to his cheek, stroking the warm skin as you pulled him closer, wanting more depth.
“you’re not in pain…?” he tried to murmur, his voice failing.
“i don’t care…” you answered with absolute certainty, pulling back just enough to see him blush under the flashlight’s glow.
he looked so beautiful like that, disarmed. the kiss returned, but now it was more urgent, with more tongue and your nails slipping behind the collar of his shirt. jake’s hands lost their shyness slightly - without alcohol in his blood to help - moving up and down your back, mapping the sides of your body and dragging you by the hips until he pressed you against the bookshelf. the soft impact made the books vibrate and you let out a needy gasp that he swallowed. you bit his lower lip and sucked, feeling him shudder.
“i-i don’t want to stop this time” jake panted against your mouth, breath heavy.
“we’re not going to” you assured, exposing your neck to him as his mouth kissed the base of your throat.
jake’s tongue, slow and exploratory, licked the entire area, not caring about leaving a trail, not caring about the saliva or how your moans broke the decorum of the library. you tangled your fingers in the dark strands at the nape of his neck, pulling, squeezing his broad shoulder to steady yourself.
“shiit… do you know what you’re doing?” you asked, laughing softly between shivers.
“i have… no idea… just need you so fucking bad… why?”
“because it’s working…”
the raw confession was the trigger. he continued, pulling the sleeves of your sweatshirt down after opening the zipper with your help. little by little, the heavier pieces were forgotten on the cold library floor. jake slid his swollen mouth to one of your shoulders, leaving a bite there, climbing up your collarbones and chin as if he wanted to mark you entirely. he pulled your thigh on impulse to fit himself better against you, listening to every reaction you gave to what he was doing.
“show me how to do it… please…” he begged, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes shining with an intensity you had never seen, even in the dark. “i promise i’ll be good… so good to you…”
your head spun, brows furrowing as you kissed him again, almost animalistic. your tongues even slipped out of your mouths, his hands found your ass and squeezed. you lifted your hips slightly without any control, craving the contact. when you pulled apart again, you held onto him, bringing him with you. the darkness of the library was total, but you already knew that path by heart. you walked, tripping over each other, between kisses and anxious giggles, until you reached the counter again. you pushed his shoulders until the boy fell back seated in the chair, looking at you from there with his clothes bunched up.
you mounted the inviting lap and scattered little kisses across his face, until your mouth was near his ear to whisper. “don’t overthink… just do what you want… what do you want now?”
jake listened and his skin prickled… he placed his hands on your hips now intentionally and helped you in a slow back and forth, biting his lower lip hard. you nodded and kept going. “like this? do you want me to grind on you?” and the boy nodded repeatedly, holding back his moans as his member swelled even more inside his underwear.
“yeah..?” you nibbled his lobe, closing your eyes when your tight jeans and his pressed exactly where you needed, increasing the way you were riding him. you could feel your panties getting soaked, but even so you wasn’t giving more than this yet. you made sure to moan and scratch his arms, feeling his restless hands only stop when they reached your tits, squeezing hard and pulling little mewls from you.
“pl… y-yn, please…” he babbled. jake was a thread away from coming undone inside his pants and deep down you really wanted that… especially if it meant he would be all embarrassed afterward, but you stopped, just as affected as he was, sliding down until you were on your knees in front of him.
locking your gaze with his, you waited for him to lift his hips to help you with his jeans, pulling them down and tossing them aside. the white boxer deliciously failed to hide his cock slick with pre-cum. you only lowered the waistband, letting the hard length spring free, hitting against his abdomen. it was too big… the veins pulsed and his tip was an intensely flushed pink from how aroused he was. you spat into your palm and brought it to him, sliding from head to base, squeezing his soft balls with the other hand, watching him make a pitiful little face with his mouth parted.
“want me to suck you off?” you asked mischievously, mimicking his expression.
“mhmm. yes. yes, please…” he begged, trembling at every stroke of your hand that struggled to close fully around him because of the thickness.
you kept masturbating him for a while longer, watching jake alternate between gripping his own shirt and the arms of the chair, knuckles white from the force. what did he have to do for you to finally put your precious little mouth on him? he was going insane.
in a slightly rough and clumsy movement – purely survival - he grabbed your head, pushing you down and lifting his pelvis in a thrust, making you smile satisfied between his fingers. that was exactly how you wanted to teach him.
you opened your mouth and reached him, wrapping around the head first before sliding him further inside, feeling the corners of your lips burn as you had to force yourself to fit him entirely. jake uttered something unintelligible, his head falling back and eyes rolling before he himself began to set the pace, fingers tangling in your hair with new firmness. he felt your warm breath against his pubis; when he looked down he saw your little face all puffed up while taking him.
shit. shit. he was not god’s strongest soldier. you choked when he brushed against the inner wall of your throat, drooling even more over him and forcing yourself to keep the movement while grabbing one of his thighs, taking out the lack of air on the firm flesh. the sounds you made were downright pornographic, echoing in the silence of the library and making jake’s blood boil.
***
when you were taking him more easily - adjusted to his size -, he lowered one of his hands, wrapping it around your neck with care but possessiveness, feeling exactly how deep he was reaching.
he was hypnotized by the sight: the mix of saliva and pre-cum spilling from your mouth, your pretty doe eyes rolling back and the tears of effort shining at the corners of your lashes.
“f-uck i’m coming…” he gasped, body curling as he clenched his teeth, forcing you further down on him while his pelvis lifted without rhythm, just need.
and you took it, everything he had to give.
cock so thick it pressed against the little bell of your soft palate, his pubis rubbing against your nose every time he thrusted upwards. your pussy fluttered just from that, hardened nipples brushing against your bra and your nails digging into him.
he came spilling cum down your throat, which you swallowed with eagerness, the excess slipping out, smearing your chin, your hands… even dribbling a little from your nose when you coughed because of your gag reflex sore and abused. it took him a few seconds to remove his hand from your head, letting you rise and slide his cock out again. you breathed fast, wiping your mouth uselessly with the back of your hand.
“sorry…” he breathed hoarsely, but you shook your head as you looked at him, rising again to kiss him.
“you did well…” you praised, feeling him smile.
“want to return the favor…” he sniffed softly, sliding his hands to your waist and pulling you up so you both stood.
jake unbuttoned your pants smoothly helping you kick the fabric aside after. he surprised you when he lifted you up effortlessly, setting you on the counter quickly. you kissed while he searched for your pussy to massage over your panties. he rubbed where it was wet, drawing muffled little moans from you, but it was when you placed your hand over his, guiding the movement, making him use his thumb over your swollen, covered clit that he had you writhing.
he watched closely, the way you had to break the kiss just to squirm and moan while guiding him, and especially how, whenever he pressed that swollen spot, your back arched; he was a fast learner. jake sat down again, pulling you to the edge of the counter, holding one of your heels and placing it up there to have you spread wide. he didn’t know anything about the practicality of it, he just knew what he wanted and that he’d figure it out.
more attentive to how your wet pussy had chewed the cotton fabric between your small lips before pushing the panties aside, staring shamelessly at the slick, pulsing cunt in front of him. “it’s so pretty…” he said before placing a slow kiss, enough to make his mouth wet. “tell me if i do something wrong…” he added before looking up at you from there and sinking his mouth into you.
the first licks were almost exploratory, as if he were mapping unknown territory. he tested every texture with devoted curiosity: the firmer flesh of your mound, the soft inner lips ready to slide, the entrance that clenched at the slightest touch. but when his tongue found your clit, the smooth, slippery texture made him let out a low sound of approval.
he opened his mouth wide, taking in as much as he could before sucking greedily, as if savoring a juicy fruit. when he pulled back, the slick sound of wet skin echoed in the silence of the library, a damp noise that made your lower belly throb. he repeated the motion, gaining confidence, until he stretched his tongue and tried going deeper, using the curious muscle to push into your channel while swallowing every drop of lubrication you poured over him. “taste m’so good…”
jake lifted his eyes, looking at you from behind his lenses - now crooked - only when he felt the weight of your hand in his hair, guiding him.
using his own fingers to spread the flesh and expose your most sensitive point, he captured your clit, sucking it firmly and continuously, the tip of his tongue flicking and swirling over your sensitive bud as you muffled a cry by biting your own wrist.
he flattened his tongue, moving it from bottom to top and side to side, letting the little bead drag across the muscle before returning to suck with intensity. the suction grew rhythmic, noisy, you cursed through your teeth and let out drawn-out moans, feeling your stomach tighten as you pulled his hair.
“j-jake… hhmm…” your whole body trembled while he lost himself between your legs, oblivious to anything else around. “let’s fuck.. hnng please…”
the sweet little sound when he detached his mouth from your cunt and lifted his head, slightly dazed, looking at you in confusion, almost made you change your mind. “already? i wanted… you to cum too” his eyes studied your expression while his fingers still played with your sex.
“i want to cum… but it’s going to be on your cock” you told him, sliding off the counter with his help.
you took off your shirt and unclasped your bra, watching him pull his shirt off as well, both of you completely naked. you climbed back onto his lap and smiled, kissing him slowly. “you did so well… your mouth felt so good…” you praised, noses brushing while one hand slipped between your bodies to hold him, aligning him with your entrance.
“wanted to taste you more...” his head swam, your flavor clinging to every taste bud, every one of his senses utterly consumed by you.
“you’ll have plenty of chances to do that…” you whispered, before lowering your weight and taking him halfway in at once.
jake seemed to fall apart the exact second he felt your pussy envelop him. the sensation was overwhelming, hot, slick, absurdly tight. your walls fluttered repeatedly, hands digging into his shoulders as you tried to accommodate every inch while he huffed, air leaving his lungs as if he’d just run a marathon. his moans were low, heavy with a pleasure that bordered on agony.
“fu… you’re so tight” he whimpered, voice breaking. jake couldn’t even keep his head up, resting it against yours while his arms circled your waist as if you were the only thing keeping him conscious.
you had never felt so complete. he filled every space, every curve of your spongy walls. wrapping your arms around his neck, you forced yourself to sink the rest of the way down, taking him fully. your eyes rolled back and a long moan slipped out when you felt his head press against your cervix in that position.
“f-funcking big… god…” you panted, trying to relax your muscles so you could start moving.
slowly, you began to move your hips up and down. it was a delicious torture to feel your silken folds dragging along his entire length, completely stretched. he murmured incoherent things against the curve of your neck, pulling air through his teeth in a sharp hiss.
feeling you needed more stability, you guided his large hands to your thighs, whispering for him to help you bounce.
his touch changed instantly. jake gripped your thighs firmly, fingers digging into your skin, starting to thrust your hips up and down. the slow rhythm was replaced with something steadier. each time you dropped down hard, the sound of bodies meeting echoed in the empty place, mixing with the rain outside. jake was in a trance, glasses fogged and face buried against you.
his restless mouth slid to one of your hardened nipples, sucking and making you whine softly. the loud plap plap plap and your clit striking hard against his base left you disoriented.
with every thrust you both unraveled more, jake turning into a babbling mess while you impaled yourself on the hard length, biting your lower lip to control the noise, gripping the edge of the counter and rolling your hips, making him hit your g-spot every time. you were goosebumped, sweaty, breathless, holding his face so he would look at you.
“do you want to cum inside? h-hmm?” you asked with difficulty, watching him nod desperately. “use your words”
“yes, ma’am hnng… i… please. cum-ng i-inside”
“g-good boy” you said before claiming his lips again, dropping down on him with vigor, making the chair springs squeak each time.
when you came together, jake’s whole body went rigid, holding you tight against his lap as he poured every drop of semen inside you. your arms and thighs trembling as you held onto him.
your ragged breathing taking time to settle.
jake was sweaty and marked with nail scratches, his mouth swollen and raw from so much biting. you weren’t much different, strands of hair stuck to your face, neck, shoulders… your neck covered in hickeys he’d left without even noticing and your lower belly aching.
even when you relaxed, you made no move to get off him, and he didn’t mind. the boy inhaled deeply before kissing your cheek, as if calling you to look at him. and when you did, he was there again with that mastered lost-puppy expression.
“what?” you asked with a tired smile.
jake looked up, thinking, then back at you, giggling a little.
“did you know the human heart produces enough energy to drive a truck for 30 kilometers in a day?” his smile widened and he laughed, making you look at him comically. “it’s just… my heart is beating so fast right now i think it could cross the country” he finished, burying his face in your neck again. “in other words…”
he took a deep breath, going quiet for a moment.
“i think i love you”
he confessed, making your cheeks lift, grateful for the darkness so he couldn’t see how embarrassed you were.
“well… you’d have to beat me in a race first, and i’m pretty sure you’d lose…” you replied simply, shrugging as he lifted his head to narrow his eyes at you mischievously.
amandla
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
baratheonpilled
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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