Genre : Fluff, romance, smut (lets find out), angst (a bit? More?) they are soooo in love i swear you'll love them
Summary: you paint love stories for strangers but don't believe in one for yourself. He sells affection by the hour and never crosses the line. Until he starts seeing you beyond the performance. And the masterpiece you both create isn't on canvas... it's in your heart??
…
SERIES MASTERLIST
CANVAS lV - EXHIBITION
The night of the secret exhibition arrived with a biting chill that made the heavy industrial air of the warehouse district feel even more electric. You walked toward the dimly lit entrance, your arm tucked securely into Jungkook’s. He looked effortless in a dark overcoat, his presence a steadying force against the jittery excitement thrumming through your veins.
"Look at the queue, Jungkook! People really understand his vision," you whispered, pulling him closer to a massive indigo mural near the entrance. "The way he layers the paint... it’s like he’s trying to trap the night itself on a wall. It’s so raw. I’ve never seen anything like it."
Jungkook looked at the wall, then back at you, his expression unreadable in the flickering streetlights. "It’s a bit messy, don't you think?" he remarked, his voice dropping into that low, slightly grumbled tone you’d come to recognize as his 'jealous' voice. "I bet he didn't even use a proper primer. Probably just rushed it."
"It's not rushed, it's emotive," you defended, laughing as you poked his side. "You’re just grumpy because I’m talking about another artist."
"I'm not grumpy," he lied, though he pulled you a fraction closer, his thumb tracing a possessive circle over the back of your hand. "I just think your standards for 'geniuses' are a bit low. I can show you a much better use of indigo back at the studio."
Inside, the warehouse was a labyrinth of shadows and spotlights. Every time you stopped to praise a specific brushstroke or a hidden detail in the "Afterhour" pieces, Jungkook would offer a dry, witty critique.
"He’s clearly overthinking the perspective here," he’d mutter, leaning down so his lips were dangerously close to your ear. "And honestly, y/n, if you keep looking at that frame with those big, sparkly eyes, I might have to buy the whole gallery just to burn it so you'll look at me instead."
"You're impossible," you breathed, your heart skipping at the sheer intensity in his gaze.
You turned your attention back to the gallery, your eyes scanning the textures with a professional hunger. As an artist, you weren't just looking at the finished product; you were observing the ghost of the process. You noticed the erratic, splattered marks on the lower left of a large canvas—evidence of a high-pressure spray tip used with a trembling or hurried hand. You pointed out the "ghosting" effect on the edges, a technique where the artist intentionally leaves a faint residue of a previous layer, creating a sense of history and movement.
"He uses a specific type of fat-cap nozzle for these broad strokes," you whispered, more to yourself than to Jungkook. "But look at the tapering here. He must have used a fine-liner brush dipped in acrylic to sharpen the silhouette. It’s a marriage of street grit and classical precision."
Jungkook shifted beside you, his jaw tightening as he watched you decipher his—or rather, the painter's—every secret. He seemed to vibrate with a restless energy, his hand tightening slightly on yours.
Then, you reached the final alcove of the warehouse. Unlike the aggressive, moody cityscapes that defined the rest of the show, this piece was small, illuminated by a single, warm spotlight. It was a romantic painting, but not in the traditional sense. It depicted a messy studio apartment at 3 AM—the clutter of brushes, a half-eaten orange on a paper towel, and a single, unmade bed bathed in the glow of a desk lamp.
The focal point wasn't a person, but a pair of worn-out sneakers sitting by a paint-splattered stool. It was so intimate, so quiet, that it felt like a voyeuristic glimpse into someone’s private sanctuary.
"Why would he draw this?" you wondered aloud, stepping closer until your nose almost touched the canvas. "It’s so different from his public murals. It’s not about the city; it’s about a home. It feels like he’s waiting for someone in this painting. It’s unexpected... almost like a confession."
Jungkook stayed silent, his gaze fixed on the floor. The jealousy that had been simmering in him seemed to turn into something softer, something heavy with the weight in his heart, he wasn't ready to share.
…
The days following the exhibition blurred into a beautiful, domestic rhythm. The "booking" and the "contract" were words that had long since lost their meaning, gathering dust like the old rental agreement on your desk. There were no more notifications from the app, no more talk of hourly rates or "professional boundaries." There was only Jungkook—the man who knew exactly when you needed a fresh cup of tea and the man who stayed long after the sun went down just to watch you work.
He helped you recover from the emotional exhaustion of the wedding season. One evening, as you sat on the floor trying to organize your sketches, he sat behind you, his legs bracketing yours. He didn't touch you at first, just leaned in close, his chin resting on your shoulder.
"You know," he murmured, his voice a low, flirty rumble against your ear. "If you spent half as much time analyzing me as you do that 'Afterhour' guy, you’d realize I’ve been wearing your favorite scent for three days straight just to see if you’d notice."
You turned your head, laughing, and found his face inches from yours. "I noticed, Jungkook. I just didn't want your ego to get too big."
"Too late for that, Artist," he teased, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and genuine affection.
The night of the final family wedding celebration ended back at your studio. You were both draped in the quiet exhaustion that comes from being "on" for too long. You collapsed onto the worn velvet couch, the heavy fabric a relief against your tired limbs.
Jungkook sat beside you, shedding his blazer. Instead of the usual polite distance, he reached for your hand, pulling it into his lap. He began to massage your palm, his thumbs working in slow, deliberate circles. It was a romantic gesture you hadn't expected—he wasn't focusing on your face, but on the hands that created your world.
"These hands did a lot today," he whispered. "Everyone was looking at the posters, but I was looking at the girl who stayed up all night to make them perfect."
He didn't pull away after the massage. Instead, he leaned in, his personal space dissolving until the scent of him—cedarwood and the crisp, cold air of the evening—became your entire world. The emotional static between you was so loud it felt like a physical hum, a magnetic pull that had been building since the first day he stepped into your light.
"You’re staring again," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that made your skin tingle.
"I’m an artist," you breathed, trying to find your voice through the haze of tension. "I’m trained to observe beautiful things."
Jungkook’s gaze dropped to your lips, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—an expression that was pure, unfiltered confidence. "Is that right? And what exactly are you observing now? The lighting? The composition?"
"The way your eyes change when you’re being stubborn," you countered, your heart skipping as he moved even closer.
He let out a soft, huffed laugh, his breath warm against your cheek. "That’s funny. Because I’m observing the way your breath hitches every time I move an inch closer. Is that part of your 'Afterhour' analysis, too?"
He reached up, his thumb slowly dragging across your lower lip, tracing the curve of your mouth with agonizing deliberation. The touch was electric, a spark that traveled straight to your core. He didn't rush. He lived in that agonizing, beautiful space between the question and the answer, letting the sexual and emotional tension stretch until it was almost unbearable.
"The contract is dead, Artist," he whispered, his face so close your eyelashes brushed. "From now on, the price of my time is a private viewing. I want to be the only thing you paint when the sun goes down. No more analyzing shadows on a screen. I want you to find every hidden line in mine."
He paused, his eyes searching yours with a raw, desperate sincerity that made your previous obsessions feel like sketches. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible tilt of his head—a silent request for a nod.
You didn't hesitate. You gave that shaky, breathless nod, and the distance vanished.
The kiss was a slow, melodious revelation. It wasn't a collision; it was a soft blending of colors, his lips moving against yours with a reverence that felt like he was memorizing the texture of your soul. It was the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world—the weddings, the contracts, the mystery painters—simply dissolve into the background.
He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath shaky.
"I think," Jungkook whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that usually made your brain short-circuit, "I’m going to have to charge you a very different kind of rate for that."
You leaned back just an inch, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Oh yeah? And what’s the new price? Another 'professional' consultation?"
Jungkook’s eyes darkened, a slow, predatory smirk playing on his lips—the kind of look that didn't belong to a polite rental, but to someone who knew exactly how to break the rules. He reached out, his thumb dragging slowly across your lower lip, tracing the path his mouth had just taken.
"The contract is dead, Artist," he murmured, his face inching closer until your breaths were mingling again. "From now on, the price of my time is a private viewing. I want to be the only thing you paint when the sun goes down. No more analyzing 'Afterhour’s' shadows. I want you to find every hidden line in mine."
He let out a soft, huffed laugh against your skin, his nose brushing yours. "And maybe... just maybe, I'll let you keep the 'indigo glaze' secret for free, if you promise to stop looking at his posters like they're more interesting than the man sitting on your couch."
The mention of the painter made you gasp, a flush creeping up your neck. Before you could defend your obsession, he tilted his head, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, waiting for that tiny, permission-giving nod once more.
"I'm expensive to keep, y/n," he teased, his voice a delicious, flirty challenge. "Do you think you can afford me without an app?"
You didn't answer with words. You closed the distance, pulling him back in, finally realizing that the masterpiece you’d been searching for wasn’t hanging in a warehouse—it was currently losing its composure in your arms.
Genre : Fluff, romance, smut (lets find out), angst (a bit?More?) they are soooo in love i swear you'll love them
Summary: you paint love stories for strangers but don't believe in one for yourself. He sells affection by the hour and never crosses the line. Until he starts seeing you beyond the performance. And the masterpiece you both create isn't on canvas... it's in your heart??
…
SERIES MASTERLIST || NEXT CHAPTER
CANVAS lll - THE WEDDING
The morning of the wedding arrived not with the usual leaden dread, but with a strange, jittery sort of anticipation. For once, the sunlight spilling across your floor didn't feel like a spotlight on your failures. You moved through your apartment with a purpose that had been missing for months. You ate a real breakfast—toast and an egg—remembering his "professional order" to keep your energy up.
By the time the doorbell rang, you were standing in the center of your studio, smoothed into a silk dress the color of deep wine. The fabric felt cool against your skin, and though your collarbones were still prominent, the way the dress draped made you feel elegant rather than fragile.
You opened the door, and the breath left your lungs.
Jungkook stood there, transformed. Gone was the oversized olive sweatshirt and the casual "delivery boy" energy. He was wearing a bespoke black suit that seemed to have been carved specifically for his frame. The crisp white shirt underneath was buttoned to the top, sans tie, giving him a look that was modern, sophisticated, and dangerously handsome. His hair was swept back, revealing the sharp, clean line of his brow and the piercing clarity of his eyes.
He didn't speak at first. He just looked at you, his gaze traveling from the hem of your dress up to your eyes, where it lingered with an intensity that made your skin tingle.
"You're not a bird today," he said softly, a small, private smile playing on his lips. "You're the whole sky."
You felt a heat rise in your cheeks that no blush could replicate. "You look... different," you managed to say. "Very professional."
He stepped inside, the scent of him—cedarwood and something like crisp morning air—filling your senses. He reached out, not to take your hand, but to gently adjust a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers grazed your skin, and for a second, the world narrowed down to the sensation of his touch.
"I’m just the frame," he murmured, his voice a low vibration. "You're the art."
The wedding venue was a sprawling estate, a sea of white roses and judgmental whispers. But as you walked in with Jungkook’s hand resting firmly at the small of your back, the whispers changed. They weren't about your "spinsterhood" or your "struggling career." They were about the man on your arm—and the way you were looking at him.
Your mother approached almost immediately, her eyes widening as she took in Jungkook. He didn't miss a beat. He greeted her with a perfect blend of respect and warmth, his posture relaxed yet commanding. He told her stories about your "dates"—details he had clearly invented based on the things he’d seen in your studio. He talked about your passion for light, your dedication, and how he felt lucky just to watch you work.
But the real shift happened when the guests moved to the reception hall. To help your cousin, you had contributed a series of canvases—large-scale posters and portraits of the couple that acted as the backdrop for the event.
Usually, your family looked at your work as a "nice hobby." But today, with Jungkook standing beside you, pointing out the subtle brushwork and the way you’d captured the emotion in the eyes of the subjects, people actually looked.
"The depth here is incredible," your uncle remarked, peering at a portrait you'd finished weeks ago. "I never noticed how much soul you put into these."
"She puts her whole heart into everything she touches," Jungkook added, his voice steady and proud. He squeezed your hand lightly. "Sometimes she just needs someone to remind her that it’s okay to let people see it."
You looked up at him, and for the first time in years, you weren't wearing your "social mask." You were smiling—a real, radiant smile that reached your eyes. You felt light. You felt seen. Throughout the night, you caught relatives whispering not about your loneliness, but about how happy you looked. The hollows in your cheeks seemed to vanish under the glow of the chandelier, replaced by a vibrant, living warmth.
By the time you returned to your studio apartment, the moon was high and the city was a hum of distant traffic. The silence of the room was no longer suffocating; it was intimate.
You kicked off your heels, sighing in relief as your feet hit the cool floor. Jungkook followed you in, shedding his suit jacket and draping it over the back of your painting stool. He looked even better now—relaxed, with his sleeves rolled up to reveal the strong, corded muscles of his forearms and the faint hint of ink peeking out from under his cuffs.
"We did it," you said, leaning against the edge of your worktable. "No one asked me when I was getting a real job. No one asked why I was alone."
Jungkook leaned against the wall opposite you, his hands in his pockets. The "rental" persona was gone, replaced by something much more raw. "You weren't alone," he said quietly.
A silence stretched between you—not the awkward silence of strangers, but the heavy, charged silence of two people who have said everything without speaking. You looked around your studio. The canvases, the mess, the half-finished dreams. It all looked different with him standing in the middle of it.
"Jungkook," you started, your voice barely a whisper. "I... I don't want this to be the last time."
He didn't move, but his gaze intensified. "The wedding is over, y/n. The contract is fulfilled."
"I know," you said, taking a step toward him. "But I'm overthinking again. I’m stressed about what happens tomorrow when the 'shield' is gone. I want to book you again. Not for a wedding. Not for my mother. Just... for me. Can I do that? Can I book you for any time?"
The air in the studio was charged with a soft, magnetic pull as Jungkook stepped into the circle of light cast by your desk lamp. The sharp, professional edge he’d maintained all day at the wedding had completely melted away, leaving something far more intimate and grounding.
"Can I do that?" you whispered, your voice barely carrying through the quiet room. "Can I book you for any time? Just to… have you here when the world gets too loud?"
Jungkook looked at you for a long moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, yet filled with a warmth that made your chest ache. He reached out, his hand hovering just an inch from yours—not touching, but close enough that the air between your skin felt electric.
"Yes," he murmured, the low vibration of his voice making your heart skip. "You can book me whenever you need. If it makes it easier for you to breathe, then the contract stays open."
He leaned in slightly, a playful, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "But since you're booking me for 'any time,' does that include the hours where I just get to sit here and watch you be brilliant? Because I think that might be my favorite part of the job."
…
The days that followed were filled with a domestic sweetness that felt like a dream. Jungkook became your silent anchor. He’d show up with your favorite coffee, and instead of just handing it to you, he’d linger, his fingers brushing yours as he checked the temperature of the cup.
"You’re working too hard again," he’d chide softly, standing so close behind you that you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "If you keep this up, I’m going to have to charge a 'distraction fee' just to get you to look at me for five minutes."
"And what would that fee be?" you teased, looking at him over your shoulder.
He leaned down, his face stopping mere inches from yours, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fleeting, breathless second before meeting your eyes again. "A real smile," he whispered. "The one that makes your eyes crinkle. That’s the only currency I’m interested in."
Despite this growing warmth, your obsession with the mystery painter Afterhour remained a constant topic. You spent hours analyzing his work, pinning up prints of his murals like they were holy relics.
"Jungkook, look at the way he handles this transition from indigo to black," you said, pointing excitedly at your laptop. "It’s so raw. I’d give anything to see how he actually moves his hand. I heard there's an exhibition coming up—a secret warehouse show. I have to go."
Jungkook, who was busy organizing your brushes, let out a soft, huffed sound that was almost a pout. He walked over and leaned his hip against your desk, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked down at the image of the painting, then at the adoring look on your face.
"He’s okay, I guess," Jungkook said, his voice dropping into a slightly grumbled, jealous tone. "But he’s just a guy in a hoodie. I'm standing right here in a very nice shirt, and you haven't mentioned my 'raw brushwork' once today."
You laughed, reaching out to poke his arm. "Are you actually jealous of a painter I’ve never met? You’re much more handsome than a mystery man, Jungkook."
"I'm not jealous," he lied, though his ears were turning a tell-tale shade of pink. He leaned in closer, his shadow falling over you, pinning you gently against the back of your chair. "I just think your 'Afterhour' is a bit of a show-off. I’m far more interested in the artist who’s sitting in front of me right now."
He reached out, his thumb slowly tracing a smudge of paint on your cheek. His touch was lingering and soft, making your breath hitch. "Promise me one thing," he murmured, his gaze intense and sweet. "When we go to this exhibition, you’ll remember to hold my hand. I don't want you getting lost in his shadows when you’ve got me right here in the light."
You felt your heart swell, the "rental" contract feeling more like a promise of something permanent every single day.
Genre : Fluff, romance, smut (lets find out), angst (a bit More?) they are soooo in love i swear you'll love them
Summary: you paint love stories for strangers but don't believe in one for yourself. He sells affection by the hour and never crosses the line. Until he starts seeing you beyond the performance. And the masterpiece you both create isn't on canvas... it's in your heart??
…
SERIES MASTERLIST || NEXT CHAPTER
CANVAS ll - THE TEXTS
The air in the studio was thick enough to choke on—a heavy, suffocating blend of aerosol fixative, old caffeine, and the sour tang of your own anxiety. You were standing before a new canvas, but your hand wouldn't move. Your fingers were locked around the brush so tightly the wood creaked. You felt like a clock spring wound too tight, one second away from snapping and scattering your gears across the floor.
The wedding was tomorrow. The commission for the corporate gallery was due Monday. Your mother’s voice was a permanent loop in your ears.
“You’re getting too thin.” “People are asking.” “Unfinished.”
The doorbell rang. It wasn’t the wedding day yet; this was the pre-event consultation you’d paid extra for. You needed to "sync" your stories, or so the app suggested.
When you opened the door, Jungkook didn’t look like a romantic lead. He was wearing an oversized olive sweatshirt and dark trousers, his hair slightly damp from the light drizzle outside. He looked casual—dangerously chill—in a way that made your high-strung energy feel even more erratic.
"You look like you're about to fight the air," he said by way of greeting. No 'hello,' no formal bow yet. Just a blunt observation delivered in a voice as smooth as river stone.
"I'm just... busy," you stammered, stepping back to let him in. "We need to go over the details. The names of my cousins, the timeline of our fake relationship—"
"Hey." He held up a hand, stepping into your space. He didn't touch you, but the sudden proximity forced you to stop talking. He reached out and gently took the palette knife you didn't even realize you were still clutching like a weapon. "The app says I’m hired for 'Family Event Support.' But right now? You look like you need a human being, not a checklist."
He walked over to your kitchen counter, moving with an effortless, cat-like grace that suggested he knew exactly where his limbs were at all times. He started rummaging through your cupboards.
"What are you doing? I didn't pay for a chef," you said, your voice rising in a pitch of stress.
"Consider it a complimentary upgrade," he replied, his back to you. He found a tea bag and a clean mug. "You're vibrating. If we go to that wedding with you looking like a startled bird, no one’s going to believe I’m your boyfriend. They’ll think I’m your kidnapper. Sit."
It was so casual, so professional yet dismissive of your frantic pace, that you actually sat. You watched him move. There was a precision to how he handled the kettle, a way he watched the water pour that felt... practiced.
"Why do you do this?" you asked, watching his profile. "The rental thing. You seem too... grounded for this."
He leaned against the counter, waiting for the tea to steep. "People are complicated, but their needs are simple. Most people just want to be seen without being judged. I'm good at the 'seeing' part. It’s a job, y/n. Just like you painting things people want to see on their walls."
He set the mug in front of you. He didn't sit across from you; he stayed standing, maintaining a professional distance that felt like a safety net.
"Drink," he commanded softly. Then, he looked at your hands—stained with Prussian Blue and Burnt Umber. "You have 'Afterhour' hands."
You froze, the mug halfway to your lips. "What?"
"The painter," he said, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, cool and detached. "Afterhour. The anonymous one who only does those murals in the industrial district. The one who paints like they’re trying to scream through the color. it’s similar. Or at least, the desperation is."
You shook it off, a small laugh escaping your dry throat. "I'm a commission artist, Jungkook. I paint what people pay for. I'm not some mystery legend." You looked at him, wondering for a second if a man this observant could be more than a rental, but then you caught the way he checked his watch. It was a subtle, professional habit.
He was just a man doing a job. There were thousands of them on the app. You were just a client with a high stress level.
"Right," he said, his voice trailing off as his eyes drifted to your unfinished canvas. For a split second, the "cool employee" mask flickered. His gaze sharpened, his pupils dilating as he took in the brushwork. He looked like a man staring at a mirror.
Then, he blinked, and the casual, chill Jungkook was back. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, wrapped piece of candy, sliding it across the table toward you.
"Eat that. Low blood sugar makes for bad lies," he said with a wink that felt both playful and entirely rehearsed. "And don't worry about the cousins' names. I’ll memorize the guest list tonight. Your only job is to let me hold your hand and remind the world that you're worth looking at."
He turned to leave, his silhouette framed by the door. He paused, looking back at the messy, paint-splattered room.
"You know," he said, his voice dropping to that "cute" tone that sticks in the back of a person’s mind like a persistent melody, "A painting isn't ruined just because it's messy in the middle. It’s just waiting for the right light to hit the texture."
The door clicked shut behind him.
You sat in the silence, the candy wrapper crinkling in your hand. You thought about his comment on 'Afterhour.' The anonymous painter was known for works that felt like they were bleeding—intense, midnight-hued masterpieces that appeared overnight on gray city walls.
You looked at your own work. Then you thought of Jungkook’s steady hands and the way he looked at your canvas—not as a critic, but as a peer.
You shook the thought away. Don't be ridiculous, you told yourself. He’s a professional. He probably says that 'right light' line to every frustrated artist he rents himself to.
As you picked up your brush again, your hand was finally, finally steady. The tea he made was still steaming, the scent of chamomile cutting through the harsh chemical tang of the studio. You watched his silhouette through the frosted glass of your door until the motion sensor light in the hallway flickered off, plunging the world outside back into darkness.
But the silence didn't feel heavy anymore. It felt like a clean slate.
You realized, with a small start, that you hadn't actually talked about the wedding once. Not the seating chart, not the names of your overbearing aunts, not even the "story" of how you met. He had bypassed the logistics of the job entirely to focus on the person failing to do it.
You looked at the small, wrapped candy he’d left on the table. It was a simple lemon drop, the kind of thing you’d find in a glass jar at a quiet reception desk. You unwrapped it, the sugar hitting your tongue with a sharp, bright sweetness that made you realize how truly empty your stomach was.
Suddenly, your phone buzzed. It wasn't a client.
Jungkook: “You forgot to breathe again. I could hear it from the hallway.”
A small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. You typed back, your paint-stained fingers hovering over the glass.
You: “Is breathing part of the Premium Package, or is that an add-on?”
Jungkook: “For you? It’s a courtesy. Now, put the brush down for ten minutes. That’s a professional order.”
You looked at the canvas. The "Effortless Couple" still stared back, but they seemed less like an impossible standard and more like a puzzle you just hadn't solved yet. You sat back on your stool, pulling your knees up to your chest inside your oversized hoodie.
You: “Why did you really stay? The contract said a thirty-minute consultation. You were here for an hour.”
There was a long pause. The "typing..." bubbles appeared and disappeared three times.
Jungkook: “The studio has good light. And I liked the way you look when you’re thinking. It’s... intense. Like you’re trying to rewrite the world with a brush.”
Your heart did a strange, fluttering somersault. It wasn't the practiced charm of a man for hire. It felt quiet. Private.
You: “It feels more like I’m fighting the world and losing.”
jungkook : “Then let me be the shield for a bit. That’s what you’re paying for, right? Tomorrow, at the wedding, you don’t have to be the ‘successful artist’ or the ‘perfect daughter.’ You just have to be the girl who’s with the guy who can’t take his eyes off her.”
You stared at the message. The guy who can’t take his eyes off her. Even knowing it was a role, the words felt like a warm blanket.
You: “You’re very good at your job, Jungkook.”
Jungkook: “I’m not working right now, y/n. The app is closed.”
The air in the room shifted. The professional boundary hadn't just been crossed; it had been erased. You felt a sudden, impulsive need to hear his voice again, to bridge the gap between your lonely studio and whatever world he retreated to when he wasn't being someone’s "plus one."
You: “What do you do when you’re not ‘shielding’ people? When you’re just you?”
Jungkook: “I look for the light. Usually in places people forget to look. Like messy studios at 2 AM.”
You felt a flush creep up your neck. It was so simple, so effortless, yet it hit deeper than any grand romantic gesture could have. He wasn't offering you a fairy tale; he was offering you companionship in the middle of your mess.
Jungkook: “Go to sleep. If you have dark circles tomorrow, I’ll have to tell your mother I kept you up all night talking. And I don’t think she’s ready for that version of our ‘story’ yet.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound startling you in the quiet room.
You: “Goodnight, Jungkook. See you tomorrow.”
Jungkook: “Goodnight. Dream in color, not in deadlines.”
You set the phone down and looked at your reflection in the window. You still looked tired. Your collarbones were still sharp. But the hollow look in your eyes had softened.
You didn't go back to the painting. Instead, you walked to your bed, the lemon-drop sweetness still lingering on your tongue. For the first time in months, the overthinking—the "what ifs" and the "not enoughs"—didn't follow you under the covers.
As you drifted off, you didn't think about the wedding or the whispers of your relatives. You thought about a man who looked at a messy, unfinished room and saw "good light." You thought about the way he handled a tea mug like it was precious.
And far away, He looked at his own phone, the screen showing your last message. He didn't see a client. He didn't see a paycheck.
He saw a girl who was a masterpiece in the making, and for the first time in his life, he felt something. He wanted to be the one standing beside the canvas, holding the palette, making sure she never had to fight the shadows alone again.
"Tomorrow," he whispered to the dark, "is going to be a very good day."
…
NEXT CHAPTER
A/N : is everything going well??? We aren’t rushing but the love in their blood is 🙂↕️
Genre : Fluff, romance, smut (lets find out), angst (a bit? More?) they are soooo in love i swear you’ll love them 😭
Summary : you paint love stories for strangers but don’t believe in one for yourself . He sells affection by the hour and never crosses the line. Until he starts seeing you beyond the performance. And the masterpiece you both create isn’t on canvas… it’s in your heart??
…
SERIES MASTERLIST || NEXT CHAPTER
CANVAS l - THE BOOKING
The clock on your wall ticks with a heavy, rhythmic indifference, marking the passage into the deepest part of the night. It is 2 AM, that hollow hour where the world falls silent and your own thoughts become deafening. You are sitting in the same spot you’ve occupied for ten hours, staring blankly at the half-finished painting in front of you until the colors start to vibrate and blur.
The couple in the reference photo pinned to your easel looks effortless, possessing a kind of grace that feels like a personal insult. You study the way his hand rests at her waist—not clutching, not forcing, but resting with a bone-deep familiarity. You study the way her head tilts into his shoulder like it belongs there. Like it has always belonged there, a missing piece finally clicking into place. There is a terrifying lack of friction in their proximity.
You drag your brush across the canvas, trying to recreate that closeness, but the pigment feels like mud. Your strokes are jagged, frantic, and clinical. No matter how many times you blend the edges of their silhouettes, something feels wrong. It’s more than just a matter of perspective or anatomy. It’s an absence of soul.
How can someone stand that close to another person and look so certain? You find yourself questioning the very physics of the image. How can two people look at each other like they’re not afraid of getting hurt, bored, replaced? In your world, everything is transactional or fleeting. Commissions come and go; deadlines loom and vanish; people praise the work but never see the person bleeding into the bristles. To look at someone and see a permanent harbor feels like a fairy tale told in a language you never learned to speak.
You lean back in your chair, the wood groaning under your weight, and exhale slowly, the sound echoing in the cramped studio. Here you are—surrounded by unfinished canvases that look like ghosts of your failed ambitions, pending commissions that feel like heavy chains, and overdue deadlines that scream from the corners of your mind. You are an artist who has mastered the art of the surface, yet you are somehow still trying to paint something that feels foreign to you. You are trying to capture a heartbeat you’ve never felt.
Your phone buzzes on the edge of the paint-stained table, vibrating against a half-empty mug of cold, oily coffee.
Another client asking for revisions on a logo that already looks like their soul-crushing corporate vision.
Another reminder about a payment delay from a gallery that claims "exposure" is currency.
Another “Can you finish by tomorrow?” from a stranger who thinks art is a button you press rather than a piece of yourself you tear off.
Your eyes burn, the salt and exhaustion stinging the rims of your lids. When you decided art would be your career, it felt brave. It felt romantic. You told yourself you would turn your passion into something real. Something sustainable. You imagined light-filled studios and the thrill of creation. No one told you how exhausting it would be to monetize your vulnerability. No one told you that doing what you love for money changes it—it turns the brush into a shovel and the canvas into a grave.
You glance at your reflection in the dark window, the glass acting as a cruel mirror against the night sky. You’ve lost weight. The vibrant girl who started this journey is buried under layers of charcoal dust and stress. Your collarbones are sharper, protruding like jagged rocks under your skin. Your cheeks are a little hollow, the shadows under your cheekbones deep and permanent. Your hands, once steady and strong, look thinner, the veins mapping out the strain of a thousand sleepless nights.
You don’t remember the last proper meal you had. Not a real one, sat at a table with a fork and a plate. You’ve been surviving on coffee and whatever’s quick enough not to interrupt your workflow—stale crackers, protein bars that taste like chalk, lukewarm water. You are consuming yourself to produce work that others will glance at for five seconds before moving on.
A soft knock sounds at your bedroom door, hesitant and heavy with unspoken worry.
“Are you still awake?” your mother asks.
You don’t answer immediately. You can’t find the energy to summon the "I'm fine" voice. But she opens the door anyway, the light from the hallway spilling in like a judgment. Her eyes scan the room—the paint tubes scattered everywhere like colorful shrapnel, the canvases leaning against the wall like wounded soldiers, and you, sitting hunched in an oversized hoodie that swallows your shrinking frame.
“You’re getting too thin,” she says quietly, her voice trembling with the kind of maternal fear that makes your throat ache.
“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice raspy.
“You don’t sleep. I see the light under your door every night.”
“I have deadlines, Mom. The world doesn't wait for me to feel rested.”
She sighs, stepping closer, navigating the minefield of your clutter until she’s standing just behind you. “You’ve reached an age now. People are asking. They wonder why you're always alone in this dark room.”
There it is. The sentence you’ve been avoiding, the social guillotine that’s been hovering over your neck for years.
“You should be married by now,” she continues gently, her hand reaching out as if to touch your hair but stopping short, afraid of the tension in your shoulders. “At least engaged. We’re worried about you. Your father and I… we just want someone to look after you when we can’t.”
Worried about you. The phrase feels like a weight. You nod because it’s easier than arguing, because you don’t have the vocabulary to explain that you are drowning in your own dreams. But inside, something tightens. You’re barely managing your own life—how are you supposed to manage someone else’s expectations too? How can you offer a heart to someone else when yours is currently being used as a palette for everyone else's demands?
After she leaves, the silence she leaves behind is even heavier. You sit in the dark, the smell of linseed oil and turpentine thick in your lungs. Your thoughts drift to something you’ve been thinking about for days, a desperate contingency plan you kept hidden in the back of your brain.
An app. A website. A ridiculous idea you told yourself you’d never actually consider because it felt like admitting a total, humiliating defeat.
Rental boyfriend services.
You open your phone again, your thumb navigating to the bookmarked tab. You scroll through profiles slowly, carefully, your face illuminated by the clinical glow of the screen. Most of them are what you expected: smiles that look rehearsed to the point of being plastic, bios that feel artificial and stuffed with keywords like "romantic," "adventurous," and "good listener." They look like actors playing a role in a play you didn't audition for.
Then you stop.
Jungkook.
The profile is understated. "Calm presence. Observant. Professional. Specializes in family events and formal gatherings." His photo isn’t overly charming. He isn’t grinning at the camera or trying to sell a dream. He’s looking slightly away, his gaze fixed on something beyond the frame, his expression unreadable but grounded. There is a quiet strength in the set of his jaw.
You don’t know why your chest feels tight. You don't know why this stranger, trapped in a digital box, feels like the only person who wouldn't demand more of you than you can give.
Your cousin’s wedding is this weekend. You can already imagine the whispers. The pitying looks from your successful cousins. The “still single?” questions from aunts who view your art as a tragic symptom of your loneliness. You’re just tired. Tired of walking into rooms alone and feeling like an exhibit. Tired of being the unfinished canvas in everyone’s eyes.
Your thumb hovers over the 'Book' button. You feel the heat of shame crawl up your neck, but it’s outweighed by a cold, sharp need for protection.
Then, you press.
Booking confirmed.
You stare at the screen for a long time, the confirmation email landing in your inbox like a summons. You don’t know whether to feel relieved that the problem is solved or ashamed that you had to pay for a solution. Maybe both. You lean back and close your eyes, imagining a man you’ve never met standing between you and the world.
—
The get-together event day arrives too quickly, a blur of frantic painting sessions and three hours of fitful sleep. You’re adjusting your dress nervously in the hallway mirror, smoothing the fabric over your sharp hipbones, when the doorbell rings. It’s a sharp, decisive sound.
You open it, your heart hammering against your ribs.
And there he is.
Jungkook.
He’s taller in person, more substantial. He wears a simple black suit with clean lines that highlight his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His eyes are calm, devoid of the frantic energy that seems to consume everyone else in your life. He bows his head slightly, a gesture of respect that feels surprisingly genuine.
“Hi.”
His voice is softer than you expected, a deep, melodic baritone that seems to vibrate in the small space of the entryway.
You nod, your tongue feeling like lead. “Hi. You’re… you’re here.” “Y/n”
There’s an awkward pause as you take him in. He doesn't look like a "rental." He looks like a person.
Then he senses your internal spiral and says, “You don’t have to be nervous. I’ve read the brief. I know the names of your cousins and the story of how we 'met.' Just breathe. I’ll follow your lead.”
It’s professional. Reassuring. It’s exactly what you paid for, yet there’s a lack of condescension in his tone that makes it easier to breathe. He steps into the role with a seamlessness that suggests he isn't just acting—he's empathizing.
At the venue, he plays the role perfectly. Better than perfectly. He moves through the crowd with an effortless grace that draws people in, yet he never leaves your side.
When your aunt asks how long you’ve been together, he answers smoothly, weaving a story about a coffee shop and a shared interest in "the finer details of life" that sounds so plausible you almost believe it yourself. When someone comments on how “well-matched” you look—noting the contrast between your fragile, artistic intensity and his grounded, steady presence—he smiles politely and pulls you a fraction closer.
When you feel overwhelmed by the noise and the scent of expensive perfume, his hand gently rests at the small of your back. It isn't possessive or demanding. It is just grounding, a warm weight that reminds you that you aren't adrift.
You glance at him once during dinner, while the speeches are droning on. He’s not even looking at the crowd or the bride. He’s watching you. He’s noticing the way you pick at your food, the way your fork moves but never actually carries a bite to your mouth. He notices when your smile strains at the edges, the subtle tightening of your jaw when your mother looks over with an approving nod.
“Do you want to step outside for air?” he murmurs quietly, leaning in so close his breath brushes your ear.
You nod, unable to speak.
Outside, the night air is cooler, smelling of damp grass and distant jasmine. The muffled thumping of the bass from the ballroom feels a million miles away.
“You don’t have to impress anyone out here,” he says gently, loosening his tie just a fraction. He leans against the stone railing, looking out at the dark garden.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, your shoulders finally dropping from their defensive hunch. “You’re good at this,” you say, looking at him with a mix of gratitude and curiosity. “You make it look so easy. The lying. The pretending.”
He smiles faintly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “It’s my job.”
But the way he says it sounds distant, almost haunted. It’s the first time you’ve seen a crack in the professional veneer, a glimpse of the man behind the service. It makes you realize that he, too, is someone who spends his life being what others need him to be.
—
Later that night, after the event ends and the last toast has been made, he walks you home. The city is quiet, the streetlights casting long, amber shadows on the pavement. Your contract technically ended an hour ago—you checked your phone in the car—but he hasn't mentioned leaving yet. He walks with his hands in his pockets, keeping pace with your tired steps.
You unlock your apartment door and hesitate, the transition back to your lonely reality feeling jarring.
“Do you want… water? Or something?”
It’s stupid. He’s working. You’ve already paid him. You should let him go back to his real life.
But he nods. “Sure. I’d like that.”
He steps inside, and suddenly your apartment feels different. Smaller, but warmer. His eyes scan the room immediately—not looking for dust or clutter, but seeking out the canvases. He sees the paint stains on the floor, the jars of brushes soaking in water, the sheer volume of unfinished work.
“You paint a lot,” he says quietly, walking toward the center of the room.
“It’s my job,” you repeat his words back to him, a bitter edge to your voice.
He turns to look at you. “Does it make you happy?”
You pause, the question catching in your throat. No one asks you that. They ask if you’re selling. They ask if you’re famous. They ask if you’re finished.
“I don’t know,” you admit, the truth slipping out before you can filter it. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just emptying myself into a void.”
He walks closer to one of your unfinished paintings—the one of the couple from the reference photo, the one you were struggling with at 2 AM.
“They look close,” he says, his voice low.
“They are. Apparently. That’s what the client wants. Perfection. Absolute certainty.”
“And you don’t believe in that?” He looks at you over his shoulder, his eyes dark and searching.
You shrug, crossing your arms over your chest. “Closeness fades. People get bored. They realize the version of you they liked was just a sketch, and they don't want to stay for the messy parts of the painting. People get replaced.”
He studies the canvas for a long moment, his gaze tracing the jagged lines of your brushwork.
“Or maybe,” he says softly, “some people just don’t show how much they care because they’re afraid the other person won’t know what to do with that much weight.”
You look at him then. Really look at him. The "rental" tag falls away entirely. There’s something in his expression—a vulnerability, a recognition—that doesn't feel rehearsed. It feels like he’s talking about himself.
“Why did you choose this job?” you ask quietly, stepping into his space.
He hesitates, his gaze dropping to his hands before meeting yours again. “Because I like observing people. The small things. The things they think they’re hiding.”
“Like what?”
“The way you bit your lip tonight whenever your mother mentioned the future. The way you look at your paintings like you’re trying to fix something that isn’t on the canvas a minute ago.”
Your heart skips a beat, a physical jolt in your chest. He notices that? He wasn't just playing a boyfriend; he was studying the artist. He was seeing the parts of you that you thought were invisible under the layers of paint and exhaustion.
Silence fills the room, but it isn't the cold silence of your 2 AM sessions. It’s thick, charged, and heavy with everything that isn't being said. It feels like the first honest conversation you've had in years.
He steps back slightly, the movement sharp, like he’s suddenly remembering boundaries and contracts and the digital wall between you.
“I should go,” he says gently, his voice returning to that professional, polite tone, though it sounds forced now.
You nod, your throat too tight to speak. You walk him to the door, the air between you humming.
At the door, he pauses, his hand on the frame. He looks back at the room, then at you. “If you need me for another event,” he says, “you can book again.”
Professional. Careful. A reminder of what this is. But there’s something unspoken beneath it, a lingering look that suggests he’s waiting for you to ask him to stay for reasons that have nothing to do with a website.
After he leaves, the apartment feels cavernous. You sit down in front of your unfinished painting, the one you’ve hated for weeks. You pick up your brush, and for the first time, you don’t look at the reference photo. You don’t try to copy the "effortless" couple.
You adjust the couple slightly. You move his hand, making the grip a little more uncertain, a little more human. You soften the space between them, adding a layer of atmosphere that suggests they are discovering each other in the dark. You make it feel less staged. More… honest. You paint the way he looked at you tonight.
Your phone buzzes.
A notification from the rental app. You assume it’s a feedback request or a receipt. Your heart sinks at the thought of the transaction being finalized.
But instead, it reads: Client Jungkook has sent you a message.
Your heartbeat quickens, a frantic drumming in your ears. You open it with trembling fingers.
Jungkook
I forgot to mention
The message says.
Jungkook
You look different when you look at your paintings. Like you’re not pretending. Like the world finally makes sense to you.
Your fingers hover over the screen, your breath hitching.
Another message arrives a second later.
Jungkook
And I don’t think you’re as unfinished as you believe. I think you’re just layered. And I’d like to see the rest of the layers.
You stare at the words until they blur. Somewhere deep in your chest, something shifts—a tectonic plate of your identity moving to make room for something new. You don’t know why a rental boyfriend’s text feels heavier than it should, or why it carries more truth than anything your mother or your clients have said in a decade.
But you have a feeling this wasn’t just a one-time booking. You look at the painting, then back at the phone.
And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t only observing you for the job. Maybe he was looking for a way to belong in the frame too.
…
NEXT CHAPTER
A/N : How is it bubbs?? Do let me know plss… am nervous since its my first fic🥲👍🏻 likes, comment and reblogs are appreciated <3
❥genre/rating: 18 + explicit content, enemies to lovers, enemies to friends to lovers, enemies with benefits
❥description: You and Jungkook have always been at each other's throats, bound by a mutual disdain that runs deep. You both would rather step into traffic than be alone together. But when a chance encounter at a wedding leads to an unexpected and forbidden arrangement, the lines between enemies and something more begin to blur.
As your fiery clashes give way to stolen moments and fragile truces, both of you are forced to confront the pain and secrets that have kept you apart for so long. When the past and present collide, you and Jungkook must decide whether the scars you both hide are worth revealing—and if your fractured bond can ever be whole again.
❥warnings/tags: Lawyer!Jungkook, Nurse!reader, medical trauma/examinations/procedures, family trauma, slooooowwwww burrrrrnnnnnnnnnn, SMUT, these two really do hate each other, long series, swearing, drinking, smoking, angst, hurt/comfort, silly at times, tae is a menace, misunderstandings, miscommunication, unreliable information, eventual fluff, eventual pining, mentions of cheating (not the main pair), minor character death (none of the boys), eventual happy ending (it’s gonna be a minute)
❥disclaimer: Fic is cross posted to ao3, every chapter I will give associated warnings and tags that apply.
summary: there’s these two girls that you see every now and then, a quick glance before they disappear, in mirrors, your reflection walking the streets. the weird thing? they look exactly like you, but little details made each girl different. on top of that, jeon jungkook haunts you, and he’s always there. he’s in your dreams, he’s on your mind, and most importantly, he’s always in front of you somehow.
genre/tags: actor!jk + influencer!reader, figure skater!jk + hockey player!reader, crowned prince!jk + court!reader, angst, fluff, flashbacks and deja vu, reader gets bolder every timeline, jungkook is yearning, different timelines of both jungkook and reader; 21st century, 80s, 18th century. dreams are in italics.
smut tags: sex dream, oral under dress, kissing and claiming
w.c: aproxx 8k
1, 2(you’re already here), 3
a.n: i didn’t plan on making this whole chapter just jungkook, but it happened, and i like how it turned out because you can see how he truly feels and what he’s experiencing as well. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter as much as i do🫶🏼
“you know, it’s always okay to take a break. some aren’t coming to this event,”
“but, some will. that’s what matters, i need the be there. i’m one of the main characters that the people want to see,” jungkook sighs out, he stares at his reflection before fixing his face. he had to stay positive. he wanted to bite his lip, but his manager would tap his face in disapproval if he started that again.
he couldn’t help but feel drained, his eyes were heavy as artist after artist fixed him up, touching his hair and face too many times for him to count. he felt like a doll, and his tie felt to tight against his throat, the thickness of his coat making his wrists feel tight as well.
he should be used to this feeling, the uneasy feeling of being around people that will spread and share whatever he speaks out, the random flashes of cameras clicking and getting his worst views of his face before publishing it in a big picture style. something in his bones felt different, he felt more under pressure than ever before.
was he hoping for something? his eyes shut when he thinks hard, but all that pops up is you. the sight of you looking small, speaking only when spoken to by him, and jotting down his responses with precision. not only that, he saw you again, but only for a couple seconds.
he can remember it well. one second, he was staring at you, your dress long as you stood on kitten heals, your hands working on writting and stabilizing the notepad on your palm. then he blinks, the room changes completely.
the hallway now bright, white brick walls layered around the long hallway, doors that filled possibilities of things, he was gripping something that wasn’t his cup anymore, but a heavy bag. a chilling breeze blows down his back. jungkook still stood before you, but you were different. you weren’t in your tight dress, your hair curled and resting against your bare shoulders. you weren’t even wearing makeup. your face was bare, and your cheeks were red as you sweat.
you’re in this thick uniform, your hair wavy but puffy after brushing it, your bangs coated in sweat and you stood confidently on one foot, with chunky skates on your feet as you wrote down something on your palm instead of what you once had, your notepad.
it was cold, and his gaze wouldn’t leave you, your hair, your outfit, your face, the concentration in your eyes as you wrote down something with a sharpie. then with another blink, the original surroundings were back, and you were asking him another question before he had the chance to think about the version of you he just saw.
it almost felt like a flashback, reminding him that he went through something similar, with you but not you? he didn’t have time to ponder on it, but it took time anyways as he continued with his week and month after seeing you.
jungkook didn’t dream very much, he actually had a huge struggle with sleeping. sometimes he would lay for hours before his eyes feel the slightest of heavy, he could keep his eyes shut and still not fall into a deep sleep within two hours of having them sealed. but when he did, they used to be nightmares.
he wouldn’t sleep much, knowing he could wake up in sweat, feeling all of his nightmares and every single thing that happens to him throughout them.
but in a change of events, he manages to doze off after a long day, a camera pointed at him at all time even if he wasn’t in a scene. he can finally be alone.
“when will your coach arrive?” jungkook can feel a tap on his shoulder, his ears almost ringing as the man beside his speaks up. he finally peals open his eyes, and it’s almost like an answer to all of his confusion.
his eyes immediately land on his feet sitting below him as he stables himself on the bench. they were tied tightly, white skates gripped his feet and he gives himself a moment to look around. he suddenly doesn’t want to leave the bench.
the room echoes of blades pushing around the ice, the rank in front of him full of girls in thick hockey uniforms, practicing their passing skills with one another before their coach hollers the release of them for their practice.
“stand up! i want you to meet her,” jungkook could assume the other skater was a good friend of his, with the way he spoke friendly with him, with a thick native tongue. with this rise of his body, his friend waves over a girl with her helmet covering most of her face. he can see his shoulders raise before heading over towards his impatient friend. jungkook could feel his heart beating a little faster with each stride it took her to finally arrive in front of the two of them.
once he got a good look of your face, your helmet being pulled off and you instinctively plop it on top of your shared friends head before putting your full attention towards jungkook, he knew why he was so on edge.
“jeon jungkook,” his name rolled off your tongue, and he wanted to hear you say it again. “i heard you were pretty,” you leaned down, hovering your covered chest over the edge of the rank as you spoke directly towards him. he wants to bite his inner cheek as you connect your eyes with his, your gaze full of interest and warmth before you speak again. “like a kpop idol, too perfect,”
jungkook can feel his hands grip his athletic shirt, he anticipates your next move and speech. he can feel your eyes burning into his as your cheeks push into a smile, it felt teasing and he felt hot under your pressure.
“i’ll have to help out clearing the rank,” you start again, not even looking towards your friend as he hands back your helmet. your eyes stay in place, looking place to place on jungkooks face like you were examining his features. “when do you start?”
“very soon, just waiting on coaches,” his friend response for him, jungkook can’t seem to scramble his thoughts to form a word for you. you seemed so so different, confidence radiating off you, and you looked more wanting.
this was the exact version he saw of you when he first met you, writing something in your palm with a face full of blush and sweat. he can’t help but nod in agreement with his friend, and you smile once again at his sense of nervousness. it’s like you switched rolls in this dream, jungkook felt under pressure rather than you swaying to his presence.
“i’ll see you around then, yeah?” jungkook nods quickly in response, like he can’t help but folding each time you go to speak. your smile never wavers as you lean back to stand straight, nodding your head towards your friend, and then skating away to help take nets and pucks back into storage.
with heavy eyes, and feet, jungkook starts his day off thinking about you once again.
“so, you know ______?” is all jungkook can start off with, his eyes never found her eyes even as she left for the two of you to speak. he had to admit, you acting like you haven’t met him before made him feel bubbly inside, he wanted you to be honest.
“um, yeah,” you start off, but the more you speak, the more confidence radiates off of you, and jungkook can feel it. the more you spoke, the more he realized he just wanted to hear your voice hung over the loud talking of others. you went from how you met your friend to how you got invited, and he just nodded and listened, the melody way too familiar.
“your tie is crooked,” you stopped talking, jungkook stood in the same position until your hand brushes against his chest to fix it, letting it drag off your hands once you were finished. he feels he could throw up as he blinks, your face shifted into a smirk as your hair slowly becomes fluffy curls on top of your head.
the dim lights became colorful, and jungkook can hear the cracking of pool balls smacking each other. the warms colors gloss over your face, making your face seem sweeter than your smile. even the smell of the room changes, to a more musky air and his drink tastes more stronger than before as it sits on his heavy tongue.
it’s always the same two versions of you that he sees. you with a microphone, vlogging your days and playing silly games with your friends. to you, with your hair messy but also sitting neat on your shoulders, and a bolder look to your soft face. he felt as if he was at the rank again, your eyes boring into his as he can only stare and swallow.
“i was hoping to see you again,” he starts, he couldn’t tell if he was talking about actual you or the you who stood in front of him, the one who makes his knees lock. but your hand leaves his chest and cups his chin, and he felt out of breath just as you gently tilt his head down to face you completely.
“don’t say things you don’t mean, jeon,”
“jungkook,” he corrects, but your hand never leaves his chin as you give his a genuine smile, he tries to recollect his focus to the room spinning around him, but his eyes can’t seem to leave your face.
“okay, jungkook,” and the walls seem to melt down, slowly converting back to what he could hope was reality. he gives himself a moment before he realizes, in this reality, you never held his chin, but your hand never left his chest after fixing his loose and crooked tie. his mind felt blurry as he blinks a couple more times before noticing everything went back to place.
he might be losing his mind.
the night stretched farther than he hoped, he acknowledged pretty much everyone in the room, his eyes wandering every now and then to find you once again. but his mind tried to play tricks on him, making him feel that same dizzy sensation he feels before he seems the world differently, and he knew you were connected to it.
he lets it happen once again, your back facing towards him as you talk to new people, and your curls slowly turn back into your wavy, thick hair, this time your cup was replaced with a pool stick. jungkook let himself watch you from a distance, his reflection lands on windows that finally formed from the dark walls he was seeing before.
he doesn’t see your eyes meet him in the windows reflection, but once you bend down to hit the white ball, your head turns back to where he stands, and knowing smirk rests on your faces. your eyes only leave his once your pool stick cracks the ball you wanted to hit in, only turning your head to face forward once it drops with clack into the hole. jungkook lets himself take another sip before closing his eyes, your face staying in his mind. his eyes pealed open again, and the room was back to being bright and filled of boring celebrities.
when the party started to end, people being pushed out to taxis and their vehicles. he almost waited to see you once more. the freezing air hits his face as soon as he steps out the doors , jungkook shivered before searching for his managers car along with the other couple cars that were still picking up drunk celebrities. he couldn’t tell you the names of half of them.
“you have a ride, i hope?”
“yes, i’m not too far from here, i could walk if i needed to,” he smiles towards the ground, the sound of running cars became more quiet as you spoke. jungkook didn’t need to look at you, he’s heard your voice many times now. it’s like his brain had a copy of your voice hidden deep, that only he can hear on occasion.
he didn’t think he could get that dizzy feeling once more, before he actually threw up. but he simply looks up towards where you looked at him in concern. he’s watching your face turn from concern, to a blank stare. the building stretches tall, ending once it connects the pointed roof. he almost feels like he’s about to fall, sink into the ground and morphe with it.
you stood there, your chin high as jungkook tries his best to not look surprised at the sudden change of your appearance. your head holding a thick bun of tightly packed girls, your bangs hang just below your jaw. you almost showed no reaction at all to his eyes on yours.
“forsooth, you shall not walk in this hunch weather,” you stand with your back high, not caring to see his reaction towards your objection. he can’t help but let out a huff, before giving a little chuckle.
he can see in your face that you’re holding back a eye roll, sensing he isn’t taking you seriously. a dour look expresses across your face, then jungkook beams, and he can almost see your eyes twinkle.
with the buzz of his phone in his pocket, everything swiftly returns to its original look. jungkook almost feels lighter, his eyes don’t settle on his screen for long before they make their way back to look at you.
“when am i seeing you again?” it was more so of a statement as it leaves your lips, he can feel a switch in the air as he takes a second to respond.
“i’ll follow you back on instagram, you might get a follow up from there,”
and jungkook leaves you once again, but he doesn’t fail to look back once he’s settled in the car, to make sure you were able to get home safely. he almost rounded the corner before watching your head duck into a car, then he feels more relieved than he has all night.
jungkook wakes in a thick layer of sweat, the thin covers doing him no justice. he felt sick to his stomach, sitting up and out of his bed. he needed to release. with sleep still in his eyes, with a quick look around before he realizes he’s not at his home. he’s rather in a room covered with grand features, rich material hangs from his large window. a dresser sat in the corner with a small mirror hung against the wall. he steps steps one by one with his breath in his throat, once he can finally look in the mirror, he releases some of it.
it was definitely him but the look in his eyes was more stern than usual, his jaw was hard as he intensely examined his own face. was this the jungkook that saw you, standing with elegance and grace, with your chin high and not once lowering for him or anyone?
he leaves the room, not wanting to see anymore of himself. if this was all truly a dream, jungkook could just imagine you here, yes? he turns the corner quietly, two guards stand guard at one door and he can feel its right.
he manages to post both guards at both of the entrances at each end of the hallway, his knuckles pressing soft knocks against the door. it creaks as it first opens, becoming silent as the door was pulled back. your eyes reached his once you appeared between the door frame, he can still feel a bit of sweat down his back as you usher him inside of the room.
“jungkook, it’s too late for you to seek my presence,” he almost wanted to hear you scold him, you wrap your arms around your chest as you sit on the edge of the bed, your sleeping gown dangling past your ankles as you sat. “something running in the gemynd?”
“do you feel it too?” his chest felt tight , your room colder than his ever was. he can feel the tips of his fingers tingle as you ponder.
“the slumber taking over?”
“don’t be like that,”
“you can’t have anything before you are crowned, you need to wait like promised,” like you could see the hunger in his eyes, he now stands in front of you with his eyes beading down towards you. he almost grabs your face in anger, but his hand just slightly cups it, before his grip tightens and he tugs your head up towards him.
“what can i not have?” his thumb rubs over your soft lips, he’s never seen your long hair down as it settles on layer across your back. he can see your hands grip your covers, and he wants to lean in and push you back against this ridiculous large bed.
“nothing, not even a peck,” you try to stay stern, not too concerned on how cold you sound as you speak out. jungkook simply grins.
“you wish i would kiss you,”
“you wouldn’t dare,” and he couldn’t handle it anymore, it didn’t take much for him to launch himself at you, pressing you onto your back and kissing your lips hard. he can physically feel everything to your hands dragging across his back, to you kissing him back just as hard and needier than he was.
he wanted anything he could get from you, he presses his groin against yours, urging your back to raise as you kiss your gasps away again his lips.
you watch him slide off of you, you nod your head no before he reaches his knees. you were the only person besides jungkooks father that he would get on his knees for, it leaves you breathless as he trails his arms up and under the skirt of your gown.
“you will let me,” he ducks his head underneath the cloth, immediately letting his lips kiss against your inner thighs until he reaches your heat, grinning at how you left yourself be bare underneath your nightgown,“ do what i desire the most,”
he leaves a kiss right in the middle of your legs, his hands wrapping around your thighs as he begins. he starts with light kisses, leading to poking his tongue out and allowing himself to relax between your thighs. he would spend all night, on his knees, underneath your dress, and eating you like he wouldn’t be able to again.
with a shake of your thighs against his ears, jungkook sighs into your heat, and he can hear your breathing hitching as he continues faster.
but to jungkooks luck, his alarm goes off. he wished he was a heavy sleeper, he didn’t want be awake just yet but his eyes fluttered, and his stomach was fluttering too. did jungkook just have a sex dream?
not just a random sex dream of past hook ups, like a full on realistic dream of you? i’m mean, sure, you were nice to talk to and tease, you handle him well and you don’t necessarily push him away. could this explain his weird shifts, he doesn’t even know what he would call them, he physically feels a shift as everything in his world melts into a completely different scenery? but some how, you were always there.
the thought of your smirk, the feeling of your hand on his chin. he could feel you tug his face down to look at you.
jungkook wanted to stare at your eyes for as long as you’d let him.
so he followed you on instagram.
————
jungkooks days pass in front of his eyes, he felt if he blinked hard enough that he would lose another year. the world kept revolving, spinning, and he felt stuck behind in life and a camera. with the meets ups, events, and all the interviews he’s done, he had no time to even process what he was doing. he couldn’t process what he was seeing, what he was dreaming of, and who he was thinking of.
jungkook could now say that it wasn’t a coincidence, connecting all the times he’s seen you. right after he gets his taste in teasing you, watching you trying not to crumble, he’ll have a dream of you. well, you in different ways. at first, he thought he was creating different kinds of you in his head. he was a big fan of curly hair, but you had curly hair each time he has seen you. he likes your face, pretty and soft, but your face never changes, only little differences like scars and freckles.
he can picture it now, the you he’s actually seeing, the influencer, the one who’s shy under his gaze and slowly builds confidence as you speak more to him. the one who makes him want to see you more, like you’re a puzzle for him to figure out and play with.
the you, that he sees the most in both influencer you and in his deepest sleeps. the you that had almost old fashioned hair, it fluffs throughout the top of your head. the you who always had a cheesy grin that made him feel queasy. the one who also, plays hockey and is surprisingly good at it.
the last one, the one he met in his dreams. you were almost a princess in the dim lighting of a candle on your bedside, jungkook thinks he’s more attached to this version of you. he met you again, standing with good posture and not bothering to glance, your chin held high and saying old sayings that jungkooks hazy head couldn’t decipher.
what confused jungkook the most, is where he fits. he can remember his first dream of you, very vividly, with skates on his own feet. but they weren’t hockey skates, they were figure skates, more slim to twist your ankles easier and tie tightly around your feet.
he visually saw the other jungkook, mean scars on his chest that he’s never had, his hair short and restlessly hanging over his forehead. he was still himself, he looked colder, but almost fragile as he stared into his own eyes through the scratched up mirror. his pupils shaking he glanced at one feature to another, he looked so scared.
jungkook wants his questions answered, he wants to fall into a deep sleep and see you. he wants to touch you again, he wants to feel your warmth however you would let him. jungkook has fallen for someone who barely even knew him personally, someone who he’s never seen up until two months ago. but why does it feel like he’s known you for so long, with all these dreams and visions starting to feel like memories?
————-
“keep your focus on your breathing, jungkook,” a stern voice helps him gather himself, jungkook blinks and a hand smacks his shoulder, not hard but enough to really help his reality show. “that kiss and cry, is waiting for your tears after beating your personal best,” his coach at pokes his chest with every other word, “ and kicking all their asses,” he glances behind jungkook, he almost wants to turn his head to see what was there to look at, but the speakers above him tune down to the figure of commentary presenting the next skater to enter the ice.
“now presenting, winning last years gold, jeon jungkook from South Korea!”
jungkook can’t skate, not like this at least, but his feet move anyways. he steps over and onto the ice, skating around the rank and waving, the crowd cheers loud before he reaches his spot in the middle. like he knew what he was doing, he got into position and waited for the cue of music.
jungkook can feel every emotion, he feels he could cry, he lands another axel perfectly with the crowd roaring against the loud music chosen for his performance. he feels himself smiling, watching his ankle raise behind him as he glides on one foot, before lifting and twisting his whole body once again. he lands before making the jump a double jump. he finishes in the middle, after performing a smooth scratch spin, and positioning himself into his ending pose. he can feel a tear or a sweat bead drip down from the corner of his eye.
he faces the judges as he waits for the music to stop before the cheering abrupts once more. his eyes never looking at them studying his every move, but the crowd that sat above them. once he is able to leave his position, he spins on his heals to bow towards the larger crowd as they continue to praise with claps and echoing whistles. jungkook can feel all the eyes on him, but something feels heavy as he searches. there’s no way he wouldn’t see you, right?
he leaves the kiss and cry, his total from his free skate before adding up to creating yet another record for himself to beat, with yet another gold medal wrapped around his neck as he stands tall with the other boys beside him as cameras click and flash everywhere he looked. but jungkook felt empty, he was missing something, and he knew exactly what it was.
his team gathers all of his belongings and supplies, packing all of his outfits and makeup into a van. once jungkook reaches the cold night, standing outside and putting his hands immediately in his coat pockets, he rests his aching body against the hard brick walls of the building.
“you were beautiful, as always,” jungkook didn’t have to look to know who spoke, he just closes his eyes, now smelling the smoke blowing against the wind as you take another puff from your cigarette. he lets out a hum, wanting you to continue.
“i was hoping you were watching,” he waited for you to respond, or acknowledge what was spoken, but it never came, “i didn’t know you smoked,”
“sometimes,” you finally put out the burning tip, putting the butt into your pocket after it was put out, he made note of your act of not littering. “are you judging me, jeon?”
“no! i just-” he watches as you slowly make your way to where he was resting, the tips of your shoes almost touching his, he can feel the anticipation rising in his throat as he watches you scan his face. “i just didn’t expect it from how fit you are,” he turns into a pink shade, hoping you wouldn’t notice as his head hangs lower, he hopes you think it’s from the bruising cold winds if you noticed.
“you were never this shy before,” your hands leave your pockets, finding his cheeks and pulling him down to your face. he can feel your warm breath against his face, your noses barely inches away from each other. “i wonder..” he wants to kiss you, but not hard and eager, but soft and remembering. he can hear every swallow and almost his eyes blink. “would you kiss me?”
“in a heartbeat,” his answer came out too quickly for him to stop it, its almost like he couldn’t, like it was destined for him to say.
“then do it, with everyone out here, and just this brick wall just barely blocking their view. i bet you’d like that,”
jungkook didn’t get to kiss you. he didn’t get to feel your lips, that he thinks look soft and would feel even softer on his. but once again, jungkook gets out of bed after another dream leading him on. each dream gives him high hopes, combined with the yearning he’s gained from wanting you. yet another dream, of you with this confidence that he might not see in real you. if you give him the chance, he’ll you the deepest kiss in your lifetime the next chance he gets to be with you.
Story Summary: You know what happens when soulmates first meet. But when it happens to you one day at work, you are less than thrilled. Things only get worse when your new soulmate introduces you to his six friends.
Pairing: ot7 x f!reader
Rating: Mature/Explicit (later chapters)
General Tags: soulmates!AU, slow burn, angst, hurt and comfort, long-distance relationships, canonical therapy, eventual smut, an eventual HEA
Fic Warnings: low self esteem, self-harm, past abuse (physical, mental, emotional), lots of talk about food (both in positive and negative ways).
A/N: Wanted to make a quick note for this chapter. Noona doesn't refer to any of the guys by their name when she's talking to other people , because they're keeping the soulmate bond secret. She's made up nicknames off of the sound she heard during her first contacts to refer to them. So, Rain Man is Jin, Piano Man is Yoongi, Laugh Dude is Hobi, Wind Guy is Jimin, Chime Guy is Tae, and Bell Boy is Jungkook.
Chapter 5 -- Telephone Hour
Thank goodness for unlimited talk and text.
You learned very quickly that fourteen hours was an absurd time difference. If anything, the odd hours the guys kept made the difference even more absurd.
"Why did you call me? Go to bed, Hoseok!"
It was 2:24 in the afternoon and you had been enjoying an apple and prepping for your new tutoring client. Hoseok had texted you early in his day to let you know that, due to a particularly hectic schedule, he may not be able to talk later. So when you received his call at what would be nearly 4:30am in Seoul, you were furious.
"Why the hell are you still even up?"
"I just finished work," Hoseok said. He sounded exhausted. "I wanted to call you while heading back to the apartment." You heard him chuckle when you sighed. "I'll hang up as soon as I open the apartment door, I promise. Just wanted to talk for a few minutes."
"What were you working on?"
"Choreography for a new performance. We have an awards show coming up and I want something good. Have you watched anything yet?"
"No music videos, sorry. You guys have so much music it's hard to get a grasp on it all. And not speaking Korean makes it harder!" You laughed a little at your difficulties. "Every new song I listen to I have to replay three or four more times and read the translations. It's a lot, Hoseok."
"Don't worry about it. I want you to love my dancing, but you'll get there. How's your day been?"
The next few minutes you spent describing the work you were doing to prepare for the school year. A short rundown of the kids you were tutoring, what subjects you were covering. The conversation turned to Hoseok's day. He talked a little about the meeting Namjoon, Yoongi, and he – the rapline, as you learned – had with management regarding a new song. He hummed a little bit of the beat to you before yawning loudly.
"Are you home yet?" You asked
"Just taking my shoes off. Might fall asleep here in the doorway though."
"I'll hang up then. Sleep well, Hoseok."
"Truth?"
You yawned widely and looked at the time. It was a little past 11pm and you had to be awake in less than six hours, but you were hesitant to hang up on Taehyung. The guys were preparing for an upcoming performance at an award show and, due to the extra practice for Hoseok's new number and media rounds, barely had a spare minute. Your scheduled calls which lasted, in your opinion, surprisingly long, had lapsed into short conversations when each could steal a few moments. Taehyung was eating his lunch when he called today.
"Truth," you answered him.
It was a weird question game that arose on a group phone call only a few days after they arrived back in Seoul. It was simply Truth or Dare without the dares, an odd set up that allowed anyone to ask any question. Sometimes silly, sometimes deep and heartfelt, sometimes mundane. It was your group's shortcut to figuring out the years of information you didn't know about each other.
"What date was your favorite when we were with you?"
"That's not fair!" You could practically hear him smirk on the other end of the phone. "Isn't this encroaching on the whole don't-talk-about-other-dates rule?"
"Not if you're doing the talking," he said.
"I won't choose a favorite, Taehyung. And I'm going to try to keep your dates all separate. I'll answer a different question if you have one though.”
Taehyung sighed and was silent for a moment.
"Did you enjoy all of your dates?"
"I did." You smiled a little bit, thinking back on the seven days. Taehyung had been so nervous on your date, hesitant over whether or not you were enjoying the time together. You wanted to reassure him. "I wouldn't still be around if I didn't."
"And that's how you make kimchi!" Jin finished his instructions with a verbal flourish, singing the last few words to you.
You stared at the long list of steps and ingredients and sighed. This was more complicated than you had anticipated.
"Maybe I'll just buy some from the store?" You said.
"That's an option too," Jin laughed. "I was surprised when you asked for a kimchi recipe. Not the easiest thing to make."
"It's honestly the only Korean food I know of," you said awkwardly. "I just wanted to learn how to cook some Korean food."
"Oh, well there's easier stuff to make," Jin said. He launched into an explanation about a dish he called japchae. This did seem more manageable. "What's with the sudden urge to cook Korean recipes?"
"It just seemed like a thing to do. If we're all going to be in each other's lives then the least I can do is learn about your culture. I've got a book on Korean history that I'm reading. There's a Korean drama that I'm watching with Jimin and Tae. Yoongi gave me some music to listen to. Food seems like a good place to head."
"You're trying to learn about us," Jin said with a teasing lilt to his voice. "That's sweet."
"I am not sweet, Kim Seokjin. I'm respectful. It'd be rude to know nothing about my-" you cut yourself off. You'd almost called them your soulmates. Though the title was true, the group of you hadn't said the term out loud since the last day at the hotel. Friends was the term you used. "It'd be rude to not know about my friends' culture."
Jin made a sound of approval and was quiet for a moment. You heard some clicking on his end of the phone, but let him finish.
"Y'know, Namjoon would be able to recommend some excellent books by Korean authors," he said cautiously. Insightful, Jin had picked up on your hesitation around Namjoon. Though he never pushed you too hard, he frequently found a way to slip Namjoon into the conversation, gently reminding you that he also existed as a part of this friend group. "He reads constantly and would probably love to talk about books with you."
You hummed indifferently. While you were sure a mini-book club with Namjoon would be pleasant – after all, the best part of your date had been discussing academic research – something still held you back from reaching out. Though if it was simply the awkwardness of your date or something else, you weren't sure.
Jimin liked to text. Rather than wait for a specific day to catch up over the phone, as some of his band mates preferred, you found yourself texting with him several times each day. His texts seemed to line up with breaks for meals, with his breakfast typically aligning with your dinner, and his breakfast coinciding with you eating some fruit while opening the cafe. He seemed to enjoy getting acquainted over your day-to-day activities, though you tried to assure him that your days were far more routine and dull than his. Regardless, he reveled in whatever you told him. So when your phone rang one afternoon, you were surprised to see his name on the caller id.
"Jimin? Is everything okay?"
"Everything is great. Why would something be wrong?" He sounded a little groggy, but fine otherwise.
"Because you don't typically call. Let alone at –" you glanced quickly at the time, "6am Korea time. You made me worry that something bad happened."
"Oh no," he said softly and with a hint of shyness. "I just wanted to talk today."
"That's okay, Jimin, we can talk. Is anything on your mind?"
The answer, apparently, was a lot. Jimin filled you in on the recent happenings with the group. He explained more about the awards show they were preparing for and the categories they were nominated in. He excitedly answered what songs they were performing when you asked.
"Will you watch the performance once it's online?" He asked. "Hobi says you haven't seen any of our dances or performances yet."
"Only because you guys have an obscene amount of content. Songs, music videos, live performances, and apparently a variety show!"
"How did you learn about Run?" Jimin laughed. "C'mon," he urged when you were hesitant to talk, "I won't tell."
"I may be frequenting a forum," you mumbled. "Someone mentioned Run BTS so I googled it and am honestly just confused. Why does it exist? What compelled you guys to make it?"
You never got your answer though. Jimin was laughing too hard and then you heard a voice call his name.
"Crap, I've gottta go," Jimin said, catching his breath. "Hyung is yelling for us to eat before we leave. Talk to you later?"
"Talk later, Jimin."
Shortly after hanging up with Jimin, several heavy bangs came across your door. Opening it quickly, you saw Ally, hair messy and house slippers still on, standing in your doorway holding two impressively stuffed bags of fast food.
"I'm going to freaking kill him," she announced as she waddled her way into your apartment. "Will you take care of my child after I go to prison for murdering his stupid father?"
"Yes, of course. But if you tell me what's going on, I could help keep you out of jail?"
Plopping onto your couch, Ally grabbed several fries from a greasy bag and shoved them in her mouth. You grabbed two glasses of water and sat down near her.
"He's assembling the crib today but he's chewing gum while putting it together. And I can't deal with the sound of the gum chewing right now!" She said, "And I know I shouldn't complain because Jay's wonderful and I love him. But the chewing and the bubble popping!" She groaned dramatically. You knew that Ally wasn't actually upset, just grumpy from hormones and needing to vent. "He's so good. He does everything I ask and things I don't even ask." She paused to take a bite of her burger. "Did I tell you he predicted my craving the other day? He came home from work with two tubs of tapioca pudding because he had – get this – a gut feeling. How do I even tell this man that I want him to stop chewing gum? It's not fair to do!"
At this point, Ally looked comical, crying gently over her bacon cheeseburger at her situation.
You put down your fries and wrapped your arms around her in a tight hug.
"But you didn't ask Jay to stop chewing gum. You realized you needed a break, and you took it. You knew you were overwhelmed. You're a good wife, Ally."
Ally sniffled for a few more moments and wiped her eyes with the tissues you handed.
"I don't feel like a good wife right now."
"You are." Ally appreciated reassurance, so you knew this was the best course of action. "You're a good wife and an amazing soulmate. You and Jay are literally meant for each other. I've seen it."
This made Ally smile. She hugged you again before stealing one of your fries.
"Thanks, I needed that," she sighed. "I'm just getting so touchy with these friggin' hormones." You smiled compassionately. "But speaking of soulmates, what's going on with yours? Have you talked to them recently?"
"Almost everyday I talk to one of them. I actually just got off the phone with Wind Guy," you told her.
"And how are long-distance platonic soulmates going?"
"It's nice. They're all nice. I think I made the right decision." At this admission, Ally looked at you pointedly. "Yes, just like you said. I made a good decision."
"Tell me more?" Ally asked, propping her feet up. "I want to know a little bit about my best friend's soulmates."
"Laugh Dude is very accepting. He was the one who encouraged me to call you. He's willing to meet me where I am and not pressure me, but still open up the conversation. And he's got this smile, it's like staring at the sun. It's so warm.
"Things just feel familiar with Rain Man." You weren't sure how to describe the feeling you had during your date with Jin. "He reminds me a lot of you, actually. It feels like we've known each other for years even though we just met."
You heard Ally make a soft sound of understanding, but did nothing to interrupt you.
"Chime Guy is so sincere. He just wants to share things with me, whether it's walking around town or our days. Did I tell you he called me once just to have me listen to a song he just heard? He said he loved it so much and he wanted to share it with me. Stayed on the phone the entire time, just to listen to me listen."
"That's the cutest thing I've ever heard."
"I know!" You cried. "And Piano Man is shockingly easy. He's so hard to read, but he's an amazing listener and is willing to adapt plans or conversations just to make sure I feel comfortable."
"Bell Boy is the sweetest. It's so funny because he looks so intimidating. He's got tattoos all over and is so big, but he's honestly just a golden retriever who wants reassurance. He's picked up that I don't want to be touched, so he simply tells me when he wishes he could hug me."
"Okay, now that's the cutest damned thing."
"I know. It's adorable and I actually really like it," you laughed softly. The thought of Jungkook, six feet of pure muscle and tattoos, gently saying that he wants to hug you, but won't, was admittedly a little comical.
"And Wind Guy…spending time with him was overwhelming," you sighed. "He's just so caring. It's impossible not to like him."
"I still can't believe you told him about your parents."
"I can't either, honestly.". Jimin's date became less horrid the more you thought of it. While you hadn't been planning to tell any of the guys about your childhood, Jimin's care and compassion proved that he was a lucky choice to open up to.
"That's six. What about number seven?" Ally asked.
"He…it's…" you trailed off. You weren't sure how to explain Namjoon. In the nearly two months since they'd returned to Korea, a flexible schedule of calls, texts, and video chats had been set up. Everyone had a day you would communicate, mostly one-on-one but sometimes joined by others. Namjoon was the only one who hadn't reached out. You, admittedly, hadn't reached out to him either. It was a two way street paved in awkwardness and avoidance. "He's the one I had the initial first contact with."
"Oh, so you two still haven't gotten over ignoring each other."
"I'm not ignoring Na–not ignoring anyone." You were careful not to slip up on his name. "We had our date. We just don't have anything else to say to each other."
"How do you know he doesn't want to say anything if you never talk to him?"
You were jolted awake by a cheerful song. It was definitely too early for your alarm to be going off. But as you reached to check the time, you realized your phone was ringing. 2:48am. Unless it was an absolute emergency, you were going to kill whoever was calling you.
"What?" You grumbled without checking the caller id.
"Noona, it's me!" Jungkook's voice cut through your sleepy fog. "How are you?"
"What's the matter, Jungkook? Did something happen?"
"No. I just wanted to talk before dinner." He sounded slightly hurt.
"It's almost 3am for me," you groaned as you sat up.
"Oh crap, I'm so sorry! I just finally had some free time and wanted to talk. I'll let you go!"
"No no no," you cut him off. "I'm up, let's talk. You start while I get comfy."
As you wrapped your blanket around you, Junkook talked cheerfully about his day-to-day schedule, the vocal and dance practices, his kickboxing workouts, a new piece of art he was working on. Hearing his voice did more to fight off the November chill than your blanket did.
"I'm sorry I haven't been able to call much recently," he said softly.
"It's okay, Kookie. We text a lot, so it's not as though we have no contact. I know you're busy."
"But still…" He didn't seem swayed. A few minutes passed in silence as you heard Jungkook turn on a faucet. Something heavy got placed down. "Are you still coming to visit us in December?"
"I am."
"I'm so excited for you to be here. I keep thinking of things I want to do with you, or places I want to show you."
"Tell me about them." Your voice was soft, moved and touched by the care Jungkook was putting into your visit.
As he explained different activities he wanted to take you on, from historic sites to nature trails, you found yourself zoning out the words, but focusing on the sound of his voice. You found yourself imagining a different scenario, as you had when cooking with Jin. A different life, a different timeline where you had met Jungkook through normal means. Where, instead of talking about potential dates from thousands of miles apart, you were curled up with him in your blanket, deciding plans for your weekend together. A world in which you'd accept every time he said
"I wish I could hug you, Noona."
You shook yourself out of your dream world and into your reality.
"I wish you could too, Kook."
You'd been thinking about the texts from Namjoon for far too long. Despite having the links to the study he found and the corresponding vlog since your date, you hadn't taken the time to look through them seriously. If you were honest with yourself, you were scared. After your phone call with Jungkook, you'd been afraid to think too much about the guys or your first contacts. If you weren't careful, you found your thoughts straying towards overly affectionate, borderline romantic, trends. While you were enjoying the last few months of friendship, and could cope with intruding romantic notions, the closeness of the romantic thoughts with your upcoming trip was a combination you wanted to avoid.
You remembered Namjoon saying that close friendship was common amongst people in the same soulmate group but without their own first contacts. Maybe, you thought hopefully, these connections could help you navigate your traitorous feelings. Pulling out your laptop, you typed in the link for the group of six's vlog. It was at least a place to start. The vlog was prolific. Videos about their day-to-day lives as a group, posts about their early days after first contact, more comical bits in which one of the group tried to reach another to cook. A playlist organizing the solo vlogs of each member. The pinned video, though, was simply titled "Hi, it's us!". You clicked it.
The thirty minute video was essentially just a long introduction to the group. Aaron, Becca, Caleb, Daniel, Elise, and Frankie. Aaron had a first contact with each of them. Becca, seeming like an easygoing introvert, detailed the first contact with Aaron.
"It was shocking to be sitting at the bar on date night with Caleb," she had previously explained that Caleb and her had been dating for over a year before they met Aaron, "and then the bartender hands us our drinks and we both have a first contact with him. We weren't sure what to do."
"You weren't sure," Aaron corrected. "I knew we needed tequila shots."
They continued explaining their first contacts. Frankie was the last to join the soulmate group. They looked lovingly at the group as they recounted meeting being introduced to the group by an unrelated mutual friend.
"There were already 5 of us," Becca laughed. "We didn't think Aaron would have another first contact. So when he and Frankie shook hands-"
"I groaned. I audibly groaned," Aaron admitted, laughing. "Which is not the best first impression."
"I would've been more offended, but you were too cute to be mad at," Frankie said, leaning over to place a kiss on Aaron's cheek. He blushed brightly at their show of affection.
Though Aaron had a first contact with each of them, Becca and Caleb had a soulmate connection to him only. Daniel and Frankie had their first contact later that night.
"I was a little tipsy and bumped into him," Frankie explained.
"You were drunk," Caleb corrected. "And you fell completely on him. Let's be truthful," he laughed.
"I mean, they had reason to be drunk," Daniel said. "I honestly got pretty drunk after that too."
"I mean, I was terrified. I just had two first contacts with people who were already soulmates and had a whole soulmate family that I had to contend with."
Frankie's words felt eerily relatable. Being an outsider in a well established group was intimidating. Hearing someone else say that was vindicating. Frankie had experienced something like you, but they turned out okay. Their soft interactions with the others gave you hope. Maybe, with time, you could reach that same level of love and affection with your soulmates.
Your phone suddenly buzzing startled you, making your hand pouring the latte jostle. A little messy, but still good enough to serve. You wiped the cup, put it on the counter, and called out the customer's name. Before you could wipe your hands clean, though, your phone started to vibrate again. There was a small line of drinks to make though, so you'd answer it later. One more notification came through, a short buzz for a text, and then it went still. After finishing up the rush of customers, you leaned against the counter and pulled out your phone.
Yoongi [9:23am]: Pretty sure you're at work, but give us a call when you get a break?
Jin [9:34am]: We have news! Call us when you can!
Jimin [9:35am]: We need to tell you together!
Jungkook [9:35am]: Noooona call us!!
You chuckled at the chain of texts. It was a trend you'd notice with the group chat: what could be said in one text was said over several, by different people, and then repeated.
You [9:42am]: I take my break in 15 minutes. Can I call then?
Jin [9:42am]: Sounds great!
When your coworker came over to cover your shift, you immediately walked out the cafe's back door and sat on a nearby bench. Not the quietest place for a call, but it would have to do. You called Jin's number and waited for him to pick up.
"Guys get over here!" You heard someone – Yoongi maybe – shout out as Jin answered and greeted you.
"Hey, what's up?" You asked. A clamor of voices rang through but you were able to pick out two main stories: the performance at the award ceremony had gone exceptionally well, and they'd won in two of the categories they were nominated in.
"That's awesome! I'm happy for you!" You were careful with your next questions, not wanting to say anything remotely suspicious. "What'd you win? What did you perform?
They each spoke in blurbs, completing each other's sentences and shouting out comments. You parsed out the answers to your questions before they continued on about an after party they were headed to.
"Would you ever want to come to one with us, Noona?" Jungkook asked
"They're a lot of fun! You could meet so many different people!" Taehyung added quickly.
" – not fun," you heard Yoongi grumble in the background.
"I honestly don't know if after parties are my type of fun," you said. "Even if I could go."
"I'm sure we could get you in somehow," Hoseok spoke up and you heard Jimin agree.
"I'd make it happen," Jin joked.
You listened for a few more minutes as they talked about other aspects of the award show, other performers or people they were hoping to catch up with at the party.
"Let's not take up her entire break, okay?" A deep voice finally spoke up.
"Namjoon?" You asked, wanting clarification. You two still hadn’t spoken privately.
"Yeah?" He said. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," you said quickly. "Hi…just hi."
"Hi," he said softly. There was silence on the other end of the line, as though the others were waiting to see how you two would interact. "We won't take up all your break. Bye."
"Bye guys."
After hanging up, you continued to sit on the bench alone. Saying goodbye felt different this time. As though something was missing. You missed them more than you anticipated, and hearing them as a group was unexpectedly bittersweet. Unsure what else to do with this information, you stared at your phone and hoped the feeling would soon recede.
"I mean you're good, there are songs that have definitely been on repeat for me," you told Yoongi over the phone as you put away your groceries.
"But?" He supplied.
"No buts. You guys are talented. I don't think I ever denied that," you chuckled. You'd finally made your way through all the music Yoongi had given you and you two had scheduled a special phone call to discuss.
"What's your favorite so far?"
"Probably Baepsae?"
"Of course," Yoongi laughed. "Hobi's going to love hearing that."
"Why?"
"Because of the dance." Yoongi waited for you to say something, but you waited for him to explain. "Wait, it's your favorite and you haven't seen a video of it yet."
"No. I just like the meaning."
You were confused when he only started to laugh more.
"I'm not laughing at you, I promise," he explained, "but the dance for the song is kind of an in-joke for us. You have to watch it then you'll get it." In the distance, you heard somebody call for Yoongi. "Namjoon is calling for me. I should go see what he wants."
"Yoongi wait!" You cried. "Namjoon is there?"
"Yeah. Do you want to talk to him for a minute?"
"No, it's fine. Just tell him I said thanks for the links. He'll know what I'm talking about."
"I'll tell him," Yoongi said and hung up.
A/N: Thank you for reading! A small teaser, but narrative is going to switch up a bit in next week's chapter.
Pairing: fem! management reader x idol! jeon jungkook.
Summary: Jungkook has been obnoxiously in love with you, so much that you and your friends have taken it as an inside joke for years, because you actually think he’s joking— he’s not—. So when you found yourself in a stupid situation where you need to find a fake boyfriend, Jungkook takes his chance.
Genre/Warning: fluff. eventually smut. crack/unfunny jokes. a little angst. fake dating trope; friends to lovers kinda shit. a lot of unfunny/dark/stupid dialogue and narration. 5-year-old jokes and a lot of bad references. jungkook is literally a loser in love. like he’s really down bad and a pathetic yearner. somebody give him a therapist and a coin for self-love pls. a lot of bts x reader messages and conversations. this is mostly for my entertainment. y/n is pretty mean sometimes but idc. pls bare with me. i wrote this in two weeks. for shit and giggles
A full week since that after-meeting lunch. Since the moment where you and Jungkook, very stupidly, agreed to pretend to date. The moment where you both, in your own way, made a terrible decision. And somehow— miraculously, really— nothing had exploded yet.
Mostly because you and Jungkook didn’t have time.
The tour was less than a month away, which meant the guys had been living in a blur of promotions, rehearsals, photoshoots, interviews, content filming, fittings, and whatever cursed TikTok trend management decided was essential for album rollout. You’ve seen him in passing. In hallways, practice rooms, a glimpse of his head disappearing into a van, but no real talking. No sitting down and addressing the insane thing you agreed to.
Which was probably for the best. You thought about it. Maybe, definitely for the best.
“Okay,” you nodded to the person on the other side of your face-time. “Thank you so much. You’re literally a lifesaver.”
The cafeteria was loud in the way only cafeterias are: trays clattering, chairs screeching, people talking over each other like it’s a competitive sport. It smelled like rice and fried things and something vaguely sweet you didn’t trust. You were sitting at one of the long tables near the windows, one leg up in the chair and your phone in hand.
You stabbed a piece of food and chew thoughtfully, finishing the call, when you realized the sound around you had… shifted.
It was subtle, but you’ve known them long enough to recognize it. A ripple, a tiny disturbance in the social ecosystem. Whispers, heads turning, a little less noise. You knew one of them had entered the room.
You don’t look up right away. You already knew who it was when someone dropped in front of you with just a bottle of water and a little snack. When you finally looked up, Jungkook was sitting there, looking unfairly put together for someone who probably hadn’t slept more than four hours a night. Full makeup, lips tinted in that annoying way that made him look unfairly out of reach. His hair was styled, not stage-styled but close, pushed back in a way that made him looked older, more mature. He was wearing a jacket you recognized as stylist-approved casual, rings on his fingers, sleeves pushed up slightly.
“Hi, pookie.” He said, brightening.
You sighed, already annoyed by his presence. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a boy eat?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’re drinking water and pecans. That’s eating for you?.”
“I’m on a diet,” Jungkook shrugged.
“You’re never in the cafeteria.”
“Well… I missed my pookie.”
“Okay, first.” You raised your finger, Jungkook looked already entertained. “Don’t call me pet-names ever again. Second, you’re literally glowing. It’s sick, get away from me.”
He grinned wider. “Just finished a shoot. They powdered me within an inch of my life.”
“I noticed.”
“I survived,” he said bravely. Then he nodded at your phone. “Busy schedule too?.”
“Nah, I don’t answer to anything in my break.” You stabbed a piece of food, continuing eating. “I was talking with an Etsy witch.”
There was a silence. Jungkook blinked at you confused and a little worried. “I’m sorry?.”
“Yeah, she specializes in minor inconveniences,” you said calmly. “I asked for hair loss. She’s supposed to make Bogyum go bald.”
There was a beat where he just stared at you. “What?”
“She had five-star reviews,” you tried to explain.
Jungkook laughed then, full-bodied, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re insane… and evil.”
“Selective evil. Won’t argue about the insane fact.”
“For how long?” he asked.
“I requested ‘within the next fiscal year,”
He shook his head, delighted. “Real question, and don’t think I’m complaining, but have you ever gone to therapy?”
You started arguing with him. Well, more like, you were cursing him and he was just giggling as if it was a joyful moment for him. But after some minutes the banter settled into something familiar, easy. The kind of rhythm you only get from knowing someone too long. And that’s when it hit you…
How the situation is… weird.
Not bad-weird. Just off. Like you’re wearing shoes on the wrong feet but you’re already outside so what’s the point of fixing it now.
You and Jungkook had been friends for years. Long enough that sitting together like that, joking over cafeteria food, felt instinctive, like muscle memory. But the context had shifted, warped slightly, like someone nudged the axis of your dynamic and didn’t tell either of you. And, for a moment, it felt like it was back for a second.
A year ago, things were simpler.
A year ago, Jungkook ruined it.
It was one of those nights— too much soju, too many people crammed into a small karaoke space, laughter loud and unchecked. You remember leaning against the counter, half-listening to a story someone was telling, when Jungkook stumbled into your personal space, eyes glassy, cheeks flushed and a microphone in his hand after singing a cheesy korean love song. “I love you,” he’d announced, loud enough for everyone to hear. The room went silent.
And then someone was laughing, and someone whistled. One of his members had immediately gone, “Oh my god, here we go again.” You’d laughed too when you understood the context, pushing him away gently when you realized he was doing a bit, too drunk. The next morning he had apologized saying he drank too much. He made fun of himself repeating the same bit. And the day after that it became a running joke that it made you cringe so much he continued doing it for the fun of it.
Apparently, Jungkook had a habit of confessing to people when he drank. Or at least his friends told you so. According to the guys, it was practically a tradition. No one took it seriously, so you didn’t. So when he leaned into it— flirting exaggeratedly, dropping fake-sincere comments, pretending to pine— it became a bit, an inside joke, something everyone expected from him after months of being annoying.
He kept it up for months.
Even when you started dating Bogyum.
Jungkook had still flirted with you then, too, but it was harmless, almost innocent. Everyone knew it was a joke, Bogyum knew it was a joke. He’d roll his eyes sometimes, smile indulgently, like yeah, that’s just Jungkook being Jungkook. Annoying.
And you believed it
After you and Bogyum broke up, though… Something shifted.
The bit didn’t stop, it escalated. And somewhere along the way, you stopped remembering what your normal friendship had looked like before all of that.
That’s why, when you were alone and there was a normal moment like that, or even when he had your back last week… it felt like you were seeing a glimpse of what your friendship used to be. It felt nice, and weird, weirdly good.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Jungkook asked, poking at your food.
You blinked, not realizing when he had grabbed your fork. “I’m not.”
“You are. You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The dissociating one,” he said, cheerfully explaining. “Where your soul leaves your body and I’m left alone with the shell.”
You snorted despite yourself. “What the fuck does that mean?.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He played it off. “Let’s focus on the important here.”
“Which is?.”
He smiled, satisfied, as he took a bite. “We should talk about the whole… thing.”
You groaned, leaning back. “I was hoping you’d forget.”
“I could never forget anything related to you, babe.” He said immediately, you rolled your eyes. “You can’t ignore this. Is that your approach to most problems?.”
You nodded slightly. “Yes, look how far it has got me.”
Jungkook shook his head. “To a fake, soon to be real, boyfriend?”
“I’m going to stab you.”
“Well,” he ignored your comment, glancing around, lowering his voice slightly even though half the room was already pretending not to watch him. “We’ve been fake-dating for a week and haven’t discussed nothing about us.”
“We’ve also not actually done any dating,” you pointed out. “Which I consider a success.”
“Uhm,” he narrowed his eyes. “But your ex boyfriend’s new girl already told everyone we’re dating so people will notice eventually that we’re not actually together. Especially with the tour coming up.”
You sighed reluctantly. “Fine. Let’s talk.”
He perked up. “You know, if you don’t want to think too much about it you can just leave it all to me—”
“Let’s put some ground rules,” you interrupted.
Jungkook buffed, looking at you. “Fine. First of all, PDA—”
You immediately nodded, his eyes brightened. “No PDA.”
“What?!” he held up a finger. “Wait, okay. Define PDA first.”
“No kissing, no hugging. No… whatever you’re about to suggest”
“I wasn’t going to suggest anything,” he said offended.
“You were absolutely going to suggest something.”
“Okay, maybe.” Jungkook admitted. “But with reason. How do you want people to believe us if I can’t even hug you? I’ve hugged you many times as friends.” He remind you.
You knew he was right which made it so much worse for you to agree. You threw your head back, trying not to groan of frustration again. This was draining you already.
“Okay, fine. Subtle touching.”
“So kissing….”
You leaned on the table, looking at him in disbelief. “Do I have to remind you you’re and idol and this is our workplace? We’re not going to be making out in the hallways.”
“Okay,” he raised his hands in defeat before whispering: “So not kissing in the hallways, got it.” You glared at him. “Kidding,” he added quickly. “Mostly.”
You gave him with a look. “Let’s just keep it lowkey. We have reasons to. We can be touchy, but subtle. No… dramatics.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “Okay, okay. Lowkey. But when people are watching, we act like a couple.”
“Yes,” you nodded. “Emphasis on when people are watching.”
Jungkook smiled. And before you could say something, and without a warning, he moved quickly to sit next to you. Not in a dramatic move but quickly enough that you couldn’t protest much. Closer enough that his shoulder and his thigh were brushing yours. He leaned closer to you, shoulders facing you.
You looked at him, unimpressed. “What are you doing?”
“People are watching,” he murmured, obvious. “Act good.”
He grabbed your hand in his, sliding his finger smoothly over yours, very softy. You wrinkled your nose.
“You’re touching me.” You stared at him, deadpan. He was smiling. “Stop enjoying this.”
“Baby, this is my dream.”
Your eye twitched. “Unhook yourself.”
Jungkook snorted at your words. “You know, if you act like this no one is going to believe our act.”
“If you’d just stopped making it weird this would be more easy,” you argued.
“It’s not my fault my heart gets so happy around you, baby.” He whispered like a confession. A soft smile grew on his face when he saw your face expression. “Okay, okay. Don’t frown like that, pretty. I’ll try to not make it so weird.”
Jungkook let go of your hand. You looked around before sighing. You knew he was right. It wouldn’t work if you didn’t play the part too. So you tried to convinced yourself it would be easy. You just had to pretend for some time, nothing too crazy. Just a couple months, maybe in weeks people will forget about it and you could just pretended it was a very lowkey relationship.
Just a couple weeks more. Hopefully, just a couple weeks.
You moved slightly to watch him better. “Okay, just three simple rules. First rule: no kissing. Just subtle touch, no unnecessary touching. Second rule: no pet-names in private. I don’t care if it’s a bit, I will stab you to death. Third rule: let’s actually pretend it’s real. Like— we’re the best actors in the world when people are watching. If we’re going to do this then let’s act the shit out of it.” You moved your hand, offering it to him. “Ground rules. Let’s make it official.”
There was a short silence. Jungkook blinked at you before taking your hand, shaking it once. “Deal.”
“And, please, I’m literally begging you. Don’t make this weird,” you added.
Jungkook smirked. “God, now I love when you beg.”
“Jungkook—”
“Okay, okay, don’t get crazy.” He titled his head, looking at you with conviction. “You’ll fall in love with me anyway.”
“I barely tolerate you right now.”
“Key word being right now.”
His grip lingered a fraction too long. You hated that he looked pleased about the situation. You let go first. And somewhere, very inconveniently, you realized he was going to be a problem.
—————
BTS SCHEDULE — (group chat)
You: Good morning, guys. I’m assuming your respective managers already gave you each the schedule for next week. Just a reminder to be on time for the Friday meeting since is the last one we’re having before the tour starts. We will be having a dinner party after the meeting to celebrate, that’s why we clean your schedules for the day. See you all Friday. Have a nice day!!
Namjoon: great!! we’ll be on time
Hoseok: 🥰🥰
Taehyung: 😎😎
Yoongi: someone is finally working
Jungkook: OF COURSE MY HARDWORKING GIRLFRIEND, ILL BE THERE AN HOUR EARLIER IF YOU WANT ME TO
You: just follow ur schedule
Jungkook: OKAY PRETTY GIRLFRIEND
You: fake* pretty girlfriend
Jungkook: currently fake* pretty girlfriend
Jimin: i can’t believe you’re actually doing that fake dating thing
You: i can’t believe you’re so chopped
Jimin: WHY ARE U COMING AT ME LIKE THAT WTF I DIDNT EVEN SAY ANYTHING NEGATIVE YET
Hoseok: real
Jimin: ??
Jin: can’t wait for the food after, i’m so hungry lately
Yoongi: you can literally order food or ask ur assistant to bring u some anytime u want???
Jin: you can literally mind ur own business???
You: LMAO
Yoongi: kys
Jungkook: can we have japanese food after the meeting? i’m feeling very oni-chan later
Hoseok: what the hell is wrong with you
Taehyung: okay @ y/n how are u actually dating him?
You: fake* dating him
Jungkook: currently fake* dating him
Jimin: i just know this fake dating s gonna go so wrong
Jimin: you guys CANNOT act
Jungkook: i don’t have to act 😍
Jungkook: that’s my girlfriend ilove her VERY MUCH
You: fake girlfriend*
You: i’m literally viola davis do not joke with me lad
Hoseok: lad
You: anyway idc what u all think i just came to leave that info about friday bye
Jin: WAIT
Jin: i need to tell you something important
You: what
Jin: i saw you trip and fall this morning when u were flirting with that girl from hr
Jimin: LMAOOOO
Namjoon: that’s embarrassing
Taehyung: girl 😭
You: WHY WOULD YOU TEXT THIS IN THE GC
Jin: i thought it was funny
Jin: also your ex was passing by and he watched you and laughed with me
Yoongi: now that’s just sad
Jin: embarrassing as hell
Taehyung: 😭
You: fuck you i hope you and all your children and grandchildren die from a painful death
Yoongi: wow
Jimin: jesus christ
Namjoon: hello??
Jin: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?
You: i have an etsy witch in my contacts don’t even joke with me rn mf
Jungkook: YOU WERE FLIRTING WITH SOMEONE ELAE?
Hoseok: @ y/n ure becoming such a loser lately
You: im gonna kms in front of you
Yoongi: do it
Jungkook: YOURE MY HIRMFRIEND
You: Hirmfriend
Jungkook: EVERHONE WILL THINK YOURE CHEATING ON ME
You: fake* hirmfriend btw
Yoongi: and with a girl
Jungkook: OMG IM GONNA THROW UP OMG OMG
Yoongi: ??
Hoseok: wow
Jin: real
Jimin: uhm…
You: ok homphobic????
Jungkook: WAIT
Taehyung: wow jk didn’t know u were afraid of gay people
Jungkook: I MEANT THAT ILL TRHOW UP BECUASE YOU WERE FLIRTING WITH SOMEONE ELSE
Jungkook: NOT BECAUSE SHE WAS A WOMAN
Jungkook: I DONT CARE IF YOU LIKE GIRLS
Jungkook: Wait
Jungkook: i kinda do since i’m a man
Jungkook: BUT IDC IF YOU LIKE BOTH GENDERS I SWEAR
Jungkook: AND IM NOT AFRAID OF GAY PEOPLE
Jungkook: I SWEAR, IM NOT
Jungkook: IA M NOT
Hoseok: me when i’m afraid of gay people:
Namjoon: i think he might be
You: so he’s afraid of lesbians but not bisexuals?
Yoongi: crazy how the gayest people are the most homophobic
Jimin: like 😭
Jimin: everyone is gay now
Jimin: update ur program
Taehyung: even donald trump
Jin: ew
Yoongi: ew gay people or donald trump??
Hoseok: he can date jungkook
Jungkook: i don’t wanna date trump WTFF
Namjoon: homophobia
Jimin: enemies to lovers but make it bbl
You: you need a bbl
Jimin: IM ABOUT TO ACTUALLY BLOCK YOU
You: you need to get ur abbreviations RIGHT
You. it’s BL
Jimin: idgaf
You: exactly why you’re chopped, get ur plots right🗣️🗣️
You: enemies to lovers, +200k words, slow burn bl, soft angst, smut, slightly homophobia. madonna and jackson wang party appearance. pairing fuck boy! basketball player donald trump x rich ceo! homophobic jeon jungkook
Namjoon: you need mental help
Namjoon: ACTUAL mental help
Jimin: literally on the phone with 911
Jimin: what the fuck is ur problem
You: men always hating on women’s hobbies wow
You: we have misogynists and homophobes
You: bts disband when
Jungkook: IM NOT HOMOPHOBIC I DONT WANNA DATE TRUMP ANS I DONT LIKE BOYS
Jungkook: I SWEAR I DONT
Yoongi: crazy sentence btw
Taehyung: i HOPE you don’t like boys cuz ure hitting 30 😭
Taehyung: date people of your own age u SICK FUCK
Jungkook: U GUYS ARE TWISTING MY WORDS
Hoseok: twister
Jimin: it’s okay
Jimin: i mean the gay part not the dating boys
Jimin: that’s sick and twisted
Jimin: but gay rights!!! that’s coool yayyy
Yoongi: live your truth!!
Yoongi; the gay truth
Jin: wow jk’s gay fr?
Jin: praying for a quick recovery
Yoongi: ?????
Jungkook: I AM NOT GAY
Jungkook: I LIKE GIRLS
Jungkook: IM AORRY BUT I WAS BORN LIKE THIS
Hoseok: do not use those words for ur homophobia agenda
Hoseok: lady gaga did NOT die for this
Yoongi: she’s not dead
Namjoon: i’m a born singer
You: jungkook hates lesbians
Jungkook: I DONT
Jungkook: I DO NOT HATE LESBIANS, I LOVE THEM
Jungkook: I LOVE LESBIANS
Jungkook: I LOVE LESBIANS SO MUCH IS CRAZY
Jungkook: I LOVE LESBIANS SO SO MUCH I SWEAR
Hoseok: okay is he fetishizing lesbians or he trying to do some weird conversion therapy shit?
You: the jimin fetishization is crazy guys
Jimin: ??
You: is not ur fault to be a hot lesbian baby ❤️
Jungkook: i’m going to kill myself
Yoongi: do it
Taehyung: i love lesbians too dw
Jimin: this is insane btw
Hoseok: are u a lesbian hater too?
Yoongi: again, always the gayest people being gay haters
Jimin: ????
Jungkook: I AM NOT GAY
You: yeah right
You: tell that to all the rainbow activities u do with jimin on a daily basis
Namjoon: real
Taehyung: LMAO
Jimin: okay homophobe much??? do u not have close friends?
You: i have close friends im just not gay
Hoseok: u were literally flirting with a girl btw
Jin: and failed
Jin: it was really embarrassing
Taehyung: u guys having sex would’ve be less gay than whatever ays2 was
Yoongi: agree
Namjoon: real
Hoseok: homotron 59 and 60
You: LMAO
Jungkook: I AM NOT GAY
Jungkook: I ONLY LOVE MY BEautiful GIRLFRIEND
You: lavender marriage 💜
Taehyung: borahaee
Jimin: okay the homophobia in this chat is crazy
Namjoon: we support gay rights??
Yoongi: was that a question?
Jin: i didn’t know you speak french joon
Taehyung: except jk
Taehyung: he hates lesbians
You: he hates jimin 😓
Jimin: ure pissing me off
You: chin up king
You: we love lesbians (you) here!! (not jk included)
Jimin: can u remind me your ethnicity so i can call u a slur
Jin: that’s crazy
Hoseok: HELLOOOO??
Namjoon: hey jimin so that’s actually an insane thing to say!!!
Yoongi: bye
Jungkook: wait
Jungkook: marriage…
Jungkook: ARE WE GETTING MARRIED????
Jungkook: I ACCEPT
You: bye
Jungkook: GUYS WERE GONNA FET MARRIED???
—————
Big group meetings were, without exaggeration, a personal attack.
Not because they’re difficult— if anything, they’re the one space where you feel competent, in control, respected— but because they demand restraint. They required you to speak calmly while your brain was running twelve parallel tracks, one of which was constantly asking how illegal would it be if I snapped right now. You have perfected the art of professionalism through sheer spite… and also the ability to not strangle anyone who interrupted you.
The conference room was full. Laptops open, coffee cups everywhere, cables tangled like everyone just gave up at the same time. The boys were scattered across one side of the table, managers and assistants on the other, stylists hovering near the back like they were ready to escape if needed. There was that familiar low hum of people who didn’t want to be there but knew they had to be.
You stood at the front, tablet tucked under your arm, posture straight. You look collected. You look like someone who slept eight hours a night and drank green juice that morning. You absolutely do not looked like someone who had been in that room for almost eight hours talking and talking without any pause.
“Alright,” you said, clapping once, sharp enough that a few heads snapped up. “Let’s finish this once for all before I change my mind and cancel tour entirely.”
That earned you a couple of laughs. Namjoon nodded approvingly. Jungkook, already leaning back in his chair like he was watching a show, grinned. You wanted to punch every one of them. They looked tired, even if they had arrived only two hours ago just to hear their schedule and not the entire thing that took you five hours because you went through every section. You couldn’t blame them anyway, they didn’t to know what makeup brand was used or what driver truck was going to be in the America tour. It wasn’t their job.
“This is the last full-group meeting before tour next week,” you continued, tapping your tablet so the screen behind you lighted up with dates and cities. “Which means three things. One: respective managers should have the monthly schedules for each boy. Two: if something goes wrong after today, I will say I told you so. Three: I expect basic survival instincts from all of you.”
Everyone agreed.
You gestured at the timeline. “Goyang is first, which makes everything easier since we don’t have to leave the country. Still, punctuality is very important. That means no disappearing acts, no ‘I thought call time was flexible,’ no spontaneous adventures.” Taehyung raised his hand. You didn’t even look at him. “No.” He laughed anyway. “If any of you are late and miss a call time,” you added, eyes sweeping the room, “I will personally hunt you down.” Jungkook raised his hand, immediately. “Yes,” you said flatly. “What, Jungkook.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Depends on how annoying you are.”
He smiled like that was the best answer he could’ve hoped for.
You moved on, refusing to acknowledge him further. “Last comments you should know. Outfits are coordinated per city. Stylists will brief you individually. If you hate something, complain to them quietly, not on camera, not to me. I’m not your stylist or your personal manager.” Your eyes flickered to Taehyung again. He pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “Meals are scheduled,” you continued, already anticipating it. “Yes, Jin, you are allowed to eat outside of them.” Jin opened his mouth, you hold up a finger. “No, that does not mean every ten minutes. You have a diet, consult with your doctor. Again, I’m not your doctor, talk with the right personal.”
The room laughed. Jin looked betrayed. Yoongi muttered something about job requirements.
You flipped to the final slide. “Next week marks the official start of tour. To celebrate, we’re doing a team dinner tonight. No work talk, no press or tasks. Just food, alcohol and time so you can prepare yourself mentally for not being able to be close to your family for the next year.”
That finally woke everyone up.
“Restaurant details are in the tour group chat,” you finished. “You have three hours so be there on time.”
Applause broke out. Chairs scrape loudly against the floor. The energy shifted immediately, people talking over each other about outfits, reservations, drinks. The people already arguing about food like it was a national crisis.
You step back, letting it wash over you, exhaling and stretching for the first time in what feels like hours.
The room emptied in waves. First the assistants, murmuring to each other as they packed up laptops and notebooks, already halfway into drinking plans. Then the managers, phones out, schedules in hand, walking with purpose like they were late to something more important. Then the boys stayed a second longer to discuss something you didn’t pay attention before they got the hint. They left, loud and chaotic, arguing about food before they’ve even left the room.
Jin complained about hunger. Yoongi told him to shut up. Taehyung was already talking about outfits. Jimin said something you didn’t catch but that made Namjoon snort loudly.
They funnel toward the door in a mess of voices and movement, chairs scraping, footsteps echoing, laughter bouncing off the walls. The noise slowly faded down the hallway, replaced by that weird, hollow quiet that only existed after a room had been very full and suddenly isn’t.
You exhaled proudly and very exhausted.
You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until they dropped all at once. You reached for your tablet, sliding it into your bag, already mentally moving on to the million other things you had to do before dinner. Change clothes, answer some emails, maybe take a shower and cry, mentally prepare yourself to exist in the same space as Tsuki and Bogyum without committing homicide…
You were packing up your things when you realized the noise hadn’t dropped completely. You looked up.
Jungkook was still there. Of course he was.
He hadn’t moved from his chair. He actually looked comfortable. One arm slung over the backrest, legs crossed out like he was waiting for someone. For you. His jacket’s already on, hair still styled from whatever shoot he came from, makeup flawless in that unfair way that made you irrationally annoyed.
“Why are you still here?” You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t you have somewhere to be annoying before dinner?”
He stood up slowly, stretching his arms over his head. “I wanted to walk you out.”
“You don’t do that.”
“I didn’t do that. Boyfriend Jungkook does.” He grinned, showing you his bunny smile.
“Nobody is here anymore,” you pointed out.
“Babe, why are you so difficult?” He shook his head. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the rest-room before we head to dinner together like the real relationship we are.”
You slung your bag over your shoulder, ignoring his intense personality. “I’m not going to dinner.”
That made him pause.
“What,” he said, like you’ve just told him the sky is green.
“I said I’m not going.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I’m dead serious.”
“Why?,” he frowned confused.
You don’t even hesitate. “Because Tsuki and Bogyum will be there.
Jungkook stared at you for a second, processing, then shrugged. “Okay. And?”
Your eye twitched. He really couldn’t be that stupid. “And I don’t want to see them.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It’s an excellent reason.”
“You can’t just skip,” he said, stepping closer to you. “It’s a team thing.”
“Watch me.”
“You literally organized the dinner.”
“That’s why I can decide to not go.”
Jungkook stepped in front of you, his hands dropping in your shoulder, expression annoyingly calm. “You’re being dramatic. I will be there, we can play our part.”
You shook your head. “I will black out.”
“From food?”
“From rage.”
He grinned. “You’ll survive.”
“I will not. I’m serious, I’ll commit a felony.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Name one felony you can commit at dinner.”
“A hate crime, assault, murder…”
“Hot.” He smiled and you stepped on his shoe. “Ouch!”
You dragged a hand down your face. “I do not have the emotional bandwidth to be normal around them.”
“You don’t have to be normal,” he said.
“I will explode.”
“That could be fun.”
You grabbed the front of his hoodie before you even realized you were moving, yanking him forward until his face was way too close to yours. “Don’t encourage me.”
His eyes lit up like you’ve just handed him a gift. “Babe, I’ll always support your rights and wrongs.” Your hands travelled to his throat to choke him. Jungkook squeezed your shoulders when you started putting some pressure. “Babe— Babe, you’re literally choking me right now,” he said, not really nervous but delighted.
“Good.”
Your fingers tightened, not actually cutting off his air but definitely making a point. He didn’t try to stop you, just pushing you slightly like he was pretending to. He didn’t even flinch at your crazy gaze, just looked at you like this is his favorite genre of interaction.
“I knew skipping breakfast was a bad idea,” he added thoughtfully, like he knew you didn’t eat that morning. “You’re getting violent. We should have breakfast together from now on. Just so you don’t skip it, of course.”
“I had breakfast. And I’ve always been violent.”
“True… and you’re so hot for that.”
You were about to say something else, a threat, maybe a curse, when the door opened.
“Hey, I was— Oh. Sorry.”
You froze. Everything stopped for a second too long. Your brain short-circuited so hard you almost feel the static.
Bogyum stood in the doorway, phone in hand, looking mildly confused and extremely unfortunate. His eyes flicked from your hand gripping Jungkook’s hoodie, up to your face, then to Jungkook’s smile.
Time stretched, your brain went white.
You let go instantly and pivot, arms sliding around Jungkook’s shoulders in what could only loosely be described as a hug. Jungkook didn’t lose time, reacting without hesitation. One second he was being strangled, the next his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in close like it was muscle memory. Like he had been waiting for an excuse. His hand settling warm and solid at your lower back.
“Hey,” Jungkook said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
You resist the urge to stab him with your elbow.
Bogyum cleared his throat, staring for half a second too long. “I, um, I forgot my charger.”
“Rough,” Jungkook said sympathetically. “Hate when that happens.”
You looked at him confused, he shrugged while the other boy grabbed his charger.
There was a pause.
Bogyum’s gaze lingered again, too long. On the way Jungkook’s holding you. On how close you were. On how you were very clearly not murdering each other anymore.
“So,” he said finally, forcing casual, eyes flickering between you and Jungkook. “Are you guys… coming to dinner?”
Your mouth opened as a reflex to denied the statement, you closed it quickly. Your brain working overtime, that had been such a fast and good idea. You finally wanted to high five the man that was hugging you very inappropriate.
“Yes,” you said, nodding enthusiastically. “After our date.”
The words registered a second later. You felt Jungkook tense slightly, not in shock but in amusement.
Bogyum nodded slowly. “Right. A date, that’s cool. Well, I see you guys there.”
You stilled a little confused about his dry tone. The door shut a second later.
You dropped your arms immediately, stepping back. “That was so good!”
Jungkook looked at you, eyes bright. “Yeah?”
“We nailed that!,” you nodded.
“We really did,” he beamed.
“I’m actually proud of us. We sold it.”
“Five starts.”
“I think he bought it,” you said enthusiastically.
“He absolutely bought it.”
You grinned despite yourself. “We’re geniuses.”
Jungkook nodded solemnly. “Truly.” A beat passed.“So,” he said. “Now we need to have a date.”
“No, we don’t.” You were already walking to the door. He was quick to follow you.
“Yes, we do.” Jungkook stopped you before you could leave the room. “If we don’t everyone will know we don’t have a date and we’re… fake dating.” He whispered the last two words like it was a slur.
You looked at him with boredom. “Are you stupid?”
“Come one,” he whined.
“No one will know because no one knows we are having a date.” You argued. “Just pick me up for the dinner. Now thanks to you I have to go.”
“I will know we didn’t have a date,” he pointed at himself.
“Do you have like a brain problem or something?.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes before grabbing your shoulders. “Come on, at least let’s hang out.”
You groaned, tilting your head back. “You’re unbearable.” When you looked at him again he was smiling, soft and confident and deeply annoying. “We can’t hang out outside, we haven’t reserved anything. And as much as I love working here, I don’t want my private information out because people saw me outside with you. Even if it’s work related. I won’t risk getting my instagram filled with death threats about how I’m stealing someones parasocial man.”
There was a second of silence. Jungkook pressed his lips together in a thoughtful manner before looking at you again, squeezing your shoulders with confidence.
“I have an idea—”
“Jungkook,” you groaned.
“Trust me,” he said. This time softer, a little pleading. “Just trust me.”
You were already regretting it.
—————
Jungkook called it a date the entire drive. The second you stepped inside his car, keys jingling in his hand, jacket zipped up like he was about to commit a crime, he said it. You corrected him every single time on the way. Even if it was a short drive, you could feel yourself aging so fast for the stress he was causing you.
“It’s not a date,” you said again, arms crossed, staring out the passenger window like if you look directly at him for more than three seconds he’ll start saying vows or something.
“It’s a pre-dinner date,” Jungkook said easily, one hand on the wheel, the other gesturing like he was explaining something very reasonable to a toddler. “Low-pressure, very casual.”
“Still not a date.” you snapped. “It’s killing time.”
“Killing time… together,” he repeated, glancing at you with that stupid grin. “Alone, before dinner.”
“Killing time.”
“Romantically.”
“No.”
“Intimately.”
“Absolutely not.”
“A date.”
You groaned so loudly it echoed in the car. “I hate you.”
“That’s crazy,” he said. “You’re literally in my car right now.”
“Against my will.”
“It was by choice.”
“You coerced me.”
“You agreed.”
“I was emotionally compromised.”
He laughed. “That’s my favorite version of you.”
You shoot him a look. “That’s concerning.”
“I like all the versions of my girlfriend.” He shrugged. “Sorry that I’m a lover boy.”
“Fake girlfriend,” you corrected him. “And don’t say that ever again.”
“Lover boy.”
You contemplated opening the door while he’ was stopped at a red light, just to prove a point. You didn’t do it because, unfortunately, you enjoyed being alive and also because the light turned green and he accelerated like he was fleeing a crime scene.
His place everything that you expected, which annoyed you. It was weirdly boyish, LED lights, protein powder, a gaming chair that screamed virginity and so disgustingly dark. The only thing saving it was that some places felt lived in, comfortable. There were shoes kicked near the door, a hoodie draped over the back of the couch, a guitar against the wall like it belonged there, even plants that were somehow not dead.
You hated that too.
“Why are you looking around like that?,” he asked, kicking his shoes off.
You looked around before settling your gaze on him. “Why do you have everything paint black?”
“It’s my aesthetic.”
“Your aesthetic is giving bad boy from a fanfic. Get a damn window or something.”
Jungkook, instead of taking it as an offensive comment— like anyone else would— smiled at you enamoured. “If my girlfriend wants that then I’ll do it.”
You blinked at him. “Never mind. You do you.”
“Of course not!.” he shook his head. “We have to come to an aesthetic agreement so when we move together—”
“I’m leaving,” you turned around.
Jungkook grabbed your wrist, stopping you quickly. “Okay, okay. We’ll talk about that in the future. Come one now. Let’s go the roof.”
You frowned confused. “Roof?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
You followed him up a narrow staircase that opened into a door you didn’t even realize was there, and then suddenly you were outside. The city spread out in front of you like a living thing, buildings stacked against each other, lights flickering on as the sky slipped into afternoon. There was a soft breeze, the air smelled like summer and concrete.
“Wow,” you muttered, quiet despite yourself.
He watches your reaction with a small, satisfied smile. “Told you.”
“You didn’t tell me anything.”
“Implied.”
“Implied shit,” you uttered. “You do have a nice view though.”
Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Wait here.” he said, already turning back inside.
You didn’t say anything. You only stepped closer to the edge, careful but curious, resting your hands on the wall that hold you to not fall into the ground. The city looked different from up there. Nothing like the company, very much homey and quieter. It was beautiful.
Jungkook was gone longer than you expected. Long enough for the breeze to picked up, for you to wrap your arms around yourself, for the city noise to settle into something almost soothing. That was nice, comfortable. You liked the neighbourhood and the quietness that came with it. You wondered how many times Jungkook had actually stayed in that house for longer than a week.
When Jungkook came back, he was loaded down like he was moving in. Blankets draped over one arm, a tote bag slung over his shoulder, snacks threatening to spill out, and some objects in another bag that he was stupidly holding into his other arm.
You stared, helping him putting a bag down. “…What is all this.”
“Our date.”
“Stop calling it that.”
“Our hangout,” he corrected, entirely too pleased with himself.
He set everything down carefully, spreading the blankets out on the ground like he had done it before. Like it was a thing. You watched him reluctantly, watching him arranged the paints, the brushes and else.
“Are those canvases?” you asked.
“Maybe.”
“And paint?”
“Possibly.”
“You planned this?.”
“I planned a date,” he said quickly.
You squinted. “It’s a hangout.”
“We can call it whatever you want.”
You ignored his comment and dropped onto the ground anyway, grabbing a blanket and wrapping it around your shoulders. He spread another blanket beside you, sitting close enough that your shoulders almost touched but not quite. It was deliberate. You clocked it immediately but didn’t comment on it. You just didn’t feel like continue the barking.
He handed you a canvas and paint like it was the most normal thing in the world. “You said you liked to paint.”
“You remembered,” you muttered, it sounded more like a question than a statement.
“Of course I did.”
You hesitated. “I didn’t tell you recently.”
“You don’t have to,” he said simply. “You always are drawing doodles and painting with your pen when you’re stressed.”
You looked away, feeling nothing like an extroverted and unashamed woman. He smiled at you, softer than usual, and for a moment he didn’t say anything else. Just opened his own canvas, squeezed paint onto a palette and settled in.
You painted. Not seriously, not with intention. Just color and movement and whatever feels right. He hummed under his breath while he worked, something low and familiar, and it pulled at something in your chest you didn’t want to examine too closely.
You missed that quietness, that complicity.
You were sitting side by side, blankets pulled up to your waists, canvases propped against your knees. Jungkook was cross-legged, hunched slightly forward, tongue poking against his cheek in concentration. You were sprawled, one leg bent, one stretched out, brush tapping idly against the rim of your paint cup.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
“So,” he broke the silence, too casual. “Tour.”
You hummed. “Tour.”
“That’s all I get?”
“What do you want, a PowerPoint? I talked about that for eight hours.” You remind him. “If you want a presentation I’ll send you the file.”
“I want you to say something ominous so I can spiral.”
You glanced at him. “You’re already spiraling. You spiraled when you called me five times to know if you should be earlier to the meeting.”
“Maybe I should have,” he pointed out.
“You didn’t. You don’t need to know which light is better or what’s the name of the manager from the Peru work place stadium.”
“Okay, but it’s was a valid concern.” Jungkook tried to defend himself. “What if I need to fix a light because someone couldn’t make it or I have to talk to that manager because I have a requirement.”
You snorted. “You won’t, I’ll handle it. You are going to be fine.”
He shrugged, adding another careless streak of color to his canvas. “I always am. Doesn’t mean I feel fine.”
That made you pause. You tilted your head slightly, watching him instead of your painting now. “What part’s getting to you?”
Jungkook took a moment to think. You could tell because he stopped pretending to paint.
“Being… on,” he admitted finally. “All the time. Cameras, fans, the team, the expectations. It’s like—” He gestured vaguely. “The album was well received and I love getting on stage but I swear I haven’t stopped working since I stepped outside the military. I don’t even get to be tired properly. I feel like I’m performing all the time.”
“You’re allowed to be tired,” you said immediately.
He laughed, short. “Yeah. In theory.”
You went quiet again. Then softly added: “Look, I know you like doing the bits and all but… you don’t have to perform with me.”
“I know,” he said, his voice quieter. “That’s why this is… nice.”
You swallowed. You didn’t comment on that. Instead, you dipped your brush back into the paint. There was a small silence before you decided to talk.
“I’m more worried about my mom,” you said, like it was an afterthought.
That got his attention. “Yeah?”
“She keeps pretending she’s fine with it,” you continued. “Like, ‘Oh, it’s only a few months again,’ and then she’ll text me at three a.m. like I’m being deployed to war.”
He smiled. “She’s gonna miss you.”
“I know.” You sighed. “I will too. I hate leaving when things feel… unfinished.”
He didn’t ask what you meant. That was one of the things you’ve always appreciated about him, he never pushed you to say something you didn’t want.
“Hey,” he said instead. “At least that one makeup stylist won’t be there.”
You groaned instantly. “Oh my god, don’t remind me.”
“She asked me if I moisturize with dish soap.”
“You do have dry skin.”
“That’s not the point!,” he exclaimed offended.
You laughed, shaking your head. “She told me my under-eyes ‘tell a story.’ Like— what story? That I’m overworked and underpaid?”
“You’re not underpaid.”
“Okay, true. But I am overworked.”
Jungkook grinned. “It’s a very compelling narrative.”
“She also said your jawline was ‘too distracting for wide shots.’”
He scoffed. “That’s just straight up jealousy.”
“Obviously.”
You both fell into easy laughter, the kind that didn’t feel forced or sharp. It faded naturally, leaving something comfortable behind.
After a moment, he asked you, quieter, “You okay with being gone that long?”
You thought about it honestly. “I always am.”
“That’s not an answer.”
You sighed. “I used to love it. Visiting new places, working with new people. Now it just feels like… a job. I feel like I don’t have time to actually enjoy the places I’m going to, you know? And that makes being away feel… loose.”
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I get that.”
You looked at him for a second. It felt nice talking with Jungkook like that.
You glanced at his canvas. “What are you even painting?”
“Huh?,” he looked down at it like he was surprised it exists. “I don’t know. Vibes.”
“It looks like a storm.”
“Wow,” he tilted his head. “Thanks.”
“No, I mean it in a good way,” you said quickly. “Why am I even complimenting you? Everything you do is perfect.”
Jungkook’s face brightened up, his eyes sparkling like starts. You groaned, realizing what you just said and what he was going to do. “You think everything I do is perfect?” he pouted. “That’s the best thing you have ever said to me. Oh my god, you’re already falling in love with me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I would eat shit before I fall in love with you.”
“You’re so romantic, baby. Would you eat shit for me?.”
You bumped his knee lightly with yours. “Don’t make me punch you in the face before your tour.”
Jungkook giggled, but finally decided not to say anything else. Maybe sensing that you weren’t actually joking.
There was another stretch of silence. The city hummed below you. Somewhere far away, a siren wailed and then faded. The silence wasn’t awkward. It stretched comfortably, punctuated by the city below and the fainted clink of paintbrushes. You looked at him for a second too long. Jungkook noticed and found your gaze.
“What?,” he said eventually.
“Nothing,” you played with your brush.
“What?,” he asked again. “Come on, tell me.”
You rolled your eyes. “I missed this,” you admitted before you can stop yourself.
He froze for a second. Barely noticeable if you weren’t looking directly at him.
“This?” he asked carefully.
“This,” you repeated, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “You being… normal.”
Jungkook went silent for a second, like he was analyzing something about your comment. “I can try.”
You snorted. “Try what?.”
“Not doing the—” He made a vague spiraling motion with his finger. “what you think is— a bit. At least for a while. You know, not being so insane.”
You glanced at him. “You? Not being insane? That’s a big promise.”
He shrugged exaggerated. “For you? I could attempt self-restraint and kill someone if you want me to, baby.”
You laughed despite yourself. It slipped out before you could stop it, a real laughter, not the sharp, defensive kind. His head snapped toward you like he had been waiting for that exact sound the whole day. You saw it in his eyes, the bit coming back.
“Shut up.”
“See? You loved it.” He leaned closer, invading your space just enough to be annoying. “And the date is going so well.”
“It’s not a date,” you said automatically, but it didn’t have the same bite as before.
He grinned, triumphant. “You laughed.”
“I laugh at crying babies, it really means nothing.”
He gasped “You’re sick. I love that so much about you, honey.”
You groaned, leaning your head back dramatically. “You were doing SO good.”
He laughed then, full and unrestrained, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t make you want to push him away. It just made you smile. You didn’t even realized he had broken the third rule already. Not even a week after.
—————
BTS TOUR SCHEDULE — (group chat).
Jimin: where tf are you
Jimin: @ y/n @ jungkook
Jimin: hobi said you were coming
You: awe you miss me?
Jimin: no, i just wanna see you act pathetic in front of your ex bf
You: run into fucking traffic and fucking die
Yoongi: jesus christ
You: catholic much?
You: that bitch doesn’t exist bc if God was actually real she would have mercy on me
Taehyung: damnnn you’re about to get cancer
Taehyung: canceled
Taehyung: cancelled
Hoseok: taking ss in case i have to show proof for that twitter thread
You: cancer
Jungkook: WHY WOULD YOU WANT HER TO GET VANCER
Jungkook: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU
Jungkook: SQUARE UP @ taehyung
Yoongi: god if you’re reading this pls take her
Yoongi: she clearly wants to go with you
You: well if she exist she clearly doesn’t know what she’s doing
You: and she clearly has a problem with me because wth is she doing putting my ex and my work bff together
Jungkook: YOU TOO YOONGI?
Jungkook: WHY WOULD U WANT SOMEONE TO HAVE CANCER???
Taehyung: ???
You: can’t believe god is my opp fr
You: should i become a rapper?
Namjoon: she?
You: you think God is a man? 💀💀💀
You: have u listened to the word of her children?? ariana grande??
Yoongi; you’re literally clinically insane
Yoongi: pls get help
Jin: go see a therapist
Yoongi: or a fucking priest idc you can chose
You: wow, you clearly want women silent and being held on prison
Yoongi: ?!???
Yoongi: wtf is wrong with you
You: just took a ss of it, sending it to @/yoongiflops on twitter
Yoongi: it’s called X now
You: who?
Yoongi: Twitter is called X now
You: no, who fucking asked you dumb bitch 💀💀
Yoongi: i’m gonna fire her
Jungkook: YOONGO I SAID SQUARE UP
Jungkook: nobody wishes cancer to my girl
Jimin: yoongo
Taehyung: wth is wrong with him
You: fight fight fight
Yoongi: im gonna fight u
You: yeah ok yoongo 💀💀
Hoseok: okay if u continue using those emojis im literally going to choke you
You: what makes u think i wouldn’t like that?
Jin: word
Jungkook: she a freak 😍
You: don’t address me ever again
Jimin: you’re disgusting
Taehyung: wow u and jk are perfect
Jin: word
Jungkook: what i been saying
Jungkook: ure forgiven 😍
You: ew
Taehyung: is insane how you outmatched his freak alone
Taehyung: like, i’m glad u don’t like him bc if u did and u actually paid attention to him this chat would be fucking insane
Jungkook: ???
You: hes literally a disgusting freak, why are u putting us together
Jungkook: when she calls you a disgusting freak 😍😍
Jungkook: i loveu so much baby
Jungkook: creamed
Jin: wtf is wrong with you
Taehyung: i’m throwing up rn
You: yummy
Taehyung: SEE?????
You: IT WAS A JOKE
You: and they say men have jokes 💀💀 can’t even get one
Jimin: btw hes literally just a freak when you are in present
Hoseok: real he’s a shy puppy outside
Jungkook: woof?
Namjoon: pls don’t
Yoongi: wth is wrong with him
Taehyung: i can take a joke ure just not funny
You: and your just not good at singing
Jungkook: she just makes me a real freak for her😍
Jin: ew
Taehyung: I CAN SING CAN U EVEN HOLD A NOTE???
Namjoon: you’re literally a freak too, what are you ew-ing
You: ew-ing 💀
Jin: why are u on my business?
Namjoon: ??
Yoongi: everyone is a freak here
You: okay yoongi 💀💀
Hoseok: what the fuck did i tell you before?
Jimin: shes literally doing it on purpose
Hoseok: freak
You: everyone is a freak until a #realfreak shows up
Jin: word
Taehyung: stop saying that
Jin: word
Taehyung: i will rip your eyes off
Hoseok: all of u have some real problems
Hoseok: @ y/n ur bf and his girl are kissing
You: why tf are u telling me this?
Jungkook: EX BF
Hoseok: thought u would like to know
Jimin: they’re not btw
You: fuck u hoe-seok
Yoongi: laughed
Jungkook: why tf are u laughing with my girl
Jungkook: I SAID SQUARE UPPPPP
Hoseok: hey i was trying to match ur vibe??
Jimin: i was just bored, i don’t actually want her to act pathetic in from of that guy
Jimin: last time was enough
Jimin: the second hand embarrassment i felt after that talk 💀
Jimin: i need therapy for that shit
Jimin: REAL EMBARRASSING
You: hoseok choke him
Hoseok: ?
You: he used the emoji?
You: wtv idc im pulling out with my hot boyfriend so who gives a fuck
You: really who gives a fuck I DONT
You: I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK
Jungkook: YOU THINK IM HOT???
You: i literally do not give a fuck. i literally DO NOT CARE
You: i don’t care at all
You: they can kiss for all i care (which is nothing, because i don’t I DONT CARE)
You: I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK
Yoongi: me when i give a fuck:
Hoseok: guys i think she might care a little but idk
Hoseok: i might be wrong
Taehyung: nah man she clearly doesn’t
Yoongi: and fake boyfriend btw
Jungkook: YOU REALLY TGHINK IM HOT??
You: nobody knows so still pretty much my boyfriend
Jungkook; HELLLO???????????
Jungkook: YES PRETTY MUCH YOUR BOYFRIEND
Jungkook: VERY MUCH UR BOYFRIEEND 😍
Yoongi: well everyone will eventually know if u keep acting like you want to murder him everytime he calls u a pet name or even breaths near you
Jungkook: GUYS AHE THINKS IM HOT
Jungkook: IM HER BOUFRIDN
You: stfu? that’s clearly because i’m nervous around him
You: we’re clearly in our honeymoon-anime-shy-girl-k-drama-slow-love-friends-to-lovers-first-holding-hands-in-the-last-chapter romance era
You: people understand
Hoseok: yeah ofc
Taehyung: whatever the fuck that means
Jungkook: OMG WE’RE GONNA HOLD HANDS???
Jimin: at least people actually think u can pull jungkook
Jungkook: she thinks i’m hot, she can pull me anywhere she wants
You: i literally did that’s my boyfriend
You: IM WITH BOYFRIEND
Namjoon: why would u word it like that
Jimin: then act like it 💀
Hoseok: dude
Yoongi: fake boyfriend btw
Jungkook: YES IM LITERALLY HER BOYFRIEND
You: bitch get ready cuz i’m about to pull and oscar worthy performance out of my ass
Jungkook: LITERALLT HER BOYFRIEND
You: and fuck that bitch for kissing that other bitch in public
Jimin: they didn’t kiss btw
You: THEY CAN GO TO HELL ANYWAY IDGAFFFFF
You: I DO NOT GIVE A FUCK
You: I DONT
Taehyung: word
Jin: ???
Jungkook: GIYS I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH
Jungkook: YOONGI DONT SQUARE UP ILOVE U
Jungkook: THANJ YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU
By the time you arrived at the restaurant, you’ve already made a decision.
It happened somewhere between the guys telling you your ex boyfriend was being corny with your ex work bestie and stepping through the glass doors and clocking Tsuki’s laugh from across the room. And somewhere between seeing Bogyum’s familiar profile and Jungkook’s hand brushing yours as he leaned in to say something stupid about the lighting.
You decided: If you’re doing this, you’re doing it right.
The restaurant was packed. Long tables, warm lights, voices overlapping, staff scattered everywhere. You had reserved the place for all of you, a company dinner. Engineers, stylists, assistants, managers, all kinds of staff. Too many eyes. Too many ears.
Which meant: lowkey, believable, oscar-worthy.
Jungkook didn’t exactly know yet. He was too busy greeting people, smiling easily, bowing politely, saying thank you like he always did. He was relaxed, loose in a way he rarely was during official schedules. Hoodie swapped for something nicer, hair still soft from earlier, energy bright.
He looked… good.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning down toward you as someone called his name from across the room. “You okay?”
You glanced up at him and smiled. Not your normal smile or your fake smile for his annoying ass. This one was warmer, nicer, practiced.
“I’m good,” you said, fingers brushing his wrist as you speak.
His eyebrows knit together for half a second.
Then he grinned. “We’re really doing it?”
You nodded. “Yep.”
That’s all it took.
The tables were in sections, not one long stretch but clusters pushed together. The boys were already spread out, staff filling in gaps. Someone waved you over toward the far corner where two chairs were still open. Jungkook guided you there without thinking, hand hovering at your back, not possessive, but instinctively and a little performative.
You bowed to the people as a greeting and sat first. He pulled your chair out, and pushed it in. You didn’t comment.
Across from you: Tsuki, mid-conversation, eyes bright. Next to her, Bogyum, relaxed, smiling at something one of the engineers was saying. To your right: Jimin and Hoseok, already clocking the situation with identical expressions of oh, this is going to be fun.
Two other staff members fill out the table. Jungkook took the seat beside you.
You were cornered, you realized it at the exact same moment he did. Your knee brushed his but for the first time you didn’t pull away. Instead, you shift closer. Jungkook blinked, looking down and looking back at you.
You tilted your head, resting your chin lightly against your knuckles, shoulder angled toward him. Comfortable, faking familiarity and very intimate.
You beat your eyelashes with softness. Jungkook choked in air before he exhaled through his nose, nodding quickly.
“Okay,” he murmured, low. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
You smiled sweetly. “Doing what?”
He chuckled under his breath, his hand going to his heart like he was trying to calm it. “Nothing.”
Hoseok cleared his throat loudly. “Damn.”
Jimin kicked him under the table.
The conversation resumed around you. Some drink orders, complaints about rehearsal schedules, someone already drunk enough to be too honest. You nodded along where appropriate, laughed when you should.
Jungkook did what he does best: exist and his stupid bit. He poured you water before you ask, slid the bread basket closer, leaned in when you spoke and looked at you like nothing else mattered. And you responded in kind, because now you were committed as hell. Your hand rested on his forearm when you laughed at something Jimin said. When someone asks you a question, you glanced at Jungkook first, like you were checking in.
It was subtle, it was very devastating for him.
Jimin watched, lips pressed together, eyes darting between you and his group member.
“Uh,” he said cheerfully, to Jungkook, “You look… rested.”
Jungkook smiled. “I am.”
You hummed, amused. “He’s been sleeping better.”
Hoseok coughed. “That’s crazy.”
You turned to Jungkook, eyes soft and ignoring your best friend. “Right?”
Jungkook nodded immediately. “Yeah. Weird how that works.”
You glanced around the table, at Tsuki’s curious eyes, Bogyum’s voice going lower, the engineers pretending not to listen. Then you looked at Jungkook. He looked back at you, eyes bright, unbothered, completely at ease. You realized something, slowly, sinking in like cold water. You were boxed in, you were committed. And you still have the entire night ahead of you to sell the best story ever. You smiled at him and he smiled back, delighted.
Dinner arrived, plates clattered. The smell of food cut through the tension, grounding you. For a moment, you almost forget why you’re doing this.
Almost.
Jungkook leaned in, voice low. “You’re really selling it.”
You whispered back, teeth barely moving. “Don’t blow my cover.”
He chuckled. “You don’t need help now.”
His knee pressed against yours again, intentional. You didn’t know is he was trying to push his luck or just following your lead but either way you didn’t move it.
Jimin leaned closer to Hoseok, stage-whispering, “I feel like I walked into the wrong room.”
Hoseok nodded. “Same. Very… domestic over here.”
Jungkook grinned, looking at them. “Jealous?”
“Deeply,” Hoseok said sarcastically, nobody really caught it.
It was going to be a very, very long night.
The food helped a little. Not in a this fixes everything way, but in the very practical sense that everyone now has something to do with their hands and mouths, which meant fewer people were staring at you two directly.
At least for five minutes.
Plates were passed around, drinks refilled, someone argued with a waiter about spice levels. Jungkook immediately slid your plate closer to you because it ended up just out of reach, and you didn’t even thank him out loud, you just nudged his knee with yours under the table, a silent acknowledgment. It felt like a rehearsal act at this point, that fake-but-not-really rhythm you’ve slipped into, even though it really wasn’t. It just felt natural.
Across from you, one of the engineers— Minjae, you think— kept glancing between the two of you like he was watching a show he didn’t know was on. He was smiling, curious, clearly holding something back.
You caught it. Jungkook didn’t.
He was too busy telling Hoseok about some rehearsal mishap, gesturing animatedly with his chopsticks. You watched him talk, the way his eyebrows move when he was explaining something, the way he leaned forward when he was invested. You’ve seen this a thousand times, years of it.
Still.
You reached out and wipe a tiny dot of sauce from the corner of his mouth before you could stop yourself. It had been on your mind but you before you really thought about it you were already cleaning it with your mouth.
Jungkook froze. The people close to you went silent. You froze for a second, thinking maybe you did too much.
Then Jungkook laughed, soft and a little surprised, eyes crinkling. “Wow,” he said, amused. “You’re really on it today.”
You took a little of your drink, already regretting that decision but owning it. “You were gonna walk around like that.”
Jimin stared at you. Hoseok presses his lips together so hard they start shaking. Tsuki stared blinked at you both. Bogyum looked at his plate very intently. Minjae finally gave up.
“Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair, tone light, conspiratorial, absolutely not subtle. “I didn’t know you guys had a thing going on.”
The table went quiet again, but this time it was different. This time it was the kind of silence that buzzed, expectant rather than shocked. Minjae wasn’t really establishing a fact but more of asking if he was right.
You glanced at Jungkook and he glanced at you before you spoke at the same time.
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” you stopped, he didn’t. “we do,” Jungkook continued smoothly, like he didn’t even notice the overlap. “We’re together.”
You blinked. Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. Very serious, like he was giving an statement for his fans. No dramatic flourish. Just… matter-of-fact, very comfortable.
You recovered quickly, leaning in a little closer to him, shoulder brushing his arm. “We have been for a bit.”
Minjae’s eyes widened. “I knew it!.”
The other staff member, Sora, leaned forward immediately. “Wait. How long?”
Jimin let out a soft, fake cough that sounded suspiciously like laughter. “Feels rude to say ‘wow’”.
Hoseok tilted his head, faking happiness. “I told you it wasn’t new.”
Jungkook hummed. “For a little while now.”
You elbowed him lightly, just enough to warn him not to get carried away, he grinned anyway.
“So how did it happen?” Sora asked, eyes bright. “Like— who made the first move?”
You opened your mouth but Jungkook beat you to it. “She did.”
You whipped your head toward him. “I did not.”
He shrugged, unbothered. “You invited me over first. That was clearly a sign.” he said calmly, “and you were the one to kiss me.”
You couldn’t believe how easy was for him to fake your whole timeline relationship. Even situations that clearly didn’t exist. Was he on drugs or were you slow as hell?
Jimin choked on his drink. Hoseok reached over and patted Jungkook’s back. “Careful, you’ll die before dessert if you don’t shut up.”
You felt heat creep up your neck, but you kept smiling, playing along. “You’re leaving out context.”
Jungkook tilted his head, eyes sparkling. “Am I?”
Minjae grinned. “I want the context.”
You sighed, dramatically. “Fine. I invited him over to hangout, like friends. And he was being annoying, as usual.”
“Facts,” Hoseok agreed.
“I told him to stop talking,” you continued, resting your chin in your hand. “He didn’t so I kissed him. Just to shut him up.”
Jungkook beamed. “Best decision she’s ever made.”
Tsuki laughed openly, paying attention to you both. “That actually tracks.”
Bogyum glanced at Jungkook. “You always did talk too much.”
Jungkook glared at him. “Not to you, really.”
Before the tension could settled, Sora leaned closer, fascinated and tilting her head, eyes flicking between you and Jungkook like she was mentally connecting dots on a corkboard. “Okay, but I have more questions now.”
You sighed, already tired. “Of course you do.”
“When did you guys actually start?” she asked, not hearing your comment. “Because I feel like one day you were just… friends? I don’t know, and then suddenly—” she gestured vaguely between the two of you “—this.”
Jimin hummed. “Yeah, it was very blink-and-you-miss-it.”
Hoseok nodded. “Like, so out of nowhere. Very surprising.”
You stared at both of them, resisting the urge to stood up and punch them. “It wasn’t really out of nowhere. I thought about it for some time before taking the step.”
Jungkook smiled, elbow resting on the table, chin propped in his palm. “She didn’t.”
You glared at him, pretending it was a cute couple playing to be mad for exposing each other. “You’re on thin ice.”
He looked delighted. “I love your angry face.”
Tsuki chuckled, but there’s something measured about it. Not cold, just careful. “You said it was around two months ago, right?.”
You meet her eyes briefly. She already knew the answer and so did Bogyum, who had been quiet a little too long, pushing rice around his plate.
“Yeah,” you said finally. “We already knew each other for so long, it was just taking the decision of leaning into those new feelings.”
Jungkook nodded along. “We were already friends. Just upgraded.
“Downgraded,” you corrected almost automatically.
He gasped. “That’s insane.”
Minjae grinned. “So who fell first?”
You and Jungkook looked at each other again. This time, you answered first. “He did.”
“Violently,” Hoseok added.
Jungkook didn’t deny it, playing the part. “I’ve been consistent.”
Bogyum let out a quiet laugh at that, short and fakepolite. “That’s true.”
It was subtle, the way Jungkook’s jaw tightens for half a second. You noticed because you were looking at him when it happens. He didn’t look back at Bogyum, just takes a sip of his drink, shoulders still relaxed, expression unchanged.
But the air shifted, just a degree. Sora didn’t catch that either. “Okay but— were you scared? Dating him?” She nodded at Jungkook like he was a walking liability.
You snorted. “Terrified.
Jungkook pouted. “Rude. Why?.”
“You’re a global superstar. I’m still shaking in fear if someone outside the company finds out.” You continued. “And you’re loud, you’re messy. You eat like someone’s going to steal your food.”
“I have trauma,” he said seriously.
“And,” you added, “you flirt a lot.”
Jungkook glanced at you. “Correction. I used to flirt a lot more.”
“Is that supposed to make it better?.”
“I didn’t finish,” he smirked. “I used to flirt a lot more, with you. I’ve never flirt with anyone else.”
You arched a brow. “Oh, really?”
He shrugged. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
Jimin snickered. “Well, sadly, I can confirm his statement.”
“He’s a loser in love,” Hoseok nodded.
You were glad they were playing into the part too. I made it more believable.
The table went quiet again, but not as dramatically this time. Bogyum finally looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly, like he was mildly curious how it will play out.
He hummed, silently. “Yeah, Jungkook’s always been very… friendly with you.” He said, tone neutral.
Luckily— very luckily— for you, nobody seemed to caught the jab except for you and the singer. Jungkook nodded once, accepting it like it was a compliment. “Yeah. I’m very friendly.”
His hand, which had been resting near his own plate, shifted to your thigh. It was a very obvious and loud movement that everyone saw. He gave it a squeeze, and you couldn’t really figure it out if that last motion was for you or for the act. But you didn’t comment on it or force it to take it off, it just felt too natural.
“So what changed?” Minjae asked. “Like, what made it click?”
You opened your mouth, then stopped. Because the honest answer was complicated. Because the honest answer was that nothing had changed. Jungkook was still your annoying friend and you weren’t dating at all, nothing had clicked expect the unexpected idea of a fake relationship to survive some stupid rumours you didn’t want to hear about you.
Jungkook was watching you now, expression softer than usual, like he was giving you space. So you choose something that in an hypothetical situation could be true.
“I stopped pretending he was annoying,” you said
Jungkook laughed, not really too conformed with your answer. “She’s lying, she still think I’m annoying.”
“Okay, I do. But,” you continued, “I like it now.”
Jungkook’s hand squeezed your thigh my again, like a silent way of telling you good job. It was very softly, barely there, barely anything.
Bogyum cleared his throat. “That makes sense.”
You glanced at him. His expression was unreadable, not really upset, not warm either. Just… thoughtful. You wanted to read him mind. Find out if this situation was causing him insecurity that maybe something had happened between you and Jungkook before you two broke up, the same question you asked yourself when you find out about him and Tsuki.
“You always liked consistency,” he added, your eyes found his again. He was already looking at you. “Even when you complained about it.”
“And Jungkook,” Bogyum continued, “has always been very… consistent.”
His tone was casual, like he wasn’t trying to cause a scene even though his comment was out of place, specially since everyone in the table knew you two had been a thing. Jungkook’s eyes flicked to him this time, just briefly, he didn’t smile but didn’t show hostility. Just stared at him for a second too long before inclining his head slightly.
“I try.”
It was nothing, it was polite, it was normal….
Your shoulders tense without you meaning to. You wished no one in the table noticed the way the tension was growing. You wanted to punched Jungkook for feeding it too.
Minjae laughed a little, like he was sensing something off. “God, this relationship is new but you guys already exhausting.”
“You should see us in private,” Jungkook said easily, playing the game.
You kicked him under the table, hard. He winced, then grinned wider.
Sora fanned herself. “Okay, okay. Last question. For real.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t believe you.”
She ignored that. “How did you know it was serious?”
This time, Jungkook didn’t answer immediately. He looked at you, with intention. Not exaggerated, not playful. Just… looked. And then he said, “Because she stopped pretending it wasn’t.”
The words landed softer than anything else said that night. You blinked, caught off guard. The table went quiet again, but the silence was different, gentler, maybe even curious.
You forced a laugh. “Wow. Dramatic and cliché.”
Jungkook smiled at you, small and fond, not moved by the walls you were trying to build. “But true.”
For a split second, just one, you forgot the restaurant, the people, the noise. You forgot it was a performance. There was something steady in his gaze, something grounded. It was the second time you questioned if his bit of being in love you was real. But you quickly removed it from your head, he was just getting better at it.
Jimin cleared his throat loudly. “Okay! Moving on!”
“Yeah, Sora. Stop being so intrusive.” Minaje called her out.
Sora smirked. “Sorry, but you guys are so cute!. I still feel like I’m missing a lot of the story.”
Jungkook perked up. “Oh, there’s a lot.” You pinched his side under the table. He hissed before leaning to your ear and whispered: “Worth it.”
Minaje shook her head, amused. “it’s true, you two are very cute.”
You smiled at him, easy. “Thank you.”
Dinner continued, louder now. More relaxed. Questions drifted to other topics, like tour logistics, favorite cities, horror stories from past schedules. Jungkook kept close, arm occasionally brushing yours, now a hand steady on the back of your chair.
Every now and then, he answered something for you— what you liked to eat, what you hated, what made you stressed— and every time, he’s right.
It was weird but you loved that, it made you both more believable.
At one point, Tsuki tried to joke, “He knows you better than I know myself.”
Jungkook didn’t miss a beat. “That’s because I pay attention.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I know about you too.”
“Let’s not make it a competition, baby. We both know how we fight when we get competitive.”
But your foot nudges his under the table anyway. And this time he nudged back.
By the time plates were stacked and chairs scraped back, the night had settled into something manageable. Not perfect. Not magical. But, crucially, not a disaster. Which, considering the last time everyone from work had been in one room together and you almost were caught about your fake boyfriend who clearly didn’t exist at that time, it felt like a small miracle.
You leaned back slightly, stretching your legs under the table, exhaustion finally catching up with you now that the social part was winding down. Your face hurt a little from smiling too much, not because you’d enjoyed yourself that much, but because you’d been on for hours. Acting on, reacting on, timing your laughs and touches just enough to sell it without making yourself nauseous.
And yet.
Nothing had imploded.
No awkward silences, no weird looks that lingered too long, no uncomfortable follow-up conversations you’d have to dodge later. Even the questions, the annoying, inevitable ones, had been handled smoothly, somehow. Jungkook had answered when needed, you’d jumped in when you felt like it, and together you’d managed to sound… normal.
Annoyingly so.
You glanced at him beside you as people started saying their goodbyes, collecting coats, promising to have the best tour in history. He was mid-conversation with Hoseok, laughing too loudly, hand still resting on the back of your chair like it had every right to be there. Still with a lot of energy, still very cheerful, still annoying, still very much Jungkook.
Yes, still very annoying. But the tolerable kind now, the familiar kind.
You hadn’t once felt like you were drowning, hadn’t needed to escape to the bathroom to breathe, hadn’t replayed every sentence in your head immediately after saying it. If anything, the night had flowed in a way you hadn’t expected— messy and loud, sure, but also weirdly successful.
You’d walked in bracing for a fiasco and instead, you were walking out thinking, Okay. That was… fine. More than fine, actually. It had been good. Solid. A win.
As you stood and grabbed your bag, Jungkook leaned toward you, voice low. “See?” he said, smug already. “Best fake boyfriend. Carried the whole night.”
You rolled your eyes instantly. “You made me tripped over my lies a thousand times.”
“That’s because you need to step up your game, baby.” He shook his head. “Just fall in love with me so you don’t have to lie anymore.”
“You’re unleashing something very sinister in me.”
He grinned, completely unbothered by your threat. And you shook your head, already tired of him again, but lighter than you’d been when the night started.
If that was what fake dating with Jungkook looked like. Loud dinners, stupid questions, subtle chaos and him doing the absolute most… then maybe it wouldn’t be as hard as you’d made it out to be.
Annoying? Definitely.
But manageable.
And for now, that felt like a success.
a/n:
if u see any mistakes no u don’t (i will edit it better later don’t address me thanku)
hi guys >_< so i changed a lot the story to aligned it with the world tour lmao am i mentally challenged yes i am. oh uhmm i got to be honest, i might forgot to tag some of you so lmk i’ve been really distracted 😭
i also decided to just leave the text like that. i did found an amazing msg app (thank u to u all i love it) but the texts are long ash and i can only put 10pics here so yeahh. now i kinda wanna do a smau tho, i think that would be fun, so if u guys could recommend a fake social media app i would appreciate that very much (to do like fake ig and twitter) thank u<33
lmk what u thought about the first chapter. honestly im just writing this for giggles but everytime i edit it my hand just slips and writes shit more dramatic/serious than intended. that’s why i’m keeping the narrations shorts here 😭
also why is this lowkey annoyance to lovers
anyway loveu thank u for reading (i took some of u out of this list bc u ask me for the perm taglist >_< also if i tag u 2 times lmk)
"There's a theory that says you meet everyone in your life twice—once as strangers, and once when it matters. That first night at 'Pulse', with vodka cranberry on your tongue and his eyes burning into yours, was supposed to be the stranger part. No one warns you that six months later, he'll be standing in your new apartment's doorway, looking at you like he's seen a ghost. But that’s a problem for Future you."
main story | ao3 | wattpad | wc: 15k | explicit
↪︎author's note : Hi my little demons! (｀∀´)Ψ Welcome to the prequel that started this absolute dumpster fire - AKA the night our emotionally constipated idiots first met. Let's talk about how THIS happened, because honestly? I've rewritten this scene approximately 47 times (not exaggerating, my Google docs are a MESS). I initially wasn't even going to write it, but then my 3AM brain, fueled by what was probably my 8th espresso, decided we NEEDED to see these two disasters collide for the first time. And boy, did they collide. (￣ω￣;) First things first: This is pure, unadulterated filth. I literally had to take several walks around my apartment complex while writing this because these two WOULD NOT BEHAVE. Like, I was trying to be somewhat respectable here, but they said "No♥️" and chose violence. So you know what? I just let them do their thing and documented it like the professional disaster that I am. Now, let's talk about our girl for a second. Writing her at this specific point in her life was FASCINATING because you can really see all the pieces that made her who she is—the family pressure, the small-town suffocation, the desperate need for control while simultaneously wanting to lose it completely... She's such a beautifully complex mess and I love her for it. (Don't worry, she'll grow. Eventually. Maybe. We'll see.) And Jungkook... Oh boy. There's SO MUCH about him that I've deliberately sprinkled throughout this chapter. Little details, subtle hints, tiny breadcrumbs that'll make sense later. I'm actually really proud of how many easter eggs I managed to hide in here - come back after future chapters and tell me if you caught them! (Though let's be real, you're probably not here for the literary analysis, you thirsty gremlins.) The biggest challenge was honestly Emma. Like, how do you get the world's most protective best friend to leave her bestie alone in a club? I spent WEEKS trying to make this work in a way that felt authentic to her character. The sister crisis was my 3AM solution and I'm actually pretty proud of how it turned out. Realistic character motivation is my kink, okay? (＾▽＾) Speaking of realism—that's literally why this fic exists. I got so frustrated with how many unrealistic elements I kept seeing in stories that I went "Fine, I'll do it myself" and here we are, 35 pages of smut later???? Huh. You're welcome???? Side note: I have this whole thing narrated in audio (female voice only, because no male voice matches Jungkook’s, my beloved ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) but Tumblr said "file too big bestie" so... might drop it on ko-fi if enough people are interested. Let me know in the comments! Speaking of comments—PLEASE tell me your theories about all the little hints I've dropped about Jungkook's past. I'm dying to see what you guys pick up on! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ Until next time, you disaster pandas! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Kiki. 🍓 P.S. Any typos are between you and god because I've stared at this document for so long the words have lost all meaning.
So here's the thing about nightclubs: you either love them or you hate them.
You? You're more of a 'hate them' kinda girl. The sweat, the noise, the people... not your scene. Not usually, anyway.
But usual went out the window the second Emma suggested this little adventure. Sweet, reliable Emma who you lost touch with after high school but who immediately became your secret accomplice when you reached out about transferring to NYU. Who's been your underground informant for months now—sneaking you tips about the English department, virtually walking you through the campus layout via late-night FaceTime sessions, and helping you plot out the perfect transfer application your parents know nothing about.
Emma, who didn't even blink when you showed up at her door with a weekend bag and a story for your parents about "visiting your responsible friend in the city." (They bought it immediately because, well, it's Emma. Their golden standard of What A Good Influence Should Be.) You'd spent the whole day doing exactly what you came for—touring NYU's campus, sitting in on a couple of English classes Emma snuck you into, and gathering all the transfer information you could get your hands on.
"You can't just transfer here and not know what the nightlife is like," she'd insisted, already rummaging through her closet for something that wasn't your campus tour outfit. "That's like... buying a car without test driving it."
Which, okay, terrible analogy, but you get her point. You've spent months planning this transfer—going over NYU's transfer requirements, crafting the perfect escape from your suffocating small-town university, calculating exactly how to tell your parents once it's too late for them to stop you. The campus visit was supposed to be just that—visiting your responsible friend Emma for a weekend while secretly checking out NYU.
Emma, bless her overprotective heart, had taken one look at your face after that final tour—that specific blend of desperate hope and terrified excitement—and decided you needed to see the whole picture. "The real college experience," as she put it, already pulling out her phone to text her club promoter friend.
"Location sharing on?" she'd asked for the fifth time before you left her apartment, double-checking your phone settings like some kind of Gen-Z mother hen. As if you hadn’t spent the last three months planning this transfer with military-grade precision.
"Yes, mom," you'd rolled your eyes, but something warm had settled in your chest at her fussing. It's... nice, having someone in on the secret. Someone who gets it.
"Emergency contact updated to my number?"
"Check."
"Spare key to my apartment?"
"Emma, I swear to god—"
"Just checking!" She'd grinned, already knowing she was being ridiculous but doing it anyway. "One more thing..."
And that's how you ended up with a literal tracking app on your phone, an emergency SOS button setup, and Emma's solemn promise to "never leave your side, scout's honor." (She was never actually a scout, but whatever.)
Parents really think you're just visiting your studious, sensible friend Emma for a nice, quiet weekend in the city. Having some wholesome catching-up time. Maybe seeing some museums.
Ha. If only they knew you're actually scouting out your future escape route.
If only you knew.
Because let's be real, this isn't exactly in your wheelhouse. But Emma's right there, keeping her scout's honor promise, bouncing between the bar and dance floor like some kind of safety-conscious terror. And maybe it's the way she keeps checking in with subtle thumbs-up signals, or maybe it's just knowing someone's actually got your back in this whole secret college plan thing, but you're... kind of having fun?
Which is how you find yourself here, in this pulsing, thrumming mass of bodies and sound. 'Pulse', the club's called. Fitting, considering how you can feel the bass thumping in your veins, the strobe flashing like lightning in your skull. It's... a lot. But not in a bad way?
Yeah, definitely not bad, you decide as you scan the room. Leather booths, gleaming bar top, and a dance floor packed with the kind of gorgeous twenty-somethings that make you feel simultaneously inadequate and oddly triumphant. Like 'yeah, I might not be that, but at least I'm here.'
And honestly, it's pretty nice here. Clean, classy even. Good lighting over the bar, vigilant security, and Emma vouches for the place. She's your safety net tonight, because God knows you'd never try this solo. But Emma... Emma knows everyone. Gets you both in with a wink and a wave, like some kind of VIP.
The girl's got pull and she's not afraid to use it. You envy that a bit, that confidence. Wish you could borrow just a dash of it, to fortify your nerves as you perch on this barstool, spine too straight and fingers too tight around your glass. But it's fine, it's good, you're good. That’s what you tell yourself, anyways—even if it’s not entirely the truth.
It's just one night. One chance. One small rebellion before you go back home and drown yourself in expectations and demands. Hardly even counts as rebellion, really, in the grand scheme. Not like you're planning on getting blackout drunk and ending up in jail or anything. Just… dipping your toe. Sampling the other side. Just for a night.
What's the worst that could happen?
Famous last words. Or in this case, famous last thought, as you take a too-big sip of your drink and nearly choke on watery vodka cranberry. Good thing no one's paying attention.
Well, except for one guy, apparently. And he's...
Oh. Oh damn.
He's the kind of gorgeous that makes you almost forget how to swallow, even as you scoff internally. Guys who look like that? They're usually bad news. Cringe edgy boys. Like the ones you see on TikTok. The jaw, the eyes, the whole brooding bad-boy package. Not your type. Not even a little.
But he’s hot. Truth be told.
And he's watching you. Not in a creepy way, but… intense. Interested. And wow, okay, maybe there's something to be said for the whole 'still waters' vibe he's giving off, because that gaze is doing things to you. Things you're not entirely sure you're ready for.
But then again... isn't that the whole point? To try something new? To be someone new, just for a night? The girl who holds the stare of a beautiful stranger. The girl who lets the charge build, heart kicking up and skin tingling. The girl who—
"Shit, shit, shit." Emma's suddenly at your elbow, phone clutched to her chest, face twisted with genuine distress. "My sister just called. She's having some kind of breakdown about—god, I don't even know, her boyfriend? Something about him showing up at her dorm? She's hysterical, I can barely understand her—"
You watch Emma's face cycle through about twelve different emotions in three seconds. She keeps glancing between you and her phone, clearly torn. "I should go check on her. But I can't just leave you here alone. Fuck. Maybe we should both—"
"Em, I'm fine," you try to reassure her, even as your stomach sinks a little. Great. Just when things were getting interesting with dark eyes over there. "I can just get an Uber—"
"No, no, wait." Emma's scanning the club like she's looking for something specific. Her face lights up suddenly as she spots someone by the weights machine in the club's weird gym corner. Because apparently some clubs have those now. "Oh thank god—hey!!"
She waves frantically at some guy who's been doing bicep curls between taking selfies for his Instagram story. You vaguely recognize him from Emma's study group—one of those guys who probably knows the protein content of everything in his lunch and considers gym updates a legitimate form of social interaction.
"Perfect timing," Emma says as he approaches, already dabbing his face with a workout towel. She's rapid-fire texting, probably her sister. "You're still doing that safe walk program thing for the student union, right? The volunteer thing they made you do after that frat party incident?"
"Yeah bro, community service hours almost done," he confirms, then looks confused as Emma practically shoves her phone in his face, showing him what you assume is your location-sharing setup.
"Great. This is my best friend from high school. She's got location sharing on with me, SOS button setup, fully charged phone." Emma's talking so fast she's almost tripping over her words. "I have to go deal with my sister but I'll be back in an hour tops. Could you just... keep an eye out? Make sure no creeps bother her?"
Your face heats. "Emma, seriously—"
"I know, I know, you can handle yourself," Emma cuts you off, already shouldering her bag. "But humor me? He’s actually great at this. Always walks girls home after study group. Total golden retriever energy."
You catch the way her eyes flick meaningfully toward where dark eyes is still watching from across the room. Like she's trying to say 'here's your safe but slightly dim option if you want it, but...'
"Hey there. Emma had to run, but she didn't want to leave you alone. Asked me to keep you company. That okay?"
The voice cuts through your spiral, and you blink up at the interloper. Brent? Brad? Some monosyllabic gym bro who's friends with Emma and apparently your new babysitter.
Great.
You paste on a smile, even as your attention flickers back to him. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a mouth that could probably do very interesting things, you bet your money on it. But no. Don’t get distracted. Eyes on Brett. He's safe, he's known. Boring as a beige wall, but that's better. Smarter.
"Yeah, of course," you say brightly. Too brightly. Even you can hear the false note, and you cringe. "Thanks for keeping me company."
Because that's why you're here. For safety, for company, for sampling the world, but through a protective barrier. Not for tall, dark, and dangerously appealing over there. Definitely not for him.
Even if you kinda wish it was.
"You're pretty."
And like... okay? Thanks? But also, ugh. It's not that you're not flattered—you are, in that vaguely uncomfortable way that makes you want to simultaneously preen and roll your eyes into next week. Because yeah, duh, you know. You own mirrors. You're aware of your assets, thank you very much. But there's something so wonderfully, terribly basic about guys who lead with that.
Still. You give him another once-over, because fair's fair and also because like... why not? He's not bad. Actually pretty decent, if you're being honest (and you are, because what's the point of lying to yourself?). Broad shoulders, nice arms, that whole gym rat aesthetic that apparently some girls go crazy for.
Not that you're necessarily one of those girls. You've always preferred a more... balanced build. Something between "I can bench press you" and "I've never seen the inside of a gym." Like, yeah, muscles are nice and all, but you want to be able to actually cuddle without feeling like you're laying on a marble statue. Give you some softer edges any day. Something to sink into, you know?
But beggars can't be choosers and honestly? You're kind of tired of being a beggar. Or, well, not a beggar exactly, but definitely... selective. Too selective, maybe. Conservative. Careful. All those words that really mean "scared to actually live a little."
Not tonight though. Tonight you're in New York fucking City, three hundred miles from your parents' suffocating expectations and that small-town mindset that makes you want to scream into your pillow sometimes. Tonight you could be anyone.
So when you say, "Thank you, you're not bad yourself," it comes out smoother than expected. Almost flirty. And his laugh? Not terrible. Kind of nice actually, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. They're nice eyes too—warm brown, honest. Safe.
"Would you like to dance?"
The question hangs there, and you consider it. Really consider it. Because this—this whole thing—it's what you came for, isn't it? To try something new. To be someone new. Someone who says yes to dancing with attractive strangers in clubs that pulse with bass-heavy Usher remixes.
"You feeling confident?" you throw back, and okay, maybe that was a little sharp, a little too much of your usual self bleeding through. But he just smiles (no dimples, and why does that matter? Since when do you care about dimples?), and holds out his hand.
His fingers are cold when they wrap around yours. It's... not great. You've always hated cold hands, which is ironic considering yours are perpetually freezing. But you let him lead you onto the dance floor anyway, because what the hell. What the actual hell. You're here, you're young, you're... actually kind of buzzed now that you think about it. That vodka cran hitting different after all.
His hands hover at your hips, eyes asking permission, and you give him a look that you hope translates to "yes, but don't get crazy about it." Must work, because his palms settle, grip light but present. You rest your hands on his shoulders (nice shoulders, you'll give him that), and try to find the rhythm.
It's not terrible. Not amazing either, but definitely not terrible. He can move, keeps a decent beat, doesn't try to grind up on you like some horny teenager. His hands stay respectfully placed, thumbs making small circles that should probably feel more exciting than they do.
Everything about this should feel more exciting than it does.
Maybe you need another drink. Maybe you need to stop overthinking every little thing and just... be. Maybe...
Maybe that's when it happens. Your eyes drift up, over his shoulder, like they're being pulled by some invisible thread. Like something in you just knows where to look. And there he is.
Dark eyes locked on yours, expression unreadable in the strobing lights.
One second. Two. Three.
An eternity compressed into the space between heartbeats. Your skin prickles, heat crawling up your spine that has nothing to do with the crowded dance floor or the alcohol in your system. The weight of his stare is palpable, laden with something unnamed but acutely felt. Something that turns your mouth to the Sahara and your pulse into a kickdrum.
Usher croons about falling in love while Pitbull drops his signature "dale" in the background, and isn't that just fucking hilarious? Because this—this moment, this look, this stranger—this isn't about love. This is about want. Raw and simple and completely uncomplicated by things like names or histories or futures.
This is about the way his jaw clenches slightly as he watches you dance with someone else. About how his fingers drum against his glass in perfect time with the beat. About the little scar on his cheek that catches the light when he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he wants to take apart piece by piece.
Your dance partner's hands feel colder by the second.
It's not that his hands are bad, exactly. They're... nice hands. Big hands. The kind that wrap around your hips like they were made to be there, fingers long enough to span the distance between hipbone and hipbone. And yeah, okay, you have a thing for hands. Who doesn't? It's practically universal at this point—like liking bread or hating people who talk during movies. Just basic human nature.
But something's... off.
Your brain is doing that thing. That stupid, annoying, overthinking thing where it won't shut up long enough to let you enjoy anything. And god, you hate this. Hate how your mind rebels against perfectly good situations, like it's allergic to straightforward pleasure or something. Because objectively? This should be working. Hot guy, good music, decent amount of alcohol in your system. Your body's definitely on board—you can feel the low simmer of attraction, the way your skin warms under his touch. The basic chemistry is there.
But your mind? Your mind's like that one friend who shows up to parties just to list off everything that could possibly go wrong. His hands are cold. His laugh doesn't reach his eyes. No dimples. The way he said "pretty" like he was checking off a box on some "How to Pick Up Girls" checklist.
You sigh, already stepping back. Watch the confusion flicker across his face, quickly masked by what you're sure he thinks is an understanding smile.
"Everything alright?"
And like... no? Yes? Maybe? How do you even answer that when you're not sure what's wrong in the first place? When you're standing here on a dance floor that's vibrating with Usher's voice while your brain short-circuits over the temperature of some guy's hands?
"Yeah, I'm just..." You pause, teeth catching your bottom lip as you reconsider. Fuck it. Might as well go with the classics. "The vodka. Has me feeling buzzy, I think I'm not feeling too good."
It's a cop-out and you know it. But it's also an easy out, the kind that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings or make things weird. Because that's what you do, isn't it? Keep things smooth. Keep things nice. Even when you're lying through your teeth to some guy whose name you can't quite remember.
"Hey, that's okay." His smile stays steady, concerned even. "No hard feelings. You need a ride home?"
And that—that right there—that's actually kind of sweet. In another universe, maybe that offer would seal the deal. Nice guy, worried about your safety, probably has a stable job and calls his mother on Sundays. But in this universe? In this universe, your eyes are already drifting over his shoulder, drawn like a compass needle to true north.
You press your lips together, scanning the crowd like you're actually looking for someone. Like you haven’t known exactly where he is this whole time, haven’t felt his eyes raking you up and down non-stop.
"Actually I know someone just across the way, so honestly, zero worries."
The shock on his face would be comical if it weren’t so irksome. "You positive? Weren’t you visiting from out of town? Emma mentioned you were just in for the weekend."
And okay, what the actual fuck? Why does he need your whole life story? Yeah, sure, he's probably just being nice. Probably just wants to make sure you're not about to wander off and get murdered or something. But still. The irritation rises in your throat like bile, sharp and inexplicable.
"Doesn't mean I don't know anybody in New York," you say, and wow, okay, that came out with more edge than intended. Quick, fix it, smooth it over. You paste on a tight smile, the kind that probably looks more like a grimace but hey, at least you're trying. "See you around, Brent."
You're already moving as you say it, heels clicking against the floor with purpose. You think you hear him call after you—something about his name being Peter?—but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about cold hands and careful smiles and all the safe choices you should be making.
Because your feet know where they're going, even if your brain is screaming about bad decisions. Even if every rational part of you is throwing up warning signs and red flags. Even if—or maybe because—you can feel his eyes following your every move, heat spiraling up your spine with each step closer.
The bass drops, and your heart kicks up to match it.
Dale, indeed.
You don't need to look at him to know he's watching. You can tell. Can perceive it. It’s like standing too close to a bonfire. The kind of heat that makes you want to step closer even as your survival instincts scream danger, danger, danger.
And this? This is definitely dangerous.
You don't do this. Like, ever. There's a whole routine to these things, right? Guy sees girl, guy approaches girl, girl decides if she wants to deal with whatever fumbling attempt at flirtation follows. That's just... how it works. How it's always worked. Because guys? They're usually terrible at being approached. Their fragile little egos can't handle a girl making the first move. Plus, most of them aren't worth the effort anyway.
But.
But your feet are already moving. But your heart is already racing. But something about the way he's been watching you, like he could devour you whole and still be hungry—it makes you reckless. Makes you stupid. Makes you brave.
"Dance with me."
It comes out more command than question, your voice steadier than it has any right to be. He looks up at you from his seat, and fuck. Just... fuck. Because the way he tilts his head? The slow, deliberate motion of it? That should not be as hot as it is. That should be illegal in at least three states.
Then he smiles. Just one side of his mouth lifting, lazy and confident and—oh god. A dimple. One perfect little dimple that makes something in your chest squeeze tight.
"That's bold."
His voice is lower than you expected. Rougher. Like whiskey over gravel, and you want to drink it down until you're drunk on it. Want to find out what other sounds you can pull from that throat.
"You've been looking at me for 10 minutes." The words fall from your lips before you can stop them, sharp and challenging. "You gonna come dance or not?"
He chuckles—actually chuckles, who even does that?—and holy shit, there's another one. Two dimples. Two perfect little dents in his cheeks that make heat pool low in your belly, thick and sweet like honey. Your fingers twitch, aching to touch them, to press thumbs to those tiny curves and feel him beam against your flesh.
When he stands, it's one fluid motion that makes it feel like someone replaced your esophagus with a cracked porcelain vase. Because he's tall. Not incredibly, super tall. But yes the kind of tall that means you'd have to stretch up on your toes to reach his mouth, that means his hands could probably span your whole waist, that means—
No. Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.
He follows you onto the dance floor, and you can feel the energy shift. Like the air itself is charging up, preparing itself for both of you. His friend—some guy with killer dance moves who's been holding down a corner of the floor all night—catches his eye and shoots him a look. Something passes between them, quick and meaningful, before Mystery Man's attention is back on you. All on you.
And yeah.
Yeah, this is happening.
This is definitely happening.
The bass pounds through your marrow as Usher's voice continues suffusing the air, talking about DJs and falling in love, and honestly. At this point you’re barely listening to the music itself, too focused on finding a more secluded spot.
Your pulse picks up speed. Can’t help it, really. Because this? This is definitely going to be worth breaking all your rules for.
You lead him to some darker corner of the club—might be by a column, might be an alcove, who fucking knows because your brain's too busy short-circuiting to care about architectural details right now. All you know is it's slightly away from the main crush of bodies, slightly more private, slightly more...
Oh.
His hands find your hips the second you turn to face him. No hesitation. No silent question. No careful hovering or polite uncertainty like what's-his-name earlier. Just warm, sure palms sliding over the curve of your hips like they belong there, like he's claiming territory, and—
And you should be annoyed. You should be fucking livid. Because excuse you? The audacity of this man to just assume he can touch you without so much as a "may I?" Some feminist you are, getting weak in the knees over this caveman behavior while poor Brett (Blake? Whatever) at least had the decency to ask permission with those puppy dog eyes of his.
But your brain? Your traitorous, horny, absolutely useless brain? It's sending signals straight between your legs because apparently that's what does it for you now. The confidence. The heat of his hands—and god, they're so warm, burning through the thin fabric of your dress like brands. They're not as broad as the other guy's, but his fingers are longer, elegant almost. Artist's hands, scattered with tiny tattoos that disappear under his sleeve, and that silver ring on his middle finger catching the light as his grip tightens just slightly...
(Middle finger. Not left-hand fourth. So not married then. Good. Last thing you need tonight is adding "homewrecker" to your expanding list of dubious habits.)
Your arms loop around his neck almost on autopilot, and then you're moving. With him. Against him. The bass is a living thing between you, and he matches your rhythm instantly, like your bodies already know the steps to this dance. Like you've done this a hundred times before, in a hundred different lives.
His eyes lock onto yours, heavy-lidded and dark as sin, and every hair on your neck stands at attention. Electricity crackles down your spine, sharp and sweet, as his thumbs press into your hipbones. Just enough pressure to guide you closer, until there's barely room for breath between you.
"Didn't catch your name earlier," he says, voice pitched low enough that you have to lean in to hear him over the music. His breath fans hot against your ear, and you suppress a shiver.
"Didn't throw it," you shoot back, because apparently your mouth is running on autopilot now too. Great. Just great.
But he laughs—a quick, rough sound that you feel more than hear—and his hands flex against your hips. "Feisty. I like that."
"Bet you say that to all the girls who proposition you at clubs."
"Nah." His head dips closer, nose brushing your temple. "Just the ones who stare at me for ten minutes first."
"Excuse you, you were staring at me."
"Maybe we were staring at each other."
And okay, that's... fair actually. But you're not about to admit it. Instead, you roll your eyes, even as your fingers find the soft hair at his nape. "Does this usually work for you? This whole... whatever this is?"
"You tell me." His smile is audible in his voice, and you just know those dimples are making an appearance again. "You're the one who told me to dance."
"Maybe I just felt sorry for you, sitting there all alone."
"Wasn't alone. Had my friend."
"The dancer? Please, he was too busy killing it on the floor to keep you company."
His laugh vibrates through his chest into yours, and when did you get this close? When did your bodies start pressing together with every sway of the music? When did his thigh slip between yours, creating a friction that makes your breath catch?
"You been watching my friend too? Should I be jealous?"
The word sends an unexpected thrill through you, even though his tone is clearly teasing. "Wouldn't you like to know."
"Yeah," he says, and suddenly his voice isn't teasing at all. His grip tightens fractionally, pulling your hips more firmly against his. "Yeah, I would."
Goosebumps ripple across your arms, slow and inevitable, like lava carving its path through stone. His eyes burn into yours again, scorching hot, wild, and consuming—a downpour drowning a raging fire, leaving nothing but aftermath. What’s left in their wake is the kind of black that clings. Opaque. Dense. Like ash, settling over a forest stripped to its bare bones.
The sensible part of your brain—the part that usually keeps you from doing stupid, reckless things with beautiful strangers—is suspiciously quiet. Probably because all your blood is currently occupied elsewhere, namely with the way his hands are starting to trace slow patterns on your hips, the way his breath keeps ghosting over your neck, the way his body moves against yours like he's writing sin in cursive.
And maybe it's the vodka, or maybe it's how he's gazing at you like you're tranquility amidst his chaos, but you hear yourself say, "Buy me a drink first."
His smile is slow, dangerous. "That an order too?"
"Consider it a... suggestion."
"Mm." One hand slides to your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer for just a moment. "I'm starting to like your suggestions."
Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too everything. "Starting to?"
"Give me time." His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and this time you can't suppress the shiver. "Night's still young."
He actually does buy you that drink, which is... something. You're not sure what exactly, but definitely something. The way he guides you to the bar with his hand still on your lower back, fingers splayed wide enough to make you notice the imprint of his warmth? Also something.
"Another vodka cran," you tell the bartender, because hey, if it ain't broke. Then you catch his raised eyebrow and can't help adding, "What? Were you expecting something more sophisticated?"
"Nah." That damn dimple makes another appearance. "Just trying to figure you out."
"Good luck with that."
When he pulls out his wallet to pay, you catch a glimpse of multiple cards fanned out in the leather fold. Credit cards, maybe? Must have money then—or at least good credit. Not that it matters, because this is a one-time thing. A never-gonna-see-you-again thing. A what-happens-in-New-York stays-in-New-York thing.
Your fingers find the cocktail napkin beneath your glass, absently creating sharp creases with your thumbnail. It's one of those fancy ones with the bar's logo embossed in gold—pretentious, like everything else about this place.
Still. You notice how he pauses, studying one card for a beat too long before selecting it. Like he's making sure of something. Weird, but whatever.
The napkin disappears into your clutch without conscious thought. A habit you'll question later but can't explain now. You're too buzzed to care about his personal finances or your own questionable souvenir-keeping tendencies.
"Whiskey neat," he orders, and you barely contain your snort. Of fucking course he drinks whiskey. Probably thinks he's Don Draper or something.
"Pretentious much?"
"Says the girl drinking what's basically juice with a splash of alcohol."
"At least I'm not trying to prove anything."
His laugh is rough, genuine. "Who says I'm trying to prove anything?"
"Please. Whiskey at a club? That's like wearing a suit to McDonald's."
"Maybe I just like whiskey." He takes a deliberate sip, throat working in a way that absolutely doesn't make your mouth water. "Maybe I like the burn."
There's something in his voice when he says that, something that feeds the banked flame in your belly. His eyes are on you again, alternating between your eyes and your mouth like he can't quite decide where to focus.
"That line score you points often?" you manage to ask, even as your voice betrays you, emerging breathier than intended.
"I wouldn't know." He's definitely closer now. When did that happen? Did he move, or did you? "Is it scoring points now?"
And god help you, but it is. It really fucking is. Maybe it's the alcohol finally hitting your system properly, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you, but you find yourself swaying toward him. Drawn in like a moth to flame, even though you know you're probably going to get burned.
"You're kind of an asshole," you inform him, even as your free hand finds its way to his chest. His very firm chest, holy shit.
"Yeah?" His fingers trace up your spine, feather-light but deliberate. "Seem to like it though."
"Cocky too."
"Haven't heard any complaints."
He's so near now you can smell him—something clean and vicious, like a tempest raging on the coast. His breath fans across your lips, whiskey-warm and promising. One of his hands cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw in a way that makes your skin buzz.
"Anyone ever tell you you talk too much?" you murmur, and that's it—that's all it takes.
His mouth crashes into yours like a wave breaking against rocks, hot and insistent and absolutely fucking flawless. His lips are softer than you expected but he kisses hard, like he's trying to devour you whole. Like he's been thinking about this as much as you have. The hand on your neck tightens, tilting your head to deepen the angle, and holy fuck.
You've been kissed before. You've been kissed a lot, actually. But this? This is something else entirely. This is lightning in a bottle, this is matches in gasoline, this is every hackneyed poetry metaphor about fire and flame and immolation except it actually makes sense now because your entire body is electric with it.
His tongue swipes across your bottom lip and you open for him without hesitation, vodka cranberry forgotten in your hand. He tastes like alcohol and dewdrops and something else you can't name but instantly crave more of. The noise he makes when you tug his hair—low and ravenous and almost startled—shoots straight between your legs.
Someone whistles nearby—probably his dancer friend—but you couldn't care less. Not when his other hand is sliding down to your hip, pulling you closer. Not when he's kissing you like he's trying to memorize the shape of your mouth with his tongue. Not when everything in you is screaming more, closer, now.
You're definitely going to hell for this. But with the way he's kissing you?
Might be worth it.
His forehead rests against yours, and you're both breathing like you've run a marathon. Which is... embarrassing, actually. When was the last time a kiss left you this affected? What are you, some freshman at their first house party? Because this is ridiculous. You're ridiculous. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it's trying to escape, and your lips are tingling, and—
And fuck it. Fuck everything. You want more.
"Let's take this outside," you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds considering your internal chaos. Because yes. Outside. Away from the crowd and the music and all these people who aren't him.
"Your house?" The words are barely out of his mouth before you can finish your suggestion, and okay, that's kind of hot. The eagerness. The way his fingers flex against your hip like he's already imagining it.
You can't help the smile that tugs at your lips. At least you're not alone in this desperate teenage hormone bullshit. At least he's just as affected as you are.
But then reality crashes in like a bucket of ice water. Your house? What house? You're crashing at Emma's place and—oh god, Emma would actually murder you. Like, literal homicide. She's already doing you a solid by covering for you with your parents, and bringing back some random (incredibly hot) guy from a club? Yeah, that would definitely void the best-friend contract.
"Yours?" you counter, trying not to sound too hopeful.
He makes this sound—half hiss, half groan—that shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Can't."
"What, mommy and daddy don't let you?" The snark is automatic, defense mechanism kicking in to mask your disappointment.
"Nah, but my friend might not like it."
"Mine either."
You stare at each other for a moment, eyes darting back and forth like you're both trying to solve the same puzzle. The absurdity of the situation hits you at the same time—two grown adults, hot and bothered in a club, cockblocked by their respective roommate situations—and suddenly you're both laughing.
His chuckle is deep, rumbling through his chest where you're still pressed against him, and it's... nice. Really nice. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way his dimples flash (and seriously, those things should come with a warning label), the way his thumb absently strokes your hip like he's forgotten he's doing it.
"Well, this is..."
"Stupid?" you offer.
"I was gonna say unfortunate, but yeah. Stupid works too."
You're still close enough to feel his breath on your lips, still wound tight with want, still buzzing from that kiss. And now you're both laughing about it, which should probably kill the mood but somehow doesn't. Somehow makes it better, actually. More real. Less like some fantasy hookup and more like...
Nope. Not going there. This is still just a one-night thing. A one-night thing that's currently being cockblocked by your respective living situations, but still. Just one night.
"So what now?" he asks, and his voice has dropped back into that lower register that you really want to hate. "Because I really want to kiss you again."
"Just kiss?" The words slip out before you can stop them, teasing and suggestive and probably way too candid.
His grip tightens, just marginally. Just enough to make your breath catch. "Definitely not just kiss."
"Fuck," you breathe, because eloquence has left the building. Possibly the state.
"That's the idea, yeah." And how he says it—all gruff edges and sinful vow—makes embers spark low in your abdomen. "Just need to sort out the logistics."
Which brings you right back to your current predicament. No Emma's place, no his place, and you're pretty sure having sex in the club bathroom is both tacky and probably illegal. But the way he's looking at you, like he really, really wants to wreck you…
"We could..." you start, then pause. Because what? What brilliant solution are you about to offer here? Your practical brain is absolutely useless right now, short-circuited by the lingering taste of whiskey on your tongue and the steady pressure of his hands on your body.
"Could what?" His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your train of thought derails completely.
"I have no idea," you admit, and his laugh is somehow both frustrated and fond.
"This is definitely stupid," he says, but he's still holding you close, still looking at your mouth like he's considering kissing you again anyway, roommate situations be damned.
"So stupid," you agree, already tilting your face up to meet him halfway.
You lick your lips, tasting geosmin and want and really awful decision-making skills.
Fuck it. Fuck everything. Emma can kill you tomorrow.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist—god, his hands are so warm—and you're already moving, already pulling up the Uber app with your free hand. Thank fuck for muscle memory because your brain is absolutely useless right now, too busy cataloging the way his pulse jumps under your fingers, the way he follows without hesitation.
"Where we goin'?" His voice is low and hoarse as he trails behind you, wrist a hostage to your grip.
"To my friend's place," you mutter, trying to type Emma's address without typos.
You: 𝚎𝚖𝚖𝚊, 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠
You don’t mention you’re not heading home alone. She’ll find out herself.
The dude, for his part, just hums in response, like he's fine with whatever as long as it means getting somewhere private. Which, fair. You're kind of operating on the same wavelength here.
You make it to the coat check line first, because priorities. You’re not leaving your jacket behind. And it is moving at a glacial pace, because of course it is. The universe clearly wants to test your self-control by forcing you to stand here, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot on your neck.
The way his fingers keep "accidentally" brushing your thigh has you seriously considering saying fuck it and just leaving your jacket behind.
"Could just come back for it tomorrow," he murmurs, like he's reading your mind. His lips brush your ear as he speaks, and you barely sigh in response. Bastard knows exactly what he's doing.
"It's January in New York. I'm not getting hypothermia just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes."
"Could keep you warm."
And okay, that line should be cringeworthy. That's the kind of shit that would usually make you roll your eyes so hard they'd get stuck. But he has a way with words—or maybe it’s just his fucking voice—and somehow you like it.
"Next," the coat check girl calls, mercifully saving you from having to respond. You practically lunge forward, fumbling with your ticket. Better than letting him feel how that stupid line affected you.
He reaches past you to hand over his own ticket, arm bracketing you against the counter. And really? Really? This is some romance novel bullshit right here. Who does he think he is, Christian Grey? You should be annoyed. You should definitely not be noticing how good he smells, or how the position highlights just how much bigger he is than you, or—
"Here you go!" The coat check girl's voice is way too cheerful for—you check your phone—3:46 AM. She hands over your coats with a knowing smile that makes your face heat. Great. Just great. Even the coat check girl can tell you're about to make terrible life choices.
He helps you into your jacket because apparently he's decided to be a gentleman now, after spending the last hour making you question your life choices with his mouth. His hands linger on your shoulders just a fraction too long, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.
"Ready?" he asks, voice still pitched low enough to make your skin tingle. You nod, not trusting yourself to speak, and let him guide you toward the exit with his hand on your lower back.
The coat check girl calls out "Have fun!" as you leave, and you seriously consider moving to a different city. Maybe a different country. Somewhere people don't immediately clock your questionable decision-making skills.
The Uber arrives embarrassingly fast—some higher power must be looking out for horny idiots tonight—and you both slide into the backseat. You start on opposite sides because you're trying to be decent human beings, trying to remember that your poor driver doesn't deserve a free show.
But then he's moving closer.
And closer.
And suddenly his mouth is on yours again, hot and demanding, and okay, yeah, sorry Mr. Uber driver but this is happening. His hand cups your jaw, tilting your head just so, and you're definitely making some kind of noise in the back of your throat but you're beyond caring. Beyond thinking about anything except the way his tongue slides against yours, the way his other hand grips your thigh.
Fifteen minutes. That's all it is from the club to Emma's place. Fifteen minutes that somehow feel like both seconds and eternity, lost in a haze of wandering hands and stolen kisses and trying (failing) to keep things PG-13. You're vaguely aware of streets passing, of turns and stops, of the driver pointedly turning up the radio.
And then your attention shifts. His teeth graze your bottom lip, fingers slowly sliding on your inner thigh. Hisses when your nails find his scalp. Heat. Want. Need. Building higher with each passing minute until you're practically vibrating out of your skin.
By some miracle (or possibly divine intervention), you make it to Emma’s building. You stumble out of the Uber, giving the driver your most apologetic smile-grimace combo. He just shakes his head, probably adding you to his mental list of "drunk hookups I never want to see again."
But then he's pressing you against the building's front door, mouth hot on your neck, and you really can't bring yourself to care about your Uber rating right now. Not when his hands are everywhere, not when he's making these little sounds against your skin that go straight between your legs.
It takes three tries to get the key in the lock—partly because it's 4 AM and you're tipsy, mostly because he won't stop kissing you long enough to focus. When you finally get the door open, you nearly fall through it, saved only by his arm around your waist.
"Smooth," he murmurs against your lips, laughing softly.
"Shut up," you breathe back, already pulling him in for another kiss. His back hits the closing door with a thud that's definitely too loud for 4 AM, but you're past caring. Past thinking about anything except the way his hands feel sliding up your sides, the way he tastes, the way he's eating you up with his eyes.
Emma's definitely going to murder you tomorrow. But with the way his fingers are digging into your hips, the way he's kissing you like he's trying to crawl inside your skin?
What-fucking-ever.
He pushes off the door like a man on a mission, and suddenly you're airborne—your legs wrapping around his waist on pure instinct. And okay, that's hot. The way he lifts you like you weigh nothing, the solid press of his body against yours, the little growl he makes when your hips roll against his.
"Room?" His voice is wrecked already, breath hot against your mouth between kisses that make your head spin.
You gesture vaguely toward Emma's guest room, too busy mapping the muscles of his shoulders to form actual words. He exhales sharply against your lips, already moving. Your jackets become casualties somewhere in the hallway, dropped with fumbling hands and zero grace because yeah, the vodka's definitely hitting now. Everything's warm and hazy and electric, your skin buzzing everywhere he touches.
Then you're falling backward onto the bed, and holy fuck. The way he's looking down at you—like he's been lost in the desert and you're a fucking oasis—it makes your breath catch in your throat. Makes heat pool low in your belly, makes your thighs press together in anticipation.
His shirt comes off in one fluid motion and—
Jesus fucking Christ.
You've seen attractive guys before. You've seen gym bros and athletes and the whole spectrum of male bodies. But this? This is like someone took Michelangelo's David and decided to make him real but better. He's all lean muscle and smooth skin, but with just enough softness to make him touchable. Human. Perfect.
And his chest—god, his chest. It's not the rock-hard wall of muscle you'd expect from someone who looks like that. Instead, there's this ideal balance of firm and soft, creating the most magnificent set of man tiddies you've ever laid eyes on. The kind you could actually cuddle up to without feeling like you're resting on concrete. The kind that would make a flawless pillow after—
Your lusty brain stops working as he leans down, pressing his hips deliberately against yours as his mouth finds your neck. His tongue traces patterns on your skin that make you arch up against him, desperate for more contact.
"Fuck," he breathes against your throat, nosing along your pulse point. "You smell so good. Like vanilla and..." He inhales deeply, making your skin erupt in goosebumps. "Like something sweet I wanna taste."
Your hands slide up his back, feeling the play of muscles under warm skin. He's perfectly balanced above you, using just enough of his weight to make you feel deliciously pinned without crushing you. You fucking love it. Don’t know why, don’t know how. Maybe it's just how attractive he is, or the heat of his mouth on your neck, or the press of his body against yours or the way he keeps making these little sounds like he can't help himself.
He's kissing you again before your vodka-soaked brain can process anything beyond rudimentary want, primal need. It's all heat and tongue and teeth, messy and perfect in the way only drunken hookups can be. One of his hands slides up your neck, fingers spreading across your throat. Not squeezing, just...resting.
It's fucking electric.
Your hands map the expanse of his back, nails dragging lightly in a way that makes him groan into your mouth. He's all smooth skin and sinewy muscle, hot to the touch and absolutely unfair. No one should be allowed to feel this good. To make you feel this good, just by existing.
He drags his mouth down your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Your fingers tangle in his hair, gripping tight enough to make him hiss. Which is hot. Way too hot, because that noise? It immediately spirals straight between your thighs.
And fuck, how he grinds down against you in response. It's obscenely filthy, the perfect pressure in just the right spot to make you want to moan aloud. To be shameless.
"Fuck," he breathes against your skin, and you feel it more than hear it. Feel the heat of his breath, the barely restrained want in the way he's touching you. "You feel so fucking good."
Your hips roll up to meet his in a way that's purely instinctual. Because yeah, he feels good too. Better than good. You feel the maddening length of him grinding against you through his jeans; his hand around your neck and—god, you want to claw his back, to wrap your legs around his waist and just take.
The hand on your neck flexes just slightly, thumb brushing your jawline and you think you die just a little because hello? You like that. You really, really fucking like that. New kink unlocked, it seems.
"Want you," he murmurs, voice low and rough with arousal. "Want you so fucking bad, you have no idea."
And oh, you do. You really, really do. Because wanting him is all you can think about right now. All you can focus on beyond the thrumming of your heart, the aching throb between your thighs. You want his hands, his mouth, his—
"Off," you manage, tugging at his jeans with clumsy fingers. "These need to come off like, yesterday."
His chuckle vibrates through his chest into yours. "So fucking bossy."
But he's already leaning back, already working on his fly as you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch. And Jesus Christ, the way he looks right now—shirtless and disheveled, dark hair falling into darker eyes, lips red from your kisses—it's unfair. Unreal.
So fucking hot you think you might actually die if he doesn't touch you again in the next ten seconds.
His jeans hit the floor with a soft thud and holy fuck—the sight of him in just black boxer briefs should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. Like, someone call the police because this? This is absolutely criminal. The way the fabric clings to his thighs, the obvious bulge that makes your mouth water—
But then he's on you again, and thinking becomes a foreign concept.
His hands find the hem of your dress, bunching the fabric up with an urgency that makes heat pool between your legs. You arch up to help him, already anticipating the slide of fabric over skin, but—
Oh.
The second the dress clears your elbows, he presses down. Uses the fabric to pin your arms above your head, effectively trapping you against the mattress. And that's... that's...
Fuck.
His mouth is suddenly on your breast, hot and wet and absolutely perfect. No hesitation, no teasing—just the wet slide of his tongue over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and holy shit.
Thank god you wore this dress. Thank every fucking deity that you chose the tight red one that doesn’t need a bra, because the feeling of his mouth directly on your skin is absolutely devastating.
A moan tears from your throat—embarrassingly loud in the quiet room—as his teeth graze sensitive flesh. His responding groan vibrates through your chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your back arches instinctively, pressing more firmly into his mouth as his tongue swirls around your peaked nipple.
His free hand finds your throat again, and—
Oh god.
His fingers spread wide, applying the slightest pressure. Testing. Exploring. Like he's curious about your reaction, about the way he feels your heartbeat flutter faster in response.
You can't help the soft sound that escapes you—somewhere between a whimper and a moan. His grip tightens fractionally in response, and your cunt clenches around nothing. Because fuck, that shouldn't be as hot as it is. The way he's controlling your breath, the way he's holding you down, the way his mouth is absolutely ruining you one suck at a time...
"Sensitive," he murmurs against your skin, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. Bastard. His thumb strokes along your jugular, feeling the way your breath hitches. "Wonder what other sounds I can get that pretty throat to make."
You'd have a snappy comeback for that. You know you would. But then he's switching to your other breast, teeth scraping just right, and coherent thought becomes a distant memory. All you can focus on is the wet heat of his mouth, the steady pressure of his hand on your throat, the way he's using his other hand to keep you pinned against the bed.
And maybe it's the situation, or maybe it's just him, but you've never been this turned on in your life. Never been this wet, this desperate, this needy. It should be embarrassing really—the way you're practically writhing beneath him, the way every little touch sends electricity sparking through your veins.
But with the way he's groaning against your skin, the way his hips keep grinding against yours like he needs it? Maybe you're not the only one that’s losing sanity here.
His teeth catch your nipple just as his fingers flex against your throat, and the combination pulls a sound from you that you didn’t even know you could make. High and breathy and absolutely wrecked.
"Fuck," he breathes, hot against your wet skin. "The sounds you make..."
His thumb brushes over your throat again, slower this time, before gliding up. Along the underside of your jaw. Pausing at your bottom lip. He applies the slightest pressure, watching as your mouth falls open on instinct. You're not sure whether you breathe or whimper, but it makes his gaze go impossibly darker, makes his hips roll against yours in response.
And then his thumb is there, pressing against your tongue, and—goddamn him—you're sucking without a second thought. The groan he lets out is a shattered thing, low and guttural, as though he's just as wrecked as you.
For three glorious seconds, he just... freezes. Like his brain's temporarily offline, like you've actually managed to short-circuit whatever smooth operator routine he had going.
And okay, maybe that gives you enough time to yank the dress out the rest of the way, tossing it off your bent elbows in a way that you hope was sexier than it felt. He doesn’t seem to notice—too busy looking at you like he's forgotten how he got here. Or how to breathe.
Either way, it's a little distracting.
But then he's moving, yanking his hand back like you've scorched him. And before you can even process the loss, he's sliding down your body, trailing open-mouthed kisses that make your skin come alive.
Your tipsy brain tries to catch up with what's unfolding—manages to register the flex of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth marking a path down your stomach, the way his hands are suddenly gripping your thighs and—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
He pulls you to the edge of the bed like you weigh nothing, kneeling between your spread legs like he belongs there. And how he looks up at you through his lashes, mouth hovering just inches from where you're absolutely drenched through your panties...
You prop yourself up on your elbows because fuck if you're missing this show. The movement makes your head spin slightly—reminder that you are definitely not sober—but the sight of him between your thighs is worth any potential vertigo.
His breath fans hot against your core, and your hips twitch involuntarily. A smirk plays at the corners of his mouth, but before you can call him out on it, he's leaning in. Pressing his open mouth against you through the thin fabric of your underwear, and—
"Fuck."
The word tears from your throat unbidden because holy shit, this shouldn't feel this good already. It's barely anything—just the heat of his mouth, the slight pressure of his tongue through fabric—but your body's lighting up like a fucking supernova. Like every nerve ending is suddenly dialed to a hundred.
Your fingers find his hair without conscious thought, tangling in the dark strands as he works you through your panties. The grip of his hands on your thighs tightens in response, and fuck—that's definitely going to leave marks.
And okay, yeah. Maybe you're embarrassingly wet. Maybe you can feel it soaking through the fabric, making everything slick and messy. Maybe you should care about that, about being this affected this quickly.
But you don’t. Not really, with the way he's groaning against you like he's dying for it. Like he can't get enough. Yeah, dignity can take a backseat.
Besides, all thoughts of pride or shame fly right out the window when he finally, finally hooks his fingers under the waistband of your panties. Your hips lift automatically, helping him slide them down your legs. They catch on your heels because of course you're still wearing your fuck-me pumps, but he doesn't seem to mind. Just lets the fabric dangle from one ankle as he dives back in, and—
"Holy shit."
His tongue drags up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke, and your brain temporarily stops working. Like, full system shutdown. Windows XP error sound and everything. Because fuck—that shouldn't feel as mindbogglingly good as it does.
Then he flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue and you make this absolutely mortifying noise—some choked little "guh" that would humiliate you if you were sober enough to care. His lip ring adds this extra edge of sensation that makes your thighs quake, cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.
He makes this sound against you—something between a hum and a growl (and okay, yeah, maybe 'growl' isn't the right word because what are you, fucking animals? But you're drunk and getting your pussy eaten properly for the first time in forever, so vocabulary can fuck right off). Whatever it is, it vibrates through you in a way that has your hips jerking up, seeking more.
Then he's doing these small, slow circles around your clit. So. Fucking. Slow. Like he wants to drive you crazy, wants you to fucking writhe against him. You try not to just grind up against his face. Because that would be desperate, right? That would be—
Damn.
The circles suddenly get faster, tighter, more intense. His tongue flicking over your clit with the kind of speed and precision that would put Fast & Furious to shame. And the sounds coming out of your mouth? Yeah, those aren't even words anymore. Just a stream of "oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck."
If Emma’s home—because it’s probably been an hour already—she’s probably getting one hell of a show through these paper-thin walls. But you know what? She fucking owes you. All those times you covered for her sneaking out to Bobby Martinez's house in high school? Yeah, consider this payback with interest.
He drags his tongue back down, gathering your wetness (and okay, yeah, you're basically flooding at this point but whatever), then slides back up. Adding texture to his movements like some kind of oral sex virtuoso. Because apparently this stranger knows exactly what he's doing with that mouth, and honestly? Good for you. You deserve this. You deserve to have your pussy eaten by someone who treats it like a goddamn art form.
So you lean back, let yourself enjoy it. Let him explore and taste and fuck—the way he's absolutely feasting on you like you're his last meal. His tongue finds your clit again, and this time he sucks it into his mouth, and the sound that rips from your throat probably violates noise ordinances in several states.
The wet sounds of his mouth on you are absolutely obscene. Like, pornographic-level obscene. All sucking and slurping and Jesus fucking Christ, you should not find that as hot as you do. But with your stiletto digging into his back (when did that happen?) and his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprints...
Yeah. Yeah, definitely hot.
Then his tongue drags down, down, down—and fuck, you can feel every ridge, every texture against your sensitive flesh. He reaches your entrance and just... circles it. Like he's mapping you out. Like he’s thinking about his next move.
Five blessed seconds where you can actually catch your breath. Where your brain starts to come back online and—
Fuck.
His tongue plunges into you without warning and your hand definitely just yanks out some of his hair but who fucking cares because his nose is nudging your clit while he tongue-fucks you and—and—
And your brain's offline again. Good talk.
He adjusts his arms, somehow pulling you even closer to his face. As if you weren't already basically smothering him. As if he literally wants to drown in your cunt. And that thought shouldn't be as scorching hot as it is but holy shit.
A moan tears from your throat—loud enough that Emma's probably googling noise complaint laws right now. But you can feel it building, that telltale tightening, that electric tension spreading through your core. Your clit's throbbing in time with your racing pulse and—
And he doesn't change a thing.
Because this guy? This absolute genius between your legs? He knows better than to pull that amateur hour bullshit where they speed up right when you're close. No, he maintains the exact same rhythm, the exact same pressure that got you here. Like he's done this before. Like he actually pays attention to what works.
(And okay, maybe you shouldn't be thinking about his past experience right now but your brain's kind of shorting out so whatever.)
Your stiletto digs deeper into his shoulder—might actually be drawing blood at this point but he doesn't seem to care one iota. If anything, he groans against you like he's getting off on it. Like pain turns him on. And that's...that's definitely something to stash away for later.
Or never. Because this is a one-time thing. Right. Focus.
Except focusing is basically impossible when he's eating you out like it's his actual job. When the pressure's building and building and—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your back arches off the bed like you're auditioning for America's Next Top Model: After Dark Edition. The orgasm hits you like a riptide, waves of pleasure so intense your vision actually whites out for a second. Your thighs clamp around his head, heel probably leaving permanent marks on his back, and you're definitely making sounds that would make a porn star blush but—
But holy shit.
His tongue flicks over your oversensitive clit one last time—the absolute bastard—and your whole body jerks as you whimper. Which, okay, definitely earned that one. Because holy fuck.
You slump back against the bed, bones liquified, as he prowls up your body. His hands plant on either side of your face and—wow, okay, up close he's even more unfairly beautiful. All sharp jawline and scorching eyes and lips that are literally glistening with...yeah.
"You taste exactly like you smell," he murmurs, and what kind of weird-ass compliment is that? Like, thanks? Good to know your pussy matches your perfume brand?
Except...it kind of works? Something tingles in your face and no. Absolutely not. You are not getting all swoony just because Hot Stranger is saying vaguely poetic shit during sex. This is just your horny lizard brain going 'hot man say words, neurons go brr.' That's all.
Then his mouth is on your neck and—yeah, okay, thinking is canceled anyway. His hands trace maddening patterns down your stomach, feather-light touches that make your muscles jump. And when he tugs his briefs down, his cock springs free and—
Oh.
Well then.
Your body apparently didn’t get the memo about the standard refractory period because hello, Round Two suddenly seems very appealing. It hasn’t even been five minutes since you came but here you are, already clenching around nothing like some kind of sex-starved teenager.
He leans back slightly, reaching for something and—ah. His jeans. More specifically, his wallet. From which he produces not one but multiple condoms, and honestly? We love a prepared king. Nothing hotter than a guy who practices safe sex without having to be asked.
(And yes, you're literally evaluating his sexual responsibility while naked and still tingling from one of the best orgasms of your life. Sue you.)
He grabs one condom and tosses the others somewhere on the bed. Then—because apparently he's auditioning for some porno-meets-action-movie hybrid—he puts the wrapper between his teeth. Locks eyes with you. Rips it open.
And okay, PSA time: Kids (not that any kids should be reading this, what the fuck brain?)—this is not how you open condoms. Use your fingers like a normal person, not your teeth like some kind of sexual menace. That's literally Condom Safety 101.
But then again, when a guy this stupid hot does literally anything, your brain just kind of... accepts it. Like yeah, sure, demolish that condom wrapper with your teeth while maintaining smoldering eye contact. That's normal. That's fine. You're fine.
He gives the condom a cursory check (okay, at least he's being thorough), pinches the tip between his fingers and you just... watch. Wait.
"You gonna fuck me tomorrow or...?" The words slip out before your self-censor can nab them, biting and teasing.
Bad choice.
His hand—his stupidly large, stupidly warm hand—wraps around your thigh and yanks you down the bed in one fluid motion. And why the fuck is that so hot? Why are you noticing how his fingers practically span your whole thigh? Why is the heat of his palm against your skin making your breath catch?
Your eyes flicker back to his cock and—oh. When did he even get the condom on? You must have missed that while you were having your crisis about his hands. But he's ready now, thick and hard and—
Fuck.
He pushes in with one swift motion and your body just... takes him. Like you're literally eager for it, still slick and open from his mouth. He makes this soft gasping sound like he's actually dying, like your cunt is some kind of religious experience.
"Fuck, you're so wet," he groans, hips flush against yours. "So fucking slippery and warm, feels like silk—"
"That's—ah—what happens when you eat someone out properly," you manage, even as your walls flutter around him. Because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit, even with a dick inside you.
His laugh is rough, breathless.
"I’ll keep that in mind."
And fuck—the way he says it, like a promise, like a threat. Your cunt clenches at the thought and he actually growls.
He pushes your thighs down against the mattress and—ow. Okay, that's definitely going to hurt tomorrow. Future You is probably already plotting Present You's murder, adding your name to some karmic hit list right next to Emma’s (who, let’s be real, is definitely contemplating homicide through these paper-thin walls right now).
But then he starts moving and—oh.
Oh fuck.
Every coherent thought evaporates because he's burying himself so deep you swear he's trying to carve out a permanent place inside you. Like he wants your body to remember exactly how he feels, wants to leave an impression that'll last long after tonight.
You didn’t even get a proper look at his size earlier (too busy fizzing over his hands, his mouth, literally everything else), but holy shit. What you do know is he's thick—like, properly thick. Every inch of him pressed against your walls like he's trying to eliminate any space between you, like he's mapping out your insides for future reference.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, and you actually feel him twitch inside you. "So fucking—"
"Less talking," you manage to gasp out, "more moving."
His laugh is rough, breathless. "As you wish."
He snaps his hips once—testing, exploring—and your breath hitches in your throat. Then again. And again. Quick thrust in, torturously slow pull out, and every single time has you gasping like some Victorian maiden with a too-tight corset.
"Like that?" He sounds way too smug for someone balls-deep in a stranger. "The way you squeeze me every time I—"
"You always this chatty during sex?" Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. "Or am I just special?"
Another snap of his hips that makes your eyes roll back. "Maybe I just like the sounds you make when I'm inside you."
And fuck—why is that hot? That shouldn’t be hot. You're still so wet from earlier that you can hear it, can feel how smoothly he glides in and out, nice and easy.
"You're certainly—ah—confident," you manage between thrusts, because apparently your mouth doesn’t know when to quit. "Compensating for something?"
His grip on your thighs tightens. "Want me to stop and let you check?"
"Don’t you fucking dare."
His pace quickens and—oh hello, is that a smirk he's biting back? It is. It absolutely fucking is. And your brain, your stupid, traitorous brain, finds that scorching. Because of course it does. You squint your eyes shut because you can’t deal with how cocky he looks right now, can’t process how that cockiness is actually doing it for you.
Congratulations, you've officially lost it. This is your villain origin story. Death by dick-induced insanity. They'll write case studies about you in Psychology Today: "Local Woman's Brain Melts Because Hot Stranger Has Good Dick Game." Your mother would be so proud.
But also? Also shut the fuck up, brain, because you're literally getting the best dick of your life right now so maybe save the self-reproach for later? Like, there's a time and place for your characteristic overthinking and this ain’t it.
He leans forward then, changing the angle as he chases your mouth, and holy fuck. Each thrust goes deeper, harder, faster—like he's trying to reach parts of you no one else has touched. His kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and desperation, and you're actually whimpering into his mouth like some kind of—
Wait.
Hold the fucking phone.
Since when do you whimper? What is this, some kind of Harlequin romance novel? Are you secretly the protagonist of a Fabio-covered paperback? Because you don’t whimper. You don’t make these soft, needy little sounds into strange men’s mouths. That’s not your brand. That’s not—
But then he rolls his hips in this way that makes you see actual fucking stars, and okay, you know what? Fuck your brand. Fuck everything. Because the way he's moving? The way he's filling you up like you're some kind of horny piñata? Yeah, that takes precedence over your identity crisis.
And speaking of crises—why does this feel so fucking good? Like, mathematically speaking, dick is dick. It's basic anatomy. Tab A into Slot B. So why does every thrust feel like he's rewriting the laws of physics? Why does your body respond to him like he's got some kind of sexual Midas touch?
The worst part? The absolute worst part? You can feel another orgasm building already. Which is ridiculous. Impossible. You literally came like ten minutes ago. This man hasn’t even finished once and here you are, ready to go again like some kind of horny Energizer bunny.
You need to have a serious conversation with your pussy about standards and expectations. Like, what happened to the refractory period? What happened to playing hard to get? Because this? This instant response to everything he does? This eager little flutter every time he hits that spot just right?
This is just embarrassing.
But also really, really fucking good.
"You take my cock so fuckin' well," he groans against your neck, voice rough and slurred. "Like y'were made for it, so perfect—"
And okay, what kind of porn dialogue bullshit is that? Who actually says things like that during sex? More importantly, why is it working? Why does every filthy word from his mouth send electricity shooting straight to your cunt?
"Hnnngh—"
That's it. That's all you can manage because your brain-to-mouth filter is totally fried. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he hits that spot just right, and you're pretty sure you're leaving marks but whatever. Future Him problems.
"F-fuck, how you clench around me when I say shit like that," his words come out breathless, hitching. "Like hearing how good you feel? How tight and wet and fucking flawless—"
"Shut up." But it comes out more like a whine than a command, completely undermining any attempt at snark. Your walls flutter around him traitorously, and his responding groan vibrates through your whole body.
"Make me," he challenges, punctuating it with a particularly vicious thrust that has your eyes rolling back. "Or maybe you don't want me to? Maybe you secretly get off on—fuck—on hearing how amazing you are, how nobody's ever swallowed me this deep before—"
"Nghh—" Your brain's offline. Completely fucking offline. No thoughts, head empty, just the overwhelming sensation of him moving inside you, the heat of his breath against your neck, the absolute filth falling from his lips.
"S'true though," he pants, pace growing erratic. "Never felt anything like this, like your—oh fuck—"
A moan tears from your throat—loud and wanton and utterly mortifying. But you can't help it, not when he's fucking you like he's trying to ruin you for anyone else, not when he keeps saying these things that make your insides turn to molten lava.
"That's it, lemme hear you," he encourages, and you want to punch him for how smug he sounds but you also want him to never stop. "Love the sounds you make when I'm deep in this pussy, when I—shit—"
His voice catches as you deliberately tighten around him, a small victory that makes you smirk despite how your body's on fire.
"Fuck, you're evil."
"You talk too much," you manage to get out between gasps, even as your hips chase his rhythm desperately. You're close—so fucking close—but not quite there.
He laughs against your neck, the sound dark and promising.
“Touch yourself for me."
When you don't immediately comply—because for some reason you still want to challenge him—he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.
"Rub that pretty clit, show me how you like it."
The command in his voice shouldn't turn you on this much. "Make me," you challenge, because apparently your mouth has a death wish.
"Oh?"
His rhythm slows to something torturous, each thrust deep and deliberate. "Do I need to show you where it is? Guide those lovely fingers myself?"
You're about to snark back when his hand slides between your bodies, and—oh. Oh.
"Found it," he says with infuriating smugness, circling your clit with practiced ease. Your whole body jerks at the contact, oversensitive and desperate. "Seems like I know exactly where it is. Don't I?"
"Fuck—" Your voice breaks as he applies just the right amount of pressure, the bastard. "You're so—nghh—"
"I'm so what?" He's grinning now, you can hear it in his voice even as you squeeze your eyes shut. "C'mon, tell me. Use your words."
"Insufferable," you grit out, but your body betrays you, arching into his touch. "Arrogant—ah—asshole—"
"Maybe." His fingers speed up, matching the pace of his thrusts, and holy shit you're going to die. "But I'm an arrogant asshole who's about to make you cum again, aren't I?"
He's right and you hate it. Hate how well he reads your body, hate how he found your clit without hesitation like he's got some kind of carnal GPS, hate how fucking good he is at this.
"That's it," he encourages as your breathing hitches, as your nails dig into his shoulders. "Let me feel you fall apart. Wanna feel this cunt clamp down on my cock when you—"
His hips stutter and you can feel him pulsing inside you, even through the condom. The way his whole body tenses, the broken sound he makes against your throat—it pushes you right over the edge. Yeah. Your second orgasm says hi; has you curling your toes against his back, tensing your thighs around him as if he would ever dream of leaving right now.
"Fuck fuck fuck—" You're not even sure which one of you is saying it anymore. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe you're having an out-of-body experience because Jesus Christ.
For a moment, there's just silence. Just breathing. Just the sound of your heart trying to recall its normal cadence. Then he chuckles against your cheek—a low, sated sound that you'll deny remembering tomorrow—and follows it with a quick nip that makes you jolt.
"Fuck, that was good," he breathes, still catching his breath.
"S'alright," you manage, even though your legs are literally jelly and your brain's still rebooting.
He pulls back just enough to quirk an eyebrow at you, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips. "Just alright?"
"Fishing for compliments?" You raise your own eyebrow, trying to ignore how his hand is still absently stroking your hip. "That's kind of desperate."
"Says the girl who came twice."
And—okay, rude. Accurate, but rude.
He shifts then, carefully pulling out (and at least he's considerate about it, making sure not to hurt you), and starts dealing with the condom. But then he just... stands there. Looking lost. Condom in hand and this adorably bemused expression that makes something in your chest do a weird little flip.
No. Not adorable. Nothing about this guy is adorable. Hot? Yes. Skilled with his tongue? Abso-fucking-lutely. But not adorable. You refuse to find anything about him cute, especially not the way he's glancing around the room like a lost puppy trying to figure out where to—
You can't stifle the snort that escapes you. "Trash can's over there, genius." You gesture with your head toward the small bin by the dresser. "Try not to get lost on the way."
He rolls his eyes but moves across the room, and you definitely don't watch the play of muscles in his back as he walks. Or the way his ass looks in the dim light. Or how his hand rakes through his tousled hair as he leans down to dispose of the condom and—
Fuck.
Fuck.
Because here's the thing: you've had one-night stands before. You know how this goes. Quick fuck, awkward goodbye, never see each other again. That's the routine. That's the protocol. That's what smart, sensible people do.
But.
But you're already thinking about how his mouth felt between your legs. About how he filled you up just right. About how he seemed to know exactly what to do with his hands, his hips, his—
And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck being sensible and sane. Fuck playing it cool. You've got a hot guy with stellar dick game right here, right now. Might as well take advantage while you can.
Before your brain can talk you out of it, you're launching yourself off the bed. Your legs are still a bit wobbly (thanks, Mr. Two Orgasms), but you manage to catch him just as he turns around. Your mouth crashes into his, messy and demanding, as you push him against the wall.
His surprised grunt turns into a pleased hum against your lips, and his hands immediately find your hips like they belong there. Like this is exactly what he was hoping would happen.
Cocky bastard.
He spins you around so fast your head spins—or maybe that's just the lingering vodka. Either way, suddenly your back's hitting the wall and—oh. Okay. This is happening. Again. Because apparently your body doesn't give two shits about being thoroughly fucked already.
His mouth crashes back into yours, hungry and insistent, and it should be gross really—you can taste yourself on his tongue, everything's messy and uncoordinated and frantic. But instead it's just...hot. So fucking hot you feel like you're melting from the inside out.
Then his hands slide down to your thighs and he's lifting you like you weigh zilch (and seriously, what is it with this guy and manhandling? More importantly, why do you like it?). Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, and how his cock twitches against your stomach—already getting hard again—should not make you feel this smug.
"Eager?" you manage to gasp between kisses, because apparently your mouth doesn't know when to quit.
He bites your bottom lip in response, just hard enough to make you whimper (and fuck, there's that sound again, what is wrong with you tonight?). "I’m sorry? Weren’t you the one jumping me?”
"Just felt sorry for you." The words come out breathier than intended as his mouth finds that spot behind your ear. "Standing there looking all lost with your used condom—"
His growl cuts you off, vibrating through his chest into yours. One of his hands tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat, and—fuck. The way he attacks your neck like he's trying to mark you up, like he wants everyone to know exactly what you've been doing...
Then his mouth finds yours again, swallowing whatever protest you might have made. And it's different this time—sloppier, needier. All clashing teeth and warring tongues and his hands everywhere at once. You're pressed so tightly between him and the wall you can feel every twitch of his muscles, every stuttered breath.
One of his hands slides up your thigh, fingertips trailing fire in their wake, and you're already embarrassingly slick again. Already aching for him like you didn't just have him inside you minutes ago. Your hips roll against him craving friction, and the sound he makes—half groan, half snarl—shoots straight between your legs.
"Condom," you gasp against his mouth. "Need a—"
"Yeah," he breathes, but he doesn't move away. Just keeps kissing you like he's suffocating and you're oxygen, like he can't bear to stop even for a heartbeat. "Yeah, just—fuck, you feel so good—"
Your brain's rapidly disintegrating, especially with the way he keeps grinding against you, the way his mouth keeps doing that to your neck. But you manage to remember: "Bed. Other condoms. On the bed."
He makes this sound of acknowledgment but still doesn't budge, just shifts his hips in a way that has his cock sliding against your clit and—jesus fuck.
"If you don't get a condom right now," you warn, voice embarrassingly unsteady, "I'm going to kill you."
His laugh is rough, breathless. "Such violence."
He practically teleports to the bed—like, Olympic-level sprinting for that condom. It'd be comical, the way he fumbles with the wrapper (apparently Mr. Smooth isn't so smooth when he's desperate), except you're too busy being embarrassingly turned on by his urgency.
You're about to suggest moving to the bed—because your legs are already shaking and wall sex seems ambitious after two orgasms—but—
Holy fuck.
He's got you up against the wall again in one fluid motion, hands gripping your thighs as he lines himself up and—oh god. The sound that rips from your throat as he fills you in one swift thrust is utterly shameful. But the broken "fuck" that falls from his lips? How his whole body shudders as he bottoms out?
Yeah, okay. Maybe worth the mortification.
"Jesus fuck," he breathes against your neck, voice wrecked. "You feel—shit, how do you feel even better than before?"
"Hush it," you gasp, even as your walls flutter around him. "And move."
He laughs, breathless and gritty. "Demanding little thing." But he's already moving, setting a pace that has your head lolling back. "God, you’re even wetter than before, taking me so well—”
"That your professional opinion?" Your attempt at snark falls flat when it comes out as more of a moan. "Done extensive research, have you?"
His hips snap up particularly hard at that. "Never—fuck—never felt anything like this."
And that should be a line. That should be the kind of bullshit guys say during hookups to stroke their own egos. Except the way he says it—all breathless wonder and raw honesty—makes something hot unfurl in your chest.
"Yeah?" It comes out embarrassingly breathy, but whatever. Can’t really care when every thrust is melting honey down your spine. "Prove it."
He makes this sound—half growl, half moan—like he fucking loves your audacity. "Already made you come twice."
"Maybe I was faking."
"Sweetheart, nobody's that good an actress."
And honestly? Fair. But you're not about to admit that, not when he's already so smug about how well he plays your body. Instead, you drag him down for a kiss that's more teeth than finesse, swallowing his groans as his pace gets more erratic.
"F-fuck," he pants against your mouth. "Gonna make you come again. Wanna feel you—"
"Big talk for someone who—ah—hasn't delivered yet."
His responding thrust makes your back arch off the wall. "Jus’ wait."
His hips snap up harder at your challenge, making your head thump back against the wall. And fuck—the way he's moving now, all rough desperation and graceless rhythm. Everything's wet and messy and absolutely filthy, the sounds of skin on skin blending with your breathless moans.
"Still—ah—ah—waiting for that delivery," you manage, even as your nails dig into his shoulders.
"Fuckin’—" His breathless laugh is menacing. "Always—fuck—gotta have the last word, don’tcha?”
You'd have a comeback for that, you really would, except he chooses that moment to shift his angle and—holy shit. Because now? Now his pubic bone grinds against your clit every time he moves, every time he thrusts deep inside you. And honestly? Fucking unfair that even his bones know where your clit is.
You can feel him twitching inside you, can tell he's close by the way his breath comes in harsh pants against your neck. And you're almost there too, just need a little more—
But then he's groaning, hips stuttering as he cums. His whole body tenses, pressing you flatter against the wall as he empties into the condom.
And okay, great for him, congratulations, but you were so fucking close.
You tap his back urgently. "Keep goin’."
"What?" He's still catching his breath, forehead pressed against your shoulder. "Gimme a second, ah—I just—"
"I was—right there," you whine (and yes, you're actually whining now, this is what you've been reduced to). "Don't you dare stop."
He lifts his head, looking at you incredulously. "I literally just filled the condom—"
"I don't give a fuck, just move."
And okay, yeah, PSA time number two: This is definitely not safe sex practice. The second a condom's full, it needs to be changed. That's like, Sex Ed 101. But also? Also your clit is throbbing and you were this close to coming and your horny lizard brain has completely taken over.
"Jesus," he breathes, but he's already starting to move again, shallow little thrusts that make your eyes roll back. "You're fucking insatiable."
"Like earlier," you gasp, grinding down against him. "With the… with your hipbone."
He laughs against your neck—a rough, breathless sound that shouldn't be as arousing as it is. "Gotcha."
And he does. Repositions himself, makes sure he’s got exactly the same position he had earlier. His hipbone comes in contact with your clit as he begins thrusting faster again, and fucking yeah, that’s what you needed.
"Fuck, the way you feel," he groans. "So slick and snug and—shit—"
"Shut up shut up shut up—"
Because you can't handle his voice right now, can't deal with how his words make the drowning sensation grow more and more intense by the second. You're so close you can taste it, right on the precipice, just need a little more—
Then he nips at your neck, his tongue flattening against your pulse point. And that's it. You're a goner. Again. For the third time tonight.
Your entire body locks up as bliss courses through, lapping at your core like waves at a shore. Your eyes instinctively close as you relish it in all its intensity, and you're pretty sure you make some kind of mortifying noise but whatever. Three orgasms in, dignity is a distant memory.
He slows his movements gradually, letting you ride it out, and you can feel him softening inside you. Your head drops to his shoulder because keeping it upright seems like way too much effort right now. The residual booze is hitting different after getting thoroughly wrecked—everything soft and fuzzy around the edges.
You vaguely register him checking the condom with his free hand—the other one still supporting your ass because apparently you're not ready to unwrap your legs from his waist yet. Your brain's moving in slow motion, heavy with alcohol and mist and the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that only comes from really good sex.
"Hey." He taps your back lightly. "You falling asleep on me? Dick game that good?"
"Die," you mumble into his shoulder, not even bothering to lift your head. "Just... shut up and die."
You hear him chuckle, vaguely. It should be irritating. It isn't. You're too drained to care. Everything's warm and hazy and your limbs feel like they're crafted from lead.
You're only half-aware of him moving you to the bed, of sheets being pulled up, of a warm body pressing against your back. Your consciousness is already drifting, floating in that space between awake and asleep where nothing quite computes.
The last thing you register, right before slumber claims you completely, is his nose pressed against your neck and his drowsy murmur:
"You make adult choices. Responsible ones. You pick the nice guy, the clean lines, the version of yourself who should be healed by now. Unfortunately, your nervous system did not get the memo and is still very much obsessed with the wrong man in the wrong house at the wrong time."
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↪︎author's note : So. This chapter. Wow. I am begging you all to put your academia brain on for this one because… it’s dense. It’s layered. It's not just stuff happening—it's why it's happening, how it’s happening, and how it feels to happen. You know what I mean?
Let’s start with the texts. I am so normal about the text messages in this chapter. It’s just texting. It’s just accidental emotional intimacy and subconscious craving and projection and delay tactics. It's fine. 🤠 Nothing big. Not like they're talking to each other in the most mundane domestic way possible and accidentally becoming each other's safe space when they’re supposed to be casual roommates who don’t even like each other that much. Nothing like that at all. Nope. There is… a thing with Jason. Yes. There is sex with Jason in this chapter. I’m warning you because I know some of you will instinctively flinch like "Kiki WHY would you—” but please hear me out: it’s not there to titillate. It’s not even about Jason, really. It’s about what the sex means. About how it functions narratively and psychologically. It’s about self-abandonment, it’s about weaponized detachment, it’s about trying to feel something (or not feel something) through another body. It’s actually a devastating little moment disguised as a hot one. Which like… welcome to FMU. If the sex isn’t emotionally ruinous, then what are we even doing here? But then. But then. The kitchen scene. Oh my god. I don’t even want to say too much because I genuinely want you to experience it with fresh eyes, but just know that this is one of those scenes. One of those turning points that’s technically small on paper but everything shifts under the surface. Tension, misalignment, instinctive reaching, subtle rejection, confusion—it’s all there. This scene gutted me to write. And then… the shower scene. Ha ha. Hahahah. I don’t want to spoil. But I do want you to feel the creeping sense of "oh no" that I felt writing it. Just… pay attention. That’s all I’m gonna say. It’s less about what happens and more about what it reveals about where they’re at emotionally. And what they can’t say. (Which is everything.) Finally. Tessa. She is not a threat or really an antagonist. She is a mirror for insecurity and belonging and class and ease. The bathroom conversation is doing emotional work even if it feels quiet, and I need you to sit with that before drawing conclusions about her place in the story.
Okay I’m done rambling. I wrote this at like 2:14 AM high off decaf and dissociation and a disturbing amount of self-awareness. Please message me after. Please scream at me. Please overanalyze. I live for your pain.
Good luck. See you on the other side (of this psychological war).
—kiki ♡
Don't forget to reblog, press that heart button and comment; notes fuel me <3
Your stomach feels like a crime scene.
And not just from the mini bagels, although those aren’t helping. There’s that other thing—that dull, heavy ache low in your abdomen that you’ve been ignoring for the past hour. The kind that starts as a whisper and builds into a full-volume announcement that your uterus is gearing up to shed its lining like a snake with a grudge.
Any day now.
You’re sprawled sideways across the stupidly nice bed—duvet bunched under your hip, one leg still hanging off the edge like you tried to climb out and gave up halfway—staring at the decorative molding on the ceiling and sincerely considering death by cream cheese and hormones.
Whoever decided mini bagels should be unlimited is an enemy of the state. And whoever designed the female reproductive system deserves a strongly worded letter.
You press a hand to your abdomen, fingers splaying over your pajama shirt.
Yeah. Rock solid. Disgusting.
Between the bloating from food and the bloating from impending menstruation, you’re basically a human water balloon right now.
The cramps had gotten bad enough earlier that you’d camped out in the en-suite bathroom for a solid twenty minutes, curled up on the bathmat like a sad shrimp, willing your body to just do the thing already instead of this prolonged torture. Jason had hovered outside the door asking if you were okay until you’d finally snapped that you were fine, just needed a minute, and he’d quietly announced he’d go use the big bathroom down the hall to shower.
Which was sweet, actually. Giving you space. Not making it weird.
Sweet. That’s what he is. So sweet and considerate you probably will never have to explain to him that sometimes you just need to lie on a cold tile floor and contemplate your mortality.
Plus, the whole introduction games thing.
One more and you would’ve murdered someone. Or yourself. Hard to say which.
Because, sure, 'group bonding, yay community, isn't this cozy, we're all artists.' blah blah—except no, actually, you do not need to know Dylan's entire professional 'journey' starting from when his math teacher discouraged him at twelve.
Like… congratulations, king. A middle schooler hated algebra and now he has a Leica.
Revolutionary, truly.
You don't even need a promise to know Dylan sucks at math. Or reading a room. Or shutting the fuck up.
You only have to hear him open his mouth to know his teacher was right, and that's a talent in itself.
If Tessa hadn't finally wrapped the circle with that "okay let's eat and mingle!" mercy call, you're pretty sure you'd be in handcuffs right now. At minimum, there would've been a strongly worded incident report and your mugshot would be circulating among NYU grads with the caption 'she snapped <3'.
You exhale, long and slow, and the room tilts a tiny bit. Not from alcohol—Jason kept refilling your water because he’s built like an after-school special—but from social hangover and lactose and the fact that your uterus has apparently decided to practice contractions like it’s training for mutiny.
Jason’s in the shower, and the fact that the shower is all the way down the hall makes it worse. Not worse like tragic, worse like… you can hear distant plumbing. You can hear other doors. You can hear the soft hum of people existing outside the room, which is rude when your nervous system is begging for a padded cell.
And you can’t even fully decompress because your brain, in its infinite cruelty, picks now to go: cat.
If Griffin were here, he'd make it worse.
That's the worst part.
You can see it: you back home after a big dinner, jeans unbuttoned, sprawled on your bed trying not to combust, and here comes His Orange Majesty, hopping up like he owns the lease, turning one slow circle before plopping his entire cat weight right on your bloated stomach.
Every time.
Never fails.
Like he has some built-in sensor for ‘oh, she’s eaten too much, time to compress the organs.’
You’d probably actually puke. Not metaphorically. Like, full-on, exorcist-but-make-it-dairy.
And you hate that your first thought isn’t thank god he’s not here, it’s—
Where is he.
You’re here. Jungkook’s here. Yoongi’s here. Half the people Jungkook breathes near are here. Hobi is coming. Taehyung and Iri are here. Tessa’s here. Even you—someone Griffin has decided is acceptable to infest with fur—are here.
So who’s doing Griffin’s weird little routines? Who’s refilling his water and pretending the faucet drip isn’t the only thing he’ll drink? Who’s feeding him on time so he doesn’t go full famine-victim and start screaming like he’s been starved for weeks?
You sit up a little, grimacing because your organs audibly protest.
Okay, no. You’re being dramatic.
Jungkook is a helicopter parent. Jungkook probably has a plan C for his plan B for his plan A. The man barely trusts oxygen around that cat. That orange menace is not going unfed. Not on Jungkook’s watch. Not ever.
Still.
You want to know.
Not about Jungkook. About Griffin. Obviously.
You’ve always told yourself cats aren’t a big deal. That they’re just… animals. Nice, sure, but not essential. And that was easier to believe when you grew up in a house where ‘no’ was a hobby your parents collected.
No pets. No mess. No unpredictable living things.
No to anything that might make you happy unless it also made you productive.
So you learned to shrug it off. You learned to pretend you didn’t care. You learned to become someone who didn’t need things.
Except Griffin showed up and ruined that little lie with one stupid purr and his warm body curling against your leg when you were reading. With the way he chooses you when you’re having a shitty day. With the way he seems to understand your moods better than most humans. With the fact that you now instinctively check for him on the couch before you sit, like you live with a landmine made of fur.
You love him. Quietly. Irritatingly. Against your will.
You groan, roll onto your side, and grab your phone off the nightstand.
The screen lights up too bright in the dark-ish room. Your thumb scrolls, muscle memory doing most of it, and then—there.
His contact.
You stare at it like it’s going to bite you.
Because again: not about him. It’s about Griffin. It’s about making sure the orange idiot is alive and not committing crimes unsupervised.
You hover your thumb over the name you saved him under—because you’re mature and normal and definitely not petty at all—and finally pick the phone up properly.
𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚗
The three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Reappear.
𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚞 𝟸
You scoff out loud, adjusting your position on the bed.
You frown at the screen, wondering if you overstepped somehow, if this is one of those things he doesn't want to talk about like the whole laundry room thing.
You watch the screen, waiting, your thumb hovering over the keyboard in case you need to backtrack, say ‘never mind’ or make a joke to diffuse whatever this is.
You set your phone down on the nightstand, face-up, and stare at the ceiling.
The bathroom door opens down the hall—Jason, finally done with his shower. You hear his footsteps, the soft pad of bare feet on hardwood, coming closer.
But you’re still thinking about Jungkook.
About Donna.
About a seventeen-year-old kid who died too young and the old woman who lost everything and the boy who shows up every Thursday with groceries he pretends are no big deal.
About laminated cat care instructions.
About Griffin, safe and spoiled and probably curled up on Donna’s lap right now.
The door opens, and Jason steps in, hair damp, smelling like generic hotel soap.
“Hey.” He pauses in the doorway, eyes wide, towel draped over his shoulder. “So. That bathroom.”
You push yourself up on your elbows. “Yeah?”
“It’s like—” He shakes his head, something between disbelief and amusement crossing his features. “It’s like a spa. There’s a steam setting.”
“Rich people.”
“Rich people,” he agrees, moving toward the bed. His eyes soften as he takes you in—hand pressed to your stomach. “How’s the tummy doing? Cramps any better?”
You make a noncommittal noise.
The ache is still there—lurking in your lower back like a threat—but it’s manageable now. Not the stabbing pain from earlier when you’d been curled up on the bathroom floor wondering why evolution decided periods were a good idea.
“A little.”
“Good.” He stops between your knees. Close. Warm.
His hands find your shoulders first, thumbs brushing along your collarbones through the fabric of your pajama shirt.
Your eyes close. Nice. This is nice.
Then he’s leaning down, pressing a kiss to your forehead that lingers just long enough to feel intentional.
“Hey,” he says softly, and then he’s dipping down and kissing you.
It’s soft. Gentle. A peck, really—the kind of kiss you’d give someone in front of their parents. Sweet and safe and appropriate.
You kiss him back.
He kisses you again, slightly deeper this time, and you feel his weight shift as he leans further into you. Your hands find his chest automatically—still damp through his t-shirt, warm underneath—and you let yourself tip backward, forearms catching you against the mattress as he follows you down.
Okay. Okay. This is happening.
Finally.
Because it’s been—what, weeks? Weeks of dates and dinners and conversations that go nowhere near where you want them to go. Weeks of goodnight kisses that stay firmly above the neck. Weeks of waiting for him to make a move because you figured he was just being respectful, taking his time, being a gentleman about it.
And now here he is. Between your thighs. Kissing you like he actually means it.
Lock in, bitch. This is what you wanted.
His mouth moves against yours, slow and careful, and you try to match his pace. Try to sink into it. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, cradling you, and it’s—
Nice.
It’s nice.
He pulls back slightly. Not far. Just enough to look at you with those earnest green eyes.
“Is this okay?”
You blink up at him.
Is this okay?
You’re literally—you’re literally spread out on the bed right now.
Legs open. Arms back.
In what universe does this position scream ‘actually I’m not sure about this’?
But you nod anyway, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.”
Fine. Great word choice. Really selling it.
He smiles, soft and relieved, and leans back in.
The kiss picks up again. A little deeper now. His tongue brushes your lower lip, tentative, asking, and you open for him because—yes. Obviously yes. That’s the whole point.
His hand moves from your neck to your waist. Settles there. Stays there.
Okay.
You shift slightly, trying to get more comfortable on your forearms, and he adjusts with you. Pulls back again.
“Still good?”
Oh my god.
“Yes,” you say, and you keep your voice even because you’re not going to be that person.
The impatient one. The ungrateful one who can’t appreciate a guy actually checking in instead of just bulldozing ahead like consent is some kind of optional side quest.
Consent is sexy. This is mature. This is healthy. This is what a functioning adult relationship looks like.
So why does it feel like you’re filling out a customer satisfaction survey?
Rate your kissing experience from 1 to 10. Would you recommend this make-out session to a friend?
Stop it. Stop it.
You’re being petty and immature and ridiculous.
Jason is sweet. Jason is considerate. Jason respects your autonomy and your boundaries and your right to change your mind at any point in the process.
That’s good.
That’s what you want.
He kisses you again, and you force yourself to focus.
On his mouth. On the weight of him above you.
There. See? That’s nice. That’s—
“Doing okay?”
You almost laugh. Almost.
“Mhm,” you manage instead, and pull him back down before he can ask again.
His mouth finds yours, and you kiss him harder this time. More insistent. Trying to communicate ’yes, I’m sure, please stop asking and just fucking do something’ without actually saying the words because that would be rude and ungrateful and—
His hand inches up your side. Slow. Glacially slow. Like he’s approaching a wild animal that might spook at any sudden movement.
You’re not going to spook. You’re not a deer. You’re a grown woman who wants to get laid tonight and all you need is for him to just—
“You sure you’re—”
“Jason.” It comes out sharper than you mean it to. You soften immediately, reaching up to brush his damp hair back from his forehead. “Yeah. I’m sure. Really.”
He searches your face for a second.
You lick your lips. “Just… didn’t you tell me once that sex helps with cramps?”
His eyebrows lift. Then a slow grin spreads across his face—genuine, amused, like he can’t believe you just said that.
“Yeah, endorphins help with the pain.”
“So I’m just saying.” You shrug, looking to the side. “Endorphins. Science. You know.”
He laughs—soft and fond—and leans down to kiss you again. Deeper this time. Less careful.
Finally.
“Well,” he murmurs against your lips, “can’t argue with science.”
You’re getting dick tonight.
About fucking time.
His hands find the hem of your shirt, and this time he doesn’t ask—just tugs it upward with a questioning look, and you lift your arms to help him pull it off. Cold air hits your skin, and then his mouth is on your collarbone, kissing a path down toward your chest.
Okay. Better. This is better.
You reach for his shirt, tugging it over his head because turnabout is fair play, and he helps you get it off. His chest is nice—lean, defined, what you guess comes from disciplined gym sessions.
You run your hands over it, feeling the solid muscle.
Not as squishy as you’d like, but you know this type of body requires effort.
Though if you’re being honest, that’s the least of your concerns right now.
Because what’s nagging your head right now is the fact that he’s quiet.
Like, really quiet.
His mouth works down to your bra, fingers finding the clasp at your back, and he unhooks it easily—experienced, you remind yourself, he knows what he’s doing—but the whole time it’s just… breathing. Soft exhales. The occasional hum of approval.
Which is fine.
Normal, probably.
Not everyone narrates what they’re doing like they’re the host of a particularly explicit podcast. That would be weird, actually. Unnecessary. Distracting, even.
So why does the silence feel so loud?
You push the thought away. Focus on his mouth kissing his way down your neck, the wet heat of it, the way his tongue slides down your clavicles.
Your fingers thread into his hair automatically—still damp from the shower—and you tug.
He pulls back immediately, wincing. “Ow. Careful.”
Gentler. Got it. File that away under things you apparently do wrong.
He goes back to what he was doing, and you keep your hands on his shoulders this time. Safe. Neutral. No risk of accidentally scalping him or whatever.
God. Mortifying.
His hands work your pants down—you help kick them off, because coordination is already proving to be a challenge tonight—and then his fingers are tracing along the waistband of your underwear. Light. Teasing.
Say something.
You want him to say something. Anything. Tell you what he’s thinking, what he wants, what he’s about to do.
The silence stretches.
He pulls your underwear down, and you’re naked now. Fully. On this stupid expensive bed in this stupid expensive room, and Jason’s looking at you like you’re something to be appreciated rather than devoured.
Which is nice.
It is.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly.
Okay. There. Words. Good words, even. The kind of thing you’re supposed to want to hear.
Though it sounds like words from a polite stranger rather than who’s supposed to be your kind-of-boyfriend?
Why are you being so weird about this, bitch.
He’s being sweet.
You pull him back down to kiss him, because kissing is easier than thinking, and his hand slides between your thighs. Finally. Finally.
His fingers find your clit, and—
Zigzags.
He’s doing… zigzags. Back and forth, back and forth, like he’s sketching a tiny lightning bolt on your most sensitive nerve endings.
It’s not bad. It’s stimulation. Friction. Your body responds because that’s what bodies do.
But it’s not—
You shift your hips slightly, trying to redirect. “Maybe, um—circles?”
He pauses. Looks up at you with those earnest green eyes. “Actually, zigzags help build it better. More surface coverage. Trust me.”
And he says it so confidently. So assured. Like he’s read studies on this, peer-reviewed articles about optimal clitoral stimulation patterns.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “Yeah, okay.”
Because what are you going to do, argue? Tell him he’s wrong about your body? You barely know what you like yourself—you’re still figuring it out, still learning, still cataloguing what works and what doesn’t.
Maybe zigzags are better. Maybe you’ve just been doing it wrong this whole time?
So you let him continue. Zigzag, zigzag, zigzag.
It’s fine.
It’s building. Slowly.
Like a pot that refuses to boil.
He reaches for his pants with his free hand—the ones he’d changed into after his shower—and pulls out a condom from the pocket. Tears it open with his fingers, which is safe and polite, actually, and rolls it on with ease.
And he knows that, right? You mentioned it. Weeks ago, maybe, in some conversation about birth control and responsibility and being adults about these things.
So maybe he could’ve ask if you wanted it raw.
Don’t guys prefer it raw?
Why didn’t he ask for it?
Does he not want it raw?
Is there something wrong with you?
Stop asking questions you don’t want answers to. He’s being careful. That’s a good thing. Not everyone wants to go raw.
He positions himself between your thighs, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance. He looks at you—checking in again, always checking in—and you nod before he can ask.
Then he’s pushing in, slow and steady, and—
Okay.
Okay.
He’s a decent size, fills you up nicely, and the stretch is pleasant without being overwhelming.
And then he pauses, looks at you to make sure it’s all good and when you nod again, his hips start moving in this measured rhythm, controlled and consistent, and you wrap your legs around him to pull him deeper.
And still, he’s just so—quiet.
Just breathing. Soft grunts.
Can he, for the love of everything that’s holy, just say something?
“You feel good,” you try, hoping he’ll take the hint. Volley it back.
“Mm.” He kisses your jaw. “You too.”
That’s it.
That’s all you get.
Okay. Fine. Not everyone’s verbal. Some people express themselves through actions. Through touch. Through the steady roll of their hips and the careful attention of their fingers, which are back to doing that zigzag thing on your clit while he fucks into you.
Your hips start moving with him, trying to find the angle that works best, and he adjusts—attentive, responsive, clearly paying attention to your body even if he’s not narrating every goddamn thing he notices.
Which is good.
That’s good.
Focus.
His pace picks up, and you feel his rhythm start to stutter. His breathing gets heavier, hips snapping a little harder, a little less controlled.
He’s close. You can tell by the way his forehead creases, the way his movements become more urgent.
And his fingers—yeah, fallen soldier. Loss of coordination. Total system failure.
The zigzags dissolve into some kind of… abstract expressionism? Like he’s finger-painting on your clit with no clear direction or purpose.
Sir. SIR.
You don’t even think about it. Your hand shoots down, nudging his out of the way, and you take over.
Circles. Actual circles. The way God and nature intended.
There. Oh thank fuck.
Jason groans at the sight—apparently you touching yourself does something for him, noted—and his hips stutter harder.
“Fuck, I’m gonna—”
And then he’s done. Shuddering against you, face in your neck, muffled groan vibrating against your skin as he finishes.
Cool. Great. Love that for you.
Meanwhile, you’re still circling your clit like your life depends on it, chasing the orgasm that’s right there, so close you can practically taste it—
“Don’t stop,” you manage, and it comes out more demanding than you mean it to. “Keep—yeah, just—keep going—”
He does. Hips still moving even though he’s basically done, and finally—finally—it hits.
Your back arches off the bed, thighs clamping around him as the orgasm finally slams into you.
Not the most spectacular one you’ve ever had, but it’s real and it’s there and your whole body shakes with the release of tension you didn’t even realize you’d been holding.
“Fuck,” you breathe, collapsing back against the pillows.
Finally. Jesus Christ.
Jason pulls out carefully, disposing of the condom in the trash by the nightstand before flopping down beside you. His hair’s a mess. Cheeks flushed. Looking appropriately wrecked in a way that’s kind of satisfying to witness.
“Sorry,” he says, wincing slightly. “I, uh. Came too fast.”
A giggle escapes you before you can stop it. Genuine. Surprised.
“It’s okay.” You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow to look at him. “We got there eventually.”
He snorts, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His hand lingers, sliding down to rest on your waist, warm and grounding.
“Eventually,” he repeats, smiling. “Very generous of you.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“You are.”
You shift closer, pressing a quick peck to his lips. Soft. Easy.
He pulls you in, both hands on your waist now, and you let yourself be held. Let your forehead rest against his collarbone, breathing in the smell of cedar that makes your eyebrows furrow.
“Hey,” you say after a moment, voice muffled against his skin.
“Hm?”
“Next time?” You tilt your head back to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Drop the zigzags. Circles. Trust me.”
He snorts—actual full snort, shoulders shaking. “Okay, okay. Circles. Noted.”
“Good.”
“Can we sleep now?”
“Please.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering, and you feel yourself smile. Warm. Content.
This is nice.
He’s nice.
You close your eyes, letting the exhaustion of the day finally catch up with you.
The party. The introductions. The mini bagels. The texting with Jungkook about Griffin and Donna and laminated cat care instructions.
Jason’s arms tighten around you, and you burrow closer.
So you fall asleep.
And you don’t think about how sex this time didn’t feel quite like what you’re used to.
The stairs hate you.
That’s the only explanation for why each step feels like wading through wet cement, your legs heavy and uncooperative as you drag yourself down to the ground floor.
Drowsiness clings to you and it won’t shake off no matter how many times you blink or rub your eyes or tell yourself to wake the fuck up already.
Also your head is pounding. And your lower back feels like someone’s been using it as a punching bag. And when you’d woken up this morning and stumbled to the bathroom, you’d discovered that your uterus had finally decided to commit.
Perfect timing. Really. Exactly what you wanted on day two of this stupid retreat.
You’d dealt with it—tampon in, crisis contained, minimal emotional breakdown—but you still haven’t eaten anything, which means you can’t take the Advil that’s currently burning a hole in your hoodie pocket because taking painkillers on an empty stomach is a one-way ticket to nausea city and you’ve already hit your quota of physical discomfort for the day.
9:07 AM, according to your lockscreen. Which means you’ve gotten maybe six hours of sleep. Maybe less. Hard to tell when you spent a solid chunk of the night staring at the ceiling while Jason’s arm draped across your waist like a very warm, very heavy seatbelt.
The ground floor is deserted when your feet finally reach the staircase ending.
Figures. You are probably the first person awake in a space that’s supposed to be full of people.
The kitchen is empty. So is the living room—that massive open-concept space that probably costs more per square foot than your entire childhood home. Morning light filters through the tall windows, catching dust motes in golden beams, and somewhere outside a bird is chirping with way too much enthusiasm for this hour.
Good for the bird. Some of you are suffering.
You make your way toward the coffee machine. It’s one of those fancy pod systems—the kind you’ve seen in boutique hotels and rich people’s Instagram stories—with a whole display rack of capsule options lined up like soldiers waiting to be sacrificed.
Mocha. White mocha. Vanilla. Caramel. Hazelnut. Something called ‘Midnight Espresso’ that sounds like it would kill you instantly. Regular, boring, normal coffee for people who don’t need their caffeine to taste like dessert.
You grab the mocha.
Because you’re basic. Because it’s too early to make interesting choices. Because the vanilla one is right there and you don’t want to think about why your eyes keep drifting back to it.
Vanilla.
Your hand hovers over the machine as you slot the capsule in, and for a second—just a second—you’re aware of how you smell right now.
Which is to say: like sleep. Like sheets. Like nothing, really, because you didn’t shower this morning and you’re not wearing any perfume and the only scent clinging to your skin is probably Jason’s generic hotel soap from where he held you all night.
Jason showered last night. Before you guys fucked.
You didn’t.
Should’ve, probably. Would’ve been the polite thing to do. The refined thing. The thing that a put-together adult woman does before having sex with her sort-of-boyfriend in a mansion that belongs to her sort-of-friend’s grandparents.
But you didn’t. Because you were tired and bloated and honestly? The idea of walking down the hall to use the shared bathroom felt like asking too much of your already overtaxed nervous system.
So you fucked him smelling like airplane and mini bagels and whatever lingering scent was left from the morning’s perfume application.
Classy. Very classy.
He didn’t seem to mind, but still.
You should shower today. Check the spa bathroom thing Jason mentioned before anyone else wakes up.
Dark liquid pours into the mug you grabbed from the cabinet, and you lean against the counter to wait. Arms crossed. Eyes unfocused. Brain doing that annoying thing where it won’t stop thinking.
Last night was good.
It was.
You finally got what you’d been waiting for—weeks of buildup, weeks of wanting, and it happened. Jason. Inside you. Making you come, even if it took some… collaborative effort at the end there.
Good. That’s the word. It was good.
A bit weird, maybe. But that’s normal, right? First times with new partners are always a little clunky. A little awkward. You’re learning each other. Figuring out what works, what doesn’t, where to put your hands and how hard to grip and whether hair-pulling is on the table or if it’ll get you a polite ’ow, careful.’
It’s a process.
Learning curve. Totally normal learning curve.
And it’s not like you have a ton of experience to compare it to anyway. Before Jungkook, your sexual history was basically a series of underwhelming encounters that you’d rather forget—fumbling hookups in dorm rooms, that one time at a party that lasted approximately ninety seconds and left you wondering what the big deal was.
Then Jungkook happened.
And suddenly you understood what the big deal was.
You grab your coffee, wrapping both hands around the warm mug, and take a sip that’s probably too hot but you don’t care.
But still, Jason is good. Jason is thoughtful and considerate and asks before he does things and actually cares whether you finish. Jason doesn’t make you feel like you’re constantly two seconds away from either screaming at him or jumping his bones. Jason is stable.
And okay, sure—maybe there wasn’t that instant… thing. That click. That moment where your bodies just knew what to do without having to figure it out first.
But that’s not how real relationships work.
That’s not how adult relationships work.
The whole point of being with someone like Jason is that it’s not chaos. It’s not fire and fury and fucking against windows while rain pounds outside. It’s steady. It’s sustainable.
It’s the kind of thing you can actually build something on, instead of just burning everything down and picking through the ashes afterward.
So what if you didn’t have to learn Jungkook’s body? So what if the first time with him felt like your nerve endings had been waiting their whole lives for exactly that kind of touch? So what if every time after that was just… easy, in a way that made no sense, like your bodies were speaking some language you didn’t even know you were fluent in?
Chemistry doesn’t mean it all. Not in the long run. Not when the person you have chemistry with is emotionally unavailable and seeing someone else and fundamentally incapable of giving you what you actually need.
Jason can give you what you need.
Jason wants to give you what you need.
And if the sex takes a little while to sync up? That’s fine. That’s normal. That’s what happens when two people are actually trying to build something real instead of just… colliding.
“Boo.”
The mug nearly goes flying.
You spin around so fast you almost give yourself whiplash, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape, and there he is—six feet away, smirking like the absolute menace he is.
Jungkook.
Of course it’s Jungkook.
He’s got a small towel draped around his neck, dabbing at his forehead where sweat’s gathered along his hairline. His hair is damp, darker than usual, plastered to his temples in a way that should look gross but doesn’t.
Because nothing about him ever looks gross.
Because the universe is fundamentally unfair and you’re its favorite punching bag.
And he’s wearing—
Oh, come on.
A compression shirt. Long-sleeved. Black. Clinging to every single muscle like it was painted on by someone with a personal vendetta against your sanity.
His tits are right there.
Just. There. Staring at you. Being all… pectoral and defined and present.
They looked at you first, okay? You’re just responding. That’s basic physics. Action and reaction. Newton’s third law or whatever.
“What are you doing here?” Your voice is still riding the adrenaline of being scared half to death.
He snorts, crossing his arms over his chest—which does not help the tit situation, for the record—and tilts his head at you.
“What does it look like, Phoenix?”
Your eyes snap up to his face.
His face. Where his eyes are. Where you should’ve been looking this whole time instead of at his stupid chest like some kind of feral gremlin who’s never seen a man before.
He’s smirking. Of course he’s smirking. He knows.
“Dunno,” you shoot back, recovering. “Did you have an identity crisis and went to look for it outside the house?”
That earns you an actual laugh—short, surprised—and he uncrosses his arms, moving toward the coffee capsule display. His shoulder brushes past you, and you smell the sweat and subtle body scent that always accompanies him wherever he goes.
Rain.
You take a pointed step back. Create distance. Preserve sanity.
“I went for a run, smart mouth.” He’s scanning the capsule options now, fingers hovering over the rows. “You know, like I usually do? Morning run? You ever heard of the term?”
“Vaguely. Sounds fake.”
“It’s this thing where you move your legs really fast—”
“I know what running is, jackass.”
“—in a forward motion, usually outdoors—”
“Oh my god.”
“—sometimes people do it for fun, or health, or because they have too much energy and nowhere to put it.” He glances over his shoulder, that stupid grin still in place. “You should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather die.”
“Lazy ass.”
“Braindead.”
He turns back to the capsules, and you watch him deliberate. His fingers drift between the caramel and the vanilla, hovering for a second like he’s actually thinking about this decision. Like coffee flavors require strategic consideration.
He grabs the vanilla.
Slots it into the machine without ceremony, reaching past you to grab a mug from the cabinet—you smell that rain-and-sweat combination more intensely for a second—and then he’s stepping back, leaning against the opposite counter while the machine whirs to life.
“You’re up early,” he observes.
“So are you.”
“I told you. Run.”
“And I told you. Sounds fake.”
His lips twitch. “What’s your excuse?”
You shrug, lifting your mug. “Needed coffee.”
It’s not entirely a lie. You do need coffee. Need something in your stomach before you take those damn painkillers and shut your period cramps down.
Jungkook’s eyes flick down to your mug, then back up. “Mocha?”
“Yeah.”
“Basic.”
“Fuck off.”
He grins, wide and genuine, and something in your lower abdomen does a traitorous little flip that you aggressively ignore.
“I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely at the capsule display. “They’ve got like fifteen options and you went for the one that tastes like hot chocolate pretending to be coffee.”
“Hot chocolate pretending to be coffee is delicious, actually.”
“It’s a lie, Nix. You’re drinking a lie.”
“I’m drinking caffeine, which is all that matters at—” You check your phone. “—nine in the morning when I’ve had six hours of sleep.”
“Six hours?” His eyebrows lift. “What kept you up?”
Don’t say sex. Don’t say sex. Don’t say—
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“None of your business.”
He holds up both hands in mock surrender, that smirk not going anywhere. “Touchy.”
“I’m not touchy. I’m tired.”
“Same thing with you.”
“It is not—”
The coffee machine beeps, cutting you off, and Jungkook pushes off the counter to grab his mug.
He takes a sip, eyes closing briefly, and makes this little sound of satisfaction that’s completely unnecessary.
Completely unnecessary.
“Good shit,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You don’t respond. Just clutch your mocha tighter and try not to think about vanilla. About the way it smells on your skin. About the way he’d mentioned it once, twice, pressed against you in contexts you’re absolutely not revisiting right now.
And just wait for him to move and fuck off, but nope, Jungkook doesn’t leave. Because that would be mercy and fate decided you’re having none of that.
And also, that would require Jungkook to do something convenient for once in his miserable existence.
Instead, he leans back against the counter—the one across from you, thank god, at least there’s distance—and sips his vanilla coffee like he’s got nowhere else to be. Like annoying you first thing in the morning is his cardio cooldown.
“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “Sleep well?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“What do you want, a detailed report?”
His lips twitch. “I’m just saying. Big house. Nice beds. Lots of… entertainment options.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He shrugs, all fake innocence. “Just that I’m sure whatever happened last night kept you plenty occupied.”
Oh.
Oh, he’s going there.
“Maybe it did,” you say, matching his casual tone. Sipping your mocha like you’re discussing the weather.
His eyebrow lifts. Just slightly. “Oh?”
“Mhm.”
“That so?”
“That’s so.”
He watches you over the rim of his mug. Amused, maybe curious.
“Good for you, Nix.” He takes another sip. “Hope Jason knows what he’s doing.”
Excuse you?
“He does, actually.” The words come out clipped. Defensive. Shit. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Never said it was.”
“Your tone implied.”
“My tone is concerned. As a friend.”
“Then stop being so friendly.”
“Don’t want to.”
You don’t have a response for that. Don’t want one. So you just drink your coffee and let silence reign over, maybe that way he’ll take the hint and leave you alone.
He doesn’t.
It’s Jungkook you’re talking about, so.
“Why are you drinking coffee?”
You blink. “What?”
“Coffee.” He gestures at your mug with his own. “You hate coffee. You’re a tea person. You’ve complained about this approximately seven thousand times since August.”
“I don’t hate coffee, I just prefer—”
“Tea,” he finishes. “You prefer tea. You made a whole speech once about how coffee is ‘bean water for the weak-willed’ and tea is ‘leaf water for the enlightened.’”
“There wasn’t any tea,” you mutter, suddenly defensive.
“What do you mean there wasn’t—” He sets his mug down, moves toward the cabinet above the coffee machine. “They’re right here.”
He opens it, and sure enough—rows of tea boxes. Green tea. Black tea. Chamomile. Earl Grey. English Breakfast. A whole goddamn tea library sitting right there, six inches above where you’d been standing this whole time.
You stare at them.
Then at him.
Then back at the tea.
“Okay, so?” Your voice pitches higher than you’d like. “I clearly didn’t know there was tea there. The cabinet was closed. I’m not psychic. I can’t see through wood, Rogue.”
His lips are twitching. Actively fighting a smile. The audacity.
“And now,” you continue, lifting your mocha like a shield, “I have resigned myself to my life choices. This is my mocha. I am committed to the mocha. The mocha and I are in a relationship now, and I will not abandon it for some—some leaf water that showed up late to the party.”
He lowers his hand from the cabinet. Presses his lips together. His whole face is doing that thing where he’s clearly laughing at you internally but trying very hard not to show it.
“You done?”
“Yes.”
“Cool speech.”
“Shut up.”
“Very passionate.”
“I will pour this mocha on your head.”
He holds up both hands, stepping back. “Okay, okay. Mocha commitment. Noted. I respect it.”
“You better.”
The grin breaks through despite his efforts, wide and stupid and—
Ugh.
You hate him. You really, genuinely hate him.
You take a few more sips of your mocha, letting the caffeine do its work. Not a full meal, but there’s enough in your stomach now to justify what comes next. You reach into your hoodie pocket, pull out the pill into your palm.
His eyes track the movement.
You pop the Advil, chase it with mocha, and when you look up, he’s got one eyebrow arched.
His chin tips toward your hand.
“What’s up with that?” A beat. His voice drops half a register. “You okay?”
It’s such a casual question. Such an easy thing to ask.
But something about the way he says it—the slight furrow between his brows, the way his body’s gone just a little bit still—makes your throat get all weird.
“Period,” you say flatly. “Cramps. The usual ‘being a woman is a nightmare’ situation.”
He nods slowly. Doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make a face, doesn’t do any of the weird things guys sometimes do when you mention menstruation like you’ve just confessed to murder.
“Those help?”
“The Advil?” You shrug. “Takes the edge off. Couldn’t take them earlier because—” You gesture vaguely at your mug. “Empty stomach.”
“Ah.” Another nod. His eyes stay on you for a beat too long—something flickering there.
Then he blinks, and it’s gone.
“There’s fruit in the fridge,” he says, pointing to said fridge with his thumb. “Saw some yogurt too. Granola bars in the pantry. If you need, like. Actual food.”
His hand hovers in the air. You stare at him.
Is he… is Jeon Jungkook actually being helpful right now?
Without being asked?
Without making it weird or turning it into a joke or finding some way to use this information against you later?
“Thanks,” you hear yourself say, softer than intended.
He shrugs. “Can’t have you dying on me, Nix. Who else would I annoy?”
But there's a smile in his face when he says it, and if your brain wasn't hazy from period pain, you'd say his eyes are a tad too soft.
He reaches past you for his mug.
Doesn’t think about it, clearly. Just muscle memory—arm extending, body shifting closer, the movement so natural it’s like breathing. Like he’s done it a thousand times before without registering the space it puts him in.
Except now he’s right there.
Inches away, really. Allowing you to notice the individual drops of sweat still clinging to his hairline.
He blinks.
And his eyes change.
You know that look.
You know it. Have seen it more times than you can count, in contexts you’re actively not thinking about. That shift from playful to something else. Darker. Heavier. Like smoke curling behind his irises, unhurried and lazy.
His gaze drops to your mouth. Just for a second.
Your breath catches.
Don’t.
His jaw tightens. You watch his throat move as he swallows.
Don’t you dare—
The doorbell rings.
Jungkook’s lips twitch in amusement when they flick back to your eyes, and he steps back, moment dissolving like sugar in hot water.
“Saved by the bell,” he murmurs with a snort, and you can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself.
He’s already moving toward the door before you can respond, mug abandoned on the counter, and you’re left standing there with your stupid mocha and your stupid racing heart and the lingering scent of vanilla in the air.
What the fuck was that?
You take a breath. Then another. Force your pulse to settle.
That was proximity and muscle memory and two people who used to fuck standing too close in a kitchen.
“JUNGKOOKIE!”
Hobi.
Jungkook winces, already moving toward the foyer. “Dude, volume.”
“What?” Hobi’s voice carries anyway, bright and completely unapologetic. “I’m excited to see you!”
“It’s nine in the morning and everyone’s asleep.”
A pause.
Then, lower but still audible from where you’re standing: “Oh. Whoops. Sorry.”
He doesn’t sound particularly sorry.
You take another sip of your mocha—lukewarm now, which is somehow fitting—and lean against the counter, watching the entryway.
Hobi appears a moment later, trailing behind Jungkook with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and that easy, relaxed energy he always seems to carry.
He looks good. Rested. Like someone who didn’t spend last night navigating the complicated logistics of orgasms with a new partner.
Must be nice.
His eyes scan the space—the empty living room, the quiet kitchen, the distinct lack of other humans—and he blinks.
Then he’s grinning, easy and warm. “Damn. Just you two up?”
“Looks like it,” Jungkook says, grabbing his abandoned coffee mug from the counter. “Everyone else is still passed out.”
“Wild.” Hobi stretches, rolling his shoulders like he’s working out the kinks from a long drive. “Okay, so—where’s my room? I gotta drop this off, and then I should probably find Tessa, right? Say hi? Be polite? Also, where’s Tae? And Yoongi? Did they come together or—”
“Hobi.”
“—because I texted Tae like three times and he left me on read, which is rude, and Yoongi never answers anyway so that’s whatever, but I figured they’d be—”
“Hobi.”
“What?”
Jungkook just stares at him.
Hobi blinks. Grins. “Too much?”
“Little bit.”
“Fair.” He rolls his neck, that easy smile never dropping. “Lead the way, then. I’ll interrogate you about everyone’s whereabouts after I’ve claimed a bed.”
Jungkook snorts, already heading toward the stairs, and Hobi moves to follow—but he pauses at the edge of the kitchen, turning back to where you’re still standing with your sad, lukewarm mocha.
“Hey.” His whole face softens into something genuinely warm. “Good to see you.”
He lifts a hand in a little wave, fingers wiggling, and you find yourself smiling back despite everything.
“Hey, Hobi. Good to see you too.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing up the stairs after Jungkook, his voice already picking back up mid-question about room assignments and whether anyone’s claimed the good bathroom yet.
You stand there for a moment, alone in the kitchen again.
The vanilla coffee capsules sit in their row. Untouched. Mocking you.
You dump the rest of your mocha in the sink and go find the shower before anyone else wakes up.
Some people shouldn’t be allowed to exist before noon.
Tessa’s one of them. Standing there at the vanity with what looks like half a jar of moisturizer smeared across her face, hair wrapped up in some kind of microfiber towel turban, wearing a silk robe that probably costs more than your entire skincare routine combined—and somehow still managing to look like she belongs in a skincare commercial.
It’s genuinely offensive.
Not that she even needs the cream. You can see her skin underneath it, dewy and poreless and glowing with that specific luminosity that comes from good genetics and maybe a lifetime of never having to worry about anything, ever.
Must be nice.
You’d come here for two reasons: one, after Jason’s comment you had to see for yourself how incredible the communal bathroom was, curiosity had gotten the better of you. And two, when you’d gotten back to the room after taking that blessed, blessed Advil, Jason had already claimed the en-suite shower.
So. Here you are. In the legendary spa bathroom. Being confronted by Tessa’s skincare routine.
“Oh hey!” She waves at you through the mirror, all bright smile and easy warmth, like finding someone in her bathroom at nine in the morning is the highlight of her day.
You wave back. Try to arrange your face into something that resembles friendly instead of ‘I just had a weird moment with your sort-of-boyfriend in the kitchen and my body hasn’t fully recovered yet.’
“Hey.”
Nailed it.
Then you actually look around, and—
What the fuck.
This isn’t a bathroom. This is a… spa? Locker room? Some unholy combination of both that probably has its own zip code?
There are multiple vanities lined up along one wall, each with its own mirror and lighting setup. Multiple sinks. And beyond them—stalls. Actual shower stalls with frosted glass doors, like you’ve wandered into a very upscale gym by accident.
Except between the stalls there’s more frosted glass. Translucent panels instead of solid walls, letting light filter through the whole space in that annoyingly gorgeous way expensive spas do. You can barely make out movement through them—just vague shapes and shadows—but it’s enough to see if someone’s occupying the next stall over.
Rich people and their fucking design choices.
“First time seeing it?” Tessa asks, and there’s no judgment in her voice. Just genuine amusement.
“It’s, um.” You gesture vaguely at everything. “A lot.”
“Yeah.” She laughs, soft and easy. “Grandpa went a little overboard.”
Right.
Because some people have grandparents who build them entire bathroom complexes with interior designer-approved frosted glass panels instead of, say, giving them twenty bucks for their birthday and calling it a day.
You’re still staring at the stalls. Can’t help it. They’re nice—each one big enough to be a small room, with what looks like rainfall showerheads and built-in benches and probably heated floors because why the fuck not at this point.
Very zen. Very expensive. Very why.
“The stalls?” Tessa catches you looking.
“Sorry, I just—” You shake your head. “Why are there shower stalls? In a mansion?”
She doesn’t seem offended by the question. If anything, her smile goes softer, more nostalgic. “This used to be two bedrooms, actually. Grandpa had them converted when I was like… eight? Nine?”
“Converted into a communal bathroom?”
“For me and my friends.” She shrugs like this is a completely normal sentence. “We’d spend summers here, you know? Swimming in the pool, camping in the garden, riding the horses—”
Horses. Of course there are horses. Of course there’s a garden big enough to camp in. Of course there’s a pool and probably a tennis court and a helicopter pad and a small country tucked away somewhere behind the hedges.
“—and we’d get so gross after,” Tessa continues, completely oblivious to your internal class-consciousness spiral. “Chlorine and sweat and horse smell. So grandpa was like, okay, if there’s going to be six girls trying to shower at the same time, we need a system.”
Six girls. Showering simultaneously. In a bathroom custom-built by a doting grandfather.
Normal rich people things.
“That’s…” You search for the right word. Excessive? Insane? A level of casual wealth that makes your brain do jumping jacks? “Really sweet, actually.”
And it is, underneath all of it.
A grandpa who saw his granddaughter’s messy summer friendships and decided to renovate two entire rooms with fancy glass and spa aesthetics instead of just telling them to take turns.
There’s something almost wholesome about it, if you squint past the obvious ’we have more money than God’ of it all.
Tessa beams at you, and her smile does something complicated to your chest. Makes you feel small and petty for all the uncharitable thoughts you’re having.
She’s not showing off. She’s just… existing in her world, the same way you exist in yours.
It’s not her fault her world comes with horses and custom bathrooms.
“I miss them when they travel,” she says, quieter now. “My grandparents, I mean. The house feels weird without them.”
You don’t know what to say to that. Emotional vulnerability isn’t exactly your strong suit, especially not with people you barely know.
Tessa saves you by turning back to the mirror, unwrapping her hair from the towel turban with practiced movements. Her curls tumble down, wet and defined, and she starts scrunching them. Works some kind of cream through the ends, scrunching and squeezing, completely focused on the task.
Meanwhile, you’re standing here in yesterday’s clothes with your hair in a messy bun (but not the cute way, the ‘bird nest’ kind of way) that stopped being intentional approximately twelve hours ago.
Cool. Love that juxtaposition.
She twists her curls up, securing them with a scrunchie that matches her robe—because of course it does—and gives herself a final once-over in the mirror.
“Okay, I’m out of your hair.” She grabs a small bag from the counter. “Take your time! Towels are in the cabinet by the door.”
“Thanks.”
She’s almost to the door when she pauses, turning back.
“Oh—third stall has the best water pressure. Just FYI.”
And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in this ridiculous bathroom with its multiple stalls and heated floors and probably a bidet somewhere that plays classical music.
You catch your reflection in one of the vanities.
Yikes.
No, actually.
You look exactly like someone who got mediocre sleep, had confusing morning interactions with multiple people, and is currently operating on lukewarm mocha and spite.
Your skin is dull. Your eyes are tired. There’s a crease on your cheek from the pillow that hasn’t faded yet.
Tessa looked like a goddess with face cream on.
You look like a before photo in an acne medication commercial.
The comparison isn’t fair—you know it isn’t fair—but your brain makes it anyway. Catalogs all the ways you come up short. The ways Tessa is soft where you’re sharp, warm where you’re prickly, effortlessly beautiful where you’re… trying.
Always trying.
She’s the kind of girl who belongs in a place like this. Who fits into silk robes and custom bathrooms and probably looks amazing on horseback without even thinking about it.
You’re the kind of girl who’s still buzzing weirdly from a kitchen interaction that meant nothing and shouldn’t have affected you at all.
Get your shit together.
You grab a towel from the cabinet—soft, fluffy, probably Egyptian cotton or whatever rich people use—and head for the third stall after undressing and leaving your clothes in one of the lockers.
Might as well see what all the fuss is about.
The fuss, apparently, is a spaceship control panel masquerading as a shower.
You stare at the wall of buttons and dials and what might be a touchscreen interface, and your brain flat-lines. There are labels—tiny engraved words like ‘rainfall,’ ‘mist,’ ‘massage,’ ‘steam’—and you count at least twelve different settings before giving up.
Two shower heads. One fixed directly overhead, massive and round like a dinner plate. Another detachable, clipped to a holder at shoulder height.
And jets. Actual water jets built into the walls at various heights, because apparently standing under falling water is for peasants.
Rich people are insane.
You press the button that looks most like a power symbol—universal design language, please don’t fail you now—and water explodes from the overhead head in a perfect, even curtain.
Thank god.
The temperature’s already perfect. Warm but not scalding. Probably preset to some optimal number determined by scientists and luxury hotel consultants.
You press another button. The wall jets activate with a soft whoosh, and—
Oh.
Oh, Tessa wasn’t kidding about the pressure.
It hits your lower back in firm, pulsing streams, and your shoulders drop immediately. Every muscle you didn’t realize was tense suddenly isn’t.
Okay. Okay, this is… this is kind of incredible, actually.
You grab the eucalyptus shower gel from the built-in shelf—because of course there’s a built-in shelf, because of course it’s stocked with fancy products—and squeeze some into your palm. The scent hits immediately, sharp and clean, and you work it into foam between your hands.
Arms first. Shoulders. Clavicles.
The water pressure feels different now that you’re moving under it. More present. The jets hit your sides, your ribs, and you shift slightly to let them work across your back.
Then your breasts.
Your hands slow. Foam sliding over skin, slick and warm, and you cup them without thinking. Just—holding. Feeling the weight.
Jason didn’t touch them last night.
He… didn’t, did he? Clavicles, yeah. Briefly. But his hands stayed on your hips, your waist, never really—
Jungkook used to have a whole thing about them. Couldn’t keep his mouth away. Always had a nipple between his lips or his teeth or his tongue doing something that made your brain shut off entirely.
Your thumb brushes across your nipple. Accidental.
Except it wasn’t, you’re a liar, and the response is immediate—tightening, sensitivity spiking, and suddenly you’re very aware of the water pressure hitting your body.
Hitting everywhere.
No.
Nope. Absolutely not. You’re in someone’s grandparents’ house. In their custom-built bathroom. With a house full of people who could wake up at any moment and need to pee or brush their teeth or—
But the water jets are hitting your lower back, and if you just shifted slightly to the left—
You shift.
The angle changes. Water hits lower. Much lower.
Oh fuck.
That’s—
That’s really good.
Your hand finds the tile wall. Steadies you. The other stays on your breast because apparently your body’s made executive decisions without consulting your brain.
This is insane. You are insane. You already came last night—don’t be greedy—and this is someone’s grandpa’s bathroom and there are guests and—
You spread your legs wider.
The jet finds the right spot, and your breath catches.
Okay. Okay, this is happening. Apparently this is happening.
The pressure is perfect. Firm and constant and so much better than Jason’s finger-painting incident last night. So much better than zigzags, what the fuck even was that, circles are objectively superior, everyone knows circles are—
Jungkook always did circles.
These tight little motions with just enough pressure, fingers moving like he’d studied for it, like he’d memorized exactly what worked. And he’d watch your face the whole time, dark eyes tracking every reaction, making sure you were liking it.
He used to talk, too. Say the filthiest shit with that low voice, like he was narrating a porn movie, and you’d want to hit him for being so embarrassing about it but also—
Also it was kind of hot.
Really hot, actually, the way he’d tell you exactly what he was doing, what he was going to do, how good you felt, how wet you were, how pretty you looked when you—
The water hits just right and you bite down on your lip to keep quiet.
This is bad. Someone could walk in—the stall door isn’t locked, is it even lockable???—and you’d have to explain why you’re legs-spread under a water jet in a shower that probably costs more than your fucking car.
But your hand’s squeezing your breast now, thumb working over your nipple, and the water pressure is relentless and perfect and your brain is getting hazy around the edges.
Jungkook’s hands were always warm, and he’d squeeze just hard enough to make you gasp before his mouth would follow, and he’d hum against your skin like you tasted good, like he couldn’t get enough—
Stop.
Except you don’t want to stop.
Your eyes flick to the detachable shower head, still clipped in its holder, and your pulse spikes.
That would be—
That would be better.
More control. Better angle. You could aim it exactly where—
Your hand’s already reaching for it before you finish the thought.
You angle it down.
Jesus Christ.
The pressure from this thing is insane. Concentrated. Targeted. You adjust the angle slightly—just a little lower, just a bit more to the—
Oh fuck.
Oh fucking hell that feels way too good. Way too—
Your hand on the tile slips, palm sliding against wet porcelain, and you slap it over your mouth before any sound can escape.
You remember that time on the couch. His hands spreading your thighs wider, thumbs pressing into soft skin, opening you up so he could watch—actually watch—as you sank down on his cock. The way he’d stared like he was hypnotized, like he couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.
«Look at that. Fucking dripping for me, Phoenix. Can’t help it.»
Said it so casually. Like it was normal, like you weren’t dying from embarrassment and arousal in equal measure.
Filthy bastard.
Problem is, you’d gotten used to it. Gotten used to the way he’d narrate everything, say the most mortifying shit with that raspy voice, make you want to ride him and—
Grown to like it, even.
Stupid. So stupid.
Footsteps.
Fuck.
You fumble with the shower head, nearly drop it, catch it against your stomach. Heart slamming. Brain scrambling to look normal, act normal, be normal—
The frosted glass is blurry. Distorted. Anyone walking past would just see vague shapes, right? Just the outline of someone showering. Nothing suspicious. Totally innocent.
You press back against the far wall of the stall, shower head clutched to your chest like a security blanket.
The footsteps get closer. Stop.
A stall door opens. Not yours. The one next to you—stall four, maybe?
The door closes.
You exhale slowly, trying to calm your pulse, and that’s when you smell it.
Rain.
Fresh and clean and exactly like—
No.
No.
You blink through the steam, eyes tracking sideways to the frosted glass panel separating your stall from the next one.
There’s a figure. Tall. Masculine. Moving around, and you can’t see details but you can see shape. The broad line of shoulders. The curve of an arm reaching up—
An arm covered in ink.
Tattoos running from wrist to shoulder, dark lines blurred by frosted glass but unmistakable. And that hand—you know that hand. Know exactly how those fingers look wrapped around—
Jungkook.
That’s Jungkook in the stall next to you.
You almost trip. Foot sliding on wet tile, catching yourself against the wall with an ungraceful thud that sounds loud as fuck in the enclosed space.
Shit shit shit.
Has he noticed? Did he hear you come in? The frosted glass is too distorted for him to see details, right? Right?
The figure shifts, turning slightly, and you whip around. Face the opposite wall. Keep showering like a normal person having a normal shower in a normal bathroom where totally normal things are happening.
Except your pulse is hammering and the shower head is still in your hand and you’re very aware of how not-showering you were approximately thirty seconds ago.
Deep breath. Just—shower. Rinse your hair. Be normal.
You reach up, running your free hand through your hair, letting water cascade over your face. Acting out what normal showering should look like.
But then—
Your eyes drift. You glance over your shoulder.
The figure in the next stall is washing his hair. Both arms raised, working through dark strands, and you can see that tattooed arm moving.
You remember that hand guiding yours lower. Wrapping your fingers around his cock. Showing you the rhythm he liked, the pressure, the—
Your hand trembles. The shower head shifts.
“Ngh—”
The sound is quiet. Muffled. But unmistakable.
And it didn’t come from you.
Your head whips toward the frosted glass.
The figure’s posture has changed. Head forward now, one forearm braced against the tile wall. And there’s movement below his waist, sound of skin on skin, wet and slick and—
Is he—
Is he seriously—
He’s jerking off.
Right there. Right now. In the shower stall next to yours.
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck is he doing? This is—you’re literally right there. Right on the other side of a thin panel of frosted glass.
Does he know? Did he realize you’re here and decide to just—
Or did he not notice at all?
Is he just—what, so horny after his morning run that he couldn’t wait? Had to rub one out in the shower like a teenager?
The slapping sounds continue. Steady. Unhurried.
Your thoughts scatter. Trying to process this information and failing spectacularly.
But also—
The shower head has drifted. You didn’t mean to move it. Didn’t consciously decide to angle it back down, back to where it was, but your hand apparently has a mind of its own because suddenly—
Oh.
Oh fuck you forgot how good the pressure was.
Your knees nearly buckle.
And you can hear him. Can hear the water hitting his skin, his breathing—is it heavier now? It sounds heavier. Sounds like he’s getting closer, working himself faster, and—
You shouldn’t be listening. Shouldn’t be standing here with a goddamn shower head between your legs while your former fuck buddy jerks off three feet away.
This is insane.
But your hips angle anyway. Chasing the pressure. Finding the exact position that makes it good.
His breathing changes. Gets rougher.
Your free hand finds the tile wall again. Splayed flat. Holding you upright.
This is so fucked up.
So completely fucked up.
But your thighs are shaking and the heat is building and you bite down hard on your lip to keep quiet, keep silent, because if you make a sound—any sound—he’ll know. He’ll know exactly what you’re doing and you’ll never be able to look at him again.
The slapping sounds speed up.
Your hand tightens on the shower head.
Fuck.
He’s trying to stay quiet.
You can tell by the way the sounds get trapped in the back of his throat—these bitten-off groans that he’s clearly trying to swallow down but can’t quite manage. Can’t quite control.
And the sounds.
Thwop thwop thwop.
Wet. Rhythmic. Getting faster.
He must be using the shower gel. Has to be. That’s the only explanation for why it sounds so—so fucking obscene. Slick and quick and you can practically hear his grip tightening, his hand moving faster, and—
This is insane.
You’re insane.
You’re a pervert. A fucking creep. Getting turned on by your ex fuck buddy rubbing his morning wood out in the shower next to you like some kind of—
His breathing gets rougher. Harsher. You hear him exhale hard through his nose, trying to not make sounds, biting them off, trying to keep it together, but he’s failing and that’s—
That’s really fucking hot, actually.
Your free hand clamps over your mouth. Fingers digging into your cheek. Holding back the sounds that want to escape because if you make any noise—
Thwop thwop thwop thwop.
Faster now. Desperate. His rhythm’s breaking, getting erratic, and you can hear him fighting it. Fighting to stay silent while he—
“Ngh—”
The sound is bitten off. Muffled. But you heard it.
Your thighs start shaking.
Did he even see you come in? Does he know you’re here or is he just—what, jerking off obliviously three feet away from you while you do the exact same thing and neither of you acknowledges it?
He didn’t see you. You didn’t see him. Nothing’s happening. You’re both just showering. Totally normal showers. Nothing else.
Except you can hear him. Can hear every bitten-back sound, every sharp inhale, every wet slap of his hand moving faster, tighter, and your brain is supplying images it has no business supplying right now—
His hand wrapped around his cock. Thumb swiping over the head. That little twist he does at the tip because he knows it feels good. The way his abs would tense. The way his jaw would clench. The way he’d look right before he—
“Mhm—”
You bite down on your knuckle. Hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to keep any sound from escaping.
Through the frosted glass, you see his shadow shift. His head—
It turns.
Slightly. Just a fraction. Toward you.
Did he—
Can he—
Your eyes squeeze shut as the orgasm hits, crashes through you in waves. Sharp and overwhelming. Your whole body locks up, thighs clenching, free hand slamming against the tile to keep you upright, teeth sinking onto your lower lip while the shower head stays exactly where it is, water pulsing against your clit through the aftershocks.
Your vision whites out. Goes fuzzy. Every muscle trembling.
“F-fuck—”
His voice. Rough and broken and right there.
And you hear it. Hear the exact moment he cums. The way his breathing stops, stutters, restarts. The slapping sounds cut off abruptly, replaced by a low groan he can’t quite swallow.
Your eyes snap open.
His head is forward again. Not turned. Facing the wall like it never moved.
Did you imagine it? The turning? Did your brain just—supply that detail because you wanted it to be real?
He couldn’t have looked. The frosted glass is too distorted. He couldn’t have seen you.
Right?
Right?
The water’s still running in both stalls. You can hear him breathing. Hear the shift of movement as he—what, cleans up? Rinses off?
Did you imagine it?
Did he actually turn toward you or did your oxygen-deprived brain just—
Doesn't matter.
You need to leave.
Right now. Immediately. Before he finishes his shower and comes out and sees you and somehow just knows what you did.
Your hands are shaking as you hang the shower head back in its holder. As you turn off the jets. As you grab the towel from the hook outside the stall and wrap it around yourself with movements that feel mechanical and disconnected.
The water in his stall is still running.
Good. Perfect. Time to go.
You don't let yourself look at the frosted glass again. Don't let yourself think about what just happened or what he was doing or whether he knew you were there or—
Move.
You grab your clothes. Clutch them to your chest. Your hair is dripping everywhere and you don't care. Don't care about anything except getting out of this bathroom.
You're out the door before your brain catches up with your body.
The hallway is blessedly empty. No witnesses to your walk of shame. No one to see you fleeing a bathroom like you've committed a crime.
Which you kind of have.
Morally, at least.
You make it back to your room. Close the door. Lean against it.
Your pulse is still racing. Your skin is still flushed. Your legs are still shaking.
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck did you just do.
You just—you just masturbated in a shower stall while listening to Jungkook jerk off in the one next to you. In someone's grandparents' house. While your boyfriend—sort-of-boyfriend—whatever-Jason-is—slept soundly in the bed you'd had mediocre sex in last night.
You're a terrible person.
A genuinely terrible, morally bankrupt person.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that you're pretty sure you came harder just now than you did last night with Jason.
next | index
if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'⸌⸌'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode
* 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤: 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐲. The first time you met Yunho, you knew he was going to be part of the biggest tragedy of your life: the loss of your freedom, of your free will. You didn't know why back then but what you did figure out is that you and Jeong Yunho were going to, eventually and very publicly, date each other at some point. Is that reason enough to hate his guts? Well, of course! Now, when the time comes to fulfill the prophecy, how the hell are you going to pull it off? And, most importantly, what do you need to do to not fall in love with him in the process?
PAIRING: rich!yunho x rich!reader.
GENRE: enemies to friends to lovers.
WORD COUNT: 16.5k (dear god).
WARNINGS: eventual SMUT ☽ (MINORS DNI) attempt !!! at comedy, this chapter is truly them being cute and barely fighting which is ???, healthy competition i think, they get a serious case of the silly goose at some point, mentions of drinking at some point, gyuri being an overprotective friend, meeting new people, emotional talk involving kids yall will see why, pet names (princess), descriptions of female and male anatomy, first kisses!! *the crowd cheers*, a little bit of dry humping... *the crowd boos* and unresolved feelings!!!! *the crowd AND y/n leave in angry tears*.
NOTES: hi everyone! here's part three of this mini series that is PART OF THE LOVE'S AN UNCHARTED PATH / SHOW & TELL UNIVERSE. so, so sorry it took so long but i had a bit of a writer's block these past months :(. there's mentions of the last installment plot so, if you're new around here, you can always find the rest of this series and the rest of the stories of this universe on my masterist! this is 100% self indulgent, as all fics should be, and i think i've re-read it so many times that if you find a typo or something that just doesn't make sense, you can blame it on english not being my first language i guess lmao. i hope you enjoy it and if you do feel free to send to my askbox/reblog/type in any feedback or thoughts! <3
POSTED: december 5th 2024.
masterlist - part one - part two.
There's this image of you that flashes across Yunho’s mind.
It happened right before he fell asleep last night, too, and he's having a hard time figuring out if he only dreamed it or if it actually happened.
The skin on your back glistening, the cut of the dress after he pulled down the zipper just enough to not be disrespectful.
He did it out of instinct, out of the sudden familiarity he felt between you both. He did it because, before he had the genius idea of helping you with your dress (to get it off in some way, what the fuck is wrong with him), you were really close to his face and he couldn't think straight for the remainder of the time he was in your presence.
There was a time in his life where the mere thought of you brought discomfort to him. It kinda brings discomfort to him now, too, but it's a different kind of discomfort. It's dull, it's confusing and it's angering at the same time because, if he was sure of something before, it was the fact that he never really wanted to be near you.
You were the bane of his existence when you two were kids, something that was forced on him the second your parents wanted and he despises the lack of control and freedom he's always had around you.
And now there's a flash of you genuinely laughing at him for blushing after the old lady from last night gave him some not-so-innocent compliments in front of everyone. There's a flash of you defending him when you really didn't need to, even if you stated otherwise.
There's a flash of you wiping the corners of your mouth after finishing the food he made you, a visage that completely besots him.
He never really wanted to kiss you.
Only once, at your graduation party, but that was drunk him and playing spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven really did a number on his teenage hormones at the time.
He remembers the bottle landing on the girl next to you and the guy next to you and the guy next to the guy next to you. Yunho kissed them all with the hope of kissing you at some point that night. Just because he was curious, because deep inside of him he knew your parents plans all along.
He didn't get to do it, though, and so it didn't really matter; the wish died as soon as he woke up the next day with a huge hangover and a dry mouth. Yesterday, he thought the same would happen if he went to sleep and dreamed about anything but you.
That, of course, didn't happen.
Now he’s just left trying to figure out what the fuck is going on exactly as the memory of your lips and the sting of annoyance that follows the thought of him wanting you in any way other than fifty feet apart distracts him from whatever his friends are saying right now.
“He lost his fucking mind,” Gyuri stands in front of him, hands on her hips and furrowed brows like a mother who’s scolding her troubled child. She collapses on the couch behind her a second later, next to her best friend who’s giggling at her and her reaction “He’s not even answering to me.”
They called for an emergency meeting at San and Wooyoung’s place, as expected. He was supposed to see them on saturday anyway but now he gave the friend group a reason to hang out a day earlier. Seonghwa did too, but his story, apparently, is more interesting than the oldest sudden girlfriend.
In a way, they both got out of nowhere partners. But the friend group is hanging out a day earlier than expected so he’s not really sure why he’s being reprimanded for something so out of his control.
They don't know this is out of his control. Maybe that's why.
Wooyoung takes a sit in front of him, on top of the wooden table separating the space between the tv and the couch and puts a hand on his shoulder, like a father who’s trying to be on his side of things without offending his wife “Care to explain yourself, Yunho?”
He decides to play pretend so he doesn’t have to think about it more than he needs to “Explain what?”
As Gyuri gasps, Woo shakes his head before dramatically hanging it low.
“God help you, my dear friend.”
Gyuri gets up again and Wooyoung gets up as well, stepping aside so he can give space to her to regard poor little him with the angriest look ever directed at an innocent man.
He thanks Mingi for opening the front door of the apartment right at that moment.
Behind him, Mingi’s girlfriend, Yeosang, Hongjoong and Seonghwa follow suit. San is in the kitchen finishing the dishes and Jongho is at school, taking a quiz or something, he thinks.
He didn’t really read the group chat like that. They just requested his presence and he spawned in the apartment half an hour later.
But he didn't take into account that he was seeing Mingi that day too. Mingi, his best friend for a few years now, the only person he should've actually told what was going to happen yesterday night.
He fucked up.
“Can you let the man explain himself, Gyuri?” Mingi asks, down on one knee and helping his girl take off her shoes. Yunho wants to roll his eyes but Mingi is, after all, head over heels for her.
How is he going to explain to them that he’s not head over heels over his new, sudden girlfriend? That, in fact, he thought he despised her until yesterday.
And that now he’s not able to shake her from his thoughts even if he desperately wants to.
“What’s going on?” Seonghwa asks and Gyuri turns and points at him.
“We’re talking to you after we talk to him.” She makes a show of her threat, her pointed finger moving to Yunho’s forehead and slightly pushing him back on his seat.
Seonghwa rolls his eyes and plops down on the couch, next to San’s girlfriend “Oh, my God.”
“I’m sorry,” she tells him with a tiny smile “She’s freaking out today.”
Wooyoung turns the tv on. His laptop is connected to it through a long, orange cord and when Yunho turns to the screen, it shows a picture of him and you with plastic smiles that look too real.
If only people knew.
“This is what’s going on,” he says, pointing to the image and then leaning into his laptop to click a new tab “The Jeong and Kim empires merge into one after their youngest announce they’re in a relationship at yesterday’s twenty year celebratory gala,” reading directly from the article, Yunho manages to cringe at the wording of it before Wooyoung turns to him “Since when, bitch?”
Yunho opens his mouth to reply but both Yeosang and Seonghwa make a surprised noise.
“Oh?”
“Isn’t she…?” Yeosang looks at him “Is she?”
He nods and Yeosang claps, mumbling a I knew it under his breath.
“So that’s what she meant when she told me I looked familiar, she knows you!” Seonghwa smiles a little and then his expression turns into a frown, like he just realized something he shouldn't “When did you start dating her?”
“Well, actually—”
“And didn’t tell us?” Mingi’s girlfriend looks very offended but he can tell she’s half joking, especially when Mingi smirks a little and then joins her with a pout.
His best friend looks at him a second too long, though and that lets him know he might be a little offended.
Mingi opens his mouth to speak but a choir of voices stops him from doing so and Yunho breathes out his regret for even showing up and for not explaining everything to Mingi first.
“What do they mean ‘merge their empires’. Are you getting married?”
“When did you even meet her?”
“Through his family, I suppose.”
“Are you getting married?”
“So did you cheat on her like two months ago with that girl from the bar?”
“No, no, he didn’t hook up with the girl, that was Hongjoong.”
“Sure I did,” he says and gives Yunho a look, like he doesn’t remember who they’re talking about “Yuyu, can I be the main groomsman?” Hoonjong asks as San returns with a snack plate on his hand and he takes it from him when he offers it, putting some chips on his mouth immediately “Hwa, too. We're the oldest, so.”
Mingi scoffs “And I’m literally his best friend, don’t even try it.”
“That’s literally me, oh my God? Liar?”
Yunho is starting to feel a little overwhelmed by the amount of noise he normally would contribute to.
Right now? He wants everyone to shut up while he finds a way of explaining everything and not sound completely insane in the process.
It’s quite the normal concept, he thinks. Arranged matrimonies are a thing in a lot of cultures and in his it’s more subtle than anything, not quite what it used to be, but they’re still there especially for families like his.
He’s not getting married, he should also clarify that. But as Mingi takes hold of Wooyoung’s laptop and scrolls through the article and then turns to him asking for an explanation with his eyes instead of his words, all the coherent sentences he just put together in his mind die on his tongue.
Mingi is not really one to pry, but his stare tells him that he’s a little bit concerned with everything. After all, he’s the only one who understands the full complicated history Yunho has with his family.
“Guys,” he says, all mischievousness wiped out of his face “let him explain and don’t interrupt.”
The noise quiets down and everyone looks at him, expectant and curious. Now that he’s able to untense his shoulders and take a calming breath, he also notices a few concerned stares that join Mingi in the sentiment.
Alright. Okay. He can do this.
Yunho sends his best friend a thankful smile before gulping down his nerves.
“That’s Kim Y/N,” he points at the tv screen, although half of your face is cut off because Mingi scrolled down to read “I’ve known her since we were kids, her parents and my parents are really good friends and her dad helped my dad launch his company, so we were… They were celebrating that yesterday.”
Everyone nods and then he catches Seonghwa’s eye “My brother and her brother are very good friends, too. You know Soohyun hyung, don’t you?”
“Oh,” he seems taken by surprise by that “he’s a new client.”
“I figured,” Yunho smiles, “He’s a good guy, just a little…”
“Carefree?” Hwa offers.
“Mhm. Anyways,” he shakes his head, trying to get back on track “Jeong Tech made a huge mistake a few months ago and so they decided to announce our relationship yesterday to kind of… Everyone loves Y/N,” he says quickly “She’s… We—”
“Are you two together or not?” Wooyoung asks, clearly confused and when everyone shushes him he mutters his apologies.
Yunho wants to answer him with the truth. He really does and it’s right there, ready to come out, but he thinks about you. About everything you told him yesterday, about how you actually seemed to care to please your parents.
He thinks about his own mother’s threats.
And he knows it’s a little stupid wondering if someone in this room would tell, but he hesitates.
It hurts him to hesitate but then someone speaks up. There, curled around San’s arm and peeling open an orange, his savior speaks up.
“Relationship of convenience,” she says softly and matter of factly, turning heads in her direction “What? I could’ve told you this two hours ago,” she points at Gyuri and Wooyoung “But you refused to explain! Come on, everybody,” giggling, she offers a freshly peeled slice to her boyfriend. “I work with books for a living, you work with books for a living!” She points at Woo again, “This trope is classic,” and then she looks back at him with a kind and honest smile. “You two do look good together, though. Are you friends, at least?”
He hesitates. You both definitely, sort of, made amends last night. But it's a little weird and, suddenly, also hard to explain.
Yunho thought the word friends would've just rolled out of his tongue naturally, as a little white lie to ease everyone's worries. Now, it hardly makes its way onto it so he just nods after a long pause that definitely raises suspicion on everyone's face.
“We've known each other for a very long time, went to highschool together and everything,” that seems to eradicate some of the doubts, because San grins and turns to his girlfriend with a knowing smile that she returns.
Gyuri is not as convinced “But are you friends?”
“Yes,” he returns immediately after that, wanting the conversation to be over. He’s not lying, not really, not after what you both said yesterday “We are, we’re trying to be.”
“So you hate the bitch. Got it.” Gyuri nods.
Yunho takes offense to that, oddly enough. Because no, he doesn't hate you, not a little, not at all.
He thinks.
Besides, he confirmed yesterday that you're not much of a bitch and it hurts that Gyuri thinks you are one, but San’s girlfriend it's already handling that before he has the opportunity to defend you like you defended him.
“Babe, don't call her that.”
Gyuri raises her hands defensively “I'm just taking preventive action! What if she is a bitch?”
“She's not.” Yunho says and they both turn their heads to him, Gyuri with a frown and her best friend with a knowing smile.
What does she know that he doesn't? Beats him.
Instead, he settles “She's just… Well, she's—”
“Intense?” Gyuri offers.
Wooyoung shakes his head and points to his ex “No, that's you.”
For once, he's glad their bickering interrupts him because he doesn't really know how to describe you. What's his current opinion on you? He has no clue. It's weird, he hates it a bit, but the feeling is there and the words are on the verge of spilling out of his mouth.
San’s girlfriend gasps and then murmurs an excited: “I love enemies to lovers!”
“I don't think real people can fit into fictional tropes, babe,” Gyuri returns, taking a slice she's offering in her direction before eyeing Yunho “Or can they?”
That he can answer “We're not enemies and we're definitely not lovers.” He says with a shrug.
“You're something way worse then,” San’s girlfriend nods and then smiles in excitement “Can't wait!”
“For what?” Yunho asks in a whisper but Mingi, thankfully, interrupts.
“Why are they talking about marriage, then?” He asks, his concern is palpable and Yunho feels kind of bad. He feels really bad, actually.
He could have told him this, at least. He could have talked about you, but the truth is that his mind avoided remembering you if not necessary; that’s how much you two seemed to hate each other.
Now?
It’s kind of complicated not to think about you when you’re plaguing his mind, infecting it like a virus.
Or painting it, like the canvases he saw in your room yesterday.
Do you paint? Is that something you like to do in your free time?
Why does he feel like he knows very little about you, all of the sudden?
He groans and then shakes his head.
“There’s no marriage, they’re getting ahead of themselves,” he clarifies.
“Is there going to be a marriage?”
There's movement on the screen now and he sees Mingi’s girlfriend scrolling unapologetically through the article. She's watching a video of the both of you posing together for a picture and there's something that pulls inside of him. His eyes attempt to water but he manages to keep his emotions down, locked up because there's a lot of feelings he won't put on his friends.
He's sure they think of him as a dumb puppy who's actually very academically smart, just a little clumsy with his social interactions. He's been pretending he is, anyway.
The only one who really sees through him is Mingi but even him, to some degree, has bought his immature act. And to some extent it became real for Yunho himself, too, so deep fears and sad emotions are off the table.
So he pulls himself together and turns to his friend.
“I think she has an escape plan if our parents decide to marry us off to each other,” he admits, snorting out a laugh that’s a little bitter but more amused than anything, he shakes his head “So no, no engagement, no marriage.”
“Why, what's wrong with you?” Gyuri asks, eyes squinted with prejudice and suspicion “Why wouldn't she want to marry you?”
“Well, that's not… Gyuri,” he opens and closes his mouth a few times, not really knowing what to say to his friend's question, so he looks at Mingi with begging eyes “That's not really the point, right?”
“Don't look at me, she's right,” Mingi shrugs, “Why wouldn't she want to marry you?”
“Because we're not in love!”
Wooyoung scoffs “And yet you're a perfectly fine and rich young man, so why wouldn't she want to marry you?”
“So we officially hate her, right?” Gyuri says and claps her hands before standing up again for the millionth time and heading his way. Her hands fall on his shoulders and he has to crane his neck to see her from below “Okay, then! What's the plan? Do we get rid of her?”
“No!”
“I could, if that's what you want.”
His head snaps at Hongjoong at the suggestion, disbelief writing on his face “I love you guys but the Yunho protection squad needs to dissolve right now, everything’s fine!”
“Is it?” Mingi asks and Yunho takes his time to look at his best friend before nodding.
“It is. We're supposed to break up eventually anyway,” air leaves his lungs in a long sigh and then he gulps a little, not really sure how to say what he wants to say without offending anyone. And Gyuri's hands are still on him, so the pressure doubles at the potential threat of physical harm that his next statement can get him. “Listen, I won't make any of you sign nda’s or anything like that because I trust you but please, please don't tell anyone this.”
He looks around the room and sees wide eyes before they turn understanding and when his friends nod in agreement, he feels a weight lift off his shoulders.
Literally, Gyuri moves to sit next to Wooyoung who tries to put an arm around her and fails.
“You're not that famous, Yunho,” Hongjoong kisses his teeth and the mood shifts into the lighthearted one he's used to “Unlike me. I'm a celebrity among my peers.”
Wooyoung rolls his eyes “Yeah, because all the criminals turned music students turn guitarists of a nugu rock band worship you.”
Hongjoong ignores him but his smile is tense and his eyes are squinted in fake joy when he speaks again “You are going to the gig tomorrow, right?”
He laughs “Of course. I might be a little late but I'll get to see your set.”
Hongjoong frowns “Why?”
“I have a schedule now, so…”
“Oh, my God,” San’s girlfriend squeaks, typing something in her phone and Yunho catches his friend fondly following with his eyes the sentences she's putting together “And what else do you have to do now?”
“Babe, I hope you're not writing a story about this.” Gyuri warns but her friend ignores her and turns to Seonghwa.
Who realizes right away what she's doing, gaping at her and her betrayal with feign hurt. Yunho gets it a second later and his lips curve upwards a little.
“And what did you do to get a girlfriend so fast? It was the motorcycle, wasn't it?”
Wooyoung gasps and Gyuri seems to remember suddenly that there were two important subjects to dissect on the table today, so she gets up again with her hands on her hips and stares at him like a distressed mother.
“What the hell were you thinking, Park Seonghwa? Girlfriend? You met her yesterday!”
“Three days ago, but yes, maybe—”
“Oh, three days ago! That's an eternity in dog years, right? Are you a dog, Seonghwa?”
Seonghwa’s eyes practically meet the back of his head and Yunho has to stifle a laugh “Not a dog, Gyuri, just a guy.”
She pauses and then makes a face.
“That… Actually makes a lot of sense.”
“We made the mistake of calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend way too soon. But, to be fair, his text messages woke us up,” Seonghwa's finger is pointing to Yunho and he pouts as a response “Kind of, so we were sleepy and—”
“Sure, let's hang out tonight so you can meet my girlfriend,” Hongjoong reads directly from his phone and shakes his head. Yunho can't actually tell if he's offended or not “Not even a warning first.”
“I literally told you about her and you told me to go for it.”
“Did I?”
“Yeosang was there.”
At the mention of his name, Yeosang looks up from his phone and smiles shyly at the oldest two “Correct.”
There's a bit of silence and then Hwa clears his throat softly.
“She's going to be my girlfriend though,” he says, almost in a whisper but everyone hears him “So I don't know what the big deal is.”
Wooyoung slumps from the couch to the ground with his eyes closed in defeat “Oh, dear God.”
“The big deal is that—”
Gyuri's voice fades to the background and he catches Hwa telling her that she's not his mother or something before tuning the discussion out.
When he turns to his left, Mingi is still eyeing him to make sure he's okay. Yunho nods and smiles and then offers his hand to him, which he takes.
Mingi's girlfriend turned off the laptop and is watching the interaction with a tiny contempt curve to her lips and, when Yunho catches a glimpse at San’s girlfriend from behind his friends built form (she's completely hiding behind him from all the chaos Gyuri is bringing to the living room), she catches his eye and then blinks one of hers in complicity.
Again, Yunho wonders what she knows that he doesn't.
But with the attention off of him, your face returns to his head.
So he's not really able to concentrate on anything else for the remainder of the hang out. When he finally, finally has his mind occupied by something else (San dared him to beat him at Mario Kart and Jongho brought food and drinks as an apology for completing his academic duties instead of showing up to the meeting), a text pops up from an unknown number.
+82-5-059-6733: Hey. Added your number from that stupid group chat our brothers made because telling each other things through our assistants makes me physically ill, hope you don't mind.
+82-5-059-6733: Actually, I don't really care if you mind. If you block me, I'll find another phone to text you on.
+82-5-059-6733: Anyway, I'll send you the address of where we're going fashionably late tonight. It's an early drive so you're free to skip this (Do skip it please).
+82-5-059-6733: Jeong Yunho, do not ignore me or I swear to God…
He hates that, after reading his home screen, he has a smile on his lips. You sound both formal and pushy through text, too and he didn't think it was possible to have so much personality that it filters through writing as well. He's finding out new things about you and, although he made it a point to ask you to get along yesterday, it still feels really weird to do so.
When he turns to the screen again, he's down a few spots and San’s character speeds besides his in its kart.
“Is it her?” San asks, looking at him for a second, a knowing smile on his lips.
“It is but I'm not smiling because it's her,” he defends himself but there's a tint to his cheeks that might give him away. San laughs “Shut up. Your girlfriend’s schemes are rubbing on you.”
At the mention, he catches through the corner of his eye as his friend turns to the mentioned girl and Yunho smiles again before he hears him sigh, completely and utterly in love.
“Thank God.”
He recovers on the game while San is distracted, passing him and winning the race. The sound of it ending makes San snap his head back and watch as Yunho relaxes on the couch in egotistical victory.
“Ugh.”
The sun is shining through the clouds even though it was supposed to rain again. There's a singular gray one moving ominously among the other ones and threatening to mess up what you planned for the day.
It suspiciously moves past you and into the city when Yunho's car pulls up the hill. By the time he gets down, the sun is shining in full force and you roll your eyes when he regards you and your closed arms with a wink.
What does he gain out of this? You've been wondering since that night if coming here is better than staying at home for the weekend.
He could stay at his dorm, though. Is that an option? The curiosity you feel towards him now has completely taken over. It feels disgusting.
Either way, you hate that he actually showed up. That means someone, somewhere around you, is going to casually document the thing you kept to yourself for a long time. No because it's a secret but because there's no real need for anyone to know that you do this.
Your presence on social media is scarce, you have one open account that you use every six months (if you remember to use it at all) and the one you stalk people of your circle on. You have a twitter account that's private and not under your real name, a youtube account that doesn't really count as social media in your eyes and nothing else.
No one needs to know you do these sorts of things. Then, you wouldn't be doing it out of the kindness of your heart but to get sympathy points. Even though you'll always do it because you want to and not because you have to.
There's a lot of things you have to do, like your relationship with Yunho, but never this.
You know it's only like five out of one hundred people who wish you ill but those few people are enough to tarnish the affection the kids have for you, the trust you worked so hard to gain the few years you've been trying to make this orphanage somewhat quality-of-life acceptable.
You stumbled upon it one of those drunk early mornings where you had to walk around to get the alcohol out of your system before even daring showing up home or near it. Not because your family didn't know what you were up to, but because of the possible photographers roaming around the house.
A drunk underage daughter was worse than anything back then. Maybe it is now, too, but you remembered the mistake you made the first time you got drunk and the absolute reaping your mother gave you.
So when you locked eyes with a middle aged woman in the middle of nowhere after walking around half an hour before in heels, your almost-sober self pretended to be lost just to talk to someone and feel safe. The sun was barely showing that day and you were cold and sad and angry for not controlling yourself at the party and it must've shown in your face because you saw the woman taking a deep breath before offering you to step inside.
At that hour, the kids were asleep. There were traces of them everywhere, though and you remember the way your heart sank at the lifeness of the space even in the still hours of the morning.
It looked lived in, enjoyable and cozy. You never had that. Toys were put back in their place the second you got distracted by the tv or a book or when your mother said that was enough playing around for the day. Your room was always neat and tidy, put together and devoid of any evidence that you were real.
That has changed a little now, but back then seeing something you didn't have struck something within you. There was obviously no way you would complain about it out loud, though.
You had everything solved, your struggle has always been insignificant when compared with everyone else outside of your circle. It's fine, it's always been fine and the tears brought to your eyes when the middle aged woman put a hand on your shoulder and consoled you when she saw the environment was affecting you meant nothing.
You tried to convince yourself they meant nothing and tried to keep your heart where it belonged: inside of your tinsel bubble, frozen and harsh so that no one takes advantage of you.
And then she managed to melt the ice not even five minutes into explaining what it was that they did there. She said her position wasn't permanent, that the district kept changing directors and that the quality of life they were able to give to the kids was acceptable at best. Not good, not what they deserved.
Maybe that was the first time you took advantage of your privilege for something good. Because next thing you knew, you were putting together a presentation and pressing your father to do something about the home.
Your mother was scandalized but she agreed to do something with your ideas if your brother was put on the front of the newspapers, inaugurating the renovations made to the place.
Saturdays have been destined to the orphanage since then. They know not to put anything else on your schedule for the day, they know not to film you or send photographers per your request. Because your brother was already seen making the good deed a few years ago, so there's not really a way to take advantage of this anymore.
Besides, the district still manages it and no amount of volunteering can help the fact that its administration and the decisions that they make are as dumb as you believing for a second that Yunho was going to take your advice and stay home today.
Yunho being here changes things, you know it does. Why did they put this in his new schedule if not? You thought it was a punishment for him but now you're not so sure.
There's lack of movement, lack of press, lack of your mother's touch to it so you wonder what's the angle here. And, as usual, Yunho seems to be in the dark about the things plaguing your mind.
You point at his outfit in retaliation when he gets near you and your mother’s assistant, who became yours for the day.
“Is this what you could put together with such a long notice?”
“You said casual.”
“And this is your casual?”
At some point these past few days, and after seeing all the pictures of you two together at the gala, you came to terms with Yunho’s attractiveness. Objectively, he's a handsome guy. His dad was handsome at one point, his mom is absolutely breathtaking and his brother is handsome as well. They're just a family of naturally physically gifted people, alright?
But it is kind of unfair that he can look this good in flared jeans and a white fitted shirt, for fucks sake. He looks like he just got out of a Calvin Klein shoot… If the shoot was somehow made in the seventies. The black belt and the black boots with a tiny platform he's wearing add to the whole look and your eye twitches a little.
He looks really fucking cool, actually but there's no way in hell you would ever accept that. Handsome? Sure. Cool? Your mind is tricking you somehow.
It's that warmth that invaded your body when he made you food a few nights ago making you think nonsense. You want to desperately get rid of it.
He scoffs but a tiny smile tugs at his lips when he looks you up and down “Is this yours?”
Looking down at your wide leg trousers, your kitty heels and your short sleeved cotton top, you fail to see where the problem is.
“Duh.”
He whistles, low and for a few seconds and for a moment you think he's doing it because of you and your heart beats erratically until you realize his eyes are fixed on the orphanage.
You smile a little.
These past few years you've been able to get funding and provide funding to it, so the renovations just keep coming and coming. It doesn't look like the one you found refuge on that morning a few years ago at all and it definitely doesn't look like the one your brother had the chance to be photographed with either.
Right now, it has a little bit of your touch: It looks like an elegant structure, but a building that's also suitable for children to be in. It has a playground vibe to it, the exterior and the design of the new entrance you approved a few months ago only solidifies it.
The kids love it. You didn't exactly run the design through them but it would've shown if they didn't.
They're very expressive, but decisive too. Bossy, even. You look at Yunho and you want to smile fully because he simply doesn't know what he got himself into.
That proves to be true as the hours go by. The kids raise their eyebrows when they meet him, say hi to him with a bow and then turn to you for explanations. When you say that this is a new friend that's going to be helping out that day, you don't miss the way Yunho lights up a bit besides you.
And then that light is completely stolen by hour three, you see it as he chases kids around the yard. It hurts that they acclimated so fast to him but, again, when you got there the first time the place wasn't really one where they felt completely safe.
This proves that you helped change that. Good.
There's a few of them, the older ones, that sit on the ground and stare daggers at Yunho like he's going to hurt the younger kids at any moment. These kids were practically toddlers when you met them and they had a hard time being around you when you started to show up regularly.
They barely spoke a word and, when they did, they yelled at you for not playing with the toys like you were supposed to, or because you looked too clean and too pretty to be messing with paint or something of the sort.
It took months for you to build that trust and now the oldest is a tween with shaggy hair and a scowl on his face because he thinks of Yunho the same way he thought of you when he was just a kid.
He barely notices when you crouch next to him, the hand you put on his shoulder making him jump slightly.
“I understand the feeling of wanting to punch Yunho in the face,” you start, smiling and then tilting your head a little “but you're going to burn a hole on his back if you keep staring at him like that, Hyunjoon.”
“Then why did you bring him here?” His frown deepens and you shrug “We were just fine with everything here and now there's a stranger playing tag with my little brother,” he shakes his head “I don't like it.”
Sighing and then turning to Yunho, you see the exact moment his attempts to escape Haejoon, Hyunjoon’s little brother, are sabotaged by Hyunjoon’s best friend, Soyi.
“I think you're a little jealous.”
“What?”
You want to laugh when his head snaps at you, chest heaving in preteen anger at the word jealous.
“Yeah, not because he's playing with Haejoon but because Soyi is there too,” you shrug again, readjusting your crouching position because it hurts your legs but there's no way you're sitting on the ground “You like her, Yunho is handsome and you're jealous.”
He turns away from you and you laugh when he makes a disgusted face that then turns into mild discomfort and ends up being a full pout.
“We're fighting.”
“You and Soyi?” He nods and you sigh “What is it now?”
“I dunno.” He murmurs with a shrug.
“Are you sure?”
“I don't know what I did! Okay?”
There's this uncharacteristically amount of patience you have when it comes to these kids that don't run out even if they yell at you and cause a few heads to turn your way. It never really bothers you except today, when you know there's possibly someone monitoring your movements.
Yunho’s assistant, most likely. You know yours is compliant and doesn't really give a fuck about what goes on here, her focus on her tablet the whole time, probably arranging things for her actual boss (your mom).
“Have you asked her?” He shakes his head “Then maybe start by asking her, later today if you want,” you rush to clarify when you see him tense up at the idea “Or tomorrow or the next day but don't let silly things get in the way of your friendship with her, hm?”
His pout returns and his eyes start to water a little but before you have the opportunity to make him laugh the sadness away, someone jogs towards you both.
“Everything alright?”
Yunho’s sweating, he's out of breath and squinting his eyes because of the sunlight and it reminds you of when you used to cross paths during recess, back in highschool.
“Wouldn't you like to know?” Hyunjoon sulks and scoffs at him and, once again, you suppress your laughter.
“We're fine. Did you need something?”
“No, no, Soyi just asked me to—” He stops when Hyunjoon's reaction gives away the root of his sulking and you see him glance at you once. You don't give Hyunjoon secrets away, though. “She asked me to tell you that she's going to start counting in two minutes and you are both obligated to play.”
“Ah, yes, the mandatory hide and seek of the day.” You nod and watch as Hyunjoon's eyebrows raise in interest “Tell her it's okay, that she can start counting now.”
Yunho raises his eyebrows as well, curiosity on his face “And you're hiding too?”
“It's mandatory, Yunho. Do you know what mandatory means?”
He clicks his tongue “I obviously do, Y/N, it was a simple question. Do you have to—”
“Don't speak to her like that, ahjussi!”
Once again, Yunho is interrupted by Hyunjoon and this time you can't help but laugh at the pure shock on his face. It warms your heart that a kid that was once so reluctant to have you around is defending you and you think your expression might give the feeling away because Yunho says nothing in return, just nods once and then presses his lips together, fighting a smile “I'll go tell her, then.”
“No!” Hyunjoon gets up quickly and you do too, your legs and feet thanking you “I'll do it, she's my best friend.”
It's the threatening (and very cute) look Hyunjoon sends in Yunho’s direction before sprinting towards Soyi and his brother that breaks the both of you into giggles.
Only when your laughter dies down is that you turn to Yunho, arms crossed as you look him up and down to assess the real damage caused these first few hours.
No other reason.
“Thought you said these kids were tough.”
You shrug and he smiles “They are but you came here with me, so they're going easy on you.”
“Yeah, I'm sure that's it.” Yunho nods and then turns over his shoulder. You do too, only to find Soyi with her hands over her eyes and counting already “Better don't get caught first, Kim.”
Walking towards the spot you usually hide in when it's mandatory hide and seek time, you bump your arm with his in not-so-fake animosity.
“You better not get caught, Jeong.”
“Is that a dare?” He yells when you're almost out of reach.
“I don't know,” you yell back “Is it?”
You miss the way his eyes follow you until you're out of frame, until some kid whose name he doesn't remember grabs his hand and pushes him to hide because he stood in place long enough to almost get caught first.
You do get caught in the first round but not before Yunho, so you count that as a win. The second round is trickier, Soyi banning some hiding spots like the natural leader she is, and so you get caught before Yunho. He does a little celebratory dance when he sees you in the yard before him. Ass.
There's only one round left before they call everyone to clean up for lunch.
Moving through the orphanage halls, you walk down the stairs that lead to the staff rooms before choosing one you know kids would not check if they don't caught you in plain sight: It's the one that has some panel windows on top of some lockers, to bring in some natural lighting because it was used as a classroom before.
Now, only boxes and dust live down there. But if you hide in the corner, there's no way you're getting caught before Yunho.
You checked when you were upstairs.
You giggle to yourself as you rest your back against the corner, taking your phone and unlocking it to find something to do while you await your very predictable victory in this pointless battle you and Yunho have going on.
Only for it to be crushed when he enters the room and closes the door behind it. See, you obviously didn't lock it because that defeats the rules of the game.
But maybe you should've.
“Get out.”
He seems startled when he hears your voice, clearly not expecting another soul to be there. “You blend so well into the wall, Y/N.”
You don't bite the bait “Yunho, you're going to get both of us caught. Get. Out.”
“How? I literally fit in here, too.”
He gets into your space, a petty smile on his lips until your backside is completely flat against the wall.
You let out an indignant laugh and a breath at the same time because, from where you're shoved into the corner, he looks so dumb.
And then the sunlight shifts a little and lands on his shoulder and you get reminded: You're going to get caught and it's going to be his fault.
You want to yell at him to get out again but then hear laughter near the panel windows, so you whisper-shout instead “Find your own hiding spot, Yunho!”
“I got kicked out of my last one!” He whispers-shouts back.
“Well you can't have this one either!”
“We're going to be fine, Y/N,” he tries but at your scowl he laughs again “I'm perfectly hidden here and I'm hiding you.”
“You're not perfectly hidden, idiot! You're like…” You move your hands, trying to replicate the broadness of his shoulders “You're huge.”
“Yeah?” He seems pleased by your words and your eyes rolls on their own accord “I've been hitting the gym, so I'm glad it's showi—”
“I don't care, get out!”
You hear a scream and then laughter that follows it outside of the windows and your wide eyes peek around a little behind Yunho’s form to see what's going on.
There, rolling on the grass and laughing hard, are Hyunjoon and Soyi. You see when she pushes him further into the ground and away from her, smiling like she usually does. She did seem a little sad today and you wondered why without intruding.
Learning about the fight made things click in your head and so now you're smiling wide because they potentially made up.
The sound of someone gulping is what brings you back to reality and you crane your head up to catch Yunho staring at you with parted lips and soft eyes. Somewhere in the process of looking out of the panels, you ended up leaning into him and bracing yourself with your hand on his arm.
You quickly keep your hands to yourself again, pushing your body into the corner one more time.
“Sorry,” you say right away “I was just… They like each other and they were fighting today so I'm glad they, um…” You trail off.
“Are not fighting anymore?” Yunho says for you and you're nodding frantically before you can help it “You seem better today.”
“Oh,” that catches you off guard and he notices, “It's never… It's never really as bad as what you saw a few days ago. You don't have to ask me about it.”
“I didn't mean to… I was pointing it out to say that you seem different here.”
“Different how?”
“Relaxed,” he says right away with a shrug. “Less… Hostile.”
You get what he's trying to imply.
“I can't really be a stuck up bitch when I'm surrounded by children, Yunho.”
“Never said you were one.”
Your eyes squint “But you were thinking it.”
He doesn't back down at your accusation “I swear I wasn't. You could see it, too, if you stopped being so… defensive.”
“I'm trying,” you kind of speak over him as he is finishing his sentence, your arms crossing in, well, defense “but your fugly jeans are provoking me.”
This time around, he's the one that doesn't bite the bait. He smiles, leaning into your space with purpose this time; not because the corner you're both hiding in is small, not because he forgets who you both are. You can see it in his eyes that he means to do it. It's scary.
It's really not scary at all and it brings thoughts to your head that you need to put away immediately.
You pretend it's bothering you, creasing your brows in order to bring to your expression the usual disgust you feel for him.
“You like my outfit, I saw you checking me out earlier.” He murmurs like it's the most obvious thing ever. You, on the other hand, think you did a great job in concealing your staring for the day.
“I was judging you, not checking you out. You look like a hippie.”
He smiles but doesn't lean back at all “I have something to do tonight.”
“So I heard,” and now you look over his outfit on purpose, as well “This fit is definitely a choice.”
The usual spark that the arguments you two are used to have is there, but the actual nastiness and loathing of it all is mostly gone. Now, there's this weird pull that nudges you forward, your jaw set softly as you wait for his response.
“It's a rock concert, I have to look the part.”
You laugh and then nod “And so you dressed up as a greaser. Got it.”
“So I look like John Travolta in Grease?”
“More like Barry Pearl.”
He scoffs “Who even is that?”
“Exactly.”
Your smile is nothing but pure bliss at the way you seem to get under his skin with that one. The anger crosses his expression, his eyes widen a little before roaming your face and you wait for his comeback.
And wait.
And wait.
But it never comes. Instead, he leans in a fraction more than what your sanity can handle and keeps his voice low when he changes the subject.
“I had the opportunity to speak to Jiwoo earlier…” He starts and you nod, expectant and a little distracted by the smell of his cologne. “She told me everything you've been doing for this place. I had to ask her because you didn't tell me.”
“You didn't ask.”
“Would you have told me if I did?”
It takes a second and a tiny smile, but you shake your head and he clicks his tongue.
“See?”
“I wasn't expecting you to show up in the first place,” you murmur back in your defense, sincerely, “and I'm not used to people seeing this part of my life.”
Laughter and hurried steps outside remind you that you're in the middle of a game, in the middle of a dare with Yunho, too. But it doesn't seem to matter anymore.
This is a weird way of having a genuine conversation, an odd place to have it in as well but there's nothing conventional about your relationship with Yunho.
In a way, it's kind of fitting for you two.
“Well, you got great reviews.”
“Do I?”
“Mhm, Jiwoo said she was about to be sent away when you stepped in,” he starts to recall, nodding to himself “Soyi also said she met you when she was little and that you were there when Hyunjoon and his brother got here for the first time,” this time, you nod and a tiny smile tugs at your lips at the memory “And I saw the way you were looking at the kids earlier, how you spoke to them… That's why I told you that you seem different here.”
It's your turn to gulp and blink a few times, trying to measure your words. You know that you and him came to an agreement the other night, but it's still a little hard to be fully honest with someone you've tried to be so superficial and distant for a very long time.
“I'm happy here,” you whisper back, taking in a breath. “I'm happy when I'm helping, it makes me feel…” You trail off, failing to find the right words.
“Purposeful?” Yunho offers and your heart beats loudly at that, your stomach sinks at how accurate that is and he can see it in your expression, because he takes in a breath himself and closes his eyes for a millisecond “I understand.”
You want to ask him how he understands it. Is it simply because it's something easy to grasp? Is it because he relates in some way? The breach in between you became a simple line the night of the gala and that line blurs the longer you stay amicable with him.
It's dangerous because you can already picture him going away when this whole charade ends.
You don't want to get used to the feeling of him making your heart beat this way.
And hopefully you can forget all about it with the usual meal related anxiety you feel but even that is dull. It's not as bad here and Yunho knows so it's not going to be as bad with him either. Fucking great.
If you someone would just interrupt yo—
There's a knocking, persistent and that allows you to step away from him finally and glance at the panel windows one more time.
Soyi and Hyunjoon are lying on their stomach, smiling knowingly like they understand what is going on in your head. Yunho steps out and they pretend to be surprised but you can tell they were expecting to see him here.
“The game finished like five minutes ago.” Hyunjoon says and it's muffled by the glass but you can make it out just fine.
Soyi nods and joins in, adding something as she stands up “Yeah, it's lunch time and if you don't hurry I'm stealing your food!”
At that, Yunho seems to react like he's a child himself “Don't even think about it!” He yells back, heading for the door and leaving you there with an erratic heartbeat and questions.
Thirty seconds pass before you hear him again, his laugh this time and you close your eyes because the curve of your lips needs to go away before you step out there as well.
Three more hours pass and at some point you don't see Yunho at all, letting him do his thing.
Turns out, he's actually very good with kids. Considering he was a weird kid himself, you don't even find it weird that he's sitting on the grass with a worm in his hand and kids circling him like he's giving a masterclass.
Kind of like they were circling you fifteen minutes ago, when you gave them a little painting advice. You started on a small canvas and your paint strokes look tired, probably because you feel that way, but you use it to pass the time even if their interest is now elsewhere.
They have art classes here, you insisted on including them in their pensum as something mandatory, like science and maths.
They enjoy it. A few of them want to pursue art in the future and that makes you really happy, even if you probably won't be around to see it or if they change their opinions along the way because, as dumb as it sounds, you were never encouraged by anyone to pursue what you liked.
Maybe, sometimes that's enough. Planting the seed to wait and see if it grows into something fructiferous in the future can be what some of these kids need.
Aside from resources and opportunities, of course.
There's less activity in the room you're in and you're sure it's because the kids are tired. They're taking naps in their rooms, they're washing up for the night and you're dreading leaving this place. Your shirt it's dirty, there's paint on your arms and dirt under your nails and you don't want to catch the disgusted look your mother is going to give you when you get home.
You fuck up the painting a little bit. Lost in thought, you barely notice when Yunho makes his way inside from the garden, a little girl secured around his neck like he's her father or something. You barely spare him a glance, but smile at her when he sits down besides you and she opens her arms and clings to you instead.
Leaving the brush and canvas forgotten on the table, you make space for the seven year old in your lap “Hi, gorgeous.” you smile at her and her sleepy eyes “Did you have fun today, Jaemi?” And at her name, she punches you softly in the arm with her little fist.
You're afraid she's too tired to commit to the bit.
“Jaemi,” Yunho nods beside you and you look at him, “she didn't want to tell me her name.”
“Then that's totally not her name,” you correct yourself and Jaemi smiles, sticking her tongue out to Yunho afterwards “Did you have fun?” You insist.
“Yes, he was teaching us something about…” she pouts in concentration, trying to remember “Crickets?” she offers with her little lisp, turning to Yunho to confirm her words.
“Cicadas.”
“Yeah, that.” She turns to you, nodding “He said that they sing when it's about to rain and that made me happy but then he said that they also sing when they're about to die and that made me sad.”
Looking at Yunho, you let him know with your expression that that's not something kids need to know. He just shrugs, smile growing when he sees how Jaemi hides on your neck, sleepy and comfortable.
“And I told him what you told me about the worms,” she murmurs there and you pat her back, softly, but trying to tell her to stop talking. There's an embarrassed glow on your cheeks at what she says next “and he told me that he was the one who taught you that.”
Eyes wide, you huff out a laugh and then clear your throat, but Jaemi speaks through her pout before you defend yourself “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Oh,” her question is not weird but you've been avoiding answering it all day. Right now, there's not really a way you can evade it, so you just focus on your painting and nod “He is.”
“He's smart,” she mumbles and when your eyes land on Yunho again, his cheek is pressed to his forearm that is pressed against the table. He's looking at you both with stars in his eyes and you want to kick him under the table “Like you. I want my future mom and dad to be like you.”
Yunho pouts and you gulp, defensiveness abandoning your body and emotions swirling inside at the sweet, hopeful color of Jaemi’s voice.
“People here are going to make sure of that, Jaemi,” you assure her in a whisper and by the time you rock her softly in your arms, you can tell she's asleep in them “I'll make sure you get the best mom and dad in the world, hm?”
You don't know if you can keep your promise. If there's enough will for you to do it, if it's up to you to decide it. But you don't get to dwell on it for long.
“Is she out?” Jiwoo asks and you nod, sliding back with your chair a little so that she can take Jaemi in her arms instead “I'll get her to the nap room. Sorry about that.”
“It's okay.” You smile at her and she puts a comforting hand on your arm, shaking you a little on your seat before heading for the nap room.
You don't dare to look at Yunho after that. Yeah, he saw your mother belittling you and, yeah, he made you food and wiped away your tears after having a panic attack… But that might've been the most vulnerable Yunho has ever seen you. Maybe. It felt like it, anyway.
Returning to your painting, you forget what the orange blob in the corner of the canvas is supposed to be. From the corner of your eye, you catch Yunho staring at you still, unmoving from his position against the table.
“How dare you steal my earth friends facts, Kim Y/N.”
“You mean the facts about worms everyone learns in kindergarten, Yunho?” You scoff “Didn't know you trademarked them.”
“You enjoy painting.” He says, a fact not a question, ignoring your jab at him and it's starting to get a little annoying how he changes topics so fast.
“I'm not very good at it.”
He gets up, scoots his chair closer to yours and you catch as his eyes move up and down your stupid painting “I don't agree.”
“I didn't ask,” huffing, you squint your eyes at him and at your tone he rolls his eyes “Don't you have a concert to get to?”
“Yeah, you should go with me.”
That's hilarious.
“I'm afraid I'm a little underdressed,” you tell him and you think he wants to laugh, but presses his lips together and pretends to be offended at your words instead. You lean into the table, your eyes following his mouth as he stops pursing his lips, a tiny smile tugging on yours. “And I don't feel like pretending to be your girlfriend today anymore.” You whisper to only him.
“You won't have to,” he whispers back, leaning in as well, “they know.”
“What? You told them?”
“They kind of figured it out.”
“Hm, because you have no bitc—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupts you, annoyed and you laugh, leaning back in your chair “Come with me. I saw your car outside,” he smiles and bats his eyelashes at you “I don't want my mother to know where I'm going, so you can drive me.”
“Ah, that's why you want me to go.”
“I also want to hang out with you,” his hand on your arm doesn't startle you but it does send sparks down your spine, his words causing your chest to go warm and your walls to go down “I thought we were doing that today and then I got kidnapped by eight year olds.”
There's this image of Yunho that flashes through your head, the one of him running around the yard with people so dear to your heart that it makes the poor organ beat erratically for the second time today.
Deflect.
“And you managed to keep your ugly outfit clean. I'm impressed.”
He lets out a tired breath.
Deflect. Ignore. Don't let it fool you, Y/N, he's not staying this cordial forever.
However, you think that as a thank you you can give in a little. Just a tiny bit. Just for tonight.
“Do they have parking?”
Yunho smiles wide.
You would never admit you actually want to hang out with him, too, so instead you just say:
“I'm driving you and then I'm staying for an hour,” he claps and gets up suddenly, grabbing your hand and pulling you out of your chair as well “And if I don't like it there, I'm leaving.”
He looks like he wants to say something but, instead, he just shakes your twined hands with excitement before letting go at the realization of what he's doing.
“You might want to go to the bathroom first.”
“Why? Where is the concert?”
He says nothing.
“Jeong Yunho… Where are we going?”
They do not have parking. Not near the musty bar you're currently trying to make your way into, anyway.
Yunho shows something on his phone to the bouncer at the entrance and then turns to you “My girlfriend,” he says, grabbing your hand again and opening his eyes at you as a signal to go along with his lie “She's also invited, obviously.”
So long for not pretending to be together, huh?
You nod and you kind wish you didn't because it leads you to a small space with a crowd that's bigger than what it can host. There's heavy drums and amazing vocals coming out of the speakers and you actually recognize the guitarist of the band that's playing. You don't know his name, but you definitely saw him in pictures with Yunho before.
Grabbing Yunho’s arm when he lets go of your hand, it grants you the brief grace of his stare.
“I'm sorry about that,” he says and then his eyes are on the stage again, smiling at the band. His height works wonders because you can tell he's actually able to see them fully and the next second you're being pulled across the crowd and up some stairs “They didn't expect me to come here with anyone tonight… And don't say it's because I have no game, Y/N, or I swear—”
“You made it!”
When you let go of Yunho’s arm and stand shyly behind him as they let the both of you into the very humble vip area of this bar, it's like the pictures you've been staring at for months come to life. You don't know names (only Park Seonghwa’s, who's glued to the balcony’s rail, jamming along to the music) but you do know their faces.
This girl that greeted Yunho with a hug just now it's in almost every picture, smiling just like that. And when she turns at you, that smile disappears and it's replaced with one that's not genuine at all.
Great.
“Oh, hi to you too,” she says and her eyes alternate between you and Yunho “I didn't know you were bringing your fake girlfriend tonight.”
You don't know why, but the way she says it ticks you a little bit.
“Yeah, me neither,” Yunho’s arm is around your shoulders now and you have to fight the urge to shove him away, like a second instinct “This is Y/N, Y/N this is Gyuri.”
“It's nice to meet you,” returning her energy, you smile coldly at her too, “I've heard nothing about you.”
Yunho's hip connects with yours in a silent warning.
But instead of the usual hypocrisy you're met inside the crowd you move in, you're greeted with something genuine: At your response, Gyuri looks you up and down for what feels like a minute and a half and then that fake smile turns into a genuine one.
“Okay, I get you,” she nods, laughing to herself when she turns to Yunho. You do too and the color has been drained from his face, at least a little bit “I'm glad you're here. I guess it is meet my girlfriend night,” her head cocks to the side, to where Seonghwa stands and you're a little relieved you don't have to ask what she's talking about when, besides him, you see the mechanic you didn't get to meet earlier this week. She turns to you again “Do you want a drink?”
“Oh, I'm driving, um…” You look at Yunho “I don't know if you—”
“No, let's not drink tonight, though if you want to we can call—”
“No, that's not necessary, I don't feel like—” He interrupts with a nod.
“Gotcha.”
The nervousness is palpable and, although you didn't really feel anything the hour and a half it took you two to get to the bar (Yunho didn't really let you, bickering with you about your driving or the decor of the car or the tinted windows or whatever he could think of to annoy you), but now you you notice it.
The way Yunho's fingers tap on your arm, his around your shoulders still. The way he doesn't really know what to say when you both turn to Gyuri after speaking over each other like that and the way you can't bring yourself to be hostile to him in front of his friends.
It's a little pathetic. You think Gyuri thinks so too, and the long-haired guy next to her as well because they're staring at you stoically, unmoving.
“So I'm taking that as a no but I need a drink now. If y'all excuse me…”
“H-hi, Woo.”
“I thought we got rid of this when San and Babe got together,” he sighs as Gyuri turns around and leaves for a table, offering you his hand with a wink. You can tell he's a little drunk but the way he shakes your hand brings out a genuine giggle out of you “I’m Wooyoung, Yunho’s best friend. I bet he already told you that, though.”
No, you want to tell him, you and him haven't been able to talk like that yet. Even after knowing him for over ten years and spending holidays together, you don't know his best friend's name at all.
And you start to nod just to skip explaining that but Yunho speaks and ruins your plans.
“Mingi is going to kill you if he hears you say that.”
“Say what?” A tall man stands next to Yunho and only when he hugs his shoulders is that Yunho lets go of you “Are you talking shit about me, Woo?”
Wooyoung genuinely sulks“I wouldn't dare, Mingi.”
“You must be Y/N,” Mingi ignores him and you want to laugh at the expression he makes in return, but you busy yourself taking the hand that Mingi's offering “I've heard so much about you in the last forty eight hours.”
“All terrible things, I'm hoping.”
“Well—”
“Okay, okay,” Yunho pushes him away and takes your arm again, giving his actual best friend a look “Let me introduce you to everyone else before Wooyoung makes a scene for the night.”
Over your laugh, you hear a faint gasp and a I don't ever make scenes! shouted on Wooyoung’s side of the room.
You were never shy but you fall a little quiet in the middle of these strangers because the one thing you realized right away is that there's no actual need to pretend here, in the dim light and with people who don't give a fuck if your posture isn't perfect or that you're not making small talk.
It's a little freeing.
That weight falls off your shoulders and you kind of get why Yunho is a little clueless about how things work in your world after talking to San and Mingi’s girlfriends for a little.
It truly takes everything in you to keep everything you share about yourself in shallow waters.
You tell them things they might've already known, things that can be found online about you. You tell them that you met Yunho when you were little, you tell them about your job when the girl that Park Seognhwa chose above going to the gala with you joins and then you direct the conversation to her instead of you.
They tell you about Yunho’s college life, the parties and the embarrassing moments that you've missed all while he talks with his friends about something, all against the vip balcony railing while they watch the band perform. Gyuri is there too, arm to arm with Wooyoung and they tell you they used to be together.
It shows, especially when you get up to join Yunho and watch the performance and she snuggles a bit closer to Wooyoung to make space for you.
Even if there's plenty of space already.
He looks at you when you bump into him, smiling and leaning into your space a bit to talk over the music “There you are. I thought I lost you to girl talk!”
You roll your eyes.
“Your friend's are nice.”
“Normal people usually are, Y/N.”
Scoffing, you focus on the main vocal of the band. The only girl up on the stage, too and you convince yourself that's more interesting than the way Yunho seems to sparkle when he's with his people “Well, that explains why you're everything but nice.”
He laughs “I am nice, just not to you.”
“No, yeah, trust me, I know.”
“You seem quiet around them,” he turns to look at the girls for a brief moment “And you're usually, obnoxiously loud. Everything alright?”
You know he's asking about your panic attacks. Yes, you feel fine. You took your pills with your lunch and, considering the small space you're at gives you brief anxiety, mixed with the general nervousness of being with people you don't know, it could be worse.
But, like you said, his friends are nice.
You don't exactly fit in this group, but they make you believe you're a part of them at least for a little while and you know your friends, or the people you usually hang out with when you go out, wouldn't give a stranger the chance if presented with it.
“I'm fine, I'm just… Intimidated.”
“You just said they are nice, Y/N.”
“And they're all very good looking, which is unfair and nerve wracking,” you add with a scoff and hear him giggle before you turn to him again. “You said you wanted to hang out with me but it's been forty minutes and you barely said anything,” you give him a look, “so you just wanted the ride, hm? Asshole.”
“Needy,” he returns, pushing you with his arm, “I also wanted you to meet them. They're a huge part of who I am and I know it’s not this way for everybody, but I do believe you can gather who someone is if you meet the people they surround themselves with.”
What does that say about me, is what you want to tell him and then his words from a second ago cross your mind.
It's not this way for everybody.
He knows and there's something so deeply fucked up about his understanding of you because is not supposed to be this way. You hate Yunho, he hates you and keeping each other at arm's length has always been the norm.
It baffles you how quickly he can leave his preconceptions of you behind and open the door to his comfy bubble, invite you in and make you feel welcomed where you otherwise don't belong.
He understands. It makes you smile and he smiles back, close to you both physically and emotionally, and so you're sure you don't need to add anything to this moment you two are having.
Instead, you shake your head “I don't know why they hang out with you, then,” you turn to the stage one more time and there’s some tension between the band all of the sudden. You don't ask, Yunho is not paying attention to them right now anyway “I still think you wanted the free ride. Send me the gas money when you get home.”
“When you take me home.”
“No, you're walking back,” your fingers take a hold of his forearm, pinching it and gaining an exaggerated reaction to the mild pain it causes back from him “asshole.”
“And get him again for me!” Wooyoung shouts to your left and you both turn to see almost everyone staring at you.
It's almost enough to make your cheeks burn. Almost.
When it's almost time for you to go home (the hour you said you were staying turned to two hours) and the band gets down the stage, Seonghwa sits beside you.
“Did you paint over it?” Is the first thing you ask him and he frowns before understanding.
“The tree in your brother's office? Nah. He said we should keep it.”
Your brother has no taste.
“It's a horrendous tree, Mr Park,” you insist, shaking your head when he makes a noise to disagree. “Please be sure to take it down at some point, behind his back if it's necessary.”
“Miss Kim,” he starts and you realize whatever he's about to say, it's not about that goddamned tree, “when you asked me to go to a party with you, was it the gala you and Yunho went to?”
He's direct and blunt and you are grateful that he addresses the topic straight ahead instead of walking around it like the girls did.
You nod “Yes, I wanted to say I had someone to go with so they wouldn't force Yunho and I to…”
“I understand.”
“I'm glad you said no, though. She likes you a lot,” you point to his date, she's jamming along to a rock song you don't recognize in the slightest with Hongjoong, who just joined the group in the vip area with the rest of the band. The vocalist it's missing, however and you wonder where she went, “And you like her too, so that's good. I'm glad.”
“And you don't like Yunho?”
The chuckle that bubbles out of you comes out a little more nervous than what you intended “He's, um… An old friend.”
“He told us you were trying to be friends,” he says and you blink, wondering what else Yunho told them, “but that's not what I'm asking.”
“I know what you're asking, I know what some of you think it's going to happen,” your eyes land on Yunho, his arm around Hongjoong and they're both laughing at something Mingi said. There's that pull again, your chest feels heavy with something you've never felt before “but it is not going to happen.”
Yunho catches your eye and smiles, says something to his friends and then starts making his way up to you two.
Seonghwa, instead of getting offended at your very direct refusal of his intentions, just laughs at you “Famous last words, Miss Kim.”
“Paint over the stupid tree and I might reconsider your point, Mr Park.”
He opens his mouth to say something else but then Yunho interrupts, a hand on your shoulder.
He's so touchy. You never actually took into account if he enjoys physical touch or not, but his hands are always on someone. On you, when you're close to him.
“We're leaving.” He says and he's talking to Seonghwa, not you.
“We all are?”
“Nope, just us. Princess has a curfew.”
“Aw,” you place your hand on top of his, pretending to be moved, “yes you do!”
Harshly but also half-joking (you think) he moves his hand away and turns around “I'll be waiting for you downstairs, you witch.”
You watch him say his goodbyes and flash you his middle finger before, effectively, going down the stairs. Laughing as you stand up, you return your eyes to Seonghwa “Stop it.”
“I'm just saying—”
“Shut up.”
Seonghwa laughs again and you say goodbye to everyone, Mingi giving you a look that reads as be careful with him and you want to clarify that nothing is ever going to happen.
But some of them think otherwise.
When you get downstairs, the crowd overwhelms you all over again and, just when you think Yunho might've actually left you, there's a hand that closes over yours.
The hand spins you around and Yunho comes into view with his lips curled upwards into a teasing smirk “This way, princess.”
Suspicious (about the fact that he's navigating the crowd towards anything but the exit, not about his flirtatious ways), you tug at him to make him stop “What are you up to?”
He ignores your question, moving fast and through a deserted hallway where music doesn’t really get through and, after that, he opens a door that leads to the back of the musty bar.
“Are you bringing me here so I can get robbed, Yunho?”
He huffs out a laugh, kind of offended but not really “Obviously, Y/N. It wasn’t because someone was taking pictures of us all night at all.”
His hand is on yours still as he drags you to the streets and to where you think your car is. You’re grateful he’s holding you, your heart dropping at his words. Not because people can’t know you came to this bar, or that you’re with Yunho, but because someone recognized you and you didn’t notice.
You always notice.
But this time, you felt so comfortable inside a bubble that isn’t yours that you allowed someone to disrespect you like this.
Worst, disrespect someone else who’s supposed to be with you like this.
“Are you sure it was us and the person wasn’t taking pictures of Hongjoong? He’s kind of the buzz around here, Jeong.” You try to joke to calm the beating of your heart down, swallowing hard as you get to your car.
Your hand shakes a little as you press the buttons to unlock the doors and, by the time you get into the car you’re sweating. You feel the moisture on the back of your neck like a warning, it tells you that you need to calm down before actually getting on the street but Yunho’s words don’t help at all.
“That's what I thought but then I realized the phone was following you.”
“Great,” you gulp again, starting the car and turning on the ac just to have something to distract you and your hands. "You didn't have to leave with me, though. You just needed to tell me and—”
“We’re together, aren't we? At least to them, we are, so leaving together it's the least they expect us to do.”
Expect. You hate that he's right, that he was able to think rationally and you hate that he regards the situation you're both in with a little more maturity than a few days ago.
This turn in his personality is overwhelming to say the least. There's only so much concealing you can do before it shows that you're starting to care about him genuinely, beyond the pr and the arranged relationship.
“Thank you.” You mutter after a few seconds of silence where he checked his phone.
He looks up from it a few seconds, smiles at you a little and then returns his attention to the screen. It takes a few seconds of the ac blasting in your face and the sound of the keyboard of his phone to return you to the ground, panic dissipating when he looks back up again.
“Are you sure you don't want to sneak back? I don't mean to steal you from your friends, Yunho.”
“You are my friend, princess.” Without really wanting to, your nose scrunches at the corniness of the statement and he rolls his eyes. “Don’t make that face. Look, I was searching online for the pictures or videos they might've taken at the bar and I found this.”
He turns his phone and although your panic went away, the feeling is replaced by a little bit of anger: It's a picture of you both, Jaemi in your arms, her face covered by your hair and shoulder. Yunho is staring at you both sweetly, like you remembered he did and you are mid sentence.
It's not the face you're making in the picture that upsets you, it's the fact that someone took that moment and posted it online for everyone to see.
“You don't like it.” He says and you take a swing of air before replying.
“I do like the picture, I don't like what it means,” and he's about to ask what you mean, you see it in his eyes but you stop him with a shake of your head. “I don't like that they took that moment away from me, from us.”
You don't know why you say it like that but you do, there's this emotion laced on your voice that, a week ago, you would've fought to keep away from him. He was never supposed to see any of this. In fact, no one was supposed to see any side of you that wasn't perfectly crafted to their liking, to your mother's liking.
Yunho getting to know you like this wasn't part of your plan. So you ignore the sting on your chest at his pained expression caused by what you say next.
“From now on, let's not allow them to take moments away from us. Let's meet when we're scheduled to, during the week and not on weekends and—”
“Let's go.”
“Yeah, I'll take you home and then maybe we can tell our moth—”
“No, no. Just… Let's go here,” he tips and taps at the screen of your car, placing an address inside the gps you're unfamiliar with, “and then we can go home.”
Confused and in a surprising complaint mood, you start to back out of the parking spot. At the questions written all over your face, he simply places a hand on your knee and squeezes there. It does nothing to calm you down but it does distract you for a second.
Which is bad. Cause you're driving and all, so you bat his hand away with yours and he laughs at the dead look you send his way.
“Where are we going?”
“I want to show you something.”
“Jeong Yunho, are you sneaking me into your dorm room?”
“Shhhh.”
A finger on your lips is the only thing you get as a response before he pokes his head out, into the badly lit hallway of what you can only presume is his dorm room.
His digit is replaced by your hand because you're trying very hard no to burst out laughing at his very specific change of placement. He sprints to the wall in front of you and moves his hand, urging you to follow his footsteps.
You do, only much slower than what he intended, you guess, because as soon as you're on his reach he grabs your arm and collides his body with yours. His lips near your cheek when he looks down, his words a whisper.
“The cameras are old and they don't catch fast movements that well, so we have to run.”
It takes five good seconds to try and contain your laugh again before replying: “Okay… Mister Bond.”
His face falls. “Y/N, I can get in serious trouble for bringing you here.” He deadpans and you nod, fast and unserious.
“Yeah, no, I can totally see that.”
“I hate you.”
You smile all the way up to his room, his anxious behavior a little strange because, well, you see a girl casually exiting a room on the base floor as you go upstairs. She's flushed and giggling as she types on her phone, so you don't understand what big deal is.
Especially when Yunho all but shoves you into a room you can only assume is his, your kitty heels almost making you trip with the shoe rack by the entrance.
“You're the most dramatic person I have ever met, Jeong.”
“Hall monitors are a thing here, Y/N and I don't want to get banned from the team!”
“What team?”
Now that you think about it, this does seem like one of the dorms reserved for sports teams in the school you graduated from. This one is smaller, definitely not as luxurious and allegedly has a faulty security system but that's besides the point: there's banners and posters on the walls all the way from the entrance to this room that kind of smells like soju and beer.
“The dance team!” He says as you step further into the room.
“I didn't know you dance.”
There's enough space for two beds, two desks that are pressed together on one corner of the room, in front of one of the beds, giving the illusion of being one cohesive piece of furniture when it's not. In front of the other bed there's a corner mirror and a bedside table with old energy drink cans and one unopened, undrinked water bottle.
“I didn't know you painted until recently.”
“I don't,” you argue, throwing your purse on one of the beds before Yunho takes it and places it into the other one. You assume that's his. "You are allowed to have a dorm here for shaking your little ass on stage a few times, Jeong?”
Your teasing makes him frown but you can only smile at the reaction, arms crossed as you take one more look around the room.
“I do more than shaking my great ass on stage, princess. Besides, this makes me somewhat very independent from my parents,” he shrugs “And I'm close to the campus. It's a win, win situation for me.”
“Yeah, I'll give you that.” And it's true: you can't really argue against being away from your parents. He's lucky he's able to do it, least to some degree. “You still have to go to your house on weekends, no?”
“Yeah,” he sighs and when you return your eyes to him, he's making his bed. He looks a little ashamed of the state he left the room in when he catches you staring. “But I think I can allow myself to stay here on weekends now, too, considering they forced me into our little… Arrangement.”
“Yeah, because your mother is all but allowing you to do things this week. Really, Yunho, don't test the woman’s patience.”
He frowns at you “What side are you on?”
“The side where we get scolded the least until this whole thing is over, Yunho!”
“Look, I understand that you care deeply for your parents approval and we've gone through this already this week but—”
“But what?”
You hope the look you send him makes him choose his words very carefully. You don't think it gets the message across when he takes a breath and shrugs.
“But at some point you're going to have to let go of that, Y/N, you're clearly not happy.”
“Stop caring so much about my happiness, Yunho.”
“We're friends, that's what a friend is supposed to—”
“Oh, stop that.”
He looks taken aback by your interruption and your tone, but the whole leaving the bar because someone was taking pictures of you knocked some sense of reality into you and now you're upset.
You don't want to scream, you don't want to fight with him because today has been so good. Good to you, good to him, good to people who are dear to you and to him, but it's so hard.
It's hard when he understands some of it but not the full picture and it's hard when your walls are down, your feelings are on your sleeve and your words spill out of your mouth without a second thought.
“We're not friends, Yunho. We've never been friends, we were not brought together to be just friends and you may think otherwise because you have the opportunity to live like this,” you point to his bed, “and go to bars and concerts and make noise within the crowds because you're tall and attractive, not because of your last name but I am never going to have that.”
Feet moving to their own accord, you cross the space as you speak, until you have to look up at him and that pained expression you saw before heading towards his dorm is back, that pained expression he gave you back at the gala when he found you in that room, that pained expression he had when he fought with his mom in front of you.
You hate it. Not because he might be in some sort of pain, but because it makes you feel bad that you are the one that's causing it.
“I am never going to have this, Yunho. So yeah, I'm unhappy and bitter and sad and I've developed a whole panic disorder because of it but that's just what—”
“God, you're impossible.”
What?
“W-what?”
“‘That's just what it's meant to happen’. Is that what you were going to say? ‘That's just the way things are’,” he mocks and that hurts you but he doesn't back down even at the way you physically recoil at his words.
He moves to the floor, knees hitting hard as he drops and looks for something under his bed.
You don't need to be here. But before you announce that you're leaving, he does something that ignites your curiosity: he pulls out a box.
A box with the name of the highschool you attended together in it. You have that box, or at least you think you do, somewhere in the storage of your house where no one can find it because, like almost everything in your life, there's no happy memories in it.
You're not sure if there's happy memories for Yunho, but the way he harshly opens it and rumages inside to find something specific tells you otherwise.
“The other day, after seeing the canvases in your room, I tried to remember if you liked painting,” he starts and gets up, a mid-sized blue photo album on his hand with the name of the school and your classes slogan engraved in gold on the side, “I tried to remember things I'm supposed to know about you, because we grew up together, Y/N.”
His reminder makes you gulp.
“I've tried to distance myself from you as much as I can because I never thought that we would need to get along and— No, no, I never thought I would want to get along with you but now I do and so I went home and I stole this from my mother's office.”
He opens the album and, at first, you only see pictures of him. Him at his graduation day, him at that one soccer event where he almost broke his nose, him at the school yard with guys from your class you barely remember and then he gets to a specific part of the album. Instead of a picture, there's a card with beautiful handwriting that reads your name instead.
“See, I always hated that my mother seemed to adore you. She doesn't have any daughters, so I thought it was a way of living that through you and that your mother was a little weird for allowing it to happen, but I was wrong,” he hands you the album and you scowl a little at the pictures you see of yourself, pictures that you've never seen before tonight, “And so, when she asked me to take pictures of you at school events she couldn't attend or your parents couldn't attend, I did it because of that. But I realized recently that she never wanted this for herself.”
There's a picture of you at a piano recital where you came in third because you sucked at it. There's a picture of you on stage, on school assembly day, accepting a medal for your academic excellency. There's a picture of you next to the school’s art gallery, where you were able to display the canvases you painted throughout your senior year, at your teacher’s insistent request. There's a picture of you in the art gallery, someone you don't recognize or don't really remember is talking to you, their hands pointing at an abstract piece you did.
It's the only picture where you're genuinely smiling.
You trace the picture caged with the protective film of the album with the pad of your finger, softly, over that smile and wait for it to disappear but it doesn't.
You look at Yunho, eyes almost teary with confusion and sentiment.
“She never wanted this for herself because, although she loves you, she doesn't care about any of this when you're already the perfect match for me in her eyes” he smiles a little, his finger joining yours on the page. “She doesn't care if you got third or first place here, she doesn't give a fuck about your academic achievements and she definitely doesn't give a shit if you're an artist or not,” his finger connects with yours, over your immortalized smile on the picture “but I do.”
Your head starts to shake, your mind starts to reject his words right away. He cares? About you? No, no. It can be, he—
He's nodding, stepping close and letting his eyes move away from you just a millisecond so he can stare at the picture “If it makes you this happy, I do. And I did, I don't… I don't remember exactly everything I thought about you as I took these pictures, Y/N, I was probably very annoyed,” he laughs a little and you do too, softly, barely, “but I probably cared back then too, I just… Well, what I'm trying to say is that you can be happy, you can have this and—”
You don't know what does it. Is it his speech? This whole I was supposed to hate you but I don't think I ever did feeling that washes over you, like some sort of light in the midst of a very long period of darkness? Is it the lingering curve of his lips as he looks at your face in that picture and then back at you with stars in his eyes? Is it the way his finger brushes against yours shyly, like he intended to do it but he's not so sure how you would react to it?
Is it the way he looked at you this afternoon, while Jaemi was speaking nonsense into your hair? Is it the fact that, at some point during the drive, you looked over and saw him smiling at his phone, at the picture that stole your moment with him this afternoon?
What exactly prompts you to shut the photo album, let it fall to the floor and close the distance between your lips is beyond you but, if you're being honest with yourself, it doesn't really matter.
Kissing Yunho feels like defiance, like rebellion against yourself and your principles and your values. It makes your heartbeat happily against your ribcage and that's, maybe, what makes you pull away from the close-lipped encounter.
He just told you that you can be happy, but your mind can't just accept it so easily.
Also, he didn't exactly kiss you back.
His lips are parted when you look at him again, his pupils going all over your face like trying to get ahold of what the fuck just happened.
This is so embarrassing.
“I shouldn't have done that,” you start, in a whisper, tiptoes going down until you're back from the clouds on the ground. “I'm so, so sorry. I'll leav—”
Briefly, you wonder what makes Yunho grab the side of your face and kiss you back, this time with a foreign emotion pouring into the kiss that you, somehow, feel equipped to return as your lips move in tandem with his.
You wonder if what makes his free hand move to your waist and press you flush against him is, in any way, motivated by some sort of pity.
His tongue brushing softly against yours for the first time makes your insecurity go away. It makes everything else go away, including that alarm inside of your head that tells you that you're making a mistake.
It’s blasting red, dangerous and irrevocable red, but you think you confuse the color of it with the blush on Yunho’s cheek when you push a little onto him and he falls to the bed. You confuse the sound with the sigh that he lets out when he pulls you to him and your first instinct is to sit on his lap, leg on each side of him, hand fisting his shirt as you capture his lips again.
His warmth engulfs you when his arms go around you, press you into him again and settle you further into his lap so you’re not awkwardly hovering over it anymore. There’s this need that takes over you, struggling to come up to the surface. You think he feels it too and, when your hips move out of pure want, he opens his legs a little more.
Adrenaline rushing through you, making you confuse the sensation for pure euphoria, it takes two more thrusts into the material of his jeans for you to come to your senses.
What the hell are you doing?
Your heart races, for a different reason now.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?
Panic rising, you push Yunho’s shoulder with your hands, pulling you both away from the kiss completely. He has a pout on his lips, swollen from your kisses and flushed pink. They look very inviting, and although there’s a part of you that wants to give in, there’s the other side of you, the louder side, that’s telling you to think clearly.
Giving into Yunho, is giving into your mother’s wishes fully. Giving into Yunho means she won.
And Yunho thinks you are able to be happy one day, the words you cut off still ringing in your mind and they cover your fears with hope you never felt before, hope that you didn’t think you deserved to feel in the first place. His kisses had that taste, too.
But you don’t think you can let your mother win.
“Dinner.” You manage to say, untangling his hands off your waist, using them to help you up and off his lap.
“W-what?”
“It’s almost nine, I have to go to dinner with my brother.” You fix your shirt, tuck your hair behind your ear and bend over him to grab your purse before clearing your throat, “I know the way out.”
“Y/N, don’t—”
“I’ll see you next thursday.”
When you sprint out of the room and close the door behind you, you already want to go back in.
But running is sensible, it’s what you’re supposed to do.
It doesn’t matter that hot, angry tears are wetting your cheeks.
It’s what’s best for everyone, including him.
If you read all the way down here: THANK YOU SO MUCH. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated!
