s ; your bad (and undeserved) reputation is about to ruin your future. maybe to start improving you should start with your handsome and serious tutor. problem? jake is so mean to you and he only loves to criticize book covers without actually reading the book.
p; meanie nerd!jake x disreputable f!reader
ft; manon bannerman , martin edwards , riki nishimura , jongseong park , sunghoon park , jaehyun myung
c&w; mini smau + written parts , french!reader , drama , angst , crack? , a bit suggestive , jake is veryyy mean to reader , lwk asshole!jake ngl , in fact everybody are mean to reader except her friends , reader is a sweetheart , all characters are 20^ yo , swearing , mention of drinking and smoking , strangers to fwb to strangers again to friends to lovers whole paragraph yeah. + ghosting , toxic behaviour , violence , implications of harassment and breaking into someone's room without permission in the past. faceclaim only for picture purposes (ig; @/arangsaa)
taglist is open!
(one) | ten | eleven | twelve | mtba!
a/n: i have to say i found very funny that y'all were so surprised myungjae was part of the story... he's literally in the description at the beginning of every update, he's BEEN here for a while now 🤣
i honestly have nothing to say rn js i knooooow hnu gg its getting deleted but won't be the last you hear from this bitch (#jail) 😇😇 i'll give closure to all my hnu gg haters dw<3
˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗ ─ Who were those two and why are them fucking so stupid?
synopsis : Where your perfect life takes a dramatic change when the two most idiotic men on planet interfere with your perfect life plan, destroying everything you've worked so hard for.
𝄞 now playing : popular by The Weeknd ft. Madonna & Playboy Carti.
⚗️˚⋆ CONTENT: love triangle ⸜⸜ mean cold¡Sungjoon ⸜⸜ mean¡Jake ⸜⸜ brat¡reader ⸜⸜ kinda bully¡Jake ⸜⸜ everyone is dumb here lol ⸜⸜ angst ⸜⸜ stepsiblings ⸜⸜ smut ⸜⸜ 2000s movies inspired ⸜⸜ popular¡reader ⸜⸜ jealousy ⸜⸜ Regina George/Cher complex¡reader ⸜⸜ prejudice ⸜⸜ chem&physics themes (I'm not really good at it so I apologies in advance 😭😭😭) ⸜⸜ lots of hate ⸜⸜ pls tell me if anything is missing ‼️💗
English is not my native lenguaje so u probably will find grammatical mistakes, please let me know if something doesn't make sense 🙏🥺
HOPE U ENJOY <3!
Dinner was going wonderful at the skyscraper your mother's fiancé had reserved just for the three of you. And the food was exquisite.
You'd never tasted such delicious dishes, or perhaps you had, but these definitely tasted out of this world. Extremely delicious.
Mr. Park seemed to be a quiet, reserved man, and you dared say a little stiff. But you'd never seen your mother smile like that. You hadn't remember the sparkle in her eyes that appeared when she was in love either.
She loved him. And he must love her too.
So, as a good daughter, you decided to interview the unknown man. A couple of delicious appetizers wouldn't be enough to shut your doubts.
You cleared your throat before interrupting her rambling about what you had no idea about. "So, Mr. Park, Mother. Where did you two meet?" You tilted your head, raising both eyebrows with a calm smile on your face. Oh, but your mother knew these questions well. She could only sigh.
"On a business trip to London, young lady," he replied politely.
"London?" Your eyes widened in surprise before narrowing and staring at your mother. "You went to London? When? Why didn't you take me with you?"
"In summer, darling. I told you about it while you were traveling in Brazil. Remember? I even sent you a picture. It was my annual trip to Europe." She said before taking a sip of her drink.
"Yes, but…" You pressed your lips together, not wanting to sound disrespectful in front of this man. Not for yourself, but for her. Who looked genuinely in love. And after your father? You definitely didn't want to ruin his marriage.
Even so…
"So you haven't known each other for very long?" You raised an eyebrow, blinking twice.
"We can define it that way." Mr. Park nodded. "But I would like you to know, Y/N, that I… love your mother, regardless of how long we've known each other. I'm willing to be her provider, and perhaps a confidant. And for you too." I give you a closed-mouth smile.
And he must have convinced you; his words sounded very convincing. But that was precisely what unsettled you—how calculated they sounded.
You chose not to respond and simply gave him a closed-mouth smile too.
"Besides, it's a long story, sweetie. Maybe we'll tell you another day." Your mother added, intertwining her hand with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze.
You smiled, because what else could you say? "Of course, Mom."
"By the way, Y/N, your mother mentioned that you have a peculiar interest in chemistry. May I ask the reason?" Mr. Park's voice interrupted the moment, but you were grateful.
"Actually, yes, I really love chemistry. I have a goal to develop my own cosmetics brand and create the products myself. That's plan A, but I would love to help make animal testing unnecessary in medicine and find alternative methods for testing medications." You cleared your throat. "I sincerely hate animal cruelty. And I think that's precisely what makes me want to study pharmaceutical-chemistry."
"That sounds… interesting." He nodded approvingly. "Brilliant, in fact." He gave me a smile, which you could say was the only genuine one he gave all evening.
But you didn't need his approval. Not his, not anyone's.
Just as your mother were about to add something, she opened her mouth, but at that moment, a fourth guest arrived, one whose existence you were unaware of.
Smelling of expensive perfume, looking deliciously handsome with a cold, serene expression that would make any teenager's panties wet. Maybe yours too.
Your moth dropped slightly open, surprised to see Mr. Park's incredibly handsome son. He was… perfect. A fantasy come true. He's totally your type; dark-haired, marked jaw, natural pale pink lips, those eyes that seemed to pierce the very depths of your soul, and his eyebrows. His. Damned. Eyebrows.
In your head, I Just Died In Your Arms began to play as you brazenly gazed at that majestic man.
And may God forgive you for fantasizing about this man while you were Yeonjun's girlfriend but… Mr. Park's son was a fallen angel who landed right in front of you. Made just the right size. Prolly meant to be yours.
When Sunghoon arrived fifty minutes late to the dinner his father had requested, he expected many things. Sunghoon imagined a typical ditzy, brainless blonde wife, and of course, a spoiled 10-year-old girl who would be playing on her iPad the whole time. He definitely didn't expect his stepsister to be already a woman.
His eyes discreetly scanned her angelic face, every feature perfectly placed. And damn it, may God forgive him, but he almost devoured her body with his gaze. He restrained himself, barely glancing at her legs, but it was enough to make him clench his jaw and pretend he didn't have a major problem in his crotch.
The only thing Sunghoon could criticize was her hair. Pink. Pink hair? Just from that, he could already tell the age of that brat. And she probably wasn't older than seventeen.
You both seemed mesmerized by each other, and although Sunghoon knew you existed, you weren't exactly what he imagined. And you definitely didn't remember your mother mentioning Mr. Park's handsome son.
Anyway, the spell had to end, and he broke it when he spoke. And when you heard him, damn it… Your panties definitely got soaked. Was this heaven?
"Sorry for the delay." His voice came out smooth, elegant and polished.
You have to contain a moan.
"Don't apologize, darling. It's a pleasure to meet you. Sunghoon, right?" Your mother stood up and extended her hand to shake the boy's hand, and consequently, you followed your mother's actions.
"Nice to meet you." You whisper, glancing down at your intertwined hands and then back up at his eyes.
"Nice to meet you too." He answer with a small nod before he took a seat next to his father, right in front of you.
"Your presence is gratifying, son. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Selene, and her daughter, Y/n." His father introduced both of you, to which you both responded with a smile.
"Nice to meet you, Sunghoon. Your father has told me wonderful things about you." Your mother smiled.
He responded politely. "I'm glad they were good things, ma'am." He smiled, and OH. Could this man be more perfect? "I've also heard wonderful things about you." Except for the fact that a week ago he didn't know his father was getting married. But he still smiled, polite and charming.
"We were talking about your sister's future career." His father resumed the conversation about chemistry, and, apparently, Sunghoon and you tensed up. Siblings? What the hell?
"Oh?" His gaze fell on you, his eyes sliding to your lips and back to your eyes. "Is that so? Have you thought about it yet?"
Sunghoon also remembered then the fact that, if you were just starting a career, then you were eighteen, and that made him a little uncomfortable.
Anyways.
Everyone seemed to want to speak for you.
"Yes! That's right. She wants to study pharmaceutical chemistry," your mother replied proudly, but he didn't even bother to look at her. His eyes were fixed on you, and you felt flattered.
Just the kind of attention you loved.
"Can I ask why?" Sunghoon raised an eyebrow, his expression still calm, but a hint of curiosity in his tone of voice.
You opened your mouth, but again, you were interrupted.
"She wants to create cosmetic products," your mother explained.
And you swore you saw disappointment in Sunghoon's expression for a second, before he finally looked away. That made your heart race, so before they could even think of changing the subject, you added;
"That's just one option; I'm also interested in finding out how we can stop animal testing in medicine." You cleared your throat, and your voice, normally firm and confident, came out hesitant. Almost intimidated.
That did catch his attention, and you felt proud to have won his attention again.
Little did you know what was coming.
"Hm. And how do you plan it?" He suddenly asked.
"What?" you muttered, blinking in confusion.
"Yes. How do you plan to get scientists stop testing on animals?" I explained his question before elaborating on the topic. "You need to find another subject, in this case, an organism, on which you can test medications without it becoming illegal." He tilted his head. "And humans aren't an option because… it would be homicide." He smiled slightly, almost mockingly.
He was questioning you, and you hated people who doubted your abilities. At that moment, everything you had thought about him plummeted from the height you were at, crashing into the passing down car.
"That's why I said it, I want to investigate. Find out. It could be with plants." Your eyes flashed with that characteristic defiant air of yours.
He nodded, but grimaced. "They don't react the same way. They don't have the same 'system' as rats, despite being living beings."
"It could also be with people condemned to die," you argued. "Like rapists or pedophiles."
Sunghoon looked surprised for a second, but returned to his neutral expression. "That gets into politics and laws, and unfortunately, there's no law that approves of chemical testing on people. Not unless you're… NASA. And it's still cruelty. Homicide." He rested his elbows on the edges of the table, his chin nestled between his interlaced fingers.
"Well, that's precisely what I said I'd do: investigate how to stop animal testing. I don't know how yet." You defended yourself somewhat aggressively.
"It's good research, actually. Your thesis could be based on it." He finally agreed with you. "But yes, you need to be informed before you want to test on trees or… flowers."
You felt your jaw clench as you twisted your tongue inside your cheek, a habit you had when something really made you angry.
But your mother quickly decided it was the perfect opportunity to change the subject and move from the 'siblings' debate to planning future family vacations.
Sunghoon didn't look at you again all night. Not even a goodbye.
And you already hated him.
Because maybe, you do need someone's aprobation. Though you don't know it yet.
a/n: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy it, and I apologize in advance if I take a while to update 🙏.
˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚ sim jake “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
━━ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(🦮) After seventeen years of surviving his older sister’s constant supervision, Riki Nishimura decides you need a hobby. Preferably one that is tall, charming, and costs him a hundred bucks a week.
paid! jake x fem! reader
˗ˏˋ brother’s friend, paid dating, he falls first, slow burn, romcom, highschool au BUT THEY'RE NOT MINORS they're 19 and 20, mean reader, patient jake, little angst, fluff, smut, porn with plot, crack, profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, f receiving, MDNI !
inspired by 10 things i hate about you !
Riki was seventeen years old, which by legal law, he understood there were certain things he wasn't supposed to do. He wasn't allowed to drink, gamble, or just make any life-altering decisions with the judgment of someone whose brain was still developing. It was, no doubt, very reasonable and he never tried to argue.
What he didn't understand though, were your laws.
No smoking, drinking, piercing, tattoos.
No driving without adult supervision.
No going out past 10PM.
No girlfriends until eighteen.
No accepting rides from people he didn't know.
No staying out without answering his phone.
The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.
You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy.
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.
"Don’t drink." you state.
Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"
You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."
He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"
You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."
You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."
He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it.
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"
Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”
“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”
The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.
Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.
You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.
He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”
They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”
Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”
That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy?
“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.
Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”
“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.
The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.
It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.
Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.
Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.
"Why are you looking at me like tha —"
“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”
Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction.
“No.”
“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”
Jake shakes his head, “What?”
“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”
“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.
Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”
Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.
Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.
The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.
Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”
By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.
"You're a good man, Jake."
"I'm aware."
"No, like, a really good man."
"Thank you."
"The best."
Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.
"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."
Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough.
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.
“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”
“No.”
Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”
Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”
“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.
You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”
“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.
It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes.
You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”
You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.
For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door.
That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.
Wow. Okayyy.
You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
“Hey.”
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.
He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.
For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.
“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”
You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”
Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner.
He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”
That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”
You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”
“No.”
He frowns. “So it’s personal.”
“No.”
Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.
“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.
Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.
You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.
Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.
Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.
Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.
“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.
Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”
Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
“It had the best lighting.”
“It has me.”
“Exactly.”
You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.
You don’t look up. “No.”
Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”
Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”
He blinks. “So?”
“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”
“You know my grade?”
“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”
It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”
“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”
Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”
“You asked for help.”
“I asked for economics.”
“And I gave you something useful.”
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.
You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.
For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.
“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.
Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it.
“No.”
Riki stares. “No? Jake.”
“No.”
Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”
Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.
“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you.
“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.
Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella.
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary.
“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”
Jake groans. “No.”
“Please.”
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him.
Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.
A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.
The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”
Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.
It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.
After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.
“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.
Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”
His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”
He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”
His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”
“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”
You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”
You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”
“I have coffee at home.”
For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.
“That’s not the point,” he says.
You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”
You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.
He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”
You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.
The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes.
You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.
The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.
You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
"Wow."
You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.
Specifically you.
"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.
His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.
For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.
"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom.
You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."
"Right."
"I do."
He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.
He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"
You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"
You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.
The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.
You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."
You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner.
You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”
You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”
For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.
Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”
For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”
You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.
Then you look up to see Jake.
“What the hell?” you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”
You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”
“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.
“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair.”
You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”
He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.
“No.”
“Then one.”
“Jake.”
“You can yell at me outside.”
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.
The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.
The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”
You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”
Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”
He shrugs. “Occasionally.”
“About me?”
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.
You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Well, yes.”
You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.
You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”
“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”
You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”
“So yes.”
“No.”
“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”
“You are.”
You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
“I’ve been told.”
“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.
He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”
“No.”
“Board member?”
“No.”
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”
Your head snaps up. “A guy?”
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”
You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”
“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good.”
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”
“You’re being weird.”
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”
You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.
He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.
“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”
For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.
A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.
Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”
You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”
Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”
You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”
For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”
You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.
You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”
He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.
You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”
“No.”
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.
His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”
“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”
Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”
“You called him Chicken.”
“Because his name is Chicken.”
“Which is insane, by the way.”
You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”
“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”
For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.
“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”
He glances at you. “I did.”
You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”
“I said hey.”
“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”
He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.
“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”
He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”
You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.
His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”
“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”
“Unlikely.”
“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”
For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face.
“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”
You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”
He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either.
Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”
The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.
Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.
Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”
His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.
“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”
“That is not what you said.”
“I know.”
“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”
“I know what I said.”
Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.
His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.
You clear your throat. “I should go back.”
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”
You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”
His mouth curves. “Fine?”
“Yes.”
He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.
“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.
“In front of everyone?”
“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”
“Okay.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore.
The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.
One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a dress shirt.”
“And you’re shivering.”
“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.
“Just wear it.”
The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.
You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.
You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”
“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.
For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again.
It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.
By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.
That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.
Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.
There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.
At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.
Riki had paid him.
Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.
It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty.
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”
He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”
“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”
Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”
“A date.”
There is silence — one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”
“No, obviously not.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”
Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”
“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”
Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.
“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”
“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”
By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.
You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”
His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?
You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”
“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”
You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”
“Come with me.”
The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened.
Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.
Then he says, “Okay.”
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”
The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.
“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.
“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.”
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”
Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”
There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.
You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”
You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”
You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”
The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”
Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.
Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.
His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”
“I’ve heard.”
“You can’t just say things like that.”
He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”
“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.
You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car.
The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him. The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.
You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.
“Come on,” he says.
Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.
At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.
He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”
“People are walking.”
“Badly.”
Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.
He catches himself at the last second. “What?”
You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.
“I’ve been craving dumplings.”
The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.
For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”
You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.
You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”
“Was that gratitude?”
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.
You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.
You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.
You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.
Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”
He picks it up. “It does.”
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
“Put it back.”
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”
“No, why did you buy it?”
“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does.
The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.
For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.
Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.
You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.
You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.
You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”
He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.
Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”
Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”
He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.
You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.
“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”
You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.
“Are you blushing?” you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”
“You are.”
“It’s cold.”
You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.
So you stay.
He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.
You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.
“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”
You nod too quickly. “Fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.
You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.
By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether.
He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.
When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.
“I can carry my own stuff,”
“I know.”
He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.
Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”
You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.
“A little,” you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”
“Don’t get greedy.”
“I feel greedy.”
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze.
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.
“Only tonight.”
“Because of the market?”
“Sure.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.
He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”
You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says. Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.
You nod. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moves.
You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.
That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.
“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”
“You’re not going.”
“Neither are you.”
You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.
It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.
He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”
You shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Okay.”
He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.
You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.
“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”
“I’ve heard.”
“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”
You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.
“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”
His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.
Then you kiss him.
He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.
“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”
But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.
Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again.
Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.
When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.
“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”
For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.
“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”
“That’s your excuse?”
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”
You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”
His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.
“Then let me do better,”
You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.
When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.
You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”
His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.
For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.
You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.
He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.
The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.
He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”
His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.
Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.
Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”
His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.
And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.
Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.
When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”
“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”
He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions.
In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.
You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.
You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”
You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.
Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.
For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.
“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”
“You usually have more to say.”
His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck.
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.
You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
“You’re very careful.”
His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”
You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”
He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.
“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.
But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it.
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”
He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.
He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.
He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently.
“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.
His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.
“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.”
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark.
He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer.
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.
With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head.
He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.
He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.
“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.
His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.
He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles.
The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”
“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?”
He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.
He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.
Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets.
“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.
You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.
He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.
Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed.
He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”
You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”
He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.
His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”
“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “
If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact.
“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip.
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.
“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.
He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.
“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.
“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.
Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “
He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.
Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does.
“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”
You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”
He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”
Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”
“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”
You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”
Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.
Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds.
“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.
The next few days have been… a turn.
Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.
The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.
You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.
The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.
Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.
You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.
After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.
Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough.
One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”
With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.
Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.
When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”
You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.
He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.
Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.
Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.
The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.
Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.
You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”
“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”
He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing.
His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).
Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize.
For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.
Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter.
You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”
For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers.
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.
A voice says something you do not catch, followed by a louder laugh, and you stop before fully turning the corner, half-hidden behind the hedge lining the side yard. You do not mean to listen, but you hear Riki first. “Dude, I’m just saying,” he says, laughing carelessly. “I should’ve done this months ago.”
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. “You mean hiring Jake?”
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. “I mean, clearly the money worked.”
“He really put those hundreds to use, huh?”
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
“Taming the lion,” someone says.
Your throat goes dry as the laughter grows again, freezing completely when someone says your name next.
The scary sister, the impossible girl, the controlling bitch with a curfew and a brother who apparently thought your entire life could be negotiated down to a payment and one patient boy you thought saw you differently — yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, “Nah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.”
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jake’s voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. “Hey, have you guys seen her?”
“There he is,” Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. “Man of the hour.”
“What?” Jake asks, distracted.
Then there is the sound of palms meeting, boys greeting him the way boys do, easy and stupid and physical. Someone daps him up, someone else claps his shoulder, someone mentions how great he did for convincing you to go to a party.
“Congrats, bro,” one of them says, laughing. “Hundreds well spent.”
Jake does not speak. Maybe he is processing, maybe his face has changed in some way you cannot see yet. Maybe, he would push the hand off his shoulder and tell them to shut up. But you do not get that far, because you turn a little to see him, and his eyes finally lift past them and land on you.
He sees you standing there, one hand around the bottle he opened for you, your face completely still. For one impossible second, you look at him and he looks back.
And it is awful, how quickly his expression breaks, because it isn’t confusion nor innocence, just the face of someone who knows. His eyes widen, his mouth parts slightly, and panic moves across his face so plainly that it feels like another admission you’re not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jake’s mouth once, low and ruined but you’re already stepping away.
You turn and walk.
Someone laughs from the inside, someone trying to go to the back bumps your shoulder and apologizes, but you do not answer. It’s a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesn’t need you moving your feet to handle something first.
You can hear Jake behind you, cursing under his breath, sharp and panicked, nothing like the careful voice he used when he told you to let him take care of you.
“Wait,” he calls, closer now. “Please, just wait.”
The front yard is crowded, so you shove through them and into the night air with your lungs burning and your hands cold around the bottle you forgot to leave behind. The street outside is quieter, only then do you realize how badly you needed it, how trapped you had been inside that house with all those walls and all that laughter and every memory of Jake rearranging itself into something ugly.
You make it halfway down the front path before his hand catches your wrist, not hard but you pull away like it burns.
He stops in front of you, breathing unevenly, hair messier than before, eyes wide in a way you used to love, but now it only makes something sharp twist in your chest. Behind him, Riki stumbles out onto the porch, face pale, panic written all over him like a child finally realizing the stove is hot after touching it, even after you told him no.
Jake takes half a step forward, then thinks better of it. “I can explain.” His jaw tightens. “It’s not what they made it sound like.”
“Really?” Your voice stays calm. “Because it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.”
Jake’s face goes white. Riki moves down one step. “It was my idea.”
You look at him then, not with the sharp little look you usually give him when he says something stupid, but actually look at him. For one strange second, he looks like the nine-year-old boy who used to stand in your doorway, the one who would deny crying even while his eyes were swollen, the one you learned how to comfort while you comforted yourself because mom is gone and dad is never home.
That is what does it, your eyes water before you can stop them. “You paid someone to get me out of the way?”
He shakes his head too quickly. “No. I just wanted you to have something else,” he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. “I thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe you’d stop worrying about me all the time. I didn’t know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.”
Your eyes return to Jake, and the worst thing is that part of you still wants him to fix it. Some pathetic, exhausted, newly softened part of you wants him to say the exact right thing, wants him to reach for the memory of every night you trusted him and pull it back from the edge.
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
“Is that true?” you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. “At first,” he says, voice rough. “At first, yes, but it stopped being that.”
You stare at him.
“But I gave the money back,” he continues, voice rough. “I told him I was done. I told him I didn’t want any part of it anymore.”
Your throat tightens. “After I slept with you?”
He goes still.
That is the answer.
You stare at him, waiting for him to save it anyway, because some stupid part of you still wants him to. You wait for him to say no, to say you got it wrong, to say there was some other version of the story where he did not let you give him that much of yourself before telling you the truth. But Jake only looks at you with his mouth parted slightly, eyes wide and ruined, and every second he does not speak feels like another hand closing around your throat.
You shake your head once. “You let me think,” your voice is low and calm, “that for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I don’t even like,” you say. “And you knew. You knew what they didn’t.”
The gala. You see the memory land in him, the garden lights, the fountain, your stupid dress, the way you sat on the far end of a bench and told him things you barely knew how to tell yourself. Your mother being gone, your father being absent, Riki being more yours than he should have been. You remember how carefully he listened, how he stayed far enough not to scare you off, how safe his silence felt then, how you laughed with him because he saw you and didn’t think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice breaking around it. “I should have told you that night. I know I should have.”
“I thought you chose me,” you say.
“I did.” His eyes go red. “I did choose you.”
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. “For a hundred bucks?”
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
“No,” he says, too quickly, too desperately. “No, not like that.”
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. “I want to go home.”
Jake straightens immediately. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. “No.”
His breath catches. “Please.”
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you can’t see through the blur as you type it in.
“I can drive you,” he says, voice quieter now.
You keep your eyes on the street until the headlights appear at the end of the road, the car pulling toward the curb. You get inside and do not look back.
You hate men.
Enough that you can prepare a presentation on the subject with credible sources, historical examples, and a conclusion about betrayal as a gendered epidemic. Evidence would be your absent father, your fraudulent ex-boyfriend, your seventeen year old brother, and his demonic friends.
Hating your brother is inconvenient because he lives in your house, eats your food, leaves his stuff everywhere, and now lives without you telling him what to do. For the first time in years, you do not ask what the hell he’s up to anymore. You simply sit at the kitchen island with your laptop open, spoon in hand, eating directly out of a tub of ice cream at seven in the morning.
Historically, you have always cracked first when it comes to him. Historically, you cannot help yourself. Historically, your entire body starts to prepare for anything if it concerns Riki.
But history is dead. Men killed it.
Jake is hard to ignore only because he is not physically in the house, which means he tries to get creative. He texts first, of course, just once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes in the middle of the day — because he knows exactly how to overwhelm you. Then he leaves an iced latte with your name on top of your desk in one of your classes. You stare at it on your desk for a full minute, before you give it to your seatmate.
By the fourth day, you have finished the second tub of ice cream — not your proudest moment, but it is also not your worst, which says more about your week than your character. You have attended classes with perfect notes, no late submission, reorganized your planner, ignored messages from Jake, and pretended not to notice that Riki has started texting you when he arrives places without being asked.
On Friday night, Riki finds you on the couch in your oldest pajamas, hair tied messily back, third tub of ice cream open on the coffee table, watching a documentary about deep-sea creatures with the blank focus.
“Jake’s been driving me from and to school,” he says carefully.
Your spoon pauses in the ice cream, before you resume. Onscreen, a glowing fish drifts through the dark, hideous and peaceful, which feels aspirational. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then sets his bag down properly.
“I’m sorry,” he says but does not step closer. “I know sorry doesn’t fix it. I just wanted to say it.”
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.
By Saturday morning, Riki had started acting like a ghost. He moves quietly around the house, closes cabinets softly, and pe picks up his shoes before you can even see them. At one point, you find him wiping the kitchen counter after making toast, which is very disturbing.
At school, Jake looks worse than he ever did. He waits by your classroom once, but you walk past him without slowing down, your expression polished into something calm. He says your name but you keep walking, because you refuse to give pieces of yourself to men, more than you already have.
Riki has also learned that you are not going to pack his lunch, remind him about assignments, ask whether he has practice, or save him from his own time management. This would be liberating for him if freedom did not apparently require the ability to know where his own socks are.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and your eyes slide toward the screen, just long enough to see Jake’s name there before the notification fades and the room goes dim again. A few seconds later, there is a knock on your door. It does not open but Riki’s voice breaks through. “Jake’s here,” he says. “He has food. He said he’ll wait ten minutes, and if you don’t come down, he’ll leave.”
Riki stays there for another second, clearly wanting to say something else, but maybe he has learned enough to know that pushing right now would only make you worse. For a while, you do not move and only tell yourself you are not thinking about it, that you do not care what food Jake brought, whether it is something you like, whether it’s because he’s making sure you ate.
At eight minutes, you sit up.
At nine, your feet touch the floor.
At ten, you stay where you are.
Then outside, his car starts. You sit at the edge of your bed with your hands curled into the blanket, listening until the sound disappears completely down the street.
The week passes, and you remain committed to silence. You do not speak to Jake. You do not speak to Riki unless it is absolutely necessary.
That night, Riki knocks on your door. You do not answer, but unfortunately, he opens the door anyway and stops at the sight of you buried in bed, laptop balanced near your knees, looking at him like you have been for the past weeks: exasperated.
“What?”
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. “I’m hungry.”
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. “Then order something.”
“I don’t want delivery.”
“Then make something.”
“I want to go out.”
You pause, because that is exactly the kind of sentence he used to say before you started the lectures about curfew, rides, locations, and whether he had enough sense to come home alive. This time, you only shrug against your pillows. “Then go out.”
Riki shifts his weight. “No,” he says, quieter. “With you.”
You keep your eyes on your laptop, even though the movie has become impossible to follow, because looking at him would mean seeing guilt, probably; hope, maybe. Both would be extremely inconvenient because you learned to soften when he used it.
“It’s late,” you say.
“I know.”
“And you have Jake, apparently.”
He flinches a little, and the guilt on his face finally becomes too obvious to ignore. You hate that it still gets to you, how young he looks when he is sorry, like some part of him has folded back into the boy who used to stand outside your room when he was scared and he had no one else but his older sister.
He swallows. “I don’t want Jake.”
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. “Get your shoes.”
The drive is quiet, Riki sits in the passenger seat with his hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, looking out the window instead of at you. You keep both hands on the wheel and do not ask if he has eaten lunch, even though the question sits on your tongue the entire way there. The diner is still open when you pull up, its neon sign glowing red against the dark.
When the food comes, the table fills with baskets and paper-lined plates, greasy burgers, fries, and mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce in a plastic cup between you. Riki burns his fingers because he has never once believed in waiting, and you call him an idiot before you can stop yourself. The two of you eat in silence after that — not the awful one from the house, but not comfortable either. It sits between you, filling the space while both of you act invested in fries and melted cheese.
Then Riki clears his throat. “I have a girlfriend.” Your hand freezes halfway to the basket.
For a second, the entire diner seems to mute itself around that one sentence. You look up slowly, genuinely caught off guard, and Riki looks terrified in the way only someone who has been hiding something huge.
“What?”
He shifts in his seat. “I have a girlfriend.”
You lean back against the red vinyl booth, trying to process this new piece of information without immediately becoming the girl who asks for her full name, address, grades, family background, and emergency contact. The questions rise anyway: Who is she? How long? Does she treat you well? Does she know you are stupid? Does she have standards? Does she encourage you to drink blue things at parties? Does she know about dad?
Riki looks down at his plate. “When Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.” His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. “That’s why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesn’t make what I did okay.”
You look at him, face unreadable.
“It was bad,” he says, before you can say it for him. “I know it was bad. But something good came out of it too. You were happier. I know you hate hearing that, but you were. You weren’t always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.”
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. “Right,” you say quietly. “So much for a hundred bucks.”
Riki’s face falls. “No,” he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. “I know I can’t decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesn’t make me right, I know that. But please don’t think that I wasn’t considering you along the way — because I did, I really did.”
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe he’s being foolish again. But now that you’re looking at him, you realize that he’s old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
“I know you wanted me to stop controlling you,” you say. “I know I was too much.”
He exhales, miserable. “Okay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,” he says, quieter now. “And I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. That’s why it felt so messed up all the time.” He wipes his palms on his hoodie. “I’m sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.”
The waitress passes by with a coffee pot, and both of you sit there pretending you can steal breathe without feeling hot wax at the back of your throat. You reach for a mozzarella stick because your hands need something to do, and Riki pushes the marinara closer without thinking.
You dip the mozzarella stick and take a bite. “I’m still mad,” you say. “But I’d like to meet your girlfriend.”
For a second, he just stares at you, like he is not sure he heard you correctly. Then his face shifts, slowly, carefully, into the smallest smile. “Okay.”
For the first time all week, your mouth almost curves. The rest of dinner is still quiet, but not as sharp. He tells you her name eventually, softly, and you do not ask for details yet, only nodding. Outside, the air is colder than when you arrived. You make it three steps toward the car before Riki stops behind you.
“I really am sorry,” he says.
When you turn around, his eyes are red, standing there with his shoulders tight and his face crumpling despite how hard he is trying to hold it together. The sight pulls at something old and exhausted inside you, the same place that has always answered him before pride can interrupt.
“Riki,” you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. “I’m sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. I’m sorry.”
You cross the space before either of you can think too hard about it and pull him into a hug.
For a second, he is taller than you and somehow still the little boy from your doorway, the one who had no one else, the one you loved badly because nobody taught you how to do it gently. His arms come around you tight, and the first sob he lets out breaks something open in your chest.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
“Fuck you too,” he says, crying harder.
“You’re so stupid.”
“A dumbass, I know.”
You hold him tighter anyway. Eventually, he pulls back first, wiping his face with his sleeve. His nose is running slightly, and he looks so devastated that you almost call him gross just to make the moment easier.
“I don’t get to tell you what to do,” he says.
You look at him, already tired. “Great start.”
He lets out a shaky breath. “Especially not about Jake.”
Your face changes before you can stop it. He sees it and immediately raises both hands a little, like he is approaching an animal with a history of biting. “I’m not defending what happened. I’m not. But,” he continues carefully, “he did give the money back.”
Your eyes narrow at him.
“I know that doesn’t fix it,” he says quickly. “I know it doesn’t make the beginning less awful. I just… I was there, and I saw when it changed.”
The words sit there, too quiet and too heavy for the sidewalk outside a diner. You do not answer, only staring past him toward the parking lot, where your car waits under the lamppost.
He swallows. “At first, he was doing it because I asked him to. Then he started asking me things about you. What books you liked, where you went after school, if you were always that tired.” His voice gets smaller. “And then he stopped asking me altogether.”
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
“He didn’t need me anymore,” he says. “Not for you.”
“Riki.”
“I know. I’ll stop.” He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. “I just wanted you to know that part.”
You stare at him for a long second.
“And what am I supposed to do with that?”
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Get mad — at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just don’t want you to think every good part was fake. Because I know I messed it up, and he messed it up, but you were happy. And I don’t think that was fake.”
You hate him a little for saying it.
You hate him more because it makes you think.
The worst part has never been that Jake lied and everything after became nothing. The worst part is that it still feels real and they happened, regardless the truths and the lies, the half-truths and wrong intentions. All of it still sits somewhere inside you, refusing to rot properly no matter how badly the beginning wronged it.
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. “You’re very annoying.”
“I know.”
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. “I’m not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“I’m not forgiving you either. Not yet.”
“I know.”
You look at him.
He looks back, eyes still wet, but this time he does not look like he expects you to fix it for him. He only stands there, accepting it, which feels new enough to hurt.
Then he says, quietly, “But can I still ride home with you?”
Your mouth almost curves.
“Unfortunately,” you say, walking toward the car.
That night, you cannot sleep.
It is annoying, because you are exhausted enough to sleep. Your body is tired, your eyes hurt, and your head has been heavy since you drove home from the diner. Still, you lie there staring at the ceiling, turning one thought over and over until it stops feeling like a thought and starts feeling like a pulse breathing beneath your weight — your brother’s words alive there.
You hate that Riki said it and that he might be right. You hate that all week, even through the anger, you still kept thinking about Jake when you made coffee, when you passed the hallway where he used to wait.
You are still in your sleep shorts, an old shirt, and house slippers when you grab your car keys. You do not bother changing, which should have been your first sign that you are not making a dignified decision at all. You only go downstairs without turning on too many lights, and leave before you can talk yourself into being a sensible woman.
The drive to Jake’s house feels longer than it should.
When you pull up near the curb, you keep your hands on the wheel for a second, staring at the front of his house like it might tell you what the hell you are doing here. Yet it only sits there, quiet and expensive and familiar.
The front door opens when you’re about to reverse. Jake steps out with his keys in one hand, dressed in sweats and a hoodie, his hair messy and soft around the mouth in the way you used to love. Still the boy who made you feel, for the first time in years. He locks the door behind him and turns toward his car, already halfway down the path when he sees you.
For a second, neither of you moves.
Then, because apparently you have already abandoned all pride tonight, you get out of your car. The cold hits your legs immediately, so you hug your arms around yourself and stand there on the sidewalk in slippers, trying to look like a person who’ll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
“Where are you going?” you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. “Store.”
You nod once. “Right.”
“I was just going to buy something,” he adds, quieter, like even he knows that does not matter.
You nod again, because now that you are here, you have no idea what comes after arriving — which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.
“Okay,” you say, then you turn back toward your car.
You barely make it one step before he says your name, not loud nor desperate, just in that Jake way that makes your knees buck and feet stop.
He takes one careful step forward. “What are you doing here?”
You keep your eyes on your car door. “I don’t know.” The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and you’re glad you can’t see his reaction.
“Okay.”
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. “Riki talked to me.”
He goes still.
“I’m not here because of that,” you say quickly.
“Okay.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know.”
“And you still hurt me.”
His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I know.”
You look away, because his face is making this harder. “I don’t even know why I drove here.”
He’s quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, “I was hoping you would.” He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. “I just kept thinking maybe one day you’d show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.” His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.
“That’s pathetic,” you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. “Yeah. I know.”
You hate how gentle the night feels around the two of you, how gentle he still is, how easier it is to stand here than it was to stay in your room while your throbbing heart gnaws on your ribcage. You hate that even now, after everything, being near him makes some part of you calm.
Your fingers curl against your own arms, holding yourself tighter, because if you don’t, you might do something worse. Like forgive too fast or maybe even slap him or admit the thing sitting in your chest that looks a lot like a picture of you two.
Jake moves slowly, just before he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the tiredness beneath his eyes, the way his mouth parts slightly like he wants to say something and knows better than to crowd you with it.
“I tried,” you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. “Not thinking about you.”
He does not answer.
“I tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,” you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. “I tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.”
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. “But it didn’t work.” You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because that’s just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
“I can’t not be in love with you, Jake.”
For one terrifying second, he says nothing, and your face burns so badly that you almost step back. But then his expression breaks, not with panic this time, not like the party after you find out — just something like relief and careful in one.
He says your name so quietly it barely reaches you. He lifts his hand slightly, then stops.
“Can I?” he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no — but instead, you nod once. His hand closes around your elbow softly, barely a grip at first, before he pulls you toward him.
You step forward before you can decide not to, and then you are close enough to feel the warmth of him through the cold night air. His hand slides from your elbow to your arm, then pauses there, carefully first. His eyes search your face, and you hate that he still looks at you like that, like all that matters to him is not to hurt you.
“You can still be mad,” he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. “I don’t want you to think I’m asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.”
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. “Then what are you asking?”
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. “For whatever part of you drove here.”
Your eyes lift to his, just to see he’s nervous after saying it, knowing it’s too honest and too close to wanting too much. But he does not take it back, his hand still on your arm, gentle enough that you could pull away, firm enough that you know he does not want you to.
“I hate you,” you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. “Good.”
“You’re unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.” Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.
His face changes. “I don’t know how to hold you any other way.”
For a second, you just stare at him, feeling your anger and your want and your stupid, impossible love all sitting inside your chest together, refusing to separate into anything clean and correct. You reach for him first, your fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, but he goes still and his breath hitches.
Your fingers tighten. “I hate the way I don’t hate you.”
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. “Yeah,” he says, voice low. “I’ll take that.”
You blink. “What?”
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. “I mean, it’s not ideal,” he says carefully. “But it’s better than you hating me normally.”
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. “You’re not funny.”
“I know.” His eyes stay on you. “I’m nervous.”
He swallows, his hand hovering near your arm like he wants to touch you and is trying very hard to behave. The silence after that is small, not empty. You can hear the faint sound of a car passing somewhere down the street, the soft buzz of the porch light, the uneven way he breathes when you still do not let go of his hoodie.
Then Jake says, quieter, “I kept thinking about what I’d say if you ever looked at me again.”
The smallest, most traitorous shift at the corner of your mouth. His eyes drop to your mouth, lasting half a second before he looks back up, but it is enough to make your face warm. You swallow, “And what did you come up with?”
He stares at you like the answer should be easy, but now that you are standing in front of him, hand still curled in his hoodie, it looks like every version he practiced has abandoned him. His mouth parts once, then he lets out a quiet breath. He tilts his head down, close enough that his nose brushes yours first, and your breath catches anyway.
“I want you,” he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. “No deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.” His mouth moves like he wants to smile, but he looks too nervous to fully let it happen.
For a second, you forget how to be angry properly.
Even after everything, he says things too simply, too honestly, like he does not know that a few words can walk straight past every wall you spent weeks rebuilding. You stare at him, close enough to see the way his lashes lower when his eyes flick to your mouth againe
“You’re very annoying,” you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. “Then be annoyed at me,” he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. “Be mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.” His voice drops a little, and something in it turns almost helpless. His face is close enough now that you can see how badly he is trying not to look at your mouth again. “To my face,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “So at least I know you’re still there.”
You forget your slippers, your car parked badly by the curb, the fact that you drove here with no plan and no dignity. All you can focus on is the boy in front of you, looking at you as he says your anger is better than your absence, and even the worst version of you would be easier to survive than no version at all.
For a second, you only stare at him, and then, because your body has apparently lost all sense of loyalty to your anger, you laugh. Just something that slips out because Jake Sim is standing in front of you looking genuinely wrecked over the possibility of you never glaring at him again, and somehow that is the stupidest, most unfairly sweet thing he could have said.
His eyes flicker, like the sound surprises him. “What?”
“You’re very stupid,” you whisper.
His mouth softens. “Yeah.”
You shake your head, but your fingers are still curled in his hoodie. You hate that your whole body seems to understand him before your brain can decide what to do, because all week you have been telling yourself to stay angry, stay away, stay untouched, and then he says one stupid honest thing and you are standing here in slippers, holding onto him like you were always going to come back.
His hand shifts at your arm, careful still. “I won’t ask for more than you want to give me.”
You tug him down and then your mouth is on his.
The kiss is soft at first because he makes it soft, because even now, even with your fingers pulling at his hoodie and your face tilted up to his, he still kisses you like he is waiting for you to change your mind. Then his hand slips from your arm to your waist, warm and steady, and he kisses you back like he has been trying not to think about doing this for weeks and failing every single day. He does not rush, does not take too much, but the relief in him is obvious in the way his breath leaves against your mouth, in the way his fingers tighten just slightly at your side like he cannot believe you are letting him hold you again.
Then he takes one step forward without thinking, and you take one back because he is close and warm and kissing him is already making your brain fuzzy. Your slipper catches the edge of the curb before either of you notices and you stumble. A small gasp slips into the kiss, immediately followed by a laugh you try and fail to swallow. His arm tightens around your waist at once, pulling you back against him before you can lose your balance properly, and he breaks the kiss only enough to look down between you.
“Careful,” he breathes, like he has any right to sound concerned when he is the entire reason you forgot how sidewalks work.
He kisses you again before you can complain further, and this time it is less careful, tugging at his hoodie until he has to bend closer. The cold air slips around your legs, and your car is still parked badly by the curb.
When you pull away, barely, Jake follows for half a second before stopping himself. His eyes open slowly, and the look on his face is so dazed and soft that your own face heats.
“Do you want to go somewhere?”
You blink. “Right now?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once at your waist. “I mean, not as a date if you don’t want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I don’t know.” He winces slightly. “I’m doing badly again.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. “Very badly.”
For a second, he only looks at you, still smiling a little, then he tilts his head like he has decided to be brave in the worst possible way. “I’m buying. I have cash.” he says. “Got it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.”
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. “Oh my God.” You immediately turn away from him, deeply offended, and manage half a step before his hand catches your wrist, enough to stop you before you can escape with what little dignity you have left.
“Okay, sorry,” he says, but he is still laughing.
Your back meets his chest, his arm slips around your waist again, and his laugh drops into something softer near your ear.
“I’m sorry,” he says, quieter now. “Bad joke.”
His hand slides down from your wrist to your fingers, and before you can say anything else, he lifts your hand. His lips press softly against your knuckles, and every insult waiting on your tongue disappears like it never had a chance.
You hate him. You hate him a lot.
You sigh, like this is a great sacrifice and not exactly what you want. “Fine.” His smile grows. “But if you mention the money again, I’m breaking up with you. Again.”
He nods seriously. “Okay. No more money jokes. I can’t afford to lose my girlfriend twice.”
content: (blonde) jake college au, academic rivals, enemies to lovers, angst, emotionally repressed characters (they're all kind of toxic), competition, sexual tension, unreliable narrator (i think?), mental health topics, reader is pretty socially anxious and depressed, light fluff, smut
warnings: mdni! sexual content, cursing, fingering (f. receiving), oral sex (m. receiving), risky sex, classroom sex, degradation, emotional sex, first time, regret.
wc: 41.6k (oops)
note: if you recognize the small kanthony quote, i love you. this is for the avoidant, from the avoidant. i have a few songs that i listened to while writing this, so here they are in case anyone cares. the story doesn’t exactly relate to them, but they might put you in the mood to read it:
true love waits - radiohead / aquel nap zzzz - rauw alejandro / who knows - daniel caesar / con los dos en la cabeza - pedro guerra and cruz cafuné / just for today - clairo / cardigan - taylor swift / sarah - alex g / some protector - role model / angel (bedroom session) - beabadoobee / pushing it down and praying - lizzy mcalpine / boyish - japanese breakfast / moon river - frank ocean / moon song - phoebe bridgers / casual - chappel roan (ofc) / soren (bedroom session) - beabadoobee / i will - mitski / cinderella - mac miller and ty dolla $ing
i hadn't written in so long i forgot i actually enjoy doing this. this has been sitting on my notes app since like december lol. i also hope the whole research thing doesn't sound too stupid, please forgive me if you have already graduated, my fellow psychologists. i got all the info from a little research thing my friends and i did, but it’s hard to put it into dialogue, even harder if it’s in english :”) once again, english is not my first language, so forgive me in advance for any mistakes :) enjoy!
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
you knocked on his door, almost pounding on it, letting all your rage out in that single action. you thought he was predictable enough. you didn’t really know him, but his mind had never seemed all that complex. he might have had the best grades in all your classes for almost three consecutive years, but outside of academics, his thought process felt pretty easy to follow. or so you believed.
you kept trying to get him to open the door. it was a saturday morning, so it was obvious he was sleeping in after a long night of doing god knows what. you had only spoken to him briefly once, but everyone seemed to know his routine a little too well. he was extremely predictable, right?
“could you explain to me why the fuck-“ you cut yourself off after a few words came out of your mouth, realizing you weren’t talking to the person you were supposed to kill that morning.
“who are you?” the pitch black haired girl standing in front of you asked in a condescending tone, with all the confidence you had spent hours trying to build vanishing in a few seconds.
“y-yeah, uhm. sorry. i was looking for… jake?”
“he is sleeping.” you could tell she wasn’t going to give you much more information by her lack of justification. could she at least offer to pass the message down to him? while you were pondering about how to even ask her to do so, you couldn’t help but notice her smudged mascara and the faint red marks that were blooming on her neck. didn’t he have a girlfriend? you had heard some people called him ‘the campus slut’, but you didn’t know the title was so literal. you had no interest on speculating on people’s sex lives at that moment, but you prayed someone had told his supposed girlfriend about how this guy was spending the nights.
“anything else?” you thought people would stop being mean for no reason once you got to college, but that wasn’t the case at all. you learned pretty quickly in your first year that all the cliches still existed no matter how old you got, and that’s how you stayed invisible. you were comfortable with being irrelevant, unknown to most people, since that’s how it had been for your whole life. you didn’t speak to anyone unless it was mandatory and completely inevitable, which left you with, to be honest, zero friends. you tried in your first year, you really did, at least during the first month. but you quickly realized people weren’t so friendly there, even less to such an awkward person. interacting socially didn’t come as easy to you as it did to others, but you had no idea how to change it. even if you had tried to for your whole twenty years of life.
all you knew was that you had a single goal. a quiet goal that made you stay up every night, drowning in voluptuous psychology books that you took out of the library’s darkest corners and writing infinite notes that were carefully highlighted in all sort of colours. a goal that always had an obstacle. an obstacle named jake sim, to be exact. and at that exact moment, he was hindering your progress more than ever. “look, uhm… could you tell him i’m his project partner for his social development class and that i need to talk to him? if he doesn’t remember me, tell him he gave me his email, in class. i-i shared a google doc so he also has my email address and he can-“
“who the fuck is at my door at this hour, kyra?” before you could finish your sentence, you heard a deep voice approaching. the infuriating voice you were actually looking for.
“great, you woke him up.” kyra spoke in a fake nice tone, a mean smile pulling at her lips. before you could even process the passive-aggressive comment, a dyed blonde head peeked out from behind the door. your heart jumped. you had spent so long preparing for this confrontation, but now that it was actually happening, you suddenly felt weak. “oh, you.” well, at least it seemed like he remembered who you were. you could skip the embarrassing part in which you reminded him of the only interaction you had ever had, in front of another stranger too. “so… what do you need?” jake questioned in a confused tone, clearly not interested in what you had to say.
“i wanna talk to you. in private.” you said as your gaze turned to the girl who answered the door, trying to subtly get your message across.
“this is fucking stupid, i’ll wait for you in bed.” she rolled her eyes as she entered the apartment again, clearly not happy about your presence. you knew you were being an inconvenience, but he deserved it. it wasn’t your fault she was there to suffer the consequences of his actions.
“so?” you took a deep breath before speaking, as seeing the natural look of confidence he had was already making you furious.
“i did my part the day the project was assigned. tell me why i opened the document yesterday night to see if you had started and, to my surprise, the whole thing is gone. deleted.”
“do you not know how to look at the document history or what?” “d-do you think i haven’t done that?! that is also gone, you know?” you raised your voice a little, trying to hide how anxious you were about the whole interaction.
“and you weren’t smart enough to make a copy of your text?” “why do we use google docs for? it’s supposed to be safe because of the damn history.”
“did you come here just to blame me for your irresponsibility?” you had never met such an infuriating person, you were sure. but before you could even respond, he questioned you again. “how did you even get my address?” you knew that question would come up sooner or later, so you already had your answer prepared.
“i asked your friend who works at the campus cafe. i always see you with him.” you did ask heeseung because you knew he would be dumb enough to just tell you without much reasoning. although you actually didn’t need his help, you couldn’t let jake know you were actually very aware of his surroundings. you were a little too familiar with what his friend group posted on instagram, too. this guy’s information was way too easy to find, you thought. some people might have thought you were obsessed, but to you, it was simply being strategic. analyzing the objective, comprehending how a person so careless could always win. no matter what you did. maybe you were a little obsessed, but you had your academic reasons.
“so my guy heeseung is just giving out my information for free to random people, huh? i’ll talk to him later then.” he thought out loud, while completely ignoring your accusations still.
“don’t you have anything to say for yourself?” “you know, the need to sabotage only exists when there is real competition.” ouch. it wasn’t only the content of his message, it was also the way he delivered it. the calm tone, the cocky smirk and the lack of need of explanation. “look, you must have had a problem with your connection. but since i can physically sense your anxiety from here, i’ll do your part again. happy?” you were enraged. what did he know about your anxiety? he probably didn’t even remember your name. him being so sure about your mental state made you feel furious, and him being correct about it worsened even more.
"i don't need your pity. i just need you to not mess with my work. i don't have time for these kind of things, okay?"
"i'll send you a message when it's fully done. see ya." before you could even think of an answer, the door was shutted right in front of your face without further explanation. you just needed to get through this project and you wouldn't have to share a single word with jake ever again in your life.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
three days later, you finally reopened the document after you had only been working on it for a couple hours that same day you confronted jake. you needed to finish your part once again not because you wanted to, but because ignoring it any longer would’ve felt like admitting defeat. you sat down in the library with the same heaviness you had been carrying since that night, fingers hovering above the trackpad for a moment too long before you clicked in. the file loaded and nothing felt different at first. your section was still there, the parts you had rewritten after the frustration of seeing it had been erased. it still felt slightly uneven to you, unfinished in the way only your own work could feel when you knew you hadn’t had enough time to properly shape it again. you scrolled down, expecting the rest of it to still be blank. empty space, his problem. but there was no empty space. the document was... done. not half done, not rushed, not patched together just to meet the deadline. fully done. the methodology section had been expanded beyond what you had originally outlined, your notes reorganized into something clearer, more structured. the analysis had been rewritten in places, not replaced, but refined in a way that still made your ideas recognisable underneath it. even the conclusion was there, clean, direct and complete. you stared at it for a long time, not scrolling, not moving, just reading the same paragraph twice because your brain refused to accept that it hadn’t been there before.
and then you saw the comments. dozens of them. not long messages, not explanations, just quiet interruptions in your work: “this needs more grounding” “unclear reasoning here” “this part is actually strong, keep it” “you’re overexplaining this concept”. there was no tone in them, no praise or sarcasm, no attempt at softness. there was just precision, like he had treated your writing the way you treated data. you leaned back slightly in your chair, exhaling through your nose while trying to make sense of the irritation forming in your chest. not because he had ruined your work, but because he hadn’t. he had expanded it into something much more structured as he had finished his own precisely. maybe his stupid first place at the rankings seemed a little more fair now. you stared at his name for a second longer than you should have, your jaw tightening slightly as you scrolled back through the pages again, slower this time, as if you might find the trick hidden somewhere in the formatting. there wasn’t one. it was just good, annoyingly good. one last comment appeared at the end of the document, letting you know that he was done editing. you followed his suggestions and made the changes you saw necessary, as you didn't agree with all of his opinions. jake was sharp with his work — direct, structured, almost brutally efficient. you, on the other hand, preferred slower reasoning, longer explanations, space to sit with an idea instead of compressing it into something clean and immediate. you almost had opposite ways of writing, but it had worked somehow.
once you read it all again, you opened a new email and attached the file, professor jones’ address going in first. you didn’t overthink it, as it was just the usual submission format for a small assignment. after a second, you also added jake’s email in cc so that he would be notified you had already turned it in. you clicked send, finally allowing yourself to forget about that dumb project and your even dumber partner. although, somehow, he still lingered in the back of your mind anyway.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
the following days slipped back into routine in a way that almost felt normal again: lectures, library sessions, half-finished readings you told yourself you would return to later. the project stayed somewhere in the back of your mind, present but quiet. until professor jones called you in after class. his office looked the same as always — slightly cluttered, papers stacked in uneven piles, his laptop half-open like he was constantly in the middle of something he hadn’t finished yet.
“come in.” he said warmly as you stepped inside. “i was just reviewing your submission.” you sat down, hands folded loosely in your lap, trying to read his expression before he said anything else. “it’s good.” he said after a moment. “really good. there’s a lot of clarity in your thinking, especially in how you structure social behavior patterns. that’s not easy to teach.” you blinked slightly at the praise, caught off guard. “but more than that,” he added, softening his tone a little, “it shows potential. real research potential.” as you heard his words, your posture straightened without meaning to. “i've been thinking.” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “your work doesn't need to only be small coursework assignments. it can become something more meaningful if you’re willing to push it.”
“more meaningful?” you repeated carefully.
he nodded. “a structured research project over the semester. you’ll expand on what you already always do: methods, data collection, proper analysis. but you’ll actually test your ideas instead of just discussing them.” you stayed quiet, absorbing it all. “and at the end of the term, there’s a student research conference. it’s internal, but it brings in students from different departments who are interested in research work. you would present your findings there.”
that made your stomach tighten slightly. “a conference?”
“yes.” he said simply, like it was the most natural next step in the world. “it’s a good opportunity, especially for someone in your position.” you looked up at him at that. he smiled slightly, not in a performative way, more like he was choosing his words carefully. “you’re doing very well, but you’re also at a point where the work you produce should be seen. it matters for your scholarship, and for what comes after this degree.” that landed differently, since it wasn't pressure, but direction. “you’re capable of more than just maintaining grades.” he added gently. “i don’t want you to only stay at the top, i want you to build something that stays with you after university.” he paused then to continue a few seconds later, more practically. “and i think jake challenges you in a productive way. he forces structure where you tend to stay more exploratory. that balance is exactly what makes strong research.”
you felt it before you even processed it properly. that small tightening in your chest, like your body had reacted faster than your thoughts. you looked down at your hands for a moment, adjusting your grip on the edge of your sleeve without meaning to. the room suddenly felt quieter, not because anything had changed, but because your attention had narrowed too much. jake. you didn’t say anything immediately, just letting the silence sit there, as if waiting long enough might make the idea rearrange itself into something more tolerable. but it didn’t. working with him wasn’t just a line in a document anymore, it was becoming something structured. planned, extended, something you couldn’t quietly ignore your way out of. your throat tightened slightly. “so we’re still working together?” you asked, but it came out more carefully than you intended. less like a question, more like something you were testing the weight of out loud.
professor jones didn’t answer right away, studying you for a second instead. not in a clinical way, but in the quiet, patient way someone does when they already know the answer you don’t want to hear. “i was expecting you to ask that.” he said gently, and that alone made your stomach sink a little further. he leaned forward slightly, resting his hands together. “i wouldn’t keep you as partners if i didn’t think it was beneficial for you.”
your fingers pressed a little tighter into your sleeve. “beneficial in what way?” you asked, though you already had a suspicion you weren’t going to like the answer.
“in every way that matters for where you’re trying to go.” he said simply. “academically, yes, but also in terms of development. your work becomes sharper when you’re challenged. you know that.” a pause. “and jake responds well to direction, you respond well to space. that combination works.”
you exhaled quietly through your nose, but it wasn’t really a laugh. “it’s not that simple.” you said, mostly under your breath.
“i know.” he replied immediately, not dismissing it. “it rarely feels simple when it involves someone you’re not comfortable with.” that made you look up slightly as he continued, tone steady. “but i'm not asking you to like the arrangement. i'm asking you to trust the outcome of it.” silence again. your mind went through it anyway, whether you wanted it to or not. the library. the comments. the way he rewrote your work without destroying it. the way you had hated that you noticed it was good.
you swallowed. “i just… don’t want it to interfere with my other work.” you said, slower now, searching for a more acceptable objection.
“it won’t.” professor jones said calmly. “if anything, it will stabilize it. you’re already thinking about it too much on your own.” that made something in your chest pull uncomfortably tight, because he wasn’t wrong. you weren’t agreeing, but you weren’t refusing anymore either.
"okay.” you said finally, quieter than before. not fully convinced, not fully resistant either, just caught somewhere in between. professor jones nodded once, like that was all he needed.
“good.” he said softly. “i think you’ll see what i mean sooner than you expect.”
you left his office with the word conference sitting in your head, heavier than expected, but not entirely unwelcome. and for the first time, it didn’t feel like you had been assigned something. it felt like someone had seen further ahead than you had.
as you walked across campus, you realized you had left professor jones' office with your chest feeling strangely heavy. you should have been happy, actually happy. this was the type of opportunity people waited years for. actual research as a third year student, actual experimental work, a proper conference. something that would look incredible on scholarship evaluations and future applications, something that could genuinely help build a future. your future. and professor jones had looked so excited while talking about it too. so why did it feel like your stomach was sinking? probably because of him. because for some obvious reason, out of everyone in your year, it had to be jake. you tried convincing yourself it wasn't that serious while walking through campus. you could do it, you could be professional. people worked with classmates they disliked all the time, and it wasn't like you had to become friends. it wasn't like you even spoke to each other outside of a single assignment. still, your mind kept replaying professor jones' words: "he challenges you in a productive way." productive, right. because accusing him of sabotage and showing up at his apartment at nine in the morning on a saturday definitely sounded productive. you let out a quiet breath through your nose as your thoughts kept spiraling without a stop.
whatever. you would deal with it later. except apparently later meant right in that moment, because as soon as you entered the campus cafe, you saw him. jake was standing near the pickup counter with one hand in his hoodie pocket while staring down at his phone. completely relaxed, completely normal and unaffected. you almost turned around, you almost did. but then he looked up and saw you as his eyes narrowed slightly — not in annoyance, more like in realization. you looked away first, because absolutely not. you walked toward the counter while pretending you hadn't seen him, hoping maybe he would do the same.
he obviously didn't. "professor jones talked to you too?"
you stopped. of course he would skip hello. slowly, you turned around. "yeah." a small silence. he looked at you as you tried looking at him back, just to immediately turn your head away. why did he cause so much anger inside you just by standing there?
"so we're doing that." your voice sounded much weaker than you wanted it to.
jake stared at you for a moment. "looks like it."
you hated how calm he sounded. you actually hated how calm he always sounded. because meanwhile your brain was practically running into walls trying to process things. you crossed your arms without realizing. "if you don't want to, you can tell him."
his eyebrows furrowed slightly. "what?"
"the project." you shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "if you don't think it'll work." silence. you risked looking up, noticing how jake was staring at you now.
"why would i do that?"
you frowned. "because we don't exactly get along." "do we not?"
you just stared at him in disbelief. "are you serious right now?"
jake blinked once as his mouth twitched slightly. not enough to call it a smile, but enough to make you want to punch him. "you don't sound very excited." he said in a playful tone.
"that’s probably because i'm not." "then you tell professor jones that."
"why me?" "because you're the one who looks like you're about to throw up."
you stared at him in horror. "i do not." "you do."
"i don't." "okay."
you hated how quickly he gave up. you hated it because somehow it felt worse, now sounding like he simply didn't care enough to argue. another few seconds passed. awkward, horribly awkward. "look," you finally sighed, crossing your arms, "i want to do this project."
jake looked at you. "obviously."
"i'm serious." "i know."
"i just don't think we'll work well together." there, you finally said it.
jake looked at you for a few moments and then shrugged. "probably not. but professor jones wants us to do it." he continued casually, "and i want him to keep liking me, because it means recommendations. opportunities." he looked at you like it was obvious. "and because he also looked way too happy explaining it." your irritation paused for a second, because that actually sounded reasonable — like you almost shared a motive. jake looked down at his drink before looking back at you. "so let's just not kill each other for a few months."
you stared at him and then frowned. "a few months?"
"yeah." he tilted his head slightly. "did you think research happened in two weeks?"
of course you knew research took months, you weren't stupid. you just hadn't thought that far as you had been too busy processing the jake part of it. "right." another silence. you suddenly became very aware of how awkward it was to just stand there looking at him. people kept walking around you both, entering and leaving the cafe while the conversation felt weirdly stuck.
then jake took a sip from his drink. "professor wants us to meet with him on friday."
your eyes snapped back to him. "what?"
"he told me before i left." he shrugged. "to discuss ideas."
"already?" "that's generally how projects work."
you lowered your head with a quiet sigh as a few seconds passed before jake spoke again. "don't make me do the whole thing alone."
"excuse me?"
he looked back at you with complete indifference. "you accused me of deleting your work like four days ago. i feel like i'm allowed to be cautious."
you stared at him in disbelief. actual disbelief. "right." that was it, right. because apparently getting the last word wasn't enough for him either.
"i'll see you friday then." you said flatly, crossing your arms a little tighter around yourself.
jake simply nodded before taking another sip of his drink. "see you." and then he walked away. you stared at his back for a few seconds longer than necessary before turning around toward the counter. you didn't know what annoyed you more — the fact that you were stuck with him for months or the fact that he somehow looked completely okay with it.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
you had expected professor jones' office to somehow feel different after what he had told you a few days ago. bigger, maybe. more serious. like the room itself would suddenly reflect the fact that this wasn't another regular class assignment anymore. it didn't, though. it looked exactly the same as always. the same crowded bookshelves covered nearly every wall, filled with books you doubted anyone had touched in years and stacks of papers that looked disorganized to anyone except probably him. the same small plant sat near the window, somehow surviving despite looking half dead every semester. the same coffee mug sat on the corner of his desk. everything felt normal, which was ridiculous, because you definitely didn't. you sat in the chair in front of his desk trying not to bounce your leg under it, your fingers loosely playing with the sleeve of your shirt while your thoughts continued moving much faster than they should have. actual research. a conference. recommendations. scholarships. your future. the words had been replaying in your head since he had first mentioned them, and somehow every time you thought about them they felt heavier.
meanwhile, beside you sat jake, who of course seemed to be relaxed. you hadn't expected anything else. he was leaning back slightly in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw while absentmindedly scrolling through something on his phone. he looked like someone waiting for a friend to finish buying coffee, not someone sitting in a meeting that could potentially affect the next few years of his academic life. you hated that. you hated it because you maybe knew it probably wasn't even confidence. confidence implied effort, confidence implied he had considered the possibility of failure and then decided not to care. jake simply looked like failing had never crossed his mind.
professor jones looked between both of you before smiling. "before i start overwhelming you with articles and deadlines, i want to hear what interests you."
the room went quiet. the problem wasn't that you didn't have ideas, the problem was that you suddenly had too many of them and none of them sounded intelligent enough to say out loud. you had spent the last few days imagining this whole thing becoming something important, and now your brain had apparently decided that speaking was impossible. professor jones continued waiting patiently while beside you, jake said nothing, which annoyed you too. because if he was supposedly so structured and organized and perfect, then why was you go first suddenly the strategy?
"...people?" you finally said. the word left your mouth and you immediately regretted existing as you physically felt yourself cringe. people. great, amazing contribution. you cleared your throat. "i mean..." you quickly continued, trying to recover from the disaster you had just created. "relationships, maybe? social development. interpersonal stuff." professor jones nodded thoughtfully, which made you feel relief for approximately one second.
"too broad." your head turned slowly. of course it had come from him. jake wasn't even looking at you, he was staring somewhere near the bookshelves behind professor jones with the most neutral expression imaginable, as if he had simply commented that it looked cloudy outside.
you stared at him. seriously? "okay," you said slowly, "sorry for not arriving with a fully developed research proposal."
that finally made him look over, his eyebrows pulled together slightly. "i wasn't criticizing you." and somehow that annoyed you even more, because criticism you could work with. criticism meant opposition. but this expression on his face, this genuine confusion, like he actually didn't understand why you sounded irritated, somehow felt worse. because then either he was pretending to be oblivious or he genuinely had no idea how he came across. and honestly, you weren't sure which possibility bothered you more.
professor jones looked suspiciously close to smiling, making your eyes slightly narrow. he was absolutely enjoying this. he finally cleared his throat, although the small smile at the corner of his mouth never really disappeared. "okay," he said, leaning back in his chair. "let's narrow it down a little."
you looked away from jake and back toward the desk, crossing one leg over the other while trying to ignore the lingering irritation sitting somewhere in your chest. it was stupid, honestly. you didn't even fully know why his comment had bothered you so much. actually, no. you did know. because he always sounded like that. never rude enough for anyone to call him rude, never arrogant enough for anyone to call him arrogant. he simply said things in this annoyingly neutral tone, like he was reading facts off a presentation slide. there was never enough emotion in his voice to prove he meant anything by it. which meant getting irritated always made you look dramatic. which maybe you were a little, but it was fine as long as you kept it inside your own head.
you stared down at your sleeve for a few seconds while absentmindedly pulling at a loose thread. social development, relationships, interpersonal stuff. none of it felt specific enough anymore. you had thrown the ideas out without really thinking, mostly because silence had somehow become unbearable. but now that the room had gone quiet again, you could feel your brain doing that thing it always did where it started running in ten directions at once. because relationships could mean friendships, family, social behavior, emotional regulation, childhood experiences, attachment. "what about attachment?" the words had simply left out of your mouth. for a second, the room stayed quiet, which made you slowly look up. great, now both of them were looking at you. you shrugged slightly, suddenly becoming very interested in a tiny scratch on professor jones' desk. "i don't know," you said quickly. "we talk about it a lot in class." you paused, then immediately felt the need to explain yourself more. because apparently your brain believed every thought required a full defense. "like... childhood relationships affecting later relationships and stuff." you frowned slightly. "people act weird because of it."
"people act weird?" you turned your head so fast you almost regretted it, as jake was looking at you now. and there it was again, that tiny thing near his mouth. not a smile, you were beginning to realize that jake apparently never smiled normally in front of you.
you narrowed your eyes. "you know what i mean."
he tilted his head slightly. "i actually don't."
you stared at him, because you knew he knew what you meant. there was no way someone who had the highest grades in almost every class suddenly forgot how basic human behavior worked. you crossed your arms. "yes, you do."
"i really don't." for a few seconds, you just looked at each other. and then, very suddenly, you realized something awful. professor jones wasn't interrupting. he was just sitting there, watching. watching like this was some kind of television show. you slowly turned your head toward him and finally, he looked back at the notes in front of him. "i think what she's trying to say," he said gently, "is that attachment patterns influence the way people perceive and interact with others."
you immediately pointed toward him. "yes." then toward jake. "that."
jake looked back at professor jones and nodded once. "that makes more sense."
you dropped your hand back into your lap, because somehow being understood by professor jones and not by jake felt weirdly personal. which was ridiculous, because it definitely wasn't personal. the guy barely knew who you were. still, something about it sat annoyingly in your chest.
professor jones glanced down at his notes again, pen hovering slightly above the page as if he was already organizing your scattered ideas into something more coherent. "attachment could be a good starting point." he said calmly. "but you’ll need to decide what exactly you want to examine within it."
you exhaled softly through your nose, leaning back a little in your chair. that was the problem. everything felt like it connected to everything else, which made narrowing it down feel almost arbitrary. your gaze drifted across the room while you tried to force your brain into something more structured. "emotions?" you said eventually, though it came out more like a question than an idea you fully owned. "like… emotional responses. how people react to others."
it wasn’t great, but it was something. jake shifted slightly beside you. he hadn’t looked at you when he spoke, which for some reason made it easier to listen without immediately wanting to argue. "empathy would fit better than emotions in general." he said after a moment, still looking down at the desk. his tone was even, like he was just adjusting a term rather than rejecting your idea. "emotions is too broad. empathy might be more specific to interpersonal response."
you glanced at him briefly. professor jones nodded slowly, as if that was exactly the direction he had been hoping the conversation would move toward. "that’s true." he agreed. you looked back down at your sleeve, tugging lightly at the fabric again. it wasn’t even that jake was saying anything particularly offensive. he wasn’t dismissive, he wasn’t rude, he wasn’t even trying to take over the conversation. that was probably the worst part, because he just… contributed. you exhaled quietly. "okay," you said, mostly to keep things moving. "attachment and empathy then."
professor jones’ pen paused for a second. "that could work very well." he said, more thoughtfully now. he leaned forward slightly, interest clearly sharpening. "attachment styles influence how people interpret social information, and empathy is one of the clearest ways that gets expressed." professor jones let the words settle for a moment, as if he was already rearranging them into something more formal in his head. the pen between his fingers stopped moving, and for the first time in the conversation, he looked fully focused rather than just mildly entertained. "attachment and empathy." he repeated quietly, testing it. you nodded once, a little slower this time. it still felt strange how quickly the idea had become something real, something that could actually exist beyond this room. a few minutes ago you had been throwing out vague concepts just to fill silence, and now there was a tiny direction forming out of it. you weren’t sure if that was exciting or stressful. probably both. professor jones leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. "there’s actually a lot of room there." he continued. "you could look at different attachment styles and how they relate to empathic responses, or even how that changes depending on individual differences."
you stayed quiet, absorbing it more than responding. the structure of it was starting to take shape in a way that made it feel less like an abstract idea and more like something you would actually have to do. collect, measure, analyze. real work. beside you, jake gave a small nod, like he was following the same thread without needing it explained further. it wasn’t showy, just… immediate. like the conclusion had already formed in his head and he was simply confirming it matched the room. you noticed it before you could stop yourself, then immediately forced your attention back to the professor. "so," professor jones said as he sat back again, tone lightening slightly. "if you both agree, this could be the start of your project." the sentence landed more simply than you expected. no ceremony, no dramatic framing, just that. your first instinct was to look at jake again, but you stopped yourself halfway through it. instead, you focused on the edge of the desk, letting the idea settle properly before reacting to it. your project. together. you exhaled slowly through your nose. it wasn’t that you disagreed with the topic, because you didn’t. actually, it was probably one of the better ideas you could’ve landed on in the time you’d been given. it just… came with a complication you hadn’t fully processed yet.
you glanced sideways anyway, just briefly. jake was already standing up slightly straighter, like the decision had simply moved the conversation forward in his head rather than changing anything significant. professor jones smiled, clearly satisfied with the direction everything had taken. "i’ll formalize the assignment and send you the guidelines." he added. "but for now, attachment and empathy. that’s your starting point. so now, go search all the papers and articles you can find about this topic and try to explore what new things you could bring to the table. i trust they will be a lot."
you gave a small nod, slower than before, as the reality of it finally settled properly. and for the first time since walking into the office, the thought that stuck wasn’t the topic itself. it was the fact that this was no longer just an idea you could step away from when the conversation ended.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
working with jake became an uncomfortable addition to your routine much faster than you wanted it to. not because he demanded constant meetings or sent endless messages about the project. honestly, if it had been up to him, you were starting to think he would've been perfectly fine speaking only through shared documents for the next few months. the problem was professor jones. because professor jones apparently loved words like collaboration and research process and active discussion, which translated into him repeatedly reminding both of you that good research wasn't built by two people independently doing half the work and stapling it together at the end. so now you had meetings. actual meetings. which was why you currently found yourself sitting across from jake in one of the library halls of the the study rooms on a thursday afternoon, surrounded by articles you had printed the night before.
jake had only brought his laptop, of course he had. you had shown up with highlighted articles, sticky notes sticking out of pages at uneven angles, and a notebook full of things you had written at two in the morning that had seemed organized at the time. he glanced down at the stack in front of you, then back at you. “you printed all of those?"
you looked down. "yes?"
he was silent for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. "why?"
you stared at him, the answer being too obvious to you. "to read them?"
"right." he nodded once, expression completely flat. "forgot people still did that."
you narrowed your eyes a little. "some people just remember information better when they see it physically."
"mhm." his face didn't change. you couldn't tell if that was agreement or if he had simply made a noise.
you pulled one of the articles toward yourself instead. "okay, so," you said as you flipped through a few pages. "we already know attachment and empathy have been studied a lot."
jake leaned back slightly in his chair. "yeah."
"secure attachment usually correlates positively with empathy." "mhm." "avoidant usually negatively." another nod. you glanced up, wondering if he was going to say anything beyond one syllable words at some point. you looked back down at your papers before you could accidentally look irritated. "the issue seems to be preoccupied attachment." you tapped the article lightly. "results aren't consistent."
jake finally shifted a little. "because it's contradictory." you looked up. he was looking at his laptop screen, eyes moving as he scrolled. "people with preoccupied attachment are hyper-aware of relationships, so you could argue they'd be more empathic." he paused. "but they're also more emotionally reactive." you frowned slightly. "so self-focused distress gets in the way."
"yeah." you blinked, because that was actually exactly what you had highlighted.
you looked down at your article again, then immediately said, "but that's already been suggested."
his eyes moved toward you. "i know."
"so we can't just say that." "i also know."
silence. you hated that somehow you felt awkward when he was the one sitting there acting like human conversation was an optional side quest. jake clicked something on his laptop. "the inconsistency has to be coming from somewhere."
you looked at him again. "well, that's obvious."
"not really." you frowned as he turned his screen slightly toward himself. "people keep treating preoccupied attachment like everyone with it responds the same way." he shrugged a little. "and they don't."
you crossed your arms. "that's too broad."
"why?" "because individual differences can explain literally anything." "doesn't make it wrong."
you opened your mouth to just immediately close it. you had your doubts on where to take this. "okay, but if we say individual differences, that's not specific enough for a study."
he looked at you for a few seconds, then nodded once. "fair." jake glanced back at his screen. "gender?"
you looked up. "how?" you said in a genuine way, being curious about his thought process.
"women generally score higher in empathy." he said it casually, like he was reading weather data. "if previous studies ignored gender, maybe that's part of the inconsistency."
you stared at him for a second, then slowly looked down at the article in front of you. "if we include gender," you said slowly, mostly thinking out loud now, "then we'd be arguing that the reason findings are inconsistent isn't necessarily because preoccupied attachment itself is inconsistent." jake looked up. you kept going, eyes still on your notes. "it could be because previous studies grouped everyone together." you flipped the page absentmindedly. "so if women with preoccupied attachment generally score higher in empathy than men with the same attachment style-"
"you get different results depending on who ends up in the sample."
you stopped and looked up. jake was leaning back in his chair, one arm resting against the table, eyes on his laptop screen even though he'd just finished your sentence like he'd known where you were going before you did. you stared at him for a second. "right."
he nodded once and that was it. no exactly. no yeah, that's what i meant. nothing, just that tiny nod like the conclusion had been obvious. and maybe that was what annoyed you. because if you had connected those dots, you would've at least looked a little pleased with yourself. not in an obnoxious way, just in a normal human way. there would've been some visible sign of satisfaction, but jake looked like he had remembered something so casual it wasn't worth a reaction. you looked back down at the article, except now you weren't reading anymore. you were staring at the highlighted lines while a much more irritating thought sat in your head. had he already thought about this? because if he had, then why was he sitting there acting like he'd just casually thrown out a possibility? you kind of hated people who did that. people who already had an answer but acted like they were arriving there naturally with everyone else. "wait." you couldn’t help but ask. "did you already think this?"
jake's eyes lifted from his screen. "think what."
you stared at him. "this." you gestured vaguely between the papers and his laptop. "the gender thing."
his expression barely shifted as he looked back at the screen. "a little."
a little. of course. because apparently every answer with him had to feel like you were trying to pull information out of someone being questioned by the police. "define a little."
he glanced at you, then back at the screen. "i mean, professor jones already said we needed a gap in the literature." click, scroll. "there's inconsistent findings around preoccupied attachment." click. "gender isn't really addressed." click, another shrug. "it wasn't that hard."
you stared at him. it wasn't that hard. something in your eye twitched, not physically, more like emotionally. because there was absolutely no chance he meant it in a condescending way, and that was the problem. if he'd smirked, if he'd looked smug, if he'd sounded even remotely pleased with himself, then you could've comfortably decided he was irritating and moved on. but he didn't. he said it with complete indifference, like he genuinely didn't think he had said anything worth noticing. you couldn't even be mad at him for being cocky — he wasn't being cocky. he was just casually smart in a way that made you feel stupid for needing more time, which was significantly more annoying. you crossed your arms. "okay, well, i think it's a little more complicated than that."
jake finally looked up properly. "how?"
you sat up slightly. "because if we immediately assume gender explains the inconsistency, then we're forcing the data to fit an explanation before we've even looked at it." his eyebrows moved a fraction, the tiniest amount. you felt strangely victorious. "there are other possibilities," you continued. "differences in measures, sampling issues, social desirability bias-"
"those aren't mutually exclusive. we’re looking at gender because we want to focus on a possible variable that is shown to have a differential impact on empathy in previous literature." he continued as you looked at him. "gender can matter and those things can matter too." he said it so simply, so annoyingly simply. like you'd somehow overcomplicated something that, in his mind, had never needed complicating.
you frowned. "i know they're not mutually exclusive." "okay."
you stared at him, because there was something uniquely irritating about the way he did that. the way he said okay like he had accepted what you said while simultaneously sounding like he thought you had taken the scenic route to arrive somewhere obvious. and maybe you were imagining it, you could be imagining it. you had personally known this guy for what, a few weeks? maybe less? if you didn’t count all your social media stalking and the horrible image you had already made up in your head about him, of course. there was a very real possibility that you were projecting an entire personality onto him because his face gave away approximately nothing and your brain apparently hated unanswered questions. except maybe, just maybe, you weren't completely imagining it. because there had been that tiny eyebrow raise earlier, that microscopic thing. that i'm waiting to see where you're going with this expression. and now there was this, this stupidly calm okay. you narrowed your eyes a little. "you know that's annoying, right?"
jake looked up from his laptop. "what is?"
"that." you pointed vaguely at him, which wasn't helpful at all, but you honestly didn't have a better explanation.
he looked down at himself for a second, then back at you. "me sitting?"
you stared at him as he stared back, and for a whole second you genuinely couldn't tell if he was serious. you let out a small breath through your nose. "you seem to do this thing where you act like you don't care about the conversation and then suddenly say something that completely changes the direction of it."
he blinked once. "i'm literally just discussing the project."
"that's not what i mean." "then what do you mean?"
you opened your mouth just to immediately close it. because annoyingly, you didn't know exactly what you meant. you just knew there was something frustrating about the whole thing. about sitting there with someone who looked detached enough to be mentally planning dinner while somehow keeping up with every point you made and responding with irritatingly concise answers that kept making sense. because if he had been openly pedant, if he'd corrected you every five minutes, you swore it would've been easier. but jake just sat there looking half-asleep while dropping comments that made you rethink your own arguments, and somehow that felt unfair. you looked down at your papers again. "nothing." you muttered.
silence. you started reorganizing the articles in front of you, even though they had already been organized, because your hands suddenly needed something to do. paper slid against paper. outside, footsteps passed down the hallway. someone laughed somewhere in the distance. the library air conditioning hummed softly overhead. and then — "you do it too." your hands stopped. slowly, you looked up, but jake wasn't looking at you. his eyes were still on his screen.
"do what?" "act like you don't care."
you let out a tiny laugh of disbelief. "what?"
he shrugged. "you keep pretending you're just thinking out loud."
your eyebrows pulled together. "i am thinking out loud."
"not really." his eyes lifted then. "you say something," he said evenly, "then you look at me for like three seconds waiting to see if i agree."
you stared at him. and for one horrible second, your brain replayed the last twenty minutes. you saying something, looking up, waiting. saying something else, looking up, waiting. oh my god. heat crept into your face, hopefully not enough to be noticeable. you looked down at your papers again. "i do not."
"mmh." there it was again. you looked down at your papers once more as you tried to sound normal, which unfortunately for you often meant sounding more defensive than intended. you closed your eyes for a fraction of a second and opened them again, because there it was, that same infuriating calm. the same complete lack of effort in sounding like he was trying to win the argument, which somehow made him more annoying than if he had actually been trying. "and for the record," he spoke again as you spiraled inside your mind, making you look cautiously. "you were right before."
you blinked. "about what?"
"social desirability bias." he clicked something on his laptop. "if we're discussing explanations for inconsistent findings, we should include it in the literature section." a pause. "it's relevant."
you looked down at your notes again before he could catch you staring for too long, suddenly becoming very aware of yourself in the way you sometimes did around people. where all at once your hands felt oddly placed and your face felt too visible and you became convinced that if you spoke then, you would sound strange somehow. which was stupid, because you were just discussing research methods. you had spent years doing presentations and group projects and class discussions. you knew how to talk, technically, although you never became fully comfortable to do it in a natural way. you were just forced to do it to keep up, to maintain your grades, your scholarship and, subsequently, your ranking. your ranking, which was casually right behind jake’s. the top two students who had never interacted before up until now, up until they were basically forced to. you wondered if he had ever noticed you were second, or if he had heard your name before. you wondered if he even cared about the rankings or just couldn’t help but get first every single time without trying. you always wondered about his position there, about how he seemed to be untouchable.
there was also a difference between knowing how to talk and actually talking. and for reasons you did not fully understand, talking to jake felt like walking into an exam you had forgotten to study for. the silence had now reached that stage where you had become aware of it, and once you became aware of silence, it became impossible not to think about it. and then you started wondering if the other person was aware of it too, and then you started acting weird because you were thinking about acting weird. "so..." you said.
jake looked up and your brain immediately emptied. absolutely nothing. why had you spoken before knowing what you were going to say? you had an idea in your head literally two seconds ago. where had it gone? jake waited. one second, two seconds. "...so?" he said.
you blinked. "right." you looked down at your papers quickly, pretending to search for something. "i was gonna say something."
"i figured." you grabbed a random article and looked at it despite not reading a single word. "take your time."
you looked up and jake was already looking back at his laptop. his expression hadn't changed at all, completely neutral. which somehow made it impossible to tell if he was making fun of you or not. you narrowed your eyes slightly. "was that sarcastic?"
he looked up slowly. "no." a pause. "should it have been?"
"you're doing that on purpose." you muttered.
"doing what again?” you looked up despite yourself. he was still looking at his screen, still typing. still acting like this whole conversation was happening in the background of something more important. that should have made you feel less nervous, but somehow it didn't, because the fact that he could say something that pointedly and then go right back to his work without changing expression made it feel worse, not better.
"saying that." you said, a little more quietly this time, because saying it out loud had made it feel more ridiculous than it already was. jake finally looked up then, just briefly, as if he was checking whether you were serious or just reacting out of habit.
his face didn't change. "you're the one who keeps looking for a reaction." you opened your mouth, then shut it again, because you had a perfectly good response in your head and it had somehow become impossible to access the second he actually looked at you. which was deeply unfair, because you had spent the entire meeting trying very hard not to look at him too much, and now he was acting like he had some kind of quiet evidence against you.
you crossed your arms and leaned back slightly in your chair, trying to look less thrown off than you felt. "maybe because you keep talking like you're not even in the room."
jake looked back down at his laptop. "i am in the room."
"you know what i mean." "not really."
you stared at him again, and this time you were fairly sure you were doing it because you were annoyed, not because you were waiting for approval, even if the distinction felt a little blurry right then and you did not appreciate that one bit. the thing was, he wasn't exactly wrong, and that was the irritating part. you were trying to see if he agreed, because the whole point of sitting there together was to figure out what actually fit and what didn't, and if he made a face or paused or looked like you were completely off base, you could usually tell before you said something worse. except he never really looked like that, he just listened. and then, when he bothered to answer, he said things like they had always been obvious. which made you feel like you were the one making a big deal out of everything. you hated that feeling. you also hated that you were starting to understand the shape of his attention a little better, because it wasn't warm, and it wasn't especially generous with you, but it was there in a way that made him harder to ignore than if he had been openly hostile.
jake glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the screen. "we're done for today."
you looked up automatically. "already?"
he nodded once. "we've got enough for a first outline. this is actually the first meeting where we got somewhere useful, to be honest.”
you stared at the page in front of you, at the notes you had actually managed to organize without fully realizing the time had gone by. "fine." you said, a little too fast, because you suddenly needed the meeting to end before you could think too much about how much of it you had spent watching him instead of the article in front of you.
jake already started closing his laptop, no wasted movement, no hesitation. you gathered your own papers more slowly, still trying not to think about the fact that you had just spent an entire afternoon disagreeing with him, only to realize that the disagreement itself had finally got you "somewhere useful". "send me the list of studies you want for the literature section." he said, slipping his laptop into his bag.
you looked up. "i was going to do that."
he glanced at you once, expression still unreadable. "i know."
so you didn't respond at all. you just nodded and looked back down at your notes, pretending to be very busy with the papers in your hands, because if you looked at him too long you were pretty sure you would either say something stupid or stand there doing nothing like an idiot, and neither option felt acceptable. when you finally looked up again, he had already slung his bag over one shoulder and was heading toward the door. he paused only once, hand on the door handle, and looked back at you for a brief second. "friday."
you nodded before you could overthink it. "friday." then he was gone. you sat there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the empty chair across from you, trying very hard to convince yourself that the only reason your chest felt oddly tight was because the room had been stuffy and you had spent too long inside it.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
friday happened. and then the next tuesday happened. and then another thursday. and somewhere between opening shared documents and arguing over article inclusion criteria and listening to professor jones remind both of you for the fourth time that research is collaborative by nature, something deeply irritating started happening. you and jake developed a rhythm. not a friendly rhythm, but a rhythm built entirely on disagreeing with each other. because apparently neither of you could say yes, that works without first trying to dismantle the other person's point from at least three different angles.
which was why, on a tuesday afternoon two weeks later, you were sitting across from him again, staring at your laptop screen with growing irritation. "i still don't think we should only use overall empathy scores."
jake didn't even look up immediately. he kept typing for another few seconds before saying, "why." not why? like a question. just why, flat. like he had dropped the word onto the table and was waiting for you to do something with it.
you frowned immediately. "because empathy isn't one thing." he finally glanced up as you shifted in your chair slightly. "i mean..." you gestured vaguely toward your screen. "the test separates cognitive and affective empathy for a reason. perspective-taking isn't exactly the same thing as emotional response."
jake leaned back a little. "okay."
you narrowed your eyes, already suspicious. "okay what." "okay, keep going."
"why do i feel like you're about to disagree with me?" "because i'm about to disagree with you."
you stared at him. of course he couldn't just let you have three seconds of peace. "why?"
"because if our main question is whether gender moderates the relationship between preoccupied attachment and empathy, adding separate dimensions complicates the interpretation." he rotated his laptop a little toward himself. "if one dimension changes and another doesn't, then suddenly we're discussing three different questions instead of one."
you crossed your arms. "that's literally how research works." "not always."
"yes, always." silence. you stared at him and he stared back. and there was something genuinely horrible about arguing with jake because he never looked irritated. you, meanwhile, could physically feel your face making expressions. your eyebrows pulling together, your eyes narrowing, your mouth doing that thing where it pressed into a line. meanwhile jake looked exactly the same as always, which you hated. you hated it because you couldn't tell if he wasn't affected or if he was just better at hiding it. and somehow the second possibility irritated you even more. "you're oversimplifying it."
he tilted his head slightly. "how."
"because if we separate dimensions and one changes while another doesn't, that's still useful. that tells us something." "about what."
you blinked. "what do you mean about what?"
"i mean exactly what i said." his eyes moved back to the screen briefly. "what does it tell us."
you stared at him. because you had an answer, you absolutely had an answer. you did. you — you had one like two seconds ago. why did your brain keep doing this? why did it keep functioning perfectly until someone actually looked at you? you hated this so much. your eyes dropped to your notes immediately, pretending to search for something. you could feel him waiting, not impatiently, which almost made it worse. because impatient people interrupted, impatient people looked on edge. but jake just sat there, waiting, completely comfortable with silence. and silence had always felt like some kind of social punishment to you, as it happened way too often because you never could actually find the proper words. your brain started doing that thing where it became aware of itself. okay say something. why aren't you saying something. he's waiting. oh my god you've been quiet too long. say literally anything. "because..." you started. great, excellent opening. very strong. "...if affective empathy changes more than cognitive empathy then maybe-" you stopped and jake's eyes lifted. you looked away immediately. "maybe... preoccupied attachment influences emotional responsiveness differently than perspective-taking." silence. you looked down at your laptop, then up. then immediately wished you hadn't, because jake was still looking at you. and for some reason you suddenly became weirdly aware that he was actually listening. he wasn't typing, wasn't scrolling.
then he nodded once. "that's actually good."
you stared. you had spent the last fifteen minutes preparing for disagreement. you had mentally arranged counterarguments that you probably wouldn't be able to fully explain out loud. you had been half ready. and now suddenly — that's actually good? just like that? you narrowed your eyes slightly. "you're agreeing with me?"
jake looked confused. "a little."
you stared harder. "a little?"
he looked at you for a second. then one corner of his mouth moved, barely. honestly it could've been your imagination. "don't look so surprised."
you blinked, because the thing was that you were surprised. somewhere over the last few meetings, without realizing it, you had apparently started expecting disagreement. expecting him to immediately pick apart whatever you said. expecting another why, another not really, anotherokay. and now your brain had already built the response before it even happened, which was ridiculous. completely ridiculous. because you weren't paying attention to him like that, obviously not. except — except lately you had started noticing things accidentally, things you weren't trying to notice. like how he tapped his fingers twice against the table whenever he was reading something carefully. or how he leaned back when he disagreed with something and leaned forward when he actually found it interesting. or how he somehow greeted every single person outside the library. because you knew jake was social, but you didn't fully know he talked to everyone. every single time you walked a few meters out of the library with him after meetings, somebody knew him. "jake!" "hey, man." "are you coming friday?" and every time he would answer easily, naturally, like conversations required absolutely no effort at all. which had honestly felt vaguely offensive to witness, because around you he acted like human interaction had been assigned as coursework. you had seen it now enough times that it wasn’t accidental anymore. he would leave these meetings with you, walk out into the corridor, and immediately become… lighter. someone would call his name and he would look up instantly, respond without delay, like he had been expecting interruption rather than treating it as one. a girl from your seminar group once stopped him mid-walk to ask about an assignment and he had answered while still moving, already halfway into another conversation with someone else behind her, like his attention didn’t have to be gathered first before being distributed. and every time it happened, you found yourself with the same thought you didn’t particularly like having, which was that you didn’t know where that version of him went when he sat across from you. like everyone else got the full version by default and you were just interacting with the edited one. which was ridiculous to think about, objectively.
you looked down at your screen again. you kept your gaze on there a moment too long, not because there was anything left to read, but because looking back up felt like admitting you had been thinking about him at all. which you absolutely had not been doing in any meaningful or concerning way. but you did feel like a creep sometimes, somehow. you had always been aware of jake because he was quite the definition of perfection, almost turning him into a figure you looked up to. you had known he was great at communicating when the situation could obviously bring him something valuable, and he was precise and unreachable in all sort of ways. you already also knew he had no idea of who you were before this, you knew it all. but now, your observations were becoming much more elaborated, detailed and what you felt was more accurate. you couldn’t stop observing because he was everything you wanted to be and somehow found perfect balance within it.
outside the glass wall of the study room, someone laughed too loudly in the corridor and the sound slipped through the silence like it belonged there more than you did. you suddenly became aware of how still the room was when neither of you were speaking, how jarring it was compared to the constant low-level motion of everything else on campus, and how jake didn’t seem to experience that shift at all. he went back to typing — no reaction, no follow-up, no “expand on that” or “explain it better” or even a minimal acknowledgement beyond what he had already given you. which was, annoyingly, enough. you shifted slightly in your chair and tried to refocus on the article in front of you, but your eyes kept snagging on lines without processing them properly, which was frustrating in a very specific way. you knew you understood the material, you knew you were capable of following this conversation, and yet somehow your attention kept slipping sideways like it had decided there were more important variables in the room than the paper. you exhaled softly through your nose and dragged your cursor down the page again, forcing yourself back into the text with more intention this time, as if you could physically outpace your own attention if you tried hard enough.
“okay.” jake said suddenly without looking up. you straightened a fraction too quickly, because your brain still hadn’t fully adjusted to the fact that he didn’t announce transitions the way other people did. he paused his scrolling. “we should probably decide if we’re treating empathy as a moderator or a mediating variable before the next outline, otherwise we’re going to keep looping on the same interpretation problem.” he spoke like he had already done the internal version of the argument and was now reporting the result.
you stared at him for a second longer than necessary, then looked back down at your screen as if the answer to your own competence was printed somewhere in the margins. “i think it depends on what we’re prioritising.” you said, and you hated how careful your voice sounded when you said it, like you were checking every word before letting it exist outside your head. jake finally looked up properly this time, not immediately responding, just watching you in that brief, neutral way of his that didn’t give anything away and somehow made you more aware of your own phrasing.
“go on.” he said.
you leaned forward slightly, because if you were going to say this, you were going to say it properly. "if we treat empathy as a moderator,” you continued, slower now but more controlled, “then we’re basically saying it changes the strength or direction of the attachment relationship depending on its level, which makes sense if our goal is to explain variability in findings across samples. but if we treat it as a mediator, then we’re implying attachment influences empathy, which then influences whatever outcome we’re implicitly assuming is downstream, and that shifts the entire theoretical framing of preoccupied attachment in a way i don’t think we’ve actually justified yet.”
silence again. jake didn’t respond immediately. “moderator makes more sense for the scope.” he said finally, like it had been reduced down to something that simple. “we don’t have longitudinal data anyway, so mediation would be speculative at best". that was it. not wrong, not corrected. not reframed in a way that made you feel like you had missed something obvious. just… aligned. that again felt more disorienting than when he disagreed with you.
you nodded anyway, because you didn’t know what else your face was supposed to do in response to agreement that didn’t come with any emotional signal attached to it. “right.” you said, a beat late. “yes. that makes sense.”
jake had already turned back to his laptop. “cool.” he said as he resumed typing like the conversation had simply been another step in a process he was moving through, not something that had required negotiation at all. you sat there for a moment longer than you should have, staring at the same line in your document, realizing with a slow, uncomfortable clarity that you were starting to adjust your thinking in real time just to keep up with the pace at which he seemed to arrive at conclusions.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
the thing about working with jake was that it never actually felt like it started. there was no clear beginning, no moment where you agreed to become whatever you were now. it just… kept happening. friday turned into tuesday turned into another thursday, and suddenly your shared document had folders inside folders, and your notes had actual structure, and professor jones had stopped reminding you what “collaboration” meant because he assumed you had figured it out. you hadn’t, you were just surviving it better. sampling hadn’t even been finalized yet, which was the worst part of it. every time you thought you were close, jake would ask one question that made you realize you were still missing something fundamental. “why are we excluding first-year students again?”
you didn’t look up from your notes. “because attachment measures are unstable in early adaptation phases.”
“that’s not a source.” he said immediately.
you sighed through your nose. “it’s implied in the methodology section of-”
“no,” he cut in, calm as ever. “it’s not.”
you stopped typing. not because you didn’t have an answer, because you did. you just hated when he was right in a way that required you to actually go back and verify your own confidence. you clicked your pen once against the table. “fine,” you said. “then we include them and control for year variance.”
jake nodded once like that was the obvious outcome the whole time. “fine.” he said and went back to typing. that was the rhythm now. not agreement, just adjustment. you said something, he poked at it until it either collapsed or stabilized. you did the same to him. neither of you ever called it teamwork, you just called it necessary.
except it wasn’t just that anymore. because somewhere in between building sampling criteria and arguing over scale reliability, you had started noticing even more things that had nothing to do with the project. like how you both had begun asking things that weren’t strictly necessary, even when neither of you fully ever answered. “you usually stay up late before deadlines?”
you looked up from your laptop, suspicious immediately. “why?”
he didn’t even look phased. “just asking.”
you narrowed your eyes. “that’s not a research question.”
“it is if it affects output consistency.”
you stared at him. “you’re insane.” you said finally.
he nodded once. “dramatic.” and then went back to the document like he hadn’t just casually asked about your sleep schedule. you didn’t answer him, but you started noticing that he stayed online later too. not in a way that felt performative. if you were still editing at midnight, his cursor would still be there in the shared doc, quietly adjusting formatting or fixing citations without saying anything.
the ranking came up sometimes. not between you directly, never directly. but it always affected how you saw him, no matter how much time you spent together. someone in your lecture would gasp when they saw the board. “jake’s even more insane this semester.” “he’s literally top one again.” and then — “is that girl still second tier?” "who?". you would pretend not to hear it, you were very good at pretending not to hear things. you didn't know if jake ever heard them too.
“did you finalize the variables list?” “are we locking the likert scaling or adjusting for cultural bias?” “did you check the cronbach alpha ranges for similar studies?”. jake interrupted your train of thought with a million questions every time you got lost inside your own head thinking about it. still, you would answer. and then there were the moments that made your brain feel like it was misfiring entirely. like when you realized he had started noticing some of your patterns too, in a way that made you uncomfortable in a very specific direction. at least you weren’t the only one going insane because of how many evenings you were spending on doing that damn project, you thought.
you had stayed late alone in the library one night, rereading the same paragraph for so long you stopped processing it. he casually arrived, not saying hello immediately. he just sat down across from you and looked at your screen for a second. “you’re not reading that anymore.” he said.
you didn’t look up. “i am.” “you’ve been on the same line for how much time?”
silence. you clicked your pen harder than necessary. “i’m fine.”
he didn’t respond immediately. “you always seem to do that when you’re overwhelmed.”
your fingers paused as you looked up. “what?”
he shrugged slightly. “you repeat sections. like it resets something.”
you felt something uncomfortable move in your chest. not because he was wrong, but because he was accurate in a way you hadn’t authorized him to be. “it’s just focus.” you said.
“no,” he replied, simple again. “it’s more like avoidance.”
you shut your laptop slightly, not enough to close it. “you’re reading too much into it, i fear.” you said.
jake leaned back. “maybe.” but he didn’t sound like he believed that, and that was worse. he spoke like he had noted something and decided not to touch it further as if it wasn’t his place. which was new, because he seemed to have a place in everything. your thoughts started doing that thing again, where they tried to categorize him. you started packing your things too quickly, suddenly deciding it was time to go home.
“we should split spss variables next week.” you said.
he nodded. “already started it.”
you froze slightly. “you did?”
“just coding structure.” he said. “didn’t run anything.”
of course he had, of course he had already started without telling you. “send it to me.” you said as you stood up.
he nodded. then, he spoke again after a pause. “did you sleep last night?”
you stopped your movements to look at him. “what?”
he didn’t look up from his laptop screen. “you didn’t sleep last night, right?”
it wasn’t a question. denial felt pointless when he said it like that. like it was already observed, already logged. “it’s fine.” you said instead.
he nodded once. “okay.” but he said it like he didn’t believe that either.
you looked at him for a second too long after that, which was becoming one of your more irritating habits around him. because the problem with jake was that he could say something that sounded like nothing and somehow make it feel like he had seen more than he should have. not in a sentimental way, not in a dramatic way. just in the quiet, inconvenient way people did when they noticed details you would have preferred to keep unregistered. you looked back down before he could catch you still thinking about it. the library was almost empty by then, the kind of late that made the air feel flatter and the lights feel too bright for how little of the room anyone was actually using. jake was still packing up and unpacking nothing in that casual, efficient way of his, one hand resting against the edge of the table while he kept half a eye on the document as if he could will the dataset into finishing itself. you should have gone back to picking up your things, but you didn’t. “you always say that.” you muttered before you had fully decided to speak.
he paused. “say what.”
“okay,” you said, mimicking him badly on purpose, which was the closest you ever got to being openly petty around him. “like that.”
jake glanced at you briefly, his expression unreadable in the exact way that made you immediately suspect he had understood more of your tone than you wanted him to. “it was a fine answer.”
“fine as in?” you made a small sound of frustration through your nose, then shut your laptop a little harder than necessary. not enough to make a scene, just enough to feel like you had done something with your hands.
the thing was, you had started to recognize the structure of this, too. the way neither of you ever really let the conversation stop at whatever it was initially about. it would begin with variables or scales or sample criteria, and then somehow, without either of you fully meaning to, it would drift into something else, something less concrete. which was how you ended up saying, “you’re one to talk, anyway. do you ever actually sleep? i always see you here, or around, or logged into the doc.” like it was a research question and not, very clearly, not that.
jake looked up. “yes.” “that was too fast.” “you asked like you wanted a fight.”
you stared at him. “i always sound like i want a fight to you.” “because you do.”
“i’m asking because you’re always here.” you said after a beat, more carefully now, like you were trying to step around the shape of your own curiosity before it became obvious. “which is not the same thing as sleeping.”
jake leaned back slightly in his chair. “you’re always here too.”
you looked up immediately. “that is not the same.”
“why not?” “because i have reasons.” “i also have my reasons.”
that made you pause. you hated that he had said it so easily, so neutrally, because now it sounded like you were the only one who had turned this into a personal pattern when, apparently, he had one too. you looked away first, which was getting embarrassing in its own way, because it happened almost automatically now. “sure.” you muttered. “your reason is probably just being annoyingly productive.”
he didn’t react right away, and for a second you thought maybe that was too close to a compliment and he had decided not to dignify it. then he said, “and your reason is probably panic.”
you turned your head so fast you almost regretted it. “excuse me?”
he looked at you now, completely calm, one eyebrow moving just a fraction like he was genuinely amused by the reaction and not the content. “you look more alive when you’re stressed.” he said.
you blinked. that should have sounded insulting. maybe it was insulting, maybe that was the point. but the way he said it made it land in a different place, somewhere too specific to dismiss and too strange to take seriously. “that’s a weird thing to say.” you said carefully.
“it’s true.” “no, it’s weird.” “both can be true.”
you stared at him for a second, then looked back down at the floor because if you stayed looking at him, you were pretty sure your brain would start doing something stupid like trying to decide whether he meant that in a clinical way or an observant way. there was a stretch of silence after that that didn’t feel hostile, which was somehow worse. so you decided to change the topic of discussion. “we still need to finish the sampling justification before friday.” you said, a little too quickly, because you had the uncomfortable feeling the conversation was moving somewhere you didn’t know how to stay in.
he nodded. “i know.”
“and the staffing numbers.” “mmh.” “and you need to send me the spss stuff.” “yeah.”
you looked up at him. “do you always answer like that when you’re tired?”
he paused, then glanced at you. “like what?”
“like you’re doing me a favor by remaining conscious.”
for one second, nothing happened. and then, to your absolute horror, he laughed. not a lot, not enough to make a big deal out of it. just one short, unexpected sound that slipped out before he could stop it, and it was so unlike the usual tone he used with you that it made your stomach drop in a completely different way than the argument did. you froze. he froze too, if only for a second. then his face settled back into that familiar neutral expression like the sound had never happened. but you had heard it, you definitely had. you stared at him as he looked down at his laptop. “what?”
you opened your mouth, then shut it again. because for one awful, amazing, deeply inconvenient second, you had laughed too. it came out sharp and surprised, barely there, the kind of laugh that felt like it had escaped from somewhere you didn’t mean to open. you pressed your lips together immediately after, as if you could pretend it had not happened if you became physically still enough. jake looked up at you again, but this time his expression had changed by the smallest amount. not a smile, exactly. just that tiny shift at the mouth that made you think he was aware of what had just happened and not sure whether to acknowledge it. “that was not funny.” he said.
you huffed, still trying not to look too pleased with yourself. “you laughed first.”
“barely.” “you still laughed.” “you did too.”
you stared at him and he stared back. and then it happened again, worse than before because now you were both trying not to do it and failing in the exact same moment. your shoulders shook once, his mouth twitched. you both looked away almost immediately, like eye contact had become a liability. “this is stupid. this thing has officially made us lose our minds.” you said, voice too tight to sound convincing.
“agreed.” he said. you stood there for a second, trying to rearrange your face into something more normal, while your brain replayed the sound of it over and over like it was trying to memorize a mistake.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
you opened your laptop again because that was what you were supposed to do. because the project still existed. because spss still existed. because the sampling still needed cleaning and your regression outputs were still an unholy mess and no amount of accidental laughter was going to change that. and because you were suddenly, painfully aware of how little sleep you had been getting. you had been aware of it before, obviously. but it had been sitting in your body more loudly these days. the weekend shifts on top of the project work, the reading, the note-making. the constant checking of the ranking board when you passed it in the corridor, pretending not to look while your stomach still tightened every time you saw your own name underneath his. the scholarship renewal form waiting in your email draft folder like a quiet threat. you were tired all the time. not enough to stop, just enough to feel yourself fraying in increments. and somehow the worst part was that jake noticed before you said anything. not dramatically, not as some great emotional insight. he just seemed to clock when your answers got shorter, when your attention slipped, when you started rereading the same sentence too many times. and every time he noticed, he said something like it was normal. “you missed the same word twice.” “you haven’t moved from that tab in ten minutes.” “you look like you haven’t eaten.” you hated that those things were true more than you hated that he said them.
he still talked to everyone outside the library, still moved through the campus like he belonged to it in a way you never fully did, but now you also noticed that he always, always pretended not to be tired until the last possible second. he asked you once, very casually, “do you still work on saturdays?”
you looked up from the screen. “why?”
“just asking.” “but you don’t just ask. so why?”
he looked up, briefly, as if surprised you had said that. “because if you’re working every saturday and then coming here afterward, it explains why you keep looking half-dead.”
you hated that your first instinct was not to deny it. you hated that your second instinct was to ask how obvious it was. instead you said, “i don’t look half-dead.”
“you do sometimes.” “sometimes.”
“fine,” he said, almost mildly. “most times.”
you made a face at the screen. “you’re being rude.” “i’m just being accurate.”
and because you were tired and your defenses were thinner when you were tired, you heard yourself say, “well, sorry i can’t afford to look fresh and academically superior all the time.” the sentence was meant to be sarcastic, but it landed and went quiet for a second. jake looked at you then, really looked at you, and there was something in the expression that made your throat tighten before you could stop it. not pity. thank god, not pity. just recognition. you immediately regretted the whole sentence. “i didn’t mean-” you started.
“i know.” he said, very quickly and very flatly, like he was cutting off the part where you would start overexplaining and making it worse.
you blinked. he had said it like a clarification, not a reassurance, which somehow made it easier to accept. you looked down at your laptop. “okay.” you said, quieter.
and because he apparently couldn’t leave anything completely alone, he added, “you should probably eat something before you start another round of edits.”
you stared at the screen. “are you my mom now?”
that got him again, that tiny almost-laugh, the one that wasn’t quite one. “no,” he said. “my mom would tell you to sleep.”
you stared at him for half a second too long, and the thing was you could have left it there. you should have left it there. “good to know you think i’m below sleep deprivation standards.” you said.
“you are.” “wow.”
he shrugged lightly. “it’s not an insult.”
“it kind of is.” “only if you’re proud of this.”
you stared at him. and then, despite yourself, despite the exhaustion and the rankings and the scholarship and the fact that your life had been measuring itself against a list you couldn’t stop looking at, you laughed again. quieter this time, because the way he said it was so absurdly dry that your body didn’t even have time to resist. jake looked at you for a second, then went back to the screen like nothing had happened. but his mouth had that tiny thing again, that almost-not-smile he wore like it cost him nothing. and you hated how your body didn’t seem capable of stopping your wait for the next one.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
the thing about finally reaching the results stage was that both of you had spent so much time preparing for it that it almost felt anticlimactic when it actually happened. because there had been weeks of articles and coding structures and sample discussions and methodological decisions that had somehow managed to generate fifty arguments over things that normal people would probably not even recognize as real issues. and now suddenly there were actual numbers in front of you. actual output tables, actual things to interpret instead of endlessly preparing to interpret things. it should have been satisfying, except jake had apparently decided to become unbearable. “okay,” he said, scrolling through the output with the kind of confidence that immediately made you suspicious. “so the effect sizes aren't that strong, but they're still meaningful enough to support the direction.”
you looked up slowly. “what?”
he glanced at you. “what what.”
you stared at him. “you cannot just say that.”
he blinked once. “why not?”
“because that's not-” you physically leaned closer to look at his screen. “jake.”
he looked back at it, then at you, then back at it. “what?”
“you're literally making conclusions before we even finish checking assumptions.”
he looked unconcerned, almost amused. “i'm not making conclusions.”
“you just said "support the direction".” “because it does.”
“no,” you said immediately, “it suggests a direction.”
“same thing.” “absolutely not the same thing.”
he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms as if he was waiting for you to keep talking. you narrowed your eyes immediately, because there it was. that stupid thing he did, that look that said explain. that challenge that somehow always sounded like he was handing you a microphone in front of an audience you hadn't prepared for. you hated it and you hated him for it. you leaned forward toward your laptop. “because you're already writing like we proved something definitive.” you pointed at the screen aggressively. “results sections don't interpret outcomes like that.”
“they literally interpret outcomes.” “not like that.”
he raised an eyebrow. “okay.”
you looked at him suspiciously. “don't okay me.”
“i'm listening.” “no, because you're doing that thing.” “what thing?” “the thing where you sit there and pretend you're not disagreeing while very clearly disagreeing.” “i'm not disagreeing.” “jake.” “y/n.”
you stared at him, realizing how much you hated how calm he always looked. you could feel your mouth pulling and your eyes narrowing like they always did, probably making you look ridiculous. meanwhile, he looked so pretty it made you feel envious of a man. you could see his eyelashes from the proper distance your chair was at, casually fluttering at you in a mesmerizing manner. his lips looked glossy, almost as if he had applied something to them, although you knew it was all just natural for him. his bangs were down in a perfectly messy way, like gravity was his hair’s biggest ally every morning. gosh, you hated him so much. you quickly shook your head as you tried to physically snap yourself out of your trance, trying not to look like the weirdo who was just analyzing every detail of his appearance. “results sections are descriptive,” you continued while trying to act nonchalant, pointing at his screen again. “you're good at synthesizing information and making broader arguments, but that's discussion section stuff. you're skipping steps.”
he looked at you for a second, then glanced back down. “i'm not skipping steps.”
“you are.” “i'm being efficient.”
you let out a dry laugh. “that's a really interesting way to say overconfident.”
he looked offended for approximately half a second. “overconfident.”
“yes.” “that's harsh.” “just like you said, that's just accurate.”
silence. you watched him with crossed arms, trying very hard not to look smug because you already knew that stupid face. the hold on face. the i might actually be checking if you're right face. he stared at the screen another second. "...okay maybe."
you stared. "...maybe?"
he glanced at you. “don't make that face.”
you almost laughed. “what face?”
“that i was right face.” “i don't have a face.” “you absolutely have a face.”
you physically felt your mouth trying to move, but you stopped it immediately. you were not smiling over winning an argument about statistical reporting. that was embarrassing, deeply embarrassing. still — “so i was right.”
jake sighed dramatically, which almost never happened. “fine.”
“jake admitted i was right...”
he looked up. “once.”
“i need to write this down.” “okay now you're annoying.”
you smiled a little before you could stop it, small enough that maybe it didn't count. “you know,” you said, leaning back slightly now, “you do this all the time.”
he narrowed his eyes. “do what.”
“you jump ahead.” he looked confused. “in general.”
“what does that mean.”
you gestured vaguely toward his laptop. “you get excited about an idea and then immediately start connecting everything before it's even there yet.” he stared at you and you stared back. then added, “you're good at putting things together. too good.”
he looked down at the table for a second, tapping his fingers lightly against it. “and you're annoying.”
you narrowed your eyes. “excuse me?”
“you slow things down.” you stared as he absentmindedly kept speaking. “every time i think something makes sense, you start questioning it until i have to actually justify it.”
you blinked. "that's literally criticism."
“mmh.” “was that an insult anyway?”
“not really.” you stared harder, because his tone hadn't changed at all. he was still typing, still looking at the screen. still acting like he hadn't just said something weird enough to throw your brain slightly off balance. “you're basically quality control.”
you looked at him. "now it sounds like a compliment.” “don't make it weird.”
“you did.” you stared at him for another second to immediately look back down at your laptop, because suddenly your brain had decided to become strange about something that objectively wasn't strange. because it wasn't, obviously.
jake had an ego, a massive one. and over the last few months you had confirmed he knew he was good at things. he knew he was smart, he knew he could walk into a room and make people listen. and yet, he had looked at you after realizing he was wrong and hadn't fought it, hadn't defended himself into the ground. he had just adjusted, which felt weirdly significant. you were still thinking about that when he suddenly looked down at his phone. and then there it was, that tiny shift you always saw. that tiny thing you'd started noticing more lately. he looked at the time, locked the screen again and then looked back at his laptop. then at the time again. and for some reason you already knew what he was about to say before he opened his mouth. he was definitely leaving earlier. not dramatically, not enough to be called out. just enough that you noticed because the first few times he had stayed until nearly closing, the library doors glassing over with the dark outside while he still had his sleeves pushed up and his notes scattered in front of him like he had nowhere else to be. now he would start closing his laptop before you did, check his phone once, and give you a vague time estimate that sounded almost too casual to matter. “i’ve got to go in twenty.”
“mmh.” you only murmured.
he looked at you for half a second, then back down at the document. “plans.”
that should have been the end of it. you nodded without looking up, because of course he had plans. it would be deeply strange if he didn’t, he was not you. he had actual social skills and wouldn’t only spend the entire week trying to outrun a scholarship deadline, a project deadline, a weekend shift, and the constant low-grade panic of knowing the rankings board would be updated again soon and that your name would likely still be sitting under his like a fact you could not afford to ignore. he had friends, he had people who wanted him elsewhere. and if he could leave the library earlier because he had somewhere to be, then that was just him being a functioning person with a life outside the project. there was nothing to get hung up on. nothing. still, when he stood up ten minutes later and reached for his bag, your eyes did that stupid thing where they tracked him before you could stop them. “you’re leaving?” you asked, and you hated how flat it sounded, because it was not really a question and it was not really casual either, which made it the worst possible version of both.
he glanced at you, one hand still on the chair. “yeah. i told you.”
“you said twenty minutes.” the words came out of your mouth without much thought put into them, which you quickly regretted.
“it’s been twenty.”
you looked at the screen, looked back at him and looked down again, because you could not, under any circumstances, let the irritation in your chest become visible on your face for something that objectively did not concern you. “right,” you said. “yeah.”
he paused. not long, just enough to make you aware that he had noticed the tone shift, though he did not seem interested enough to comment on it. then, after a beat, “do you need anything else before i go?”
you looked up at that. not because the question was surprising, because it was not. he asked practical things like that all the time. the surprise was that it landed in a way that made you suddenly more aware of how little of the project he actually left unfinished when he did this. he always asked, always checked, always made sure there was no immediate loose end. and because of that, it would have been ridiculous to say yes just to keep him there, which was not something you would ever do because you were a rational person who did not need to manufacture reasons for anyone to stay in a room with you. so instead you said, “no.” and then, because silence suddenly felt too pointed, you added, “you can go.”
his eyes moved over you for a second. you hated that. you hated being looked at long enough to start wondering what expression you were making. but then he nodded once, unsurprised. “okay.” he said.
and that was it, he left just like that. which, objectively, was fine. you told yourself it was fine while staring at the empty chair across from you and pretending to reread the same paragraph for the fourth time. he had plans, you did not own his time. you did not want his time. you just needed his timing to be more consistent because it made the work easier, which was all this was, all it had ever been. the fact that his leaving earlier now felt like the shape of something missing was just your brain being inconvenient and tired and, frankly, a little overdramatic. you worked for another hour after that, but the page kept blurring at the edges in a way that had nothing to do with the text. somewhere down the hall, someone spoke out loud. somewhere else, chairs scraped across the floor. the library was still full of people who had somewhere to be, and that should have made you feel better, or at least normal. except all it really did was remind you that jake had simply gone somewhere else, and you were there, which was also normal, and therefore should not have felt so pointed. you hated that he got to be nonchalant about it. you hated, more than that, that he had every right to be. and because you were not going to let yourself think too hard about that, you did what you always did when something pressed too closely against a thought you did not want: you changed the subject in your own head. there was still work to do, there was always work to do. and if you stayed long enough in the quiet of it, maybe the feeling would wear itself thin before you had to name it.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
the realization happened completely by accident. which was annoying, because if there was one thing you had learned over the years, it was that the discoveries that managed to get under your skin were never the dramatic ones. they weren't the revelations, they were the offhand comments, the things people said when they weren't paying attention. it happened three weeks later. the project had reached the stage where every task somehow generated three additional tasks behind it. every answer created a new problem, every cleaned variable revealed something else that needed fixing. you had spent most of the afternoon correcting participant coding because someone had apparently decided that following instructions was optional. you were tired, more tired than usual, actually. the kind of tired that sat behind your eyes and made every conversation feel half a second slower than it should have been. you genuinely didn’t want to be there or anywhere that wasn’t your room, which was an emotion you were feeling a little too often lately. but instead, you and jake had been sitting in the library for almost two hours, arguing. again.
"i'm telling you, that's not an outlier." "it literally is." "it doesn't meet the threshold." "because you're using the wrong threshold." jake leaned back in his chair as you leaned forward. somewhere in the distance, a printer made a horrible mechanical noise.
"again, those aren't mutually exclusive." you glared at him and he ignored you completely, which somehow made it worse. you opened your mouth to continue the argument when somebody appeared beside the table.
"jake." both of you looked up. it was one of the guys you knew you both shared a class with, but you couldn’t fully remember which one. you vaguely recognized him.
"hey." "did professor wilson move the deadline?" jake immediately switched into that version of himself, as if a switch had been turned on. easier, lighter, like social interaction operated on a completely different set of rules for him.
"yeah, yeah." "to monday?" "pretty sure."
the guy groaned. "thank god." jake laughed. you looked back at your laptop, because this wasn't your conversation. because there was no reason to pay attention. "honestly," the guy continued, dropping his backpack onto a nearby chair, "i thought i was cooked. especially with rankings updating this week." your fingers paused, just for a second. rankings. you kept staring at your screen. didn't react, didn't move. "you're still first anyway."
jake made a face. "don't remind me."
the guy laughed. "what? scared somebody's finally coming for you? you've literally been first for more than two years."
"yeah." "so?" you clicked your mouse. kept looking at the same paragraph, the same sentence, the same word. because suddenly you were listening, which you knew was stupid.
"so eventually people get weird about it."
the guy snorted. "people are already weird about it."
"exactly." you heard papers shifting, chairs moving, conversation continuing somewhere above your head. and then —
"besides." jake's voice, speaking casually. "i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year." everything inside your head stopped. just enough that the next few words arrived strangely, like your brain needed an extra second to process them.
"yeah, but she's not catching you."
you stared at your screen, your cursor blinked. jake shrugged. "you don't know that." something tightened unpleasantly in your chest.
the guy laughed. "come on."
"what?" "she's been second forever." "and?" "and you're still first."
you heard jake exhale through his nose. not annoyed, not defensive, just certain. "that's not really how that works."
silence, a short one, the kind that only lasts a second. but it was enough. enough for the guy to look confused, enough for you to stop reading entirely and enough for your stomach to do something uncomfortable. because suddenly you weren't hearing the conversation anymore, you were hearing one specific thing. i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year. you had always assumed the rankings mattered differently. you checked because you had to. because your scholarship depended on it, because staying second was survival and becoming third was a problem and dropping lower than that was unthinkable. you checked because every semester felt like standing on the edge of something. but jake? jake didn't need to check, jake was first. he had been first forever. you had always assumed he occupied that position carelessly, without thinking about it. without noticing it, without needing to. and yet — i've had somebody sitting right behind me since first year. which meant he knew. not just now, not just recently, he had known. the thought landed strangely. because the truth was you had spent an embarrassing amount of time assuming that you barely existed in his academic universe before your first little social development project encounter. you had never imagined he paid attention to it from the other side.
you became aware of the conversation ending. the other guy leaving, the chair scraping against the floor, the room returning to normal. jake sat back down, opened his laptop and looked at the document, completely unaware that your brain had become stuck on something deeply stupid. or maybe aware, as it had been getting harder to tell these days. you stared at the same line for another ten seconds. then twenty. "what?" you looked up. jake was watching you, so you immediately looked back down.
"nothing." "you've been staring at the same sentence."
you hated that he noticed that. "it's called reading."
"it's called not reading, actually."
you clicked your pen, trying very hard not to ask a question that would immediately reveal how much attention you had been paying. because that would be deeply embarrassing and objectively unnecessary. "you check the rankings?" the words escaped before you could stop them.
jake blinked, like the question itself was strange. "yeah."
you stared. that was it, yeah. like you had asked whether he checked his email. "why?"
he looked genuinely confused now. "why wouldn't i?"
and somehow that answer was worse, because there was no arrogance in it. no competitive edge, just simple confusion. you looked away first again, which was becoming a problem. "i don't know."
"mmh." he returned to the document. conversation over, just like that. you sat there staring at your screen while your brain performed increasingly unnecessary calculations around a piece of information that should not have mattered.
"useful." "yeah." "for what?" "seeing where people are."
you stared. "that's incredibly vague."
"it's rankings." he looked back at the screen. "they're literally designed to show where people are."
you looked away before he could see the involuntary twitch at the corner of your mouth. he was annoying. the conversation again should have ended there. instead you heard yourself ask, "so you actually pay attention to them?"
his fingers paused briefly over the keyboard. "depends."
"on what?" "who."
your stomach did something unpleasant. you immediately focused very hard on the document in front of you, which unfortunately did not stop you from hearing your own voice ask, "who?"
silence, not a long one. just enough to make you aware you had probably sounded more interested than intended. "people near me." there it was again, simple, easy. like the answer should have been obvious.
you nodded slowly, pretending that explained absolutely everything. "and apparently you've had somebody right behind you since first year."
jake glanced up, and for the first time since the conversation started, something shifted slightly in his expression. not surprise, more like realization, like he had finally figured out what you were actually asking. "yeah." you looked down at your laptop.
"i thought you didn't pay attention to that stuff." "why?" "because you're first."
he leaned back slightly, thinking. "those two things don't seem related."
you hated how quickly he said that, like it had never occurred to him they might be. "i just assumed you wouldn't care."
"you assume a lot when it comes to me. and i didn't say i cared."
you blinked. that answer threw you off immediately. "then why look?"
he shrugged. "same reason everybody does."
you almost laughed. "that is absolutely not true." "okay." "most people aren't first."
"and?" you stared and he stared back. calm, patient, infuriating. eventually he looked away first. "you're making rankings sound way more dramatic than they are."
you nearly choked. because if there was one thing in the entire world that had never been casual for you, it was rankings. rankings determined scholarships, rankings determined funding. rankings determined whether next semester would be manageable or impossible. rankings determined whether all the hours were worth something. rankings had never once been casual. meanwhile jake was sitting there talking about them like it was nothing. you looked down before your face could betray anything. "easy for you to say." the words slipped out before you could stop them.
silence. when you looked up again, he was watching you. and suddenly you wished you had said literally anything else. "i guess." you couldn't tell whether he understood what you meant or whether he had decided not to ask. after a minute, he said, "i knew who you were before this whole thing, you know?"
your eyes immediately lifted, but jake didn't. he was still looking at the spreadsheet, still typing, like he hadn't just casually inserted himself into the worst thought process you'd had all week. "what?"
"you seemed surprised. and since you assume a lot, you had probably assumed i didn’t."
you stared. "we had basically never talked until all of this. so yeah, i don’t think it was such a crazy guess."
he shrugged. "i still knew who you were. you sometimes answer questions in class. not often, but when you do." your brain immediately supplied every lecture hall from the last three years. every time a professor had waited too long for somebody to answer, every time silence became unbearable. every time you'd reluctantly spoken because of participation marks, because there was no other option.
"you always sit near the aisle. you leave immediately after class." your stomach tightened, slightly. "and." he paused, then added, "you never talk to anybody before lectures start. see?" you looked away immediately. because that one landed too accurately, too directly. the silence stretched and jake looked back at his laptop, apparently finished. meanwhile your brain was still stuck three sentences ago, because none of those observations sounded important, they sounded ordinary. the kind of details people noticed accidentally, which somehow made them harder to dismiss. and for the first time, you found yourself wondering something you had never really considered before. had he been watching you just how you had been watching him?
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
you were tired. and the thing about burnout was that nobody ever told you how boring it was. people talked about breakdowns like they happened all at once. like one day you were functioning and the next day you were crying in a parking lot or failing all your classes or staring dramatically into the distance while your life collapsed around you. but mostly it was just repetition. it was waking up tired, then waking up tired again, then waking up tired enough that you stopped being surprised by it. it was reading the same paragraph four times and only realizing afterward that you hadn't processed a single word. it was opening your laptop with a headache that never fully left. it was drinking coffee because you were tired and then being too anxious to sleep because you had consumed enough caffeine to chemically alter your blood type.
and the worst part was that none of it looked serious from the outside — you were still getting things done, your grades were still high, the scholarship was still intact, you still showed up. which meant nobody out of the two people you talked to really had a reason to worry. including you, especially you. because every time the exhaustion started feeling noticeable, there was always something more urgent waiting behind it. an assignment, a shift at work, the project. the rankings, always the rankings. the ranking board had become something you checked constantly, feeling like it was the only thing you had some control over. every other day your eyes went to the same two names. jake. you. sometimes the gap changed, sometimes it didn't. sometimes you gained points, sometimes he gained more. but he always stayed first, and you always stayed second, and every single week you told yourself it didn't matter. every single week your stomach tightened anyway. because second place sounded impressive until you realized first place existed. and first place had a name.
and unfortunately for you, first place also kept asking if you had eaten lunch, which somehow made the whole thing worse. the semester kept moving and you kept moving with it, mostly. until one afternoon your phone buzzed while you were halfway through finishing coding participant responses. you ignored it, but it buzzed again. then again. finally you looked down. jess. for a second you just stared at the screen, because you hadn't spoken to jess in almost four months. not properly, not beyond the occasional reaction emoji or one-word response she dropped into conversations before disappearing again. the funny thing was that the sight of her name didn't even surprise you anymore. there was a pattern to these things, there always had been. jess vanished, jess travelled somewhere, jess forgot everyone existed. jess reappeared, repeat. you opened the message.
jess: oh my god
jess: are you busy
jess: i need to tell you something
you stared at it, then at the typing bubble that appeared immediately afterward.
jess: it's an emergency
you already knew it wasn't. or rather, you knew exactly what kind of emergency it was. three dots appeared, then disappeared, just to appear again.
jess: i think ethan is actually the worst person alive
there it was. you leaned back in your chair. somewhere in the distance a professor was explaining something to a student. somebody dropped a pen, somebody laughed. you just stared at your screen. and suddenly a memory surfaced so clearly it felt recent. first year, late-night study sessions, sharing notes, getting coffee between lectures. jess talking for hours while you listened, back when friendship had felt reciprocal. or maybe when you had simply been too optimistic to notice it wasn't. after all, she had been the only friend you had made during your college years.
your thumb hovered over the keyboard, because the thing was you already knew how this conversation would go, you could practically predict it. you would listen, jess would vent and you would help. she would feel better, then she would disappear again. and in a month or two there would be another emergency: another boyfriend, another friendship drama, another crisis. and somehow there would always be room in her life for your attention, just never actual room for you. the realization arrived so quietly that it almost didn't feel like a realization at all, more like finally reading a sentence you had been skimming for years.
your phone buzzed again.
jess: hello???
jess: are you alive
you stared at the messages, and for the first time in a very long time, you didn't immediately answer. instead you looked at the clock, looked at the spreadsheet, looked at the participant responses, looked at the list of assignments due next week. looked at the exhaustion sitting permanently somewhere behind your eyes. you felt something unpleasant twist in your chest, like disappointment that had finally gotten tired of disguising itself as understanding. because suddenly you couldn't stop thinking about all the messages you had sent over the years. all the conversations that had ended with no reply, all the updates she had forgotten, all the times she had said sorry i've been busy before immediately disappearing again. and the worst part was that you had accepted it, every single time.
because having part of a friendship had seemed better than having none. and when it was good, it was really good. jess was one of those people that made everyone comfortable no matter what. one of those people that saw much more from you than your initial single word answers said in an anxious manner. she was someone who gave you an opportunity when no one else did, and the thought of that was sometimes, or most times, enough.
your phone buzzed once more.
jess: seriously i need help
the messages started becoming ridiculous. at first, you ignored them because you were angry, then you ignored them because you didn't know what to say. which was how you ended up with twenty three unread messages from jess spread across almost two weeks. some were memes, some were photos. some were random observations she apparently felt compelled to share despite receiving absolutely nothing back. another was a screenshot of some guy's text messages followed by:
jess: am i insane or is he insane
you had stared at it for nearly five minutes before locking your phone and putting it face down. the next day there had been another message.
jess: wow thanks for the support
you hadn't answered that either. then there had been silence for almost four days, and for some reason those four days had felt worse than the messages. because it made you realize you had spent the entire time expecting another one, which was humiliating.
then friday night, after finishing a shift that had lasted too long and dealing with a customer who had somehow managed to ask for four different managers despite being wrong every single time, you unlocked your phone while waiting for the bus and saw:
jess: okay
jess: i know where this is coming from
your stomach immediately tightened.
jess: and i know you're mad
jess: and honestly fair enough
you stared. jess almost never admitted fault immediately, and that alone made you suspicious.
jess: but i think we're both being stubborn now
jess: and i think if we actually talked we'd fix it in like ten minutes
jess: so
jess: surprise
jess: i'm back next week
jess: and before you ignore this too
jess: yes i'm serious
jess: yes i'm coming to campus
jess: yes i'm finding you
jess: and no you're not allowed to disappear
another message appeared.
jess: we're fixing this
jess: even if you hate me right now
you locked your phone just to unlock it again. read the messages a second time, then a third. you still didn't answer, but you also didn't delete them, which felt like its own kind of weakness. because the truth was that a very small, very pathetic part of you had immediately felt relieved, and you hated that. you hated that after everything, after months of being forgotten whenever she found something better to do, after every unanswered message and every time you had watched her life continue without you, some stupid part of your brain still reacted to her name like a starving dog being handed scraps. you hated it, and you hated yourself for it. somehow that made the exhaustion sitting in your chest feel even heavier.
she found you four days later, which you should have expected. you were leaving a lecture hall when someone suddenly wrapped both arms around you from behind. you nearly had a heart attack. "oh my god."
"there she is." you immediately knew it was her. same perfume, same voice, same face no one, not even you, could ever say no to. same irritating ability to behave like she had never been gone at all.
there she was, smiling like nothing had happened, like months had not passed. like you hadn't spent entire semesters watching your messages sit unanswered. for one awful second your chest actually hurt, because you had missed her and that was the worst part. "hi." she said softly.
you stared. "hi."
her smile faltered slightly. "wow."
"what?" "you really are mad."
you looked away immediately, because somehow hearing it out loud made it feel childish. "i'm just busy. can’t stay much time here."
"you always say that." "because i am."
jess rolled her eyes. "see, this is exactly what i'm talking about."
you frowned. "what are you talking about?"
"this." she gestured vaguely. "whatever this is."
you laughed once, a short humorless sound. "you disappeared for months."
"i didn't disappear." "okay." "i didn't!" "mmh."
"stop doing that." "doing what?!" "that!"
you stared at her. "jess, you literally stopped answering me."
"i was in another country."
"phones exist internationally and for a reason, you know?" that finally made her go quiet. and for a second you thought maybe she actually understood. maybe she got it.
"i thought you knew it wasn't personal." and there it was, the reason this conversation had always been impossible. because for jess it wasn't personal. for jess, friendships were elastic — they stretched, they shrank, they disappeared and then they came right back. and somehow they always remained exactly the same. but for you they didn't. for you every absence left marks, every ignored message sat in your chest for weeks. every unanswered attempt became evidence.
"that's kind of the problem." jess blinked and you immediately regretted speaking. because now the words were moving, and once they started moving they rarely stopped. "i know it wasn't personal for you." your voice sounded calmer than you felt. "i know you weren't sitting there trying to hurt me."
"then-"
"but i was still there." silence. "i was still your friend while you weren't answering."
jess's expression changed slightly. "y/n-"
"and every single time something went wrong, you came back." your throat tightened. "every time."
"that's not fair." "it is fair." "no."
"yes." you looked away, because suddenly you couldn't look at her anymore. "you only miss me when something happens." the words landed harder than you expected. and for the first time since she arrived, jess looked genuinely hurt. and for some reason that didn't make you feel better, it just made you tired.
"that's not true." "okay." "stop saying okay like you've already decided i'm guilty!"
you laughed again, smaller this time. "haven't i?"
jess looked down, then back up. and for the first time all afternoon she seemed unsure. "i missed you." your chest twisted immediately, because she sounded sincere, and that somehow made everything worse. "i did." you didn't answer. "i know i'm bad at this, but i did miss you." the problem was that you believed her, and the problem was that believing her changed absolutely nothing. because people could miss you and still leave, people could care and still disappear and people could love you and still make you feel lonely. you had learned that years ago, but jess just happened to be the latest example. eventually she sighed. "you're impossible."
"i've heard that." "are you just… going to stay mad forever?"
you shrugged. "depends." "on what?"
you looked at her and suddenly realized she genuinely thought this was fixable with one conversation. like all she had to do was show up, smile, say sorry and everything would reset. the way it always had before. except this time you were too tired to pretend. "i don't know." and all of a sudden, neither of you had anything else to say. which was probably answer enough.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
your life had somewhat become structured around jake’s, often ending up in the same spaces. same library, same project, same professor. same increasingly concerning amount of time spent staring at statistical outputs. you arrived already tired, even more tired than usual, which was saying something. the scholarship paperwork still wasn't finished, you had missed breakfast again and you had slept four hours. jess had texted you three times before nine in the morning, and you had spent most of the walk to campus pretending not to see the notifications sitting on your lockscreen. by the time you dropped into the chair across from jake, you felt like your body was running entirely on momentum. he looked up once and paused, then looked back at his laptop. "you look awful."
you dropped your bag onto the table. "good morning to you too." "i'm serious."
"thank you." you said in a sarcastic tone, not being able to deal with his shit at that point. still, there was a silence, and the comfortable kind. or whatever the closest version of comfortable was between the two of you. until eventually, after some time typing, you noticed he hadn't moved for almost a minute. which was unusual, because jake was always doing something. you looked up and he was staring at the screen. not reading it, just staring. "what?"
his eyes shifted. "nothing." “mmh.” you immediately went back to your laptop.
he frowned. "that's it?" "what?" "you're not going to ask?"
you looked up. "you literally said nothing."
"yeah." "so?" "usually people ask again."
you stared. "usually people should answer properly the first time."
that got the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. then he sighed, longer this time. and he suddenly looked older, not physically, just tired. the kind of tired you only noticed when someone stopped performing for a second. "my independent project is a mess."
you blinked, because that was not what you expected. "the lab one?"
he nodded. "i've been working on it for almost a year."
you knew the project because everyone did, you were sure. it was one of those ambitious research proposals professors liked bringing up when they wanted to motivate students. jake's project, jake's future publication, jake's possible master's application. jake's future everything. "so… what happened?"
he leaned back as he rubbed a hand over his face. "nothing happened." which sounded suspiciously similar to disaster.
"jake."
he laughed once, without humor. "i spent eleven months collecting data. and now i'm not sure the question was even worth asking." you froze, because that wasn't frustration, that was something close to fear. the kind that sat underneath months of work and suddenly asked whether any of it mattered. he looked away. "i keep trying to force something interesting out of it." another pause. "and every time i look at it i hate it more."
you watched him carefully, because this wasn't the version of jake most people saw. the version everybody else saw walked around campus looking annoyingly competent, like things simply worked for him. like success arrived naturally and confidence was his default setting. but this version looked frustrated and uncertain, which somehow felt more vulnerable than if he had outright admitted he was struggling. "i’m just going to be honest."
he snorted. "that sounds dangerous."
"might be. but i think… your problem could be that you keep trying to make it impressive." he looked up, immediately. but you continued before he could interrupt. "every time you talk about a project, you talk about what it could become."
his eyebrows pulled together. “because that's the point."
you sat forward slightly. "you're doing the same thing you did with the results section."
he groaned immediately. "don't bring that up." "i'm bringing it up, jake." "of course you are."
"because you're doing it again." he leaned back, watching you as you continued. "you keep jumping ahead. you're trying to write the conclusion before you've looked at what's actually there."
his eyes narrowed slightly. not defensive, just thinking, which was different. "maybe the data isn't exciting."
you shrugged. "most data isn't."
"great." "but maybe it's useful, and maybe that's enough."
silence stretched, long. he tapped his fingers against the table. "you’re really annoying and that's a really annoying answer."
your mouth twitched slightly. "i know. feelings are mutual."
"and i also hate that you're probably right."
"i also know." you finally smiled, not being able to control your facial expressions anymore.
"stop enjoying this."
you looked back down at your laptop. "i'm not." but you absolutely were.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
after a few days, you met up again. it was one of those days where everything felt wrong before it even started. jess had called, which already felt aggressive, and somehow the conversation had made everything worse. because she sounded normal, excited, exactly like somebody who had not disappeared from your life for months at a time. and by the time you arrived at the library, you could feel the anger sitting underneath your skin. jake noticed immediately, which was becoming irritating. "okay."
you didn't look up. "what?" "you look like you want to commit murder today."
"yeah, and you’re about to be my next victim.” jake just looked at you in shock, making you think he might have believed it. “i looked like that last week too, anyway." you said while avoiding eye contact.
"this is definitely different." you ignored him, but he ignored your attempt to ignore him. "who is it?"
you sighed. "what? nobody." "that's a lie and we both know it."
"why ask if you've already decided then?" you said in a passive aggressive tone, more aggressive than passive.
he shrugged. "fair." after a minute of silence, you heard his voice again. "is it a guy?"
you immediately stared in shock. "what?" "i'm asking." "why?"
"because people usually look like this because of a guy. and i would know, because i am a guy… a guy a lot of girls get mad at, actually."
you rolled you eyes as you heard him admit to that so easily. "your reasoning is stupid. and your reasoning should maybe make you a little more self aware for the sake of others too." "mmh, okay."
you looked back down, annoyed. then heard yourself speak, feeling the need to clarify it. "it's not a guy, for the record." "good."
you frowned, confused at his comment. "why?" "because i wouldn’t have been helpful. i’m on the receiving end when it comes to that stuff, so i don’t understand those situations.”
you stared. "and you understand this one?" "try me."
you rubbed your eyes, already regretting speaking. "it's an old friend. jess."
his expression shifted slightly. recognition. "jess?"
"yeah." you hesitated. "you might know her."
"how exactly?" "well, apart from the fact that you talk to basically everybody on campus including the trees, she used to… visit one of your friends?"
he immediately looked confused, raising one eyebrow. “visit?”
“as in, intimately.” you awkwardly said, making it all even more awkward, which was one of your not-so-hidden talents.
"that doesn't narrow it down at all."
despite yourself, you laughed. "fair."
after a second, you heard him speak again. "oh."
"you know her." "i remember we talked a few times, yeah. she used to hook up with jay, i think. it’s hard to keep up."
you blushed at his words like a stupid girl, as if you weren’t a full grown twenty year old woman. you felt the need to move on with the conversation, which somehow meant oversharing a little. "she just disappears. for months." you stared at the table. "sometimes longer. then comes back." your throat tightened. "and every single time she acts like nothing happened." you laughed, short and sharp. "like i'm supposed to be waiting exactly where she left me." jake didn't interrupt, so you kept talking, which was probably a big mistake. "she goes traveling, does exchange. somehow the exchange ends and she still doesn’t come back? she meets new people and simply forgets i exist." your voice sounded flatter now. "then something goes wrong and suddenly she remembers my phone number." silence. you looked down. "and the worst part is i always answer." there it was, the embarrassing part, the part that actually hurt. because the problem wasn't only jess, it was you. always accepting less than what you needed because some version of friendship felt better than none.
jake was quiet for a moment. but when he finally spoke, you immediately wished he hadn’t. "i kind of understand her."
you looked up, instantly regretting opening your mouth. why had you even told him about that? why would you ever talk about something so personal with jake? you genuinely wondered what had gotten into you, what stupid spell you were under to suddenly speak about something so important to you with this person. "forget it."
he didn't seem bothered by your reaction, which somehow made it worse. "listen. i’m just saying i understand why she might disappear."
you laughed, actually laughed in disbelief. "seriously? that's your response."
he frowned. "what?"
"i tell you all that and your first instinct is to defend her." "i'm not defending her." "you literally are." "no?" "jake."
he leaned back, annoyingly calm. "i'm saying i understand it."
"those are not different things." "they are."
"not right now they're not." you raised your voice a little, not being able to keep up with his nonchalance.
"people get overwhelmed." his voice remained steady. "people avoid things."
"for more than a year?" "sometimes." "well, that's ridiculous." "it just happens, y/n."
you laughed again, angrier this time. "easy for you to say."
he frowned. "why are you so sure about that?"
because you have people. because people stay and because nobody forgets you. because you don't spend months wondering whether someone cared about you in the first place. you thought all of that but said none of it. "because you're not the one waiting." that landed and you saw it.
jake's expression shifted slightly. "fair."
you quickly looked away, because suddenly your eyes were burning. because suddenly you remembered why you didn’t like talking to jake. "i'm just tired of being understanding." the words slipped out before you could stop them.
he just sat there for a second, looking at you with that frustratingly neutral expression he always wore whenever he was actually thinking about something. "i know."
you almost laughed. not because it was funny, because it was irritating. "i don’t think you do." you wished you hadn't said that, because now the conversation was no longer about jess. it was about you. silence stretched between you, making you look down at the table.
jake looked at you and said, carefully this time, "i'm just saying i've done that before. not answered people." your eyes lifted. he wasn't looking at you anymore, he was looking somewhere over your shoulder, somewhere vague. like he was talking to the room instead of directly to you. "you get busy." he shrugged slightly. "or stressed. or something happens and you keep thinking you'll answer tomorrow." you didn't say anything as he continued. "then a week passes, then two." another pause. "then it starts feeling weird. and then the longer you leave it, the more embarrassing it gets." something uncomfortable twisted in your chest, because he didn't sound defensive, he sounded familiar. like he wasn't really talking about jess anymore, like he was talking about himself. "and eventually," he said, quieter now, "you know you've waited too long." your throat tightened unexpectedly, because there was something strange about hearing that from him. jake, who always seemed so put together, so socially effortless. so capable of moving through every room without friction. you had never really considered that he might be the kind of person who avoided things. or people, or conversations. he leaned back slightly. "but i'm not saying it doesn't hurt."
you immediately looked away, because that wasn't what you wanted, it wasn't what you needed. you didn't need understanding, you needed someone to tell you that you were right. that jess was selfish, that disappearing for months was selfish. that coming back whenever she felt lonely was selfish and that you had every right to be angry. instead he was sitting there calmly constructing reasons that almost sounded like excuses. "okay." your voice came out flat. "so what?"
he frowned slightly. "what do you mean?"
"i mean so what." you looked at him again. "so she was embarrassed." he immediately knew where this was going and you could tell, but that didn't stop you. "so she got busy. so now i have to be there every time just in case she felt that way, because of course she didn’t give any solid explanation either. great." you laughed once, sharp.
"that's not what i'm saying." "it kind of is." "no, y/n."
"then what are you saying, jake." you called his name back as if trying to prove a point, unconsciously arguing at this point.
he rubbed his jaw, already looking mildly annoyed. which somehow made you even more annoyed. "i'm just saying life gets messy." you stared at him and he stared back, completely calm, completely composed. and suddenly you wanted to shake him, just a little. just enough to make him react properly.
"you don't get it." "maybe not." "no, you definitely don't."
he frowned. "then explain it. explain whatever you want me to get."
and there it was. you could tell exhaustion had been eating holes through your self-control for weeks now as you spoke without a filter. "because it's always me." you looked down, immediately regretting it, immediately wanting to take it back. but now it was already out. "i'm always the person who understands and the person who's supposed to wait until everybody figures their shit out." your chest felt tight, too tight. "and somehow nobody ever seems worried about whether i have things going on too." the words sounded pathetic the second they left your mouth. you hated yourself for saying them, because this was jake. jake wasn’t even your friend, but there you were trauma dumping on him for some strange reason.
he was quiet for a moment, long enough that you wished he would just let it go. "have you told her that?"
you blinked. "what?" "any of that."
you stared. "that's your takeaway?"
"it's a question." "obviously not." "then how would she know?"
you actually laughed in disbelief. "jake, seriously?" "yeah."
your irritation flared immediately. "because she should know."
he sighed. "people don't magically know things." "she should."
"why?" you stared at him, because the answer felt obvious. because if somebody mattered to you then you noticed, and if somebody mattered to you then you checked. you would remember they existed even when your life got busy. but suddenly explaining that felt impossible because it sounded childish and needy, it sounded exactly like the thing you spent years trying not to be. you looked away but, unfortunately, jake kept talking. "look." his voice softened slightly, which somehow made it worse. "i'm not saying she's right. i'm saying people aren't always good at being what other people need. and honestly," he hesitated for a moment, just enough for you to notice. "i don't know. if she's basically the only friend you've got." your stomach dropped, violently. he didn't mean it cruelly and that was the problem. he said it like an observation, like a fact, something practical and logical. "maybe expecting perfection from her isn't realistic."
that was the exact moment everything inside you snapped, quietly. somehow he had managed to take the ugliest fear you carried around and say it out loud like it was reasonable. if she's basically the only friend you've got. you stared at him, and suddenly all you could hear was that sentence. you wondered if he realized what he had just said, if he realized how true it was. your chair scraped against the floor, which made jake immediately looked up. "you’re right." your voice sounded strange, even to yourself. you started shoving your laptop into your bag too fast, too aggressively.
"y/n." "no, you're right."
his eyebrows pulled together. "that's not-"
"no." you stood up as the library suddenly felt too bright, too loud and too exposed. "i should probably lower my standards."
"i didn't say that." "you kind of did." "that's not what i meant." "it's fine." "y/n."
you slung your bag over your shoulder, avoiding his eyes. because you knew if you looked at him right now something humiliating would happen — either you'd cry or you'd say something cruel, and you didn't want either.
"i've got work." "we're literally working right now." "not this."
"that's not what i meant." he said quieter this time, more serious.
you nodded once, short and mechanical. "just leave it, okay? i don’t give a fuck at this point." you turned around and left before he could say anything else. before he could explain or clarify, before he could make it reasonable. because the worst part was that maybe it was reasonable and maybe that was why it hurt so much. because somewhere underneath all the anger and embarrassment and exhaustion, there was a small ugly part of you that had heard his words and immediately thought: he's right. and you hated that part enough that you spent the entire walk home trying not to listen to it.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
you didn’t want to see jess, and you wanted to see jake even less. the conversation with him had left you feeling like a whiny, annoying person, which somehow felt like it was both of their perception when it came to you. you still didn’t understand why you had let him know all that personal stuff, why you hadn’t second guessed saying it like you did with everything else. why had you all of a sudden let something real slip out so carelessly when you had spent most of your life making sure nothing slipped out at all? although once you reflected on it, you realized jake was the closest thing to a friend you had at that moment. you kept telling yourself he wasn’t one because you knew he didn’t consider you as such, but that didn’t mean it was as easy for your brain to interpret it all in the same nonchalant way as his did. and maybe that was the reason why you had been so careless, because at some point of spending countless hours with jake as a project partner, you had begun to spend time with him as a person too, even if it was a one sided experience. you had to stop that, though. he had clearly shown you he thought it was stupid to even bring up the thing with jess as a problem. he wasn’t your friend in reality, and although he had told you about some of his worries as well, you obviously didn’t have that kind of connection.
the project document sat untouched for longer than it should have. you told yourself you would get back to it tomorrow, but then tomorrow became the next day, and then the next. same thing happened with texts that went unanswered, cancelled meetings and skipped classes. eventually you emailed your professors about a “debilitating cold” that technically existed but probably wasn't severe enough to justify missing class or being absent from life in general. you had never missed class, not voluntarily, not unless you physically couldn't move. but exhaustion had started settling somewhere deeper than tiredness. it wasn't sleep, because sleep didn't fix it. sleep just delayed it until the morning. the strange thing was that once you stopped going, you discovered how easy it would be to keep stopping, which terrified you. because rankings, scholarships, deadlines, projects and all the things that normally sat in your chest screaming for attention suddenly felt distant, muted. like somebody had wrapped your life in several layers of fabric. and you knew enough about yourself to understand how dangerous that feeling could become if you let it stay.
so on wednesday morning you got out of bed, because whatever else you were, you were not a quitter. you got dressed, packed your bag and ignored the fact that everything felt heavier than usual. you promised yourself you wouldn’t allow yourself to have those kind of thoughts anymore because they would only bring you down. emotional repression was your favorite kind of unhealthy coping mechanism, you thought. once you were back on campus, all you could think about was how you couldn’t handle seeing neither of those two people you couldn’t get out of your head at that moment. which was genuinely stupid, because one of them was a former friend who had apparently decided to reappear in your life after treating it like a waiting room, and the other was your project partner to put it simply. those were the facts — simple, reasonable, adult facts. the fact that both situations somehow occupied an unreasonable amount of your brain space lately was a separate issue entirely. you shook in fear just by imagining it, already feeling awkward because of conversations that had not happened yet, expressions you had not seen yet, and possibilities your brain had already managed to rehearse a dozen different ways.
so when you casually looked up on your way to class just to see both of those two people, your entire body froze. you stood still like a rodent in fear, trying to process the scene you were watching. jake. jess. together. you were standing far enough away that neither of them saw you. thank god, because you suddenly felt like an intruder. jess was leaning against one of the walls near the notice boards, talking about something with her hands moving the way they always did when she got animated. her hair was down and she looked effortless in that way she always did. jake was standing across from her. he was smiling, genuinely. that small version of it that showed up when he was actually entertained by something. you hated that you recognized the difference now. your stomach tightened, probably because you were annoyed. that was the explanation, the obvious explanation.
you kept walking a little slower without meaning to. jess said something and jake looked down for a second before looking back up. she touched his arm, briefly, the way extroverted people touched everybody. which meant absolutely nothing. except your brain immediately decided to remember every single time jake had ever touched you, which took approximately half a second because the answer was basically never. you looked away, then looked back. and you knew you were acting ridiculous. you should just have gone to class, but instead you found yourself lingering beside a column further down the corridor. not hiding, just... standing there for a second. a completely normal amount of time. jess laughed as jake said something that made her shove his shoulder lightly. and there it was, that impossible-to-define thing. you couldn't hear a word they were saying, but somehow the conversation felt familiar anyway. easy, comfortable. like they already knew where the other person's jokes were going before they arrived there. you noticed jess occupied space easily, exactly like you never had. jess laughed loudly, but you usually laughed like you were apologizing for it. jess flirted with people the way other people breathed. and even from across the hallway you could see the familiar rhythm of it. the slight lean forward, the eye contact held a second too long, the teasing smile, the confidence. she had always been good at that.
you weren't even friends with one of them anymore, and the other had never been your friend to begin with. so why did it feel like watching something you weren't supposed to be seeing? why did it feel like standing outside a room with the door cracked open? why did it feel like everybody else had somehow received instructions for a social world that you were still trying to decipher years later? jess laughed again. jake looked down and shook his head. and there it was, that tiny almost-smile, the one you had spent months accidentally memorizing. your stomach dropped, hard. you wished you had the strength in you to go tell him how much you hated him, but you knew they would just look at you like you were crazy. because maybe you were a little, but you believed you had your reasons. it felt like he was doing it on purpose — you had explicitly told him that she had hurt you, he had dismissed it and now he was luring her in. he couldn’t be doing it on purpose, right? he couldn’t dislike you that much. he didn’t even seem to care, for god’s sake. so why would he go out of his way to do something so mean to you? you were taking it personal when deep down you knew it had nothing to do with you, which probably was what hurt the most. you weren’t in neither of their minds and you had to accept it.
you hated how bitter every thought you had sounded. you hated it enough that you immediately started walking again, faster this time, before they could notice you. before your brain could turn the whole thing into something even uglier. because whatever this feeling was, you didn't want to examine it. you had enough problems already, you really didn't need another one. especially not one you couldn't even name.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
jess: can we just hang out like old times? pls girl lets fix thisss
you stared at the message, your desperation for friendship coming through. just two weeks ago, you were sure you couldn’t forgive her. you didn’t think acting as if nothing happened was too respectful to yourself. but you wanted a girl friend, you needed someone who would keep you distracted for a little while. someone you could share a tiny part of your 20s with, even. loneliness was getting the best of you and although it felt pitiful, you couldn’t help but miss human connection. and maybe, just maybe, jake’s words had also had an effect on your thoughts about the situation too. and maybe, it was also about seeing them talk in such a friendly manner and not being able to get what kind of interaction it was from where you were standing. maybe it was about getting mad at him because of it, because it felt like you accidentally shared way too much with him and he didn’t take it as a serious matter. as something that had hurt you deeply, as something you almost considered betrayal. he indirectly told you so, and then turned around to use his charm on her just like he did with every other girl, choosing to ignore your vulnerability. maybe it was a way of showing him that you also didn’t give a fuck. that you had realized you were being dramatic, just as he implied. was it better to spitefully prove him right by talking to jess or to feel stupid as a salty girl who cannot just forgive and forget? you thought that you at least would gain a friend back with the first option. you were being extremely irrational. the thought of jake even noticing who you talked to or not was simply dumb in the first place.
you: okay. when and where?
done decision. this could either go extremely wrong or make you a little less depressed for an evening.
jess: ik youre not going to like this, but there is this party…
jess: it will be really fun and you can meet new ppl !! ill help you out plssssss
you: jess you know im too awkward for ts
jess: take it as a challenge bby
jess: well leave as soon as youre uncomfortable promised
jess: pick you up at 10 🥳
at least she had a car that she could pick you up with. it was hard to take anything else as positive out of this stupid situation you had chosen to get yourself into. you were extremely anxious to talk to her. still remembering how to act like a regular person, still knowing how to actually let your personality out. the fact that the only social interactions you had had for the last few months had been about your shared project with jake didn’t help at all. you knew the best you could do was not to overthink it. do not overthink it, you repeated to yourself. do. not. over —
“girl, snap out of it please. you need to get a little hyper, we’re going to a party, remember?” “sadly.”
“you’ve changed so much. i miss brighter you, you know?” your heart ached a little when you heard jess’s words being said in such an endearing tone. you missed her too.
“swear i won’t ruin it. don’t worry, you’ll have fun.” you smiled at her while she drove her mini car. it looked so chic. she looked so chic. the wind that came out of the rolled-down window somehow blew her hair perfectly without it sticking to her lipgloss, and you felt stupid for noticing those details. you always admired her, always prayed you could exude even a quarter of her elegance.
“it’s not only about me having fun. it’s about us having fun. you and me, both. understood?” she said as she pulled her car over, parking in a seemingly unknown street to you. but as you walked closer to the location, jess leading the way, it started to get a little more familiar.
“jess?” “mmh?” “is this a house party?”
“well… maybe. i thought if i told you before you wouldn’t even think about coming.”
“you know i hate this vibe. this is stupid, jess. you’re going to be socializing and i’m just going to be weirdly standing in a corner!”
“hey! i’m not going to leave you alone, okay?” “no. i don’t want you to babysit me. i told you, i want you to have a great time.”
“i’ll have a great time as long as you stop anticipating. come on, we’re already here anyway.” you knew at some point during the night she would leave you. you knew you wouldn’t go home “as soon as you get uncomfortable”. you wouldn’t even ask to leave because she deserved to have a great time without you being in her ass about it. gosh, you wished you could be normal about everything for just one night.
as soon as you entered the house, you knew who was throwing the party. you didn’t ask before, afraid of the answer jess would give you. it was the same apartment complex you once visited to bang on a boy’s door about some deleted google doc. it was jay’s home. jake’s friend. jess entered first, her beaming smile making her look even more magical. you wished you were a ghost in that moment as you genuinely couldn’t take being looked at. but there you were, too deep in the lion's den to get out now. “jay!” jess ran up to the familiar face you always saw jake with. you walked a little faster, trying to keep up with jess’ excited run. you awkwardly stood next to her, waiting for the perfect moment to include yourself in their conversation. you swore no matter what the interaction was, there was never a right time for your stupid brain.
“aaaand this is y/n! we’ve been friends for almost… how many years now?”
“three and half.” you finally added something to the conversation, trying to politely smile to jay without showing too much of your nerves.
“oh my god, it’s been so fucking long, girl. anyway, she’s such a sweet girl, right babe?” jess looked at you with her deer eyes and a light smile, almost pleading you to speak with just a look.
“never as sweet as her. i hope you’ve had a great chance to get to know her properly, jay. it’s extremely worth it.” jay smiled genuinely, nodding yes with his head.
“oh babe! i missed my girl so much!”
“girls are too fucking sweet to each other, god. i feel pre-diabetic already.”
“oh, shut up! it’s not our fault you guys don’t have a single ounce of emotional intelligence!” jess punched jay’s arm in a friendly way, making him laugh while dramatically exclaiming how painful it felt.
“anyway, make yourself at home. there is plenty of alcohol, so get drunk and have fun. those are the house rules.” jay winked while he left to walk to a bigger group of people, which seemed like his friend group. his friend group. jake.
“jake!” your biggest fear came true. having to awkwardly stand at a house party while your friend talked to another person. and that person was the guy you had a project to finish with. and the guy you had been avoiding for about three weeks for various reasons. the guy who looked extremely confident while walking towards your friend, probably knowing he already had her wrapped around his finger. the guy who didn’t even spare you a glance, as if you hadn’t shared information that you considered very personal with him. as if he hadn’t opened up too. for a moment, your brain had even tricked you into thinking he was your friend. loneliness makes you a little too delusional, you thought.
jess hugged him tightly, almost doubtful of letting him go. you hadn’t addressed it since you were pretty sure she didn’t even know you were aware of them knowing each other, or even jake and you knowing each other. but you had your suspicions about the sexual tension you could feel between them. you kind of knew both jake and jess, and you were aware they both didn’t do serious. and although you weren’t judging, it kind of hurt knowing that your old friend no longer trusted you enough to update you about her intimate life like she used to. it wasn’t about the intimate life part, it was more about the fact that you two didn’t talk anymore, didn’t know about each other’s general life anymore. you weren’t close enough for her to tell you and that interaction had made you more conscious of it.
you glanced at jake for a moment, trying not to make it too obvious. was this how it was going to be? pretending not to know each other because you were in a social setting instead of that damn library? he looked so alive while talking to jess, you didn’t think you had ever seen him interact with you that way. it wasn’t a new feeling, noticing how people’s behavior changed when they were actually comfortable talking to others. although you wanted to lie to yourself and act like it didn’t matter, your emotions were hard to miss.
“and this is y/n! my old time beautiful friend. y/n, this is jake! he’s my friend too, i met him around your dorm actually!” jess could be so innocent at times, it made you feel maternal. you awkwardly smiled, not being able to bring yourself to say something. jake finally addressed you with his eyes, confirming your earlier wish of becoming a ghost hadn’t come true. sadly.
“yeah. we actually know each other, we’re partners for a shit project our teacher assigned us because of our grades.” ouch, shit project. you actually had had your fun while doing all the research and creating your own little experiment. it turned out it wasn’t the same for everyone involved.
“what?! you hadn’t told me, y/n! this is so cool! you must have become friends during this, right? you two are too nice to not be friends. and so fucking smart, god!” you knew she had the best intentions, you really knew. but that didn’t stop you from wanting to choke her with your bare hands in that exact moment.
“not really. your friend here has been a little… distant. and we didn’t even have much time to talk, anyway.” you couldn’t stop yourself from directly looking at him. did he really have to say that? you already were well aware of the fact that you two weren’t friends, but he didn’t have to be so mean about it. you needed a drink. or a whole bottle.
“y/n! jake is soooooo sweet. you need to start opening up more! he’d be a great friend when i’m not around.” your eyes were already burning, as it all felt like a humiliation ritual. everything that could go wrong in your head went even worse in reality. you just laughed it off, focusing on not looking like you were about to have a meltdown.
“jess, i need a drink.” “sure, babes! jake, show us the drinks.”
jake opened the fridge, not looking at you still. he had some great talent to avoid eye contact, you had to give him that. “i’ll prepare you whatever you desire.” jake said as he dramatically reverenced, making jess giggle cutely. you were pissed and you genuinely couldn’t pinpoint what was actually making you feel that way. you just felt it, which meant nothing he said or did was fucking funny no matter how hard you tried. you hadn’t been this irrational since you were a teen, and it was all jake sim’s fault.
“i’ll take a rum and coke, sir. and you, y/n?” “a rum and coke is fine too.”
jake giggled at jess addressing him as sir, and you could tell he was already a little tipsy. his cheeks were flushed, his lips were even plumper than usual and his movements weren’t as controlled. as they casually spoke, you couldn’t help but look around anxiously, already zoning out. you quickly took the drink into your hands as soon as jake finished making it. even your basic manners were being tempered by your irritation, since you weren’t even able to bring yourself to thank him. you were sure neither of them would notice your lack of appreciation for the below average drink he had just made you, so you didn’t need to feel guilty about it.
you basically chugged your drink, finishing it whole in one swallow. you needed some strength to somehow flee from the extremely awkward situation you were in. a good escape would be using the opportunity to socialize with new people, you thought. but that would definitely require at least one more drink. the bathroom was the right option until then.
“i’m going to the bathroom, jess.” “okay, pretty. we’ll be here.” jess answered casually.
“upstairs. first door to the left.” “thanks.” first and probably last interaction of the night with jake. how friendly the two of you were.
as you fled from the scene, you finally let your body relax a little. you were so tense your muscles were actually hurting, and it all felt like a fever dream. as you were walking upstairs, you suddenly felt a body crushing into yours, while a wet stain formed in your shirt.
“oh, fuck! i am so sorry!” you looked up, seeing one of the prettiest boys you had ever met holding a now half emptied cup. he looked familiar, but you weren’t too good at recognizing faces since you didn’t look around that much.
“don’t worry. i have an excuse to leave now.” you said calmly, not wanting him to feel guilty about a drunk accident. your drink was already kicking in as you were a bit of a lightweight for alcohol, so you didn’t feel like reacting at all. he giggled lightly, still murmuring sorry repeatedly.
“i think i know you.” “you also look familiar.”
“i’m sunoo. does that ring a bell?” of course it did. even if someone knew nobody like you did, you would still know sunoo. he was always mentioned somehow, and you now recalled seeing him being part of jake’s friend group. he reminded you a little to jess, as he was one of those people that could light up a room as soon as they entered it.
“mmh, it does. i think we have statistics ii together.” “oh, right! give me your contact and i’ll pay for the laundry service, i swear!” “there’s really no need. the top isn’t good quality anyway.”
“still! we’re in the same class, we should have each other’s contact. let’s be friends, yeah? i should know your name first, though.” you admired nice extroverts, people who could make everyone comfortable even if it was somebody as awkward as you.
“y/n. and i would really like to be your friend. i’ve heard nice things about you.” you smiled politely, trying to reciprocate his kindness back as he passed you his phone with his contact list opened. you added yourself as a contact, saving it as “y/n stats ii”.
“it was so nice to meet you, y/n. and i will pay for that dry cleaning, i don’t care what you have to say about it.” you laughed at his half-threat, saying bye to sunoo as you entered the bathroom. you took a deep breath as you stared at the mirror, seeing how much of a mess you looked like in your reflection. your eyes were bloodshot, your cheeks were flushed and your hair looked a bit frizzy, and now you had a big stain right in the middle of your white shirt. you tried to clean it up with some water, which made it a little less noticeable, but your top was almost drenched now. you needed to leave. you breathed slowly, building up the courage to tell jess you wanted to go and to convince her of not coming with you. she was having a good time, a marvelous time even, and you didn’t want to be the one ruining that. although you felt a little selfish for wanting to leave so early, you just couldn’t push your feelings away. you grabbed the doorknob, taking one more deep breath as you twisted it open.
someone was waiting, though. jake was waiting. “oh, sorry i took so long. all yours.” you walked around him with your head down, not making it too far before you heard his voice.
“we need to talk.” you fully stopped in your tracks, praying you were just hearing voices.
“really? about?” you turned around with a confused expression, because you genuinely didn’t know what he had to say to you after he had been so clearly ignoring you for the whole night. he walked a few steps forward, opening a door that you guessed led to a bedroom. you felt your heart beating in your throat as he just stared at you while waiting at the door, threatening you to go in with a single look. it seemed like you didn’t have many more options, so you walked through the door after him, entering what you thought was jay’s bedroom. he had two guitars hanging on the walls, a bunch of band posters and some workout equipment on the floor. the place smelled like expensive cologne and just boy scent in general. you were so out of place, feeling like you were entering such a private space where you didn’t have the right to be. “i really shouldn’t be here.”
“yeah, you shouldn’t. so why are you here?” your stomach dropped. this was such a different jake from the person you saw talking to jess just twenty minutes ago.
“look… jess didn’t tell me it was jay’s party. she didn’t even tell me it was a house party, okay? if i had just known that, i wouldn’t even have accepted the plan just in case. i know i’m not invited, but you already know her, right?” jake stared at you in silence. did your presence really upset him so much? you hadn’t even spoken to him, but you guessed they only wanted certain people to come to their parties and that may have been his problem. the awkward silence forced you to keep talking, feeling like you had to explain yourself because of his judging look. “the last thing i want is to be an inconvenience, okay? i don’t want anyone to be upset. i was going to leave right now, but if i tell her that i’m going now she will try to come with me because she’s not drunk enough to ditch me yet. so, i’ll go and you’ll tell her my stomach felt upset when she asks about me, okay?” you had a hopeful look in your eyes, wanting the situation to be over as soon as possible. instead, jake kept staring, an unreadable expression on his face. you were becoming even angrier by the minute. he was the one who dragged you to that damn bedroom and made you explain yourself in the most embarrassing way possible just to say nothing back. “so what else do you want me to say?”
“so you’re friends with her now?”
“really? and what about you? can i ask about what you two are?” you would regret saying that later. you shouldn’t have had that drink, as it made your brain-mouth connection malfunction a little, but it was too late already.
“i wasn’t the one who said you didn’t know if you could forgive her. or the one who got upset for some stupid fucking reason.”
“i’m not upset!”
“then why have you been avoiding me for weeks now, huh? do you think i enjoy wasting my time on this project, y/n? i want to forget it just as much as you do, but we have a compromise with professor jones and i can’t let him down!”
“i have been doing my parts, though! it’s not like i’m not working on it.”
“you know it’s not the same thing! it’s a fucking mess right now because we haven’t sat down to actually do it together in so long. look… i don’t care about whatever shit you have going on with jess, i just want this to be over.” you had been in your own head for so long now that you had completely forgotten about what this project could mean to you. about how important it was for jake to have your professor’s trust and stay top of the class. about how it wasn’t fair for him to go to meetings with mr. jones by himself and take it upon himself to explain your work all alone when you were supposed to be a pair. all of a sudden, you were realizing how horrible you were being as a working partner and the consequences it could have for jake. although all that didn’t erase how unmotivated you felt. how it had been so extremely hard to get out of bed every morning, how you were giving up on that too. still, you would make an effort for him.
“you’re right. i am now seeing it’s not fair to you, and i am sorry. i’m available this whole week though, so we can meet whenever you can and as much as you want. we’ll finish it soon, promised.” you successfully held your tears in as you smiled politely, knowing you had to leave right in that moment if you didn’t want to have a meltdown in front of him. “i’ll text you tomorrow so we can schedule, okay?”
“why did you get so mad at me just to forgive her and act like nothing happened?” “jake, i-i need to go.”
“no! i deserve an explanation. why are you not even coming to class? rankings are coming out soon, you know?”
“i know.” “is this all about jess? about the conversation we had?”
you knew that was just the tip of the iceberg. you were sinking for the first time in years and the whole jess thing and seeing them together was the last drop you needed to let yourself go. “things happen, jake. it’s not only that, but it doesn’t matter. what matters now is that we’re finishing that project together, i promise.”
“leave the fucking project now! are you not taking uni seriously anymore?”
“stop.” “have you even thought about your scholarship?”
“stop it!” tears came out uncontrollably, not being able to hold it together anymore. jake’s expression changed to a surprised one for a few seconds, quickly turning it back to his cold demeanor. “you know nothing, so stop it.”
“you won’t let me know anything.” “the moment i fucking told you something about someone, you went right to that someone and charmed her like a fucking…” you cut yourself off before the words slipped out of your tongue, although the damage was already way more than done.
“so it is about that.” “no! for fuck’s sake i’m just saying!”
“why are you so mad if you two are back to being friends? did you really forgive her?” you looked at him, an incredulous expression in your face. you wondered why he was so mean to you but so kind to everyone else. you knew you had fucked up, but you were actually trying to clean up your mess.
“i have nothing else to say to you, jake.”
“did she tell you she came to my apartment?” so they were that close and she hadn’t told you a single thing. she had the right to, but it confirmed you two weren’t friends like you used to be. knowing that made your heart sting a little, not being able to stop the tears anymore.
“guess you two aren’t such close friends after all.”
“you just told me you don’t care about what jess and i got going on.”
“just giving you updates.” jake shrugged his shoulders as if he had said nothing too important. you tried to compose yourself, not wanting to embarrass yourself in front of him anymore.
“she’s going to leave anyway. you two are adults so enjoy it while you can. i have nothing to do with this and like i said before, i’ll text you tomorrow to talk about the damn project.” you turned around, not being able to listen to his voice for a second longer.
“for fuck’s sake, y/n! i just want to-“ as jake stopped talking, you heard a loud thud and a groan right behind you, making you quickly turn around. before you could even react, jake was already on the floor, his nose bleeding nonstop.
“what happened, oh my god!”
“t-the dumbbell! fuck…” you looked around, noticing one of the dumbbells you saw earlier scattered on the floor. you rapidly guessed he had tripped and fallen face-first on one of the bed corners. he was holding his nose with both of his hands while whining in pain, making you immediately run up to him, forced to ignore the mess of a conversation you had just had.
“here, let’s get you to the bed.” you offered him your arm for support, trying to forget about the way your heart was thumping in your chest once he held onto you. jake wasn’t heavy, but you still struggled to carry him as he wasn’t making much effort to help. “did you hit your head? tell me you don’t have a concussion, please.” only groans came out of his mouth, so you sat him in the bed and held his face tightly, staining your whole hand with blood in the process. “jake.” he finally looked at you in the eyes, making you feel nauseous. “do you know where you are?”
“party. jay’s room.” “okay, good. does your head hurt?”
“mmh.” “yes or no?” “yeah.”
“okay, lay down. stay here and don’t get up, i’m going to get you some stuff, okay?” you got no answer, but you needed to make sure he was listening to you. “jake, okay?”
“come back.” he finally replied with a trembling voice that made your heartbeat spike even more, given not only the way he spoke, but the content of what he said.
“what?”
“after. don’t leave me here alone.” you were really confused at his sudden need to be with someone, let alone you.
“jake, i’m not going to let you be alone. i’m pretty sure you have a small concussion.”
“but you. you’ll come back.”
“you definitely have a concussion. but yeah, don’t worry.” as your legs were trembling, you ran down the stairs trying to find sunoo. he looked not too intoxicated before, and he would probably know where things were in that stupidly big apartment. he also seemed really sweet, and although your whole body was shaking from anxiety, he was probably the best option of a person to talk to. once you found him, you saw him talking to two girls, which made you even more scared to go up to him. still, you remembered the bloody mess a certain boy was making in his friend’s room, so you gathered all the courage you had inside you to go and talk to sunoo.
“sunoo!” “oh, hey y/n. how is it going so far? i see the stain got a little better.”
“yeah, and i told you not to worry about it! anyway, this is going to sound a bit weird… but do you know where there could be some painkillers and towels?”
“i do know, but first i need to know why you could possibly need all that for? because it sounds a bit suspicious.”
“your dear friend jake hit his head while we were arguing.” what were you supposed to do? lie on the spot? you were pretty dumb to assume he would just not question your request at all, but you weren’t too conscious either at that point.
“did you have anything to do with that injury or…?” sunoo asked while laughing, finding the situation quite entertaining.
“no! i mean, he was just tipsy and tripped. i shouldn’t have added the arguing part, it makes me look guilty now that i think of it.”
“okay, okay. i’ll believe you, i guess. come on, i’ll get you everything.” sunoo hugged the two girls he was having the conversation you interrupted with, following him into the kitchen right after. “didn’t know jake and you talked. even less, argued.”
“we were assigned a project together because of our grades. that’s why.”
“oh, so you are the project partner.” sunoo simply said while looking around the cabinets, leaving you even more confused than you already were with this whole situation.
“what?” “here.” sunoo ignored your inquire as he extended his arm out while giving you a small box of pills, which you quickly took. “towels are in the bathroom, top cabinet, you’ll see them. and please tell jake to stop being so damn inconvenient all the time.” you smiled at his comment, not being able to hold back your reaction to his annoyance.
“i will. it would also really benefit me too, you know.” sunoo laughed as he said bye once again, leaving you to face jake all alone. you walked upstairs, knowing you did not have too much time before he would get dizzy from his nosebleed. as you took the towels from the bathroom, you could hear some light voices coming from the bedroom next to it, which was also the room you had left jake in. you approached the half-closed door once you had everything you thought jake might have needed, hearing the voices more clearly then.
a familiar silhouette was on the floor, right in front of a smiley jake that sat down on the same bed you told him to lay down on ten minutes earlier. jess was assisting him with a small piece of cloth, which looked like more than enough to make him have a better appearance. that was all you needed. your sign to go now that the two people you had to give explanations to were entertained with each other. you left that suffocating place, the walk to your dorm being around 30 minutes long. it was definitely peaceful, but you couldn’t help shedding a few tears on your way back, not knowing the exact reason why, but also not being able to make the strange feeling in your stomach stop. you sent a text to jess once you were halfway there, telling her not to worry and to have fun, and that your stomach was feeling a bit upset because of your period. she didn’t respond until 45 minutes passed, so you were already in the safety of your room by then. you guessed they must have had some sort of pretty interesting conversation for her not to see the messages before.
jess: you shouldng have lefy alone
jess: well tslk
jess: jakes mad too
jess: youre too irrespinsible
although it hurt to admit, she wasn’t that wrong. responsibility had been your strength once, but it all felt like it wasn’t worth it anymore. you didn’t respond to the messages, just telling her you had made it safe. you went to bed while being aware of all the important things you would have to face once the week started, making you wish you could just stop time and go to sleep for a few weeks straight. a few months would have been great too.
you texted jake on sunday night, feeling obligated to. only a day had passed since that awful conversation you two had had, but you had sadly promised him you would actually show up for the project.
you: hey. i told you i am free all week to finish the project, so i am checking in to see if maybe you were available tomorrow after class?
three hours went by before your phone vibrated at one am.
jake: ok
you already knew this was about to be the most awkward experience you'd had in a long time.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
you arrived at the library on monday right after your classes ended, entering the usual spot you had been frequenting before the whole thing had gone down. you waited around forty five minutes before jake decided to show up, walking towards you in an extremely calm manner. it was infuriating.
“hey.” you forced yourself to say, as he only nodded with his head without saying a word back. the day you actually finished that punishment of a project would be the same day you would feel free for the first time in a while. you wasted no time in order to leave as early as possible, not even making a remark on his late arrival. you reread all the parts you had made at home on your own, trying to get his opinion on how you could connect it all together. but you didn’t get a word back. jake kept looking at his phone while mindlessly scrolling on his laptop, not even sparing you a glance. you had had enough, though. you wanted to lay in bed and dissociate for hours as you had been doing for the past few weeks. but instead, you had consciously dragged yourself to that damn library knowing what you had talked about in that nightmare of a conversation the night before. you had done it for him just to stupidly show up to not even speak to you. “why are we here if you’re not even going to listen? i have better things to do, you know.”
“really? what could those better things possibly be?” you stiffened. was he still mad about what you had talked about at the party? what were you supposed to do about it anymore? you were trying your best to show up as a project partner, but he wasn’t even allowing you to do it.
“what is your problem?” jake stayed silent, still scrolling through his phone as if you didn’t even exist, ignoring your presence. “you know what? i’m leaving. we’ll try again tomorrow if you’re in the mood by then.” you started packing your things hurriedly, needing to flee from the awkwardness.
“do you ever stop running away?” “what?” you stopped all your movements, shocked at his words.
“you heard me.”
“i don’t know what this is about, but i don’t care either, so.”
“have you ever cared about anything i’ve said, anyway?”
“what is this sudden victim complex you’ve got going on, jake? i already told you i realized i’ve been a shit project partner but i’m trying to fix it! what else can i do? i can’t turn back time, you know?”
jake humorlessly laughed at your words, making you have that weird stomach feeling again. “the fucking project…”
“what?! i’ll fucking tell mr. jones to just assign someone else to work with you if i need to. i don’t care about our progress anymore at this point. i’m not even going to be second on rankings anymore, anyway. so it doesn’t even make sense for us to do this shit together, right?”
“you’re giving up, just like that?”
“i can’t keep up, so. you win.”
“i win?!”
“it’s been three long years of trying to get to you up there. you probably already did, but now i know it won’t ever happen for sure. so you win, yeah.”
“then i hope you’re proud of the fact that you can’t keep promises. neither to yourself nor to others.”
“what are you even saying, jake?”
“you told me you would come back.” you stared at him as your throat went dry and your palms became sweaty. you couldn’t understand why he was bringing up that moment all of a sudden.
“t-the other night? i asked sunoo for painkillers and towels but once i got back you were already assisted. you didn’t need my help anymore. do you think i didn’t make sure you weren’t bleeding out before i left? is that why you’re so mad?”
“you promised you would come back. and you just fucking left without saying a word to anyone, god knows at what fucking hour and all alone?”
“for fuck’s sake! was i supposed to knock while jess was practically on her knees for you and give you the fucking painkillers? do you know how awkward that is for someone else, jake?”
“she wasn’t.” you held your tears back once again as a dry laugh escaped your throat. you couldn’t comprehend what he could possibly want to gain from that argument, making it feel pointless to explain yourself.
“she was on the floor, jake. you were practically drooling all over her. i saw you guys and that’s fine, but don’t expect me to just interrupt… that! to fucking say bye? like?”
“i was waiting for you.” his voice sounded softer when he said that, confusing you even more.
“why does it matter when someone helped you anyway? not even someone, jess! i knew she would take good care of you. way better than i ever could.”
“why do you keep bringing her up?”
“because she’s… she used to be my best friend. and because you’re… something with her now. it makes sense.”
“we’re nothing.”
“i don’t need to know that. just make sure she knows that.”
“you do need to know.”
“what?” jake suddenly stood up, his figure looming over you while he breathed rapidly. you could tell he was furious, although you still didn’t exactly get why.
“if i did something, you would need to know.” “can you just… talk normally?” you tried to step back, still not looking at him directly as it felt like he could murder you with a look. you suddenly felt his hand pulling your wrist, not allowing you to take that step while tugging you forward.
“tell me you don’t feel it.” “w-what are you even saying, jake?”
“you fucking mess me up.” you looked up at him then, not knowing if you were understanding him right. you were so scared, but maybe it was all you needed to finally stop thinking about him. maybe your instincts were finally working for someone and this was your sign to let go. although you couldn’t understand why he would want that too, and you still weren’t sure if he was hinting at it, you still allowed yourself to look at his lips. they were plumper than usual, reminding you of two nights ago when he was fighting you while tipsy. you were starting to wonder if he was drunk at that moment too.
“what do you want from me?” you were almost whispering, not being able to find your voice anymore. you felt him so close you were going insane by the minute, hating him for having so much power over you.
“tell me to stop.” “jake-“
“just say no and i’ll fucking let go.” but you didn’t. you didn’t say anything, letting him drag you to an empty secluded classroom as if it wasn’t jake. jake, who you couldn’t even look in the eye. jake, whom you had had a one sided competition with for years now. jake, who had fucked your old best friend after you had told him how deeply she had hurt you. jake, who was now cornering you between a table and his body, making you feel helpless.
“we’re going to regret this.” you whispered again, afraid of hearing your own words.
“i can’t fucking stop thinking about it though.” after a beat of silence, you finally spoke.
“then do it.” he wasted no time after you said that, taking your words as a forward sign. he suddenly kissed you, letting all his hunger out in a single motion. he was harsh, grabbing you steadily by your neck while crushing his mouth onto yours. you couldn’t help but moan at the sudden intrusion, not being too confident in your kissing skills either. still, it felt like he was too out of it to question your form.
“wait-“ you tried to pull back, but he suddenly spun you around, his heavy breath on your neck as his crotch pressed onto your back.
“you feel it, huh? i’m so fucking mad at you, i think it makes it worse.”
“jake, fuck-“
“i hate you so much.” he kept desperately grabbing your whole body, moans coming out of both of your mouths as he ground himself against your ass without a stop. he kept your head forward, turning your neck with his hand whenever you unconsciously tried looking behind you.
“just take off my fucking pants.” you said between whines, feeling much needier than ever before in your whole twenty years of life. he suddenly undid your jeans and dragged them down, as his long fingers entered your wet cunt. it all felt so rushed and rough, not a single care being taken by either of you. you could practically feel the shame you both were experiencing, wanting it to be over but unable to make yourselves stop simultaneously.
“can you ever stop giving orders, huh?” jake kept rubbing circles around your clit, making you feel so good but so overwhelmed by his presence. you couldn’t believe he was actually inside you. the sim jake was finger fucking you, and it all seemed so surreal that you already felt like you couldn’t hold your orgasm in for much longer. “have we finally discovered the only way to shut you up, mmh?” you suddenly felt him whispering in your ear, making it all feel even more intimate. his words were more than enough to make your whole body tremble in pleasure, completely drenching his fingers in the process as you bit your lower lip to not moan at full volume. you had experimented with your own fingers before, but it was nothing like what jake had made you feel in a few minutes. he kept his rhythm steady as you heard him panting in your ear, being able to feel the desperation through his breathing only. your legs were shaking, so you mentally thanked him for holding your body still without dropping you to the ground. he kept using his fingers inside you, the overstimulation making you whine into your own palm as an attempt to muffle your sounds. your cheeks were burning, ashamed at how quickly you had come while only using his fingers.
“how about you go on your knees for me?” jake kept talking in your ear as your body still trembled from the overwhelming stimulation. you were now panicking about your absolute lack of experience, but you still complied, feeling too out of it to put coherent thoughts together. you slowly went down so that your knees didn’t give out, watching him put the same hand he had just had in you inside his mouth, dragging his tongue around his slender fingers. you still weren’t looking at each other for some reason, so you quickly took your eyes off him while waiting for instructions.
as he pulled his pants down, you felt the need to say something before fucking it up completely. “i have never…”
“i know. i’ll help.” jake spoke between pants, his throbbing tip leaking pre cum in front of you. you didn’t confront him about how on earth he would know that so surely, although you obviously had the urge to. if you ever talked to him again after all that, you might ask. “open wide.” you obeyed, genuinely feeling like you were under a spell that didn’t allow you to control your own actions. he introduced himself into your mouth, making you quickly taste the salty liquid on your lips. as he tangled his fingers between your hair strands, he began to push your head deeper and deeper, obliging your throat to adapt to the shape of his cock. you couldn’t help but make a gag sound, looking up at him to be faced with closed eyes and an unrecognizable expression.
“f-feels so fucking good… fuck…” he wasn’t letting you go, the lack of oxygen quickly catching up to you. you tapped on the back of his thigh as a signal for your much needed release, but he seemed to be in trance. after a few more seconds, tears started to spill down your cheeks, making you panic while whines came out of the same mouth that was full of his cock. "you look so dumb like this. you're always such a smart girl, but look at you now..."
he finally let you go, quickly stealing a glance of your fucked-out state. "d-don't call me dumb." you said after catching your breath, not being so sure about who you were trying to convince anymore. he smirked at your words, which only confirmed that he also knew you didn't really dislike it. jake kept stroking his cock at a rhythmic pace right in front of your face, making you mentally prepare yourself for what you thought was about to come. he whined, sounding so needy it made you weak. sweet sounds kept coming out of his mouth, which made you understand a tiny bit better why everybody wanted to have a special moment with him so badly. he suddenly looked at you in the eyes, making you freeze instantly as he spoke. “stupid slut can only not argue when she has a dick right in front of her face, huh?” your breath hitched, somehow finding pleasure in the degrading words he had decided to use.
you kept looking up at him as you reached out to switch his hands for yours, causing him to let out a high pitched moan that only made you even needier. “is that good?”
“please… don’t fucking stop.” jake groaned as he breathed even faster, making you realize he was probably close. although he had his eyes closed again, you kept looking at his face, being fully captivated by his facial expressions. it was pure lust and pleasure, the kind of face you would have never thought could be caused by you. but there you were, jerking the sim jake off right after he had made you come on his fingers only. “oh my god… you fucking… i’m gonna…”
“do it, jake.” jake suddenly moaned so loudly you were sure people on another floor could hear. you shushed him in the process, the anxiety of being caught together not leaving even when you seemed to have bigger problems. like most of your upper body being covered by his cum, for example. your hair felt sticky and your mouth was full of spit, while your shirt was stained and your mascara was runny. what had just happened looked so physically obvious, it made you feel so ashamed you couldn’t even look up. both of you were silent as your breathing slowed down, the tension being so palpable it made you want to vomit. it was the textbook definition of awkward.
you tried to get up from the floor while balancing yourself on a nearby table. jake didn’t look at you neither, pulling up his pants as he tucked himself in in pure silence. it had almost been like a dissociative experience for you both, only becoming conscious of what had just happened once it was over. once you were up on your two feet, you reached for your bag to look for tissues, wanting to at least get out of that classroom without jake’s cum dripping down your chin. you quickly wiped what you felt was more visible, letting the rest to be fixed in the bathroom with a mirror available. “i’ll go first. j-just… stay here for a moment, just in case.”
“you’ve got… a little bit of… right there.” jake pointed at your cleavage, some drops of his release still on there.
“y-yeah. i’ll go to the bathroom now to clean up.” “good.”
“okay.” he looked down while fixing his shirt, an unreadable expression on his face as if nothing had happened. it seemed like the two of you wanted to pretend nothing had happened, actually. “then bye.” you found your most polite smile to show him, making the situation even more awkward for both of you. you fled from the scene as you shut the door right behind you, quickly running off to the bathroom. once again, tears started to run down your cheeks as soon as you entered the stall, feeling too overwhelmed to just ignore it. you felt guilty and stupid and ashamed all at once, having the need to never see his face ever again. how were you supposed to just finish the project? to meet up with him all alone and not address it? to act as if it didn’t affect you at all? you knew he was experienced when it came to hook ups, so it would obviously be too ordinary for him to even give it a second thought. but for you, it was your first sexual experience, and you had decided to give that moment to jake. you knew virginity was a stupid concept and it all didn’t matter once you looked at the bigger picture, but it still felt like such a waste to share such an intimate moment with someone who could not give two fucks about you. to someone who actually told you he hated you in the act. and although your feelings were mutual and you hated him too, it still hurt.
there was also the fact that he was fucking the girl who used to be your best friend. and although you knew they weren’t anything serious, it still didn’t feel fair to let yourself be touched by the same man without telling her. but you couldn’t tell her, you couldn’t tell anyone. no one could ever know about that encounter and you knew jake would feel the same about it. you wished you didn’t even know about it yourself, so acting as if nothing had happened was the only option left. blocking it out of your memory was all you needed to do, right?
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
days passed and neither of you talked about it. neither of you talked about anything, really. the project was left untouched, as if you hadn’t been fighting about how important it was for both of your futures a week ago. you hadn’t gone back to class either, but you knew you were at your limit with the number of classes you could miss. you basically were about to fail because of how absent you were, which kind of was a reality check for how much you wanted to give up on life. still, you had a bit of rationality left, which made you actually get up that morning and attend your classes. you would send emails later as a sad attempt to get your professors’ trust back.
you didn’t want to see him. you successfully blocked everything out of your mind for those few days you didn’t go to uni, but being in that building again gave you so much whiplash it was impossible to ignore. you wandered through the halls with your head down, since you needed to avoid everyone now more than ever. the fact that that place was becoming hell by the minute made you extremely upset, knowing you once were so excited to even be accepted into it. as you were walking out of your first class while having a whole breakdown inside your mind, you started hearing a commotion in the hall, instinctively catching your attention while obliging you to put your head up. you then saw a big group of people looking at the wood panel on the wall all together, quickly making you realize what it was. the rankings.
“how the fuck am i up there?! yo!” “dude, you’re right under jake. that’s crazy.” “you’re actually second, sunghoon?!”
although it was obviously bound to happen, it still didn’t feel real until you actually saw it. seventh. you had slacked so much you had moved five ranks down. and the difference between first and second place was now bigger than ever before. you stayed still behind everyone else as you stared at the printed out numbered list. all the voices became muffled while you quietly dissociated, almost having an out of body experience. you were probably going to get kicked out, you couldn’t afford it. you would have to use all your savings to only be able to pay for half a year. jake had moved up a decimal. he had got even better, while you miserably failed to keep up. still, you couldn’t find the energy to despise him. you didn’t have the energy to shed tears, to even be upset. you just wanted to go home and lay in bed, no matter if you were second, sixth or last. you were drained.
“y/n. i haven’t seen you around at all lately.” a familiar voice interrupted your pathetic train of thought, making you turn to the side to face a slightly worried looking mr. jones. you were acting so stupidly you hadn’t actually planned how this encounter would go. and now, it was happening right in front of you.
“y-yeah. i am so sorry about that, professor. it has been a rough… month. i’m trying to be more present now, though.” your professor lightly nodded with his head in an understanding manner, making you pray that that was the end of your conversation. you quickly realized it was not, as he kept calmly speaking.
“i haven’t seen jake this week neither, which is strange considering he’s the only one who comes to our reunions. is the project going well? it’s supposed to be tutored by me, do not forget that. you need to come and see me so that we can discuss it, y/n.” being nagged by your university professor was definitely a humbling experience. still, you couldn’t deny he was right. “jake! we were actually just talking about you. come here.” no, it couldn’t be. you closed your eyes and took a deep breath as your whole body completely froze in fear. a tired looking jake appeared in frame, politely smiling back at your excited professor. he didn’t look at you, which you were extremely grateful for, as you couldn’t stand maintaining eye contact with the guy you had had your first sexual experience with while supposedly being your academic rival right in that moment.
“i need to see a report on basically the whole project now by the end of next week. we need to keep this going, okay? i trust you a lot, you guys are my top students for a reason.” not anymore, you wanted to say. could sunghoon do this with jake now that they were top one and two together? you wanted to ask. instead, you quietly nodded your head yes, too afraid to say it out loud. you would maybe send an email later. “congratulations, jake. your progress is just outstanding and you always have the strength to overcome yourself somehow. it’s beautiful to see you grow. and y/n, a setback is not a reason to give up. you’ll be up there again soon if you keep working like you’ve always done. do not think this is going to make me regret my decision on choosing you for this project, i know your potential.” you felt even worse now. how could you have ignored this sweet man who was actually the only person in this world rooting for you? you smiled at him with teary eyes as you repeatedly murmured thank you, getting too emotional to fight it back. “you two can always email me if you need anything, project related or not. i’ll see you at the end of the week, try to have fun.” you didn’t miss how he only maintained eye contact with you while he said that, confirming he knew that something was definitely not right.
you saw him walk away, leaving you standing right next to jake all alone. you didn’t have the strength to say anything, to anyone really. “so… i’ll go now.” you were ready to immediately run off, but jake’s voice unexpectedly stopped you.
“are you going to talk to professor jones?” “about?”
“giving up on the project.” you knew he was wording it like that on purpose. you also knew he was right, but his words still made your chest tighten.
“i-i thought about sending an email later, yeah. to consider it all, see what he thinks.”
“and what about what i think?”
“since sunghoon is now second, he could take on the rest of it with you. it’ll be the most comfortable option for you too, surely.”
“could you please stop assuming shit? it’s getting really annoying at this point.” you saw his jaw tighten as his tone got harsher, already too used to his mean stare to care. maybe you were assuming, but you also knew you were right. you had been fighting since the beginning of all of it and only really got along for a few lucky weeks, in which you still bickered with each other every single day. and now you were so depressed and unmotivated you couldn’t find the strength to simply care, which you knew he would not understand and would only make him more pissed. there was also the fact that you had half fucked and had not touched the topic at all, which only made it even more awkward. so yeah, you were pretty confident to assume he would be more comfortable working with someone who was his childhood friend. you didn’t understand why he was presenting it as such a wild guess.
“i’ll probably have to go anyway, so.”
“what do you mean go?”
“like, leave uni.” “what are you saying? have you officially lost your mind?”
“no. but there’s a big possibility i’ve officially lost my scholarship. and you know, being a part time server on the weekends does not make you a millionaire.”
“mr. jones said it. a setback is not a reason to give up.”
“mr. jones and you live in a different world from mine, it seems.”
“in my world, you’ve always been able to be up there. so what changed now?” the halls were pretty empty by then, making jake’s slightly raised voice sound louder.
“a lot, actually.“ “yeah, i’ve noticed.”
you both fell quiet, a heavy silence coming between you two as you didn’t know how to end the conversation. you were so desperate to leave that building and most importantly, to leave his side. “why did it change, though?” jake suddenly spoke, half whispering his words as if they were slipping from his mouth without his permission.
“jake… it’s just hard to explain.”
“but why won’t you try? try to explain it. what is it? do i have anything to do with it? does jess? please, y/n.” you were shocked at the desperation in his voice, making your chest tighten as you tried to build an answer for him. the truth was that everything had exploded right in your face and you had finally realized that maybe, just maybe, you couldn’t keep up. you weren’t strong or smart enough, and you were trying to make amends with the fact that it had been haunting you for years without end. you had simply reached your limit.
“i-it’s… i mean… jess coming back obviously made me be a little too emotional. irrational, even. but that’s obviously not all of it.”
“and me?” “you what?”
“did you change because of me?” you slightly opened your mouth just to close it again. you were trying to choose your words carefully, because yeah, jake had changed something inside you that you were too scared to confront. something irrational that felt stupid to even contemplate for a second, so him not being in your life anymore had definitely helped you not think about it. although you obviously couldn’t tell him that.
“i-i don’t know. i just know i can’t keep up. i can’t keep going like this.” “like how?”
“killing myself to reach you. i don’t see why i should keep doing this shit. life doesn’t make sense right now, to be honest.”
“so is it uni? or is it life?” “i just know i need time, jake.”
“well, we don’t have much of that.” jake went back to sounding cold and direct, making you wonder why he was inquiring so much if he would just get mad at your sad attempt to give him honest answers.
“that’s why i’m going to ask mr. jones to assign it to sunghoon if they both want to. if i had known i would get like this, i wouldn’t have accepted it from the beginning. and i am sorry. you deserve a good, responsible partner, and right now i’m everything but that.”
“do you think i would ever want that?” “i think you should.”
“you always think for me. and somehow you always get it wrong.” you wondered when you could have possibly thought so much on his behalf. even if it was a sensitive moment, you couldn’t help but always get a little annoyed at jake’s words. “so you’re just going to drop out?”
“i don’t know if i have many more options, jake.”
“you could always work as hard as you’ve always done and come back to your rank.”
“i just told you! i’m killing myself living like this, jake. i am not like you. it doesn’t fucking come naturally to me, at all. nothing. neither studies nor being a fucking functional human being, it seems.”
“do you think it is that easy? that it’s all instinctive?”
“i think you’re a smart person. truly intelligent, and a lovely guy. and me having to compete against that just to be able to study here means having to constantly fight a losing battle. and i’m just so tired i wish i could stay in bed forever right now. so yeah, i am giving up. and if you want to judge me about it, go ahead. to be honest, i don’t have the strength to care about anything anymore, so you are free to do so.” you quietly spoke as you tried to be honest with your feelings while putting it all into words, which was not an easy task.
“this is not me judging, y/n. this is me trying to… make you stay.”
“i don’t have a real reason to.”
“we’re all here for a reason. we’re all needed here.”
“that’s easy for you to say.”
“what do you mean by that?”
“nothing. let’s just… leave it.”
“no! say it! you’re not running away like you always do.”
you sighed at his insistence, giving up on your attempt to not voice your thoughts. “you are for sure needed here, jake. meanwhile, there are other people who have no one. not everyone’s life experience is the same, you know.” you shrugged your shoulders up in annoyance, knowing he would never understand where you were coming from.
“you are needed too!” jake kept raising his voice in an angry tone, obliging you to take a deep breath in order to supress the primal instinct you were having to beat the shit out of him.
“whatever, jake. this goes nowhere.” you tried to speak in a fake calm tone, knowing it did not make any sense to keep the conversation going.
“i need you.” jake suddenly spoke more quietly, making you doubt of what you had just heard coming out of his mouth. you stayed silent, trying to make sense of his confusing words. “i need you to be up there just a decimal away, trying to beat me to keep me grounded. i need you to argue and fight back and i need you to humble me and give me a different perspective because we’re so similar but so different all at once.” you couldn't stop looking at him, feeling as if you were under a spell that didn't allow you take your attention off him. it felt like he was under a spell too, one that forced him to only be able to speak nonsense. “i need your presence. in class, in the library, even at a stupid party that you didn’t want to go to, even if i ignore you there. and i need you to finish this project with me because it won’t ever be the same without you.”
“you don’t mean that.” you quickly said, not comprehending why he was so eagerly trying to make you write the project with him all of a sudden. you didn't understand why the sim jake would be so insecure about presenting the project with someone else that he would give you that fake sappy speech you definitely didn't need to hear.
“then why am i saying it? do i look like the kind of person to just go around saying that kind of shit to everyone?”
“you told me you hate me.” you couldn't hold back at this point, having to get it out of your chest to prove your point.
“because i do. you make me hate you because you make me feel so unsure of everything i was so confident about. you make me question myself and i fucking hate the uncertainty of it.” as you heard his words, you couldn't help letting out a dry laugh, making his expression turn even sharper.
“the thing is you’ll always be better than me. you’ll always win. you’ll always have the power of talking to people and being likable and being truly intelligent, and i won’t ever have that. this was never a true competition because i was the only one fighting to change the end results. so what are you so uncertain of?” you pointed at him in an accusatory manner, knowing you wouldn't let him win this one. “don’t worry though, because it is mutual. i’ve hated you for years now because you are everything i’ve ever wanted to be. everything i’ve fought for and haven’t fully got, you effortlessly have it. everything i know i can’t be, you just are. and being your partner only made me realize that the lines between admiration and hatred are a little too blurred.” the bitter tone in your speech was so noticeable it was kind of pityful, but you couldn't contain your emotions anymore. “so i think i have my reasons to hate you because i see you as a threat. but you? how could i ever cause you trouble when i can’t even reach you?”
“do you genuinely think that’s what you make me so uncertain of? academics?”
“then what is it?! why is it that you dislike me so?”
“because i fucked your friend to feel something and still, all i could ever think of was when our next library hangout would be.” jake whispered with a heavy voice, now being the one who was pointing his finger at you. he took a deep breath as you stayed silent, trying to process everything he was implying in such a rushed way. you weren’t prepared for this at all, since you would have never guessed you would be even be sharing a single word with him at that point. “all i could think of was why you were pulling away, and then making excuses, and then not coming to class. all i can think of is you because you won’t give me answers.”
“answers to what?!” “is you not wanting to accept it part of why you disappeared?”
“accept what exactly?” you raised your eyebrows in a challenging way, not wanting to accept that maybe you knew what he was talking about, and maybe he already had your answer.
“that you feel the same. that you can’t stop thinking about me.” jake kept trying to keep his volume steady, since you were still in the middle of the hallway where you bumped into your professor. no one was around, but both of you were too afraid of someone hearing your little discussion, given the content of it. “you have to feel something, come on.”
“how could i not?! we… we did that. and i know it’s not the same for you, but to me it’s a big deal.” you automatically put your hands in your head as you remembered your encounter with jake. every time a brief flashback came to your mind, you felt the need to shake it off physically, as if trying to get the memory out of your body. “i can’t believe i actually did that with you, fuck.”
“do you regret it?” jake was now staring into your eyes, making you look around while trying to avoid his gaze at all cost. you just couldn’t do it, couldn’t look in the eyes of the man who was confronting you about your possible regret for having your first sexual experience with him.
“let’s just not. please.” as you pleaded to let the topic go, you saw his expression change instantly. his brows frowned and his jaw clenched, making you comprehend he hadn’t liked that answer at all.
“so are we ever going to actually address anything?! you’re fucking impossible, i swear.”
“where does that take us, jake? i address how i feel and then what? i have to keep seeing you and act as if nothing is going on?”
“if we address it, then maybe we can do something about it!” jake suddenly spoke out loud, making you jump in fear of what anybody could hear, even if nobody seemed to be around.
“do not raise your voice, fuck! and what exactly are we going to do, huh? go ahead, enlighten me.” jake stayed silent as your voice trembled, knowing he had no idea what to answer. “exactly. so stop acting like anything you are saying actually makes sense.” as he heard your words, you noticed a slight change in his demeanor for a second, making your chest automatically tighten.
“fine! this is fucking stupid anyway.”
“yeah, fine. the report will be done by the end of the week, so don’t worry about it. and you don’t need to come to mr. jones’ meeting, i’ll cover up for you since you’ve been going alone these past weeks.”
“yeah, whatever.” jake turned around and left the building, parting ways while mad at each other once again. some things may never change, you thought.
⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪
as you opened your laptop to miserably continue writing what felt like your death statement, you received a notification that made your phone vibrate, which wasn’t that usual for you on a friday evening.
unknown number: hey this is sunoo !!!
unknown number: from the party and stats ii
unknown number: im calling u okay ??
you didn’t have much time to react before your phone rang repeatedly, making your heart jump inside your chest from the near fatal levels of anxiety you were suddenly experiencing. you could have just let it ring, act as if your phone was silenced and send a text back later. but maybe, this was your opportunity to show someone you could be nice, that having embarrassing amounts of social anxiety didn’t mean you were unapproachable. fuck it.
“hey, sunoo?” “hi, y/n. sorry for the sudden call.” sunoo giggled lightly, as if he knew he had startled you and was genuinely sorry for it.
“that’s okay! no worries.” you tried to play it off, knowing you were actually feeling so anxious you could crawl up the wall.
“so… since you probably won’t let me take the top i accidentally destroyed to the cleaner…” “sunoo! first do not say you “destroyed” it. could that be any more dramatic? and second, yeah, you’re right. i won’t let you.”
“well... then i thought i should make it up to you somehow. so how about we hang out? i know it's not a big deal, but since i don't see you around much, i thought i could help distract you from uni a bit." your mind started spinning as you tried to make sense of what he was saying. that was the last thing you thought sunoo would call you for, so you weren’t ready for it in the slightest. “you can say no, you know. i know you are a really busy student.” sunoo giggled again in an attempt to make things less awkward given your previous silence, which you really appreciated. you did want to hang out with someone though, even more with someone as cool as him. even if you were on the brink of a panic attack, you wanted to.
“n-no! i mean, i do want to hang out. i’m actually like, super grateful right now. i was just… surprised.” “surprised? i told you we should be friends, y/n! how can we be friends if we don’t ever see each other?” you laughed at his sweetness, becoming mesmerized at how good he was at socializing. he definitely needed to teach you his ways.
“anyway, so the plan is... a small get-together at my apartment. i invited a few people over and i thought you could come too?" "when you say "small get-together"... how small are we actually talking?" you said in a doubtful tone, not trusting you and sunoo shared the same concept for small when it came to being social.
"mmh... i would maybe say fifteen people? if nothing gets too out of control, yeah. i would say about that many." "is that what you consider small, sunoo?"
"is that what you consider big, y/n? we need to find you new guys, then." sunoo said as he giggled in a mischievous way, making you chuckle too.
"sunoo!" "sorry, sorry. now seriously, it's going to be fun. you know i'm good with people and i'll literally force you to have fun. so...?"
there was a pause after that, but it didn’t feel empty like the ones you were used to. it felt full, actually, like someone had filled the silence with intention instead of expectation. you found yourself sitting a little straighter without really noticing, staring at your screen like the answer might already be written there if you looked hard enough. something in the way sunoo said it, the casual certainty, the assumption that you could just exist somewhere else for a night and it would be fine, it made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant “i don’t really… do parties, sunoo. last time it went soooo horribly, i don't even want to remember it.” you said finally, quieter than you meant it to be, immediately hating how predictable it sounded, like you were repeating a line you had rehearsed for years instead of answering a simple invitation.
“i know.” sunoo replied, and there was no judgment in it, just acknowledgement. “but that’s kind of why i’m inviting you, y/n, not because you already do it well.” that made you stop, fingers hovering over your keyboard, because it should have been simple, just a yes or no, just another thing to decline and forget about and return to your increasingly collapsing routine. but your life had started feeling so small lately that even the idea of refusing something that wasn’t required felt like reinforcing the walls around you. “it’s not going to be overwhelming.” he added quickly, as if sensing the exact direction your thoughts were spiraling. “and if it is, you can literally just come to me and i’ll get you out, no questions, no drama, i promise.”
you almost laughed at that, because you didn’t really believe in exits that clean, not anymore. not with jess, not with jake, not even with yourself. but still — “okay.” you said before you could overthink it out of existence, the word slipping out too quickly, too final, like your brain had briefly disconnected from its usual committee of warnings
“okay?” sunoo repeated, like he wanted to make sure he had heard correctly.
“yeah.” you swallowed, already feeling the familiar panic of commitment creeping in but forcing yourself to continue anyway. “i’ll come.”
there was a beat of silence on the other end, and then sunoo laughed, bright and immediate, like you had just agreed to something normal instead of something that felt like stepping off a ledge you had been standing on for months “you’re actually coming.” he said, almost disbelieving. “okay wait, this is big, this is actually big, y/n. i’m proud of you right now.”
“now, don’t make it weird.” you muttered automatically, but your voice had softened without permission.
“i’m not making it weird, i’m making it true.” he said, and then, lighter again, “i’ll send you my address, okay? and i’ll make sure you don’t end up standing in a corner the entire time like a tragic main character.”
“i am not a tragic main character.” you said, even though your entire life recently had been arguing otherwise.
"i know! so that's why we're proving it tonight. see you later, y/n!" and then he was gone, the call ending as quickly as it had started, leaving you staring at your phone like it had just made a decision on your behalf that you weren’t entirely sure you were qualified to make. you turned back to your laptop, cursor blinking at you like nothing had changed, like you hadn’t just accepted an invitation into a space full of people you didn't know, all alone. for a second you considered undoing it, sending a follow-up message, pulling back into the safety of your own excuses. but your fingers didn’t move. instead, you just sat there, feeling something unfamiliar settle in your chest, not quite hope, not quite relief, more like the brief illusion that you might still be allowed to exist somewhere outside of exhaustion and expectations and the quiet weight of always being second to everything you wanted.
by the time you arrived, you almost turned around twice. once while standing outside the building, once while waiting for the elevator. neither attempt was particularly convincing, though. they felt less like genuine decisions and more like ritual, the predictable final stage of any plan that involved leaving your comfort zone. your brain offered excuses automatically now, producing them with the efficiency of a machine that had been trained on years of avoidance. you could still go home and nobody would be angry, you thought. sunoo would probably understand. you could return to the familiar rhythm of proving your worth through productivity until you were too exhausted to think about anything else. or you could just lay in bed for hours just how you had been doing lately. the thought should have been comforting, but instead, it just made you tired. when the elevator doors opened, you stepped out before you could change your mind again. music drifted faintly through the hallway, voices too. you stared at the apartment number for a moment, then knocked. almost immediately, the door flew open.
"shut up." "no, because this is history." "it's not history!"
"for you?" he pointed dramatically. "this is absolutely history." despite yourself, your mouth twitched, making sunoo gasp. "oh my god, and she's smiling too."
"i'm leaving." "no you're not."
before you could protest, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you inside. the apartment was warm, that was the first thing you noticed. warm and loud and alive. not overwhelmingly so, but enough that it immediately felt different from the quiet apartment you had left behind. people occupied every available space, so you quickly realized there were a bit more than fifteen people inside. it didn't even surprise you, to be honest. some sat cross-legged on the floor, others crowded around the kitchen island. music played from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, blending with conversation and laughter until everything became one continuous sound. you froze for a second as your brain immediately began scanning for danger. where do i stand. where am i supposed to look. i don't know anyone. what if everyone can tell i don't belong here. what if —
"hey." you blinked. sunoo was watching you. "breathe."
you frowned. "i am breathing."
"debatable." you rolled your eyes, which seemed to satisfy him.
"good." "good?"
"you rolled your eyes." "and?"
"that's normal behavior. we're aiming for normal behavior tonight."
"you're more annoying than i thought. you lied to me, sunoo." you said in a sarcastic tone, a light smile appearing without permission.
"that's even better." you couldn't help laughing. just a little, but enough. sunoo grinned like he had personally solved depression, which was deeply annoying but strangely comforting. the next hour passed differently than you expected. within ten minutes, you had been introduced to more people than you usually spoke to in an entire month. and somehow, none of them seemed particularly interested in judging you. a girl complimented your earrings, someone asked about your major. another person immediately started complaining about one of their professors, someone spent ten full minutes passionately arguing about the correct way to eat instant ramen. you found yourself listening more than speaking, but nobody seemed bothered by that. for once, silence wasn't treated like a problem that needed fixing. halfway through a conversation, you caught yourself laughing at something and immediately felt a strange ache in your chest. the realization hit unexpectedly, because you couldn't remember the last time you had done that. the thought lingered longer than it should have, because it wasn't happiness exactly. happiness felt too large a word, too permanent. this was smaller, more fragile, like finding a patch of sunlight in a room you had forgotten contained windows. for a moment, you stood near the kitchen holding a drink you hadn't touched much, watching people move around the apartment. laughing, talking, living. and suddenly an uncomfortable thought appeared — what if this is what everyone else had been doing? what if life wasn't supposed to feel like an endless attempt to stay afloat? what if there were entire versions of adulthood that didn't revolve around endurance? the thought should have been hopeful, but instead, it made your throat tighten. because if that was true, then somewhere along the way you had missed it. you had become so focused on surviving each week that you had stopped asking whether survival was supposed to be the goal. for a second, you felt strangely disconnected from yourself, like you were looking at your own life from a distance. the pressure, the loneliness, the way every achievement seemed to dissolve the moment you reached it. all of it suddenly appeared not tragic but absurd. you had spent so long waiting for life to begin after the next deadline that you hadn't noticed it was already happening. around you, without you. you took a longer sip from your drink, just enough to make you decide that, for tonight, you didn't want to think about it anymore. for tonight, you didn't want to measure your worth, you didn't want to compare yourself to anyone, you didn't want to think about the conference. or the scholarship, or the future, or jess, or jake. for one night, you wanted to be a person before you were a project. maybe tomorrow morning everything would return exactly as it had been, but standing there in the middle of a crowded apartment, surrounded by people who expected absolutely nothing from you, it felt like enough. for now, enough was more than you had been allowing yourself lately.
the small pocket of sunlight sunoo had cleared inside your chest actually stayed for hours, expanding into something that felt dangerously close to real happiness as you leaned against the kitchen counter. you took heavy gulps from a plastic cup filled with cheap vodka, chasing it with laughter you didn't have to force. you were drunk, the good kind of drunk where the sharp edges of the room start to blur and the music becomes a warm weight pressing against your shoulders, keeping you grounded in a way you hadn't felt in months. you were actually having fun, tasting a tiny sliver of what a regular twenty year old life was supposed to feel like, right until the heavy front door swung open and the cold air from the hallway cut straight through the warmth. it was that same involuntary, miserable instinct that made your eyes snap up, immediately tracking the shift in the room's energy as jake walked in. of course you had thought about the slight possibility of him being there, but you hadn't let it stop you from coming, which you were now regretting a little. he looked different, his hair falling into his eyes and wearing a oversized black hoodie that made him look smaller than usual. but you didn't run this time as the liquor in your veins gave you a stupid, stubborn sort of bravery. you just stayed in your corner, deliberately turning your back to him and pouring another heavy splash of alcohol into your cup, determined to ignore him. for two long hours, it became a silent, agonizing war of avoidance, both of you staying on opposite sides of the crowded apartment. you heavily drank down cup after cup just to find the nerve to exist in the same breathing space without completely losing your mind. you watched him out of the corner of your eye as he threw back shots at the kitchen island, his eyes dark and completely fixed on you whenever you laughed at something sunoo said, until the air in the room became so thick with unspoken venom and burning liquor that you couldn't breathe. you desperately needed to escape the suffocating heat, your head spinning violently as you stumbled your way through the back corridor, pushing open the heavy metal door to the fire escape just to let the freezing night air shock your system.
the click of the door behind you was almost immediate, and you didn't even have to turn around to know it was him because the sharp scent of his cologne was mixed with the heavy smell of alcohol breathing off his skin. "not now, jake." you whispered into the wind, your hands gripping the freezing metal railing to keep yourself steady as the world tilted slightly from the sheer amount of alcohol you had consumed. "i was having a good time for once. i was actually fine until you walked through that door."
jake didn't answer with his usual sharp arrogance. he just stumbled slightly as he stepped up next to you, his face flushed and his eyes wild with a messy, drunken desperation that matched the chaos in your own chest. "you were pretending i wasn't there." he rasped, his voice rough and completely stripped of his neat academic precision. his fingers suddenly caught your wrist with a loose, heavy grip that you didn't even have the strength to pull away from. "can't believe you've been doing it for weeks now, y/n. you've vanished from class, you've left me alone with all the data. and now you show up here smiling at everyone like i didn't touch you like that in that room."
your heart thumped in your chest at the mention of that, allowing you to see how drunk he was at that moment too. you let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the vodka burning the back of your throat as you finally looked at him. "because it meant nothing, jake. we are nothing. why are you even here? sunoo didn't say you were coming."
jake's grip tightened, his eyes narrowing as they became teary, completely unprompted. your body froze entirely at the sight of it. "because i told him to invite you. i told him everything, y/n. i told him because i was going fucking insane trying to figure out why you left."
the humiliation that washed over you in that second was heavier than any academic failure you had ever experienced. your stomach dropped so hard you felt physically sick, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped animal as you stared at his beautiful, desperate face through a blur of fresh tears. that classroom had been your rock bottom, the secret place where you had completely dismantled your own dignity and given your first time to a boy who claimed he hated you. and now that same boy was telling you he had taken that fragile, private moment and handed it over to his friend like it was just some casual gossip. "you told him?" your voice came out as a pathetic squeak, your hands coming up to your head as a sob tore through your chest. "you fucking told someone, jake? i trusted you to at least keep that between us, to let me pretend it was just a nightmare. and you went and exposed me to your friend? your friend who also happens to be the only person that i can call a friend right now too?!"
"no, y/n, it wasn't like that, i swear to god it wasn't." he panicked, his hands flying up to grip your upper arms, his fingers digging into your skin through your thin top as if he could force you to understand the chaos inside his head. "i didn't laugh about it, i didn't treat it like a joke. i was drowning. i've never felt like this about anyone in my entire life, and you locked me out so completely that i thought i was losing my mind. i needed help. i asked sunoo to bring you here so i could just look at you, so i could know you were still real and not just something i ruined."
"but you did ruin me!" you screamed, your voice cracking completely as you pushed against his chest with all your might. he barely moved though, his grip only tightening as his own tears finally spilled over his eyelashes, tracking down his flushed cheeks. "you ruined my head, you ruined my focus, and now i can't even look at sunoo without knowing he's picturing me on that classroom with you! you take everything from me, jake. you always take everything until there's absolutely nothing left for myself."
"then take something from me!" he yelled back, his voice breaking into a ragged, desperate sob that shook his entire frame. his forehead came down to press against yours until you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, his breath hot and ragged against your lips. "hate me, hit me, scream at me, do whatever the fuck you want, but stop acting like i'm the only one pulling the strings here. you think you're the only one drowning? look at me, y/n. look at my fucking hands."
you looked down involuntarily, seeing the way his fingers were trembling against your arms, his knuckles white. the untouchable number one, the golden boy of the behavioral sciences department, was completely falling apart on a freezing fire escape, stripped of his ego, his composure, and everything that made him superior to you. "i don't care about you or your stupid fucking hands, jake." you whispered, the alcohol making your head spin as the cold wind whipped your hair across your face. "i don't have the energy to care anymore. look at the wood panel on the wall inside. go look at the printed list. i moved five ranks down. i'm seventh."
"it's just one semester." he pleaded, his mouth moving against your skin as he spoke, desperately trying to catch your gaze. "mr. jones said it himself, it's just a setback. we can finish the report this weekend, we can present, and next term you'll be right back up there. you're too smart to let a stupid ranking define you."
"i don't have a next term, jake." you said, your voice dropping into a flat stillness that completely cut through his frantic energy. you stopped fighting his grip, letting your arms hang uselessly at your sides as you looked at him with empty, exhausted eyes. "my scholarship is gone. the criteria says you have to maintain a position in the top three to keep the funding. i checked the portal before i came here tonight. next month, my tuition doubles, and i have exactly seven hundred dollars in my savings account from my weekend shifts. i'm dropping out. i have to pack my bags and go home."
the silence that followed was suffocating, the muffled bass from the party inside the apartment suddenly feeling like it belonged to a different universe entirely. jake just stared at you, his mouth slightly open, his hands slowly loosening on your arms as the harsh reality of your words finally cracked through his sheltered world. hard work wasn't going to fix the variables and a low grade didn't just mean studying harder, it meant packing up your entire life because your bank account was empty.
"i can pay for it." he said suddenly, his voice rising in a frantic, terrifying pitch as he grabbed your wrists, his grip turning clumsy and desperate. "y/n, listen to me, i can help. i can call my family right now and we can talk about it. it's nothing to them, it's just a phone call. you can stay in the dorms, you don't have to leave, we can just fix it-"
"stop it!" you shrieked, pulling your hands back with such violent force that you scraped your knuckles against the metal railing. the sheer humiliation of his offer felt like a physical blow to your chest, exposing the unbridgeable gulf between the two of you. "do you have any idea how pathetic you're making me feel right now? you think you can just buy my survival? you think my entire life's tragedy can just be solved by a wire transfer from your parents?"
"i'm just trying to keep you here!" he shouted back, his face twisting in absolute agony as the tears poured down his face, his chest heaving under his hoodie. "because i don't know how to exist in this place if you're not here! i don't want sunghoon to challenge my data, i don't want anyone else sitting across from me in the library bickering about methodologies. i need you, y/n. i need the only person who actually looks at me and sees someone worth fighting instead of someone to admire."
"but it was never a fight for you, jake, i told you." you whispered, a final, heavy tear falling down your chin as the alcohol gave way to a cold clarity. "it was effortless for you, you wake up and you're brilliant. and i've spent three long years completely destroying my mental health just to stay some decimal points away from a guy who i thought didn't even know my name until some months ago. i am completely empty. i have no more money, i have no more friends, and i have absolutely nothing left inside of me to give to this university, or to mr. jones, or to you."
jake's shoulders completely collapsed inward, making him look so small under the flickering orange light of the fire escape. "did you really hate me that much?" he whispered into the dark. "the whole time? even in that classroom?"
"i hated how much i admired you." you murmured, stepping closer to him one last time, your hand moving automatically to touch the soft fabric of his hoodie before dropping back down. "and i hated that when you touched me, for a split second, i forgot that i was drowning. but we can't keep doing this, jake. we're just two broken people using each other to feel something stable, and it's making us toxic. it's making us mean."
he didn't argue. he just reached out, his trembling fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb wiping away a stray tear with a tenderness you had never seen in him. when his lips met yours this time, there was no hunger, no harshness, and no anger like there had been the first time. it was a slow, mourning kiss, a silent acknowledgment of everything you could have been if the world had been a little more fair, tasting of cheap alcohol and the salty weight of a shared grief. you let yourself sink into it for one last, agonizing second, breathing in the sharp scent of his cologne and the warmth of his skin, memorizing the exact weight of his body against yours before you firmly pulled away.
"the report is finished." you said softly, backing toward the balcony door, your hand reaching behind you to grip the cold metal handle. "i formatted the final citations before i came here tonight. i'll send the file to your email when i get back to my room. submit it under your name, jake. you deserve the top spot."
"i don't give a fuck about the spot." he whispered, his eyes wide and completely vacant as he stood in the freezing wind, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. "don't go. please. just... let me walk you back."
"i want to." you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it, tasting like the bitter vodka and the salt of your own tears as you looked at him. you suddenly saw the raw loneliness that he had been carrying at the top of that pedestal for years, a weight that was just as heavy as your own even if it looked different from the outside. "god, jake, you don't understand, i want to stay more than anything, i want to go back to the library and argue about variables. i want to stay here and keep fighting you for the top spot until we both lose our minds, but i can't." your hand trembled against the cold metal handle, the friction of the iron biting into your skin. his posture looked completely ruined in a way that made him look so human, so terribly fragile, that it made your chest ache. "i don't have a choice. i never had one. i'm just... out of time, jake. i'm so sorry." you didn't give him the chance to find more words or offer more pieces of a world you couldn't afford to live in, turning around with a quiet sob and pushing the heavy door open. you stepped back into the warm, blurred chaos of the apartment before your resolve could completely fail you and make you stay.
as the heavy metal door clicked shut behind you, cutting off the freezing wind and leaving jake standing entirely undone under the flickering orange bulb, you started walking through the crowded hallway. the bass from the speakers vibrated deep inside your hollow chest while people laughed and spilled drinks around you, entirely oblivious to the fact that your time there had just officially ended on a fire escape. you felt a terrifying wave of clarity wash over you, the alcohol finally settling into a cold finality that made the past three years of sleepless nights, skipped meals, and agonizing anxiety feel like a tragic joke of a sacrifice made for a numbered list that didn't even matter anymore. you thought about sunoo standing somewhere in that crowd, about the crushing humiliation of knowing jake had exposed that to him. but even that anger felt exhausted now, swallowed up by the heartbreaking realization that jake hadn't done it to hurt you — he had done it because he was drowning in his own isolated, perfect tower. it filled you with a heavy ache to realize that the one intimate piece of yourself you had kept protected through all the loneliness of your academic life now belonged to a boy who you were going to love and miss in the dark for the rest of your life. a boy whose effortless privilege allowed him to offer your entire tuition like a casual favor while you were left to pack your life into cardboard boxes with seven hundred dollars to your name.
but as you grabbed your coat and stepped out of the building into the quiet, dark street, the cool air hitting your face felt less like a punishment and more like a slow expiration. it was like a quiet release from a beautiful trap you had been building for yourself since the day you arrived. and though your chest felt entirely empty and your future was a terrifying black void of uncertainty, you took a deep breath of the night air and finally let yourself weep for the library nights that were gone, for the competition you had lost, and for the boy on the fire escape who you were leaving entirely alone at the top.
synopsis: It was supposed to be a joke. a simple experiment after one too many 'but what if we could' questions. but now the college golden boy is convinced he's in love with you, and you have to figure out a way to remind him he's not. unless, of course, the experiment isn't the reason he can't seem to leave you alone.
wc: 22.1k
warnings: romcom, fluff, humor, hockey captain!sunghoon, a lot of chemistry nonsense that is not realistic or accurate, slow-burn (i did not mean for that to happen but it did so sorry), love potion (?), severe yearning, reader is a bit oblivious, reader is a woman in stem, reader AND sunghoon are down baddd, one scene inspired by “better then the movies” // p in v, fingering, oral f!receiving, multiple orgasms, soft dom!sunghoon, super sweet and giggly sex (they’re in love your honor), praise kink
ab thinks... i rewatched descendants and this came to me...so thank ben's rendition of "ridiculous" for this LOL. also the chemistry plot kind of got away from me towards the end but i promise the concept is there! this fic meant so much to me to write. it's one of the longest I've ever wrote, and i seriously think that despite how much i complained about writing this, it helped me fall back in love with writing. special thanks to @arischacco @ickbite @ewstain @heedimples and @clearlyhoonie for listening to me complain while also supporting all my ideas. ily guys ok?
the playlist: "black magic" - little mix / "if only" - dove cameron / "slut" - taylor swift / "supernatural" - ariana grande / "ready to love" - seventeen / “too close” - enhypen
It’d sounded like a good idea at the time.
But now, as you watch Park Sunghoon–campus golden boy and the boy you’ve been (secretly) in love with for three years–literally drink your experiment, you’re starting to think you might have messed up somewhere.
Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
“Okay, but, like, what are the odds a person could make a real life potion? Or something like it?” Jungwon asks, eyes racing back and forth on the screen as Harry Potter brings back Cedric's dead body.
Yunjin shoots him a glare, her eyes brimming with tears. “Are you seriously asking that right now? Cedric just died!”
He blinks, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "We’ve seen this movie, like, a hundred times.”
“That doesn’t make it any less sad!” She scoffs, reaching for the throw pillow behind her head and tossing it at him.
It hits him square in the chest, but he barely reacts. Just lets it fall into his lap like it'd always been there. “I’m being serious, though!”
Beomgyu hums, popping another pretzel in his mouth. “I’m pretty sure you’re just thinking of chemistry.”
Jungwon rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat so he can better face the three of you. “I mean like an actual potion. Like ones that make you fall in love or something dumb like that.”
You finally decide to speak up, tucking your feet under yourself and pulling your gaze away from the glowing screen. “You want to know if it’s possible to make a love potion?” You ask, voice laced with disbelief.
But Jungwon doesn’t laugh. If anything, he just looks ten times more serious. “Exactly.”
The three of you go silent, glancing between eachother like Jungwon might reveal he’s joking and he knows something like that isn’t possible.
Right?
See, there's a lot of issues with being a Biochemistry major. Some of the more obvious being that you’re a woman in a male-dominated field–which is a problem in and of itself–and the other being that it’s extremely difficult.
But the one people don’t talk about is your extreme crave for knowledge. Even if that knowledge has to do with finding out whether or not it’s possible to make a fucking love potion.
And you should shoot the idea down as soon as it comes to your head, really, you should. But there’s that little flicker in the back of your mind, the one that usually gets you into trouble, that has you saying: “It wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”
(Newsflash: it really, really would.)
Three weeks. That’s how long it takes the four of you to work out numerous formulas, some which nearly exploded in your face, others that did nothing at all. It wasn’t until you suggested using a bit less magnesium does the whole thing seem to be less far-fetched.
Despite her initial scepticism, Yunjin was insistent on finishing it as soon as possible so that she could make Jay–her second situationship of the month–realize he was in love with her and finally ask her on a proper date. You couldn’t help but feel like maybe that was a little unethical.
Besides, you’d already agreed you weren’t actually going to use the substance on real people. You’d test it on rats, see if it worked, and then go to sleep feeling completely and utterly satisfied.
That was the plan, anyway.
You crossed your legs, pencil tapping against your chin as you read over the equations in your notebook. The experiment was nearly completed–but you just couldn’t figure out how to make sure its effects wore off. Beomgyu had suggested maybe substituting the sodium for something else, but you just weren’t sure what.
Jungwon groans next to you, letting his forehead rest against the desk. “Remind me again why electives insist on giving more work than necessary? Like, why do I have to write a 15,000 word essay on the history of the internet?”
You snort, shaking your head slightly as the eraser of your pencil rubs furiously against your paper. “Remind me again why you chose to take a class on the internet?”
He lifts his head up, glaring at you the entire time. “I wasn’t aware the curriculum included 15 page long think pieces on the significance of Damn Daniel.”
You really laugh at that, lips curling up in a cheeky smile.
You and Jungwon usually had nightly study sessions at the campus library. It was a good way to unwind while also getting some work done. Well, more like you were getting work done and he was decoding Vine’s cultural significance.
It’s hard for you to focus though.
Park Sunghoon is considerably the most beautiful man you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, with raven hair and a smile that stops girls in their tracks, he has officially claimed the title of Campus Golden Boy and local heartthrob.
So how can you be expected to focus when he’s sitting in front of you, looking like that?
He’s wearing glasses, something you weren’t even aware he needed, slightly hunched over his glowing computer screen with an adorable knit in his brow. The sight should be illegal, honestly.
You don’t even notice you’re staring until Jungwon nudges your foot with his, a knowing smirk on his face. “If you keep staring at him like that he might think there’s something wrong with you.”
You immediately flush, forcing your gaze back onto your notebook and trying to ignore the fact that your ears have begun to burn something mean.
“I hate you.” You mumble, fully expecting Jungwon to reply with something witty, but it never comes. Instead, when you lift your gaze up, Sunghoon has left his table and begun to make a beeline for you.
Your eyes widen, throat already closing up and panic swelling deep in your chest. You’d definitely been caught and now he was going to confront you about your stalker-like behavior. You briefly wonder how long it takes for the police to arrive when they’re called, because he was definitely coming over to inform you that he’d done just that.
“Stop looking like your five seconds away from combusting.” Jungwon whispers, tone strangely serious.
You do your best to straighten your posture and make it look like there weren’t three-week-old eye bags under your eyes or a mysterious stain on your sweats, but it’s all futile when he flashes you that smile. The one he gave everyone when he was being friendly, something you’d been on the receiving end of before. But, for some reason, this time it feels different.
This time it feels like the start of something new.
He stops at the other end of your table, hand shooting up in a brief wave. “Hi,” He breathes out, “We have chemistry together.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Jungwon kicks your shin and you remember that you should probably reply. ‘Uh–Yeah!” Your voice cracks, tone pitching up higher than you meant it too. You clear your throat with a slight wince, doing your best to give him a smile. “Yes. Yeah. We do.”
He chuckles, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. And, wow, maybe Jungwon was right–you really are about to explode.
“I was having trouble with this last assignment,” He sighs, clearly exasperated, pointing a thumb back at his computer. “What are the chances you might be able to help me?”
Okay. This is fine. Amazing, actually. You’d finished that assignment the other night and you understood it pretty well, so helping him should be a piece of cake.
At least it would be if you didn’t seem to forget everything in his presence. Because you can definitely smell a bit of his cologne right now, sharp and clean, and you think you’re going to die. Yep. You’re going to pass away from cologne.
“Yes,” Jungwon answers for you, already ushering you out of your chair. “She can help you. Trust me, she’s crazy smart.”
Your eyes widen, staring at your friend in horror as he practically pushes you out of your chair and closer to Sunghoon.
“I know.” Sunghoon replies easily, tone light. Two words, but they’re enough to nearly send you melting into the floor.
You do your best to stay composed as Sunghoon leads you back to his table, but you aren’t entirely sure you’re even going to be able to think next to him. Which is definitely a little pathetic when you think about it, but seriously, look at the man. You are not ashamed in the least.
Jungwon shoots you two thumbs up, dimples showing as he smiles like he’s just won the fucking lottery. You don’t return the sentiment, instead shooting him a harsh glare.
Sunghoon pulls out the chair next to his computer for you, and you sit down shakily. Your nerves feel completely shot, face on fire and your palms becoming uncomfortably moist.
He gestures to the problem on his screen, murmuring something about how he’d been stuck on it for the last hour.
You nod along, chewing on your bottom lip. The equation he was stuck on was thankfully something you knew how to do, so after taking a breath and reminding yourself that he is simply a boy and you are a very smart woman, you manage to explain it to him.
“You put a negative there, but the equations actually positive,” You explain, voice still shaking the tiniest bit, but stronger than it was earlier as you gain back some confidence. “You also wrote the wrong unit over here.”
Sunghoon listens as you explain everything to him, your hands gesturing wildly and words going a mile-a-minute. It’s obvious to anyone watching you that you’re passionate about the subject.
By the time you finish, he’s already fixing his mistakes and taking the steps needed to get the right answer.
He shifts closer to you, finger dragging over the paper with a light touch, “Is this right?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. He says it loud enough that only you hear, eyes flickering over the side of your face.
You feel that familiar flush building when his knee brushes yours under the table, but do your best to swallow it down. “Uh, yeah. All you have to do now is figure out the correct configuration, which you’re pretty close to doing, and you’ll be good to go.”
He hums, leaning back in his seat and flexing his palms. “How are you so good at this stuff?” He asks with a laugh, eyes raking over yours like he’s trying to fully understand you.
You swallow, playing with your fingers in your lap. “It’s just always interested me, I guess. Like, the fact that we breathe in air and breathe out carbon? And the earth needs carbon to survive, so really we’re helping power the world. It’s all just so fascinating to me!” You’re smiling now, talking animatedly, “It’s difficult, yeah, but it’s also rewarding. Like, watching your experiment work is such a rush and I–”
You cut yourself off, realizing you’re rambling about fucking chemistry like you’re in love with it. He must seriously regret even asking.
“Sorry,” You mumble, nervous laughter bubbling out of you like a defense mechanism.
He shifts, leaning forward onto the table now, face turned so he’s still looking at you. “Don’t be sorry,” He reassures, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I was listening.”
Okay, wow. You are seriously either about to throw up and die or…yeah that’s it. There aren’t any other options.
By the time you make your way back to your table you’re practically shaking, breaths coming in shallow and rushed, your entire body on fire. You feel like you’re in some weird kind of fight or flight.
Jungwons bouncing in his seat, bottom lip sucked into his teeth. He practically pulls you down next to him, beginning to ask you a million questions, but you can’t see him.
All you can focus on is the subtle glance Sunghoon gives you when he leaves.
You should’ve known something was going to go wrong the moment Beomgyu called you.
“I swear I’ve almost figured it out,” He sighs into the phone. You can’t see him, but you can tell his nose is scrunched up the way it always is when he’s thinking too hard about something. “I think we got the units wrong, but if we can figure out the correct ones it should work.”
You kiss your teeth, bumping your silverware drawer with your hip and letting it slide shut. Your phone rests snugly between your shoulder and ear, your head tilted uncomfortably to accommodate it. “Are you in the lab right now?” You ask.
Beomgyu hums, “Jungwon and Yunjin are here too, but I don’t really know why considering neither of them are doing anything to help.” He says sharply, and you can hear the subtle cries of retaliation from your two friends in the background.
You snort, rolling your eyes slightly. “Okay, well,” You sit on your couch, attempting to get comfortable and placing your plate of food in your lap. “I’m gonna eat this and then I’ll be over, okay? Try not to blow anything up before I get there.”
“No promises.” He groans, tone laced with annoyance, but you know it’s all out of love.
You get there twenty minutes later, hair thrown up and sweats hanging off your body. Very professional, you know.
When you push the metal doors open the first sight that greets you is one you’re quite familiar with. Jungwon and Yunjin fighting with each other over something stupid, and Beomgyu ignoring them like they're his children. Nothing says friendship quite like that.
Yunjin immediately shoots up when you enter, her eyes narrowed with anger. “Can you please tell him that Jay is in love with me before I kill him?”
Jungwon’s quick to follow her, knocking his shoulder with hers so that his frame blocks her from your view. “Can you please tell her she’s known him for a week?"
You roll your eyes and scoot past them, making your way over to Beomgyu. He’s diligently writing down formulas; bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He's giving off a mad scientist vibe right now. Or maybe just a stressed-out university student vibe. Both are interchangeable.
You nudge his shoulder to get his attention, but he barely even glances at you. Just continues mumbling out questions like he's expecting the universe to answer him.
“What can I help with?” You ask, throwing on your lab coat and snapping on a pair of medical gloves.
He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He gestures lazily to the counter top, where a small gatorade bottle is sitting where the glass test tubes usually do. “Those two idiots broke the glass tubes I was holding the liquid in so now I have to use this janky bottle,” He mutters, throwing a glare at Yunjin and Jungwon.
Your experiment was currently sitting in a Blue Crush Gatorade bottle, floating around the bottom unsuspectingly. You snort at the sight, rolling your eyes slightly. “I think they have some extra next door,” You sigh, turning on your heel to go grab them.
But before you can even think about pushing the door open, Sunghoon reveals himself on the other side.
He’s still in his hockey uniform, helmet hanging from his hand and cheeks flushed a lively pink. You both stand there for a moment, blinking like you’re waiting for each other to make the first move. Jungwon and Yunjin even stop bickering, the both of them staring at you with wide eyes and cunning smiles.
Sunghoon clears his throat, gripping his helmet just the tiniest bit tighter. “Sorry for bothering you,” He murmurs, “I, uh, forgot something in here. Just stopping by to grab it.”
You’re silent for a moment too long, trying to string together a sentence without sounding it’s your first day on earth. It turns out, it’s a bit difficult to do that when Sunghoon is staring at you like that.
Like he’s trying just as hard as you are to not burst at the seams.
“Can I scoot past?” he asks, tone small and light, a shy smile playing on his lips.
You swallow, managing a small nod and moving to the side weakly. His fingers brush yours when he scoots past, sending a cool shiver down your spine, one that shouldn’t feel as electric as it does.
He waves at Jungwon and Yunjin, who both give him polite smiles, but you can see the way their eyes shine at him. Like they know something he doesn’t–which they do–but still.
Yunjin hurries over to your side as soon as his back is to you, giving you the brightest smile you think you’ve ever seen. She grabs your bicep with her manicured hand, squeezing it so tightly you have half the mind to think it’ll bruise.
“Oh my God,” She whispers, eyes flickering between you and Sunghoon, whose eyebrows seem to be narrowed in confusion as he looks for whatever it is he left. “Did you see the way he looked at you?”
You immediately flush, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.” You grumble.
“I’m being serious!” She defends, wiggling her eyebrows. “Even I got butterflies.”
You run a hand over your face, head shaking slightly. “Yunjin, seriously, stop talking.”
She laughs, but you can’t find it in yourself to laugh with her. Even if Sunghoon was looking at you a certain way, it didn’t mean anything. Not when Sophia was still around.
Sophia was the complete opposite of Sunghoon. A rude party girl who assumed the world revolved around her and her perfectly blown-out hair. And somehow, someway, she’d gotten the dark-haired man wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.
Their relationship was constantly off and on, mostly because Sophia could never seem to make up her mind on what man she was interested in that week. And Sunghoon, poor, beautiful Sunghoon, always went back to her. Sometimes you wondered if she had some kind of blackmail on him. Or maybe he was just a secret masochist. Both answers were equally concerning.
They seemed to be on one of their breaks right now, but everyone knows it's only a matter of time before she's showing up at his games again. You hate that the thought of it fills your chest with green smoke.
You turn around on your heel to continue your walk to the classroom next door, but the sound of Beomgyu shrieking stops you.
You whip around, half expecting something to have exploded, but instead the sight you’re met with is worlds more alarming.
Sunghoon, the campus golden boy and secret love of your life, is drinking your experiment. Literally. Lid to mouth, chugging it like it's water.
Beomgyu rips it from him, but it’s too late. Almost all of the liquid, aside from a few measly drops in the bottom, is gone.
The four of you freeze, watching Sunghoon like he’s grown three heads. But the boy in question just blinks at you with confusion. His tongue flicks out to lick a drop off his bottom lip, eyes flickering between the three of you. “What?
Beomgyu takes a cautious step towards him, arm held out like he’s worried Sunghoon might go rabid and lunge at him. “Do you feel anything…strange?”
Sunghoon swallows awkwardly, lips curving into a concerned smile. “Um,” he murmurs, letting out a nervous laugh. “Should I?”
You share a glance with Jungwon, who just shrugs his shoulders. The four of you are in different stages of shock, because why would somebody drink a mysterious liquid in a lab? What is the thought process behind that?
Yunjin looks like she's holding back a laugh, which isn't that shocking since she always laughs at the most inappropriate times. Meanwhile Jungwon looks nearly amused, like he'd known this would happen, and Beomgyu just looks pissed.
“Sunghoon,” Jungwon murmurs, circling the ravenette like he’s studying him, a hand on his chin. “Why did you drink out of that bottle?”
Sunghoon watches him, head twisting around his shoulder every time Jungwon makes his way out of his line of sight. “Because it’s mine? I left it here last night.” He answers casually.
Your eyes snap to Beomgyu, watching as his eyes trail down to the bottle in his hand.
“You guys alright?” Sunghoon asks, tone laced with suspicion. Not that you can really blame him.
Yunjin’s the first to answer, a honey-sweet smile on her face. “Oh, yeah, we’re good! Just…deadlines. You know how people get.”
Sunghoon nods, eyebrows knit together. “Right,” He mumbles, pursing his lips slightly. His eyes flicker between all of you once more, like if he stares at you long enough one of you might break.
When his eyes land on you, he pauses. It’s just a moment, something you wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t paying attention, but something you aren’t quite sure how to place flashes in his gaze. Something far too real and confusing.
“I should, uh,” He swallows, gesturing lazily towards the door. “I should go.”
You nod, lips parted slightly as he slips past you.
Beomgyu clearly wants to stop him and ask more questions, maybe try and keep him for observation, but you shoot him a look that tells him to let it go. Your experiment being gone sucks, yes, but if he seems fine then there isn’t any reason to scare him. And if he isn’t fine later then you can deal with it then.
Sunghoon glances back at you before he leaves, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he decides against it. Instead, he pushes the door open and steps back outside, leaving the four of you to try and come to terms with what happened.
Theres a pregnant pause, mostly because you think nobody really knows how to approach the situation. How do you move on with your day after your personal campus celebrity drank your fucking experiment? It's seriously a valid question.
Yunjin clears her throat, arms crossing over her chest. “So... does this mean I can’t use it on Joshua?" She asks, expression completley serious.
Beomgyu lets out a large sigh, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose like it might ground him. “Yunjin,” He murmurs, “Shut up.”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "It was a genuine question."
Your lips tighten, hand reaching out to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You weren't going to be able to use it on him anyway."
"You don't know that!"
You can’t help but feel on edge when you walk into your Chemistry lecture the next day, hands gripping your computer tighter than necessary.
Would Sunghoon be here? Would he be okay? Did he die sometime in the night and the campus just wasn’t aware? What if the police were waiting for you so they could question you?
What would you even say? Well, you see officer, he kind of drank my experiment. So sorry it killed him! Yeah, no. That wasn’t gonna work.
To your relief, there aren’t any police officers waiting for you in the lecture hall, and Sunghoon seems to be perfectly fine.
Except, he’s sitting in Yunjin’s usual seat right next to yours.
You immediately pause, heart dropping to your stomach. This has never happened, ever, and you already know it must mean bad news.
He’s writing something in his notebook casually, hair curling over his forehead in a way that makes him look hand-sculpted by the Gods themselves. Your mouth goes dry, eyes flickering across the room until they land on a sly looking Yunjin. She curls her fingers at you in a sultry wave, like she knows exactly what she’s done–which you’re sure she does.
And, conveniently, every other seat in the room is full. Which means you have no other choice than to sit by Sunghoon.
Which is perfectly fine. Yep. It’s fine.
You force yourself to make your way to your seat, feet dragging the entire way, head hanging so that your hair covers your face. Is it a little pathetic? Yeah, definitely. But you’re way past caring.
You try to sit down as incredulously as possible, making sure your body is conveniently facing away from him. And for the first few minutes it works! Sunghoon doesn’t glance at you when you open your computer and pull up the assignment, doesn’t even blink when you sneeze right next to his ear.
And when you think you’re finally in the safe–finally feel like you can let yourself relax–it happens.
Sunghoon turns to you, his cheeks flushed a strange shade of pink, eyes strangely bright and pupils blown, and says in a scarily serious tone, “How are you, beautiful?”
You don’t even register it at first. It feels so absurd, so out of reach that he could even be thinking about saying that to you, that you completely ignore him. You assume he must be on the phone with Sophia, because there is absolutely no way Park Sunghoon just called you beautiful. It just wasn’t possible.
But then his foot finds yours under the table, and he starts trying to play fucking footsie with you. You freeze momentarily, brain trying it’s very hardest to catch up with whatever the hell it is that’s going on right now.
You swallow, finally forcing yourself to look at him. For a moment you really wish you hadn’t, because he’s got this cheeky smile going on, like he’s content just being in your presence.
You clear your throat, looking around once more for confirmation that he isn’t talking to anyone else. Your pointer finger comes up to point at yourself hesitantly, voice coming out in a small whisper when you say, “Are you talking to me?”
His foot stops nudging against yours now that you’ve finally answered him, and his smile widens. “Who else would I be calling beautiful?”
You nearly choke on your own spit, hand flying up to your mouth as you fall into a coughing fit. Sunghoons hand comes up to rub soothingly on your back like he’s done it a million times.
“What are you talking about?” You manage between coughs, eyes wide like you’ve just seen a bomb go off.
Well, this certainly feels like one has.
Your mind can't even make sense of what he's saying. It almost feels like he's speaking another language and you're using google translate to try and communicate with him.
Sunghoon laughs, head shaking as his hand travels up to ruffle your hair. “You’re so funny sometimes, really. Did you know that? Honestly, I’ve always thought you were the funniest girl I’d ever met. And the prettiest.” His eyelashes flutter, leaning his cheek onto his hand like he’s got some type of school-girl crush. “I want the whole world to know just how perfect you are.”
You’re too shocked to even respond, lips opening and closing while you rack your brain for anything to say. This is so out of character for Sunghoon. Not just because his admiration is aimed at you, but because you’ve gone to university with him long enough to know he doesn’t act like this.
And then it hits you.
The fucking experiment.
You are so screwed.
You clear your throat, glancing around warily. Your professor started lecturing a few minutes ago, but you were so busy with Sunghoon you had no idea what it was he was even talking about.
You suck in a shaky breath, “Okay, listen, I know you’re probably confused right now." You attempt, voice quiet as to not draw any attention to what’s going on. “But you drank something you shouldn’t have yesterday, which isn’t your fault! Me and Beomgyu just have to figure out how to reverse its effects! Unless, of course, it wears off by itself. That would definitely be ideal.” You mumble the last part, bottom lip finding its way between your teeth just like it always does when you’re thinking too hard.
Sunghoon watches you with a dopey smile on his face, clearly not caring about anything that you’re saying. The sight makes your heart stutter, which you know shouldn’t happen. Personal feelings about Sunghoon aside, he doesn’t actually feel anything for you. He just thinks he does.
“You’re so cute when you’re focused.” He murmurs, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
Your breath catches when the tips of his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch soft and intentional. He's gazing at you with so much love, so much genuine feeling, it breaks your heart the tiniest bit.
And you wonder for the briefest moment what would happen if you let yourself indulge in this. Even if just for a day. Would it be so bad?
He pulls away from you slowly, the tips of his ears pink and his lips curled into a shy smile. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs again.
You sigh, letting your head fall into your hands. “Sunghoon–”
He stands from his seat abruptly, his chair scratching against the floor obnoxiously. You wince, head whipping up to figure out what the hell it is he’s doing.
“Everyone!” He announces, voice booming through the lecture hall. You immediately scramble to stop him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt to try and pull him back down. He just ignores you, instead choosing to continue to address the whole class like he’s giving some big speech.
“I’m in love–!”
Yeah, no.
You practically wrestle him into his chair, pulling on his arm so hard he nearly collapses into your lap. You push him into his chair, a shaky smile on your face.
The class stares at you with unamused frowns, all clearly annoyed at having the lecture interrupted by Sunghoons near-declaration.
You clear your throat, hands waving in front of you. “He’s just not feeling well,” You attempt nervously, a humorless laugh bubbling out of your lips like it might save you from embarrassment. It doesn’t.
Your professor fixes you with a stern look, one that you’d never been on the receiving end of until this moment. Now, you’re starting to understand why people say she’s so icy.
You murmur out apologies to the room, hoping to ease at least some ofthe growing tension between you and your peers. Yunjins looking at you with genuine shock, her hand covering her mouth like she’s hoping to spare you any kind of embarrassment. It doesn’t work.
You turn your attention back to Sunghoon, who’s giggling in his chair like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing ever.
“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, beginning to pack your stuff as well as his. You’d thought you’d wait until class was over to go find Beomgyu, but after that stunt you’re starting to think your social life might go down if you don’t figureout how to fix this ASAP.
Sunghoon shrugs, fingertips tapping against his thigh. “Is it a crime to tell people about the girl I love?”
You tense for a moment, but don’t stop gathering the rest of your things. “You don’t love me.” You manage out, voice cracking slightly. “You’re just confused.”
Sunghoon grabs your wrist and stops you from closing his notebook, his thumb hovering over your pulse point. “I’m not confused.” He insists, and, God, for a second you almost believe him. It’d definitely be easier to.
But you know he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s confusing his emotions for you with something else—something that isn’t there.
Something that will never be there.
You pull your wrist out of his grip, a sad smile on your face. “C’mon,” You manage, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “Let's go talk to Beomgyu.”
The walk to Beomgyu’s apartment is filled with endless yapping from Sunghoon and mostly silence from you. You aren’t sure how you should reply to his advances considering he doesn’t actually know what he’s saying. You keep telling yourself to imagine he’s on some weird drug that makes him more open than normal. And ten times more flirty.
Beomgyus apartment is just on the cusp of campus, close enough that it wasn’t a long walk, but far enough to get some sense of individualism. You’d been there a thousand times, whether it was for a casual hangout or to catch up on homework, but never in a million years did you imagine you’d be knocking on the door with Park Sunghoon staring at you like you’d hung the moon and the stars.
“Stop,” You mumble, fist rapping onto the door again. You know Beomgyu’s home right now.
Sunghoon raises a brow, arms crossed as he leans against the wall next to you. “Stop what?” He asks, maintaining his false facade of innocence.
You shoot him a glare, hands gesturing at him wildly. “Stop looking at me like that!”
He just hums, like he’s amused at your reaction. And you know none of this is technically his fault–well, it is but it isn’t–but there’s a growing annoyance in your chest that you can’t seem to get rid of. If you were going to be subjected to another public embarrassment like what he’d pulled in your lecture you think you’ll die.
You huff, fist tapping against the door again. “I know you’re in there, Beomgyu! Stop trying to pretend you aren’t there so I’ll leave!”
There’s a momentary silence, and then the door clicks open and an unamused Beomgyu stares at you from the other side. He’s wearing a white stained shirt, hair sticking up in numerous places.
He’s a sight for sore eyes, honestly.
“What?” He sighs, staring at you like you’ve interrupted his very busy schedule.
You point over at Sunghoon with your thumb, “We’ve got a massive issue.”
Beomgyu’s eyes trail towards where you’re pointing lazily, like you’re somehow inconveniencing him. He looks Sunghoon up and down, lips twisting into a frown. “I don’t see the problem.” He mumbles.
You sigh, running a hand over your face and letting it slap back down to your thigh. “It worked.”
Beomgyu raises a brow. “What worked?”
You groan, “The experiment worked.” You hiss, nodding towards Sunghoon slightly. “And now he’s convinced he’s in love with me.”
Beomgyu blinks, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he processes what you said. He’s been your closest friend for long enough to know that under different circumstances, Sunghoon confessing his love to you would’ve had you over the moon. He knows you would’ve had a much different reaction to the one you’re giving now, at least.
He licks his lips, glancing around the hallway like he’s expecting someone to jump out at you, and then ushers the both of you into your apartment. Sunghoon tries to grab your hand when you go inside, but you pull away and shoot him a sharp glare. He just smiles back, like your annoyance is the most amusing thing in the world to him.
Beomgyu gestures to the couch, mumbling out a hasty sit before disappearing into his room. You sigh when you plop down onto it, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursued.
You know it’s not Sunghoons fault. This whole thing was a complete accident. But…some part of you couldn’t help but feel like this entire thing was only going to end one way–with you getting hurt. Sunghoon doesn’t love you like he seems to think. The issue is, you aren’t sure just how long you’ll be able to resist him before you finally start believing him.
That’s why you need to figure out how to reverse this before it gets to that point.
And what about the effects it must be having on Sunghoon? Sure, you were taking emotional hits, but what if you had accidentally seriously messed him up mentally or physically? What if he never recovered and then you’d have to live with the fact that you’d indirectly messed him up for life?
Sunghoon sits down next to you wordlessly, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes trail over the living room, eyes pausing on a framed picture of you and Beomgyu from highschool. In it, the both of you are laughing at something on the other side of the camera, your hands clenching your stomachs and wide smiles on your faces. You don’t remember what exactly had been so funny at the time, but your heart still melts all the same every time you look at it.
Sunghoon hums, nodding towards the picture. “You look happy.”
Even though you don’t mean to, and there's definitely no reason to do so right now, you crack a small smile. “Yeah,” You mumble, “That was a good day.”
The space between you isn’t uncomfortable, it never really has been despite everything, but it’s tense. Like there’s some sort of gravitational force pushing you towards him, and the harder you resist, the more it wants to persist.
Sunghoon must feel it to, because his tongue darts out to wet his lips, his adams apple bobbing slightly. For the first time since this entire fiasco started, he looks almost unsure, like there’s something he wants to do or say, but he can’t.
You frown, hand instinctively coming up to rest on his bicep, “Sunghoon,” You murmur, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you alright–”
“Okay, here's the plan,” Beomgyu interrupts, finally emerging from his room. He looks much more put together now and not like he’d just rolled out of bed. He points to himself, “I’m going to figure out how to fix…” He gestures to Sunghoon warily, “This as soon as possible. You,” He points to you next, “Are going to watch him while I do.”
Immediately, alarms go off in your head. You can’t watch over Sunghoon. You just can’t.
You sit up straighter, arms crossing in an X over your chest. “I can’t,” You blurt, heat rising to your cheeks. You slowly lean back again, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I have…plans.”
It’s a lame excuse, you know. And you know neither of them believe you. (Honestly, does Sunghoon even understand what’s going on?)
Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “Okay, first off, no you don’t. And if this is like, a one in a million time in which you actually do have something going on, cancel it.” He lowers his voice slightly, hand covering his mouth so Sunghoon can’t see what he’s saying. “He can’t be alone right now, and I’m guessing you’re the only person he’ll willingly go with. So, either take him or deal with the repercussions.”
You hate that he’s right.
Maybe, if you had any energy left in you you’d fight with him on it. Or maybe you’d just deal with the consequences of sending Sunghoon out there on his own. But one glance at the man in question, and you immediately cave.
He’s gazing at you with hopeful eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side, like he’s hanging onto every word you say. It really shouldn’t tug at your heart strings like it does. It shouldn’t make you want to say yes until the word doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
You sigh, forcing your gaze to the ground. “Fine,” You huff, “I’ll watch him. Whatever that means.”
Beomgyu grins, glancing between you and Sunghoon cheekily, like he knows something you don’t. “Great,” He rolls his neck, letting it pop once. “Now get out so I can get to work.”
Campus is never busy on Mondays. You think it’s because most people don’t like the idea of morning classes on the first day of the week, which you can’t really blame them for. But that also means that it’s just you and Sunghoon on the street, and while it feels completely awkward for you—he looks like he just won a million bucks.
He’s smiling, as if the harsh winds blowing across your faces is anything to smile about. As if anything about this situation is something to smile about.
And you know you shouldn’t be upset. Anyone in your situation right now would probably be ecstatic. The man you’ve been secretly in love with for the past three years is finally returning your feelings, even if they aren’t completely genuine.
But that’s the issue, isn’t it? He doesn’t really feel this way towards you, he just thinks he does. And it would be so easy to let yourself indulge in it–to let yourself forget that none of this is actually real.
But you can’t. You know you can’t.
Sunghoons arm brushes against yours, a complete accident, but you still flinch and pull away like he’s burned you.
He glances at you, eyebrows furrowing. His breaths coming out in uneven puffs of white fog. “Everything okay?”
You clear your throat, trying to act like the shiver that goes down your spine is from the frosted air and not because his smooth voice makes your body flush with heat. “I’m fine,” You murmur, “Just…hungry. Tired.”
He hums, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “You know,” He drawls, trying to keep up a nonchalant front. “We could go eat. Together. Just me and you.”
You blink, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Is he asking you on a date right now? If the past two hours hadn't happened, you probably would've been more surprised.
You sigh, shaking your head slightly, “I’m not going on a date with you Sunghoon.” The words nearly don't make it out of your throat, feeling more artificial and practiced than anything else. If you would've told yourself a week ago you'd be rejecting Sunghoon, you probably would've slapped yourself for even thinking about it.
He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Who said anything about a date?” He asks, looking at you like you've just uggested the craziest thing he's ever heard. “We're just two friends eating lunch together, right? Even if I am irrevocably in love with you.”
He throws the word love out like he's saying hello, not like he's pulling at the strings of your heart every time it leaves his lips. It almost sounds fucking natural, like he'd been saying it to you for years, which makes it even worse.
You pause in the street, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Okay, I get that your brain isn’t in the right place right now, but stop saying things like that.”
His head tilts slightly to the side, eyebrows raising in amusement. “Why?” He asks, tone innocent, but you know better. You know he’s finding this funny. It’s frustrating and annoying and your heart fucking stutters every time he looks at you like he knows exactly what makes you tick.
You stumble over your words, hands gesturing wildly in front of you. “Because It’s annoying! And weird! How would Sophia feel if she knew you were saying all of this?”
The air goes still at the mention of Sophia, like the thought of her is enough to push away the sun. Sunghoons expression hardens, his jaw tightening for a moment before he releases it. It’s almost like the sound of her name has sucked all of the joy out of him. “Why would I care what she thinks?” He mutters.
You blank, unsure of how to respond to that. You know the two have always had a more than toxic relationship, but you’ve never seen him have so much distaste towards her before. You’ve never seen him have so much distaste towards anyone before.
“I don't know, maybe because she’s your girlfriend?” You attempt.
His eyes harden as he looks away from you, like he doesn't want to point his annoyance towards you. “She’s not my girlfriend.” He mumbles.
Your neck cranes up so you can look at him, arms crossing over your chest in a silent defense. “Besides,” He continues, taking a small step closer. “Why would I care about her when you’re right in front of me?”
You feel that familiar heat rush up your neck, the one you know you have no right to feel. And it’s strange how something good on the surface can cut you so deeply. How something you hoped to hear from him for years can suddenly feel like the biggest insult.
But, you are hungry–you weren’t lying about that, and Beomgyu has already assigned you to practically be his babysitter anyway, so might as well get something out of it, right?
You let out a breath, kissing your teeth as you do. This is a very bad idea, and you know it. “We can go to lunch as friends, but that’s it, okay? And no more flirting.”
His lips curl into a grin, eyes flashing like he’s just won a prize. “Perfect, because I already made a reservation for us off campus.”
Of course he did.
You open your mouth to argue, or really say anything, but his hand makes its way onto your lower back so he can lead you away and you suddenly forget how to speak. Because, yes, you’re still a strong woman who would rather die than ever be rendered speechless by a man–but Park Sunghoon is an exception. One that you know you shouldn’t indulge, but doesn’t it feel oh, so good when you do?
That’s how you find yourself thirty minutes later in the nicest restaurant in a fifteen mile radius, wearing jeans and an old ratty t-shirt. You cross your legs, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach at being so underdressed.
Sunghoon doesn’t look the least bothered by it though, reading over the menu with sharp eyes and a slight furrow to his brows. He asks you your opinion occasionally, mumbles about calories and his protein intake. All things you’d never really felt the need to look at yourself before. Maybe hockey people have to worry about that stuff? You’d always assumed it was just wrestlers and weightlifters.
“Do you like Alfredo sauce or marinara? I like both, but I want you to be able to pick off my plate.” He mutters, saying it so casually. Like ordering his own food based on what you like is just common sense. If any of this was real, he would make the perfect boyfriend.
It makes you wonder again how Sophia could just let him go so easily.
Your eyes flicker up from your own menu, heart stuttering in your chest. “Just get whatever you want,” You sigh, “You don’t need to ask me.”
He’s silent for a moment, the gears in his head turning. He slowly sets his menu down, and then plucks your own from your fingers.
Your eyebrows furrow as you go to reach for it, “Sunghoon—“
“Why are you so set on rejecting me?” He asks, keeping his eyes on yours. The eye-contact nearly makes your throat close up from how intense it is. “I know you think none of this is real or whatever—“
"Because it isn’t.” You interrupt. You wish you understood how this experiment worked, because then maybe you'd know how to get it through his thick skull that none of this was real. You run a hand through your hair before continuing, “You drank an experiment, Sunghoon. Everything you’re feeling—everything you think you’re feeling—it isn’t real.” Your voice cracks slightly, like it’s a manifestation of your own hurt.
Sunghoon, for the first time since this entire thing started, goes silent. His jaw ticks, breathing going slightly uneven. The air crackles between you, tension that neither of you really want to admit is there.
And then, without even so much as a stutter, he says, “I’ll prove it then.”
You falter, lips parting as a laugh bubbles out of your throat. You don’t mean to laugh, really, you don’t, but Sunghoon's insistence is almost admirable. And, unfortunately for you, his stubbornness only makes you fall for him the tiniest bit more.
“Why are you so set on this?” You ask, mimicking his question from earlier.
He shrugs, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hand. “Does it matter?”
Yes, it does matter. But you know there’s no way you’re going to get an actual answer from him, so you won’t push anymore. So, instead you just shrug, fingers tapping against the table. “I guess not.”
Sunghoon grins, his tongue poking against his cheek slightly. “Atta girl.”
You should drag him out of the restaurant and back to Beomgyu’s apartment after that. Should refuse to even speak to him until Beomgyu figures out how to reverse this whole thing. Should protect your heart from the hurt that you know is coming.
But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you laugh along to his jokes. You don’t protest when he pays for your food. You let him walk you home like he’s your boyfriend and try to ignore the deep ache beginning to bloom in your chest every time he looks at you like he loves you.
And when you lay in bed that night, sheets tucked to your chin and green glowing stars shining on your ceiling, you let yourself believe that all of it was real. That all of it meant something.
Even if that was only true for one of you.
You aren’t sure what you’re expecting the next morning, but it certainly isn’t sunghoon at your door with a jersey in one hand and hockey stick in the other.
You blink at him, still in your pajamas with leftover mascara flakes covering your cheeks. You’re sure you look the picture of attractiveness right now. You sigh, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles. “What are you doing here?”
Sunghoon holds the jersey out to you, and it’s then that you realize it’s his. Or, at least, one with his number and name on it. “This is for tonight.” He says casually, like you’re supposed to know what that means.
Your eyebrows furrow as you cautiously take it from him, inspecting it like it was a bomb and not a piece of fabric. “Uh,” You chuckle humorlessly, “What’s tonight?”
The jersey is your size, but the only other people you can think of who wear these are family members, die-hard fans, and…girlfriends.
But there’s no way that’s why he’s giving this to you. Besides, you’d seen Sophia wear the same exact thing enough times to know what wearing it would mean--to know what it would make you, as well as everyone else on the campus, aware of.
That you were Sunghoons.
That is not happening.
He leans against your doorframe, arms crossed against his chest. His hockey stick pokes out from under his armpit awkwardly, and the sight nearly makes you crack a smile.
“For the game,” He says, “You’re coming.”
You immediately shake your head and attempt to shove the jersey back into his arms. “Yeah, no, I’m not going to that. Thanks for the offer though.”
You turn on your heel after forcing him to take back the shirt, and while you know you should tell him to leave, you let him follow you into your apartment.
He trails behind you like a lost puppy, a slight pout twisted onto his features. “You have to go,” He insists, “You’re my girlfriend–”
You whip around and glare at him, “I am not your girlfriend.”
His lips curl up into a shy smile, a hand coming up to brace the back of his neck. “That’s a technicality.”
You give him a look before finally turning back around and continuing your walk to your bathroom. He tries to follow you in, but you quickly shut the door in his face. You half expect that to finally be the hint he needs, but of course it isn't. Instead, he just keeps talking to you through the door. “Okay, fine, you’re not my girlfriend.” He sighs, voice slightly muffled. You just roll your eyes and throw your hair up, grabbing your toothbrush from its place in the barbie cup on your sink.
“But you said I could prove to you how serious I was,” He continues. You can hear his body slide down to the floor, and you assume he’s sitting with his back against the door. He’s silent for a moment, before mumbling out so quietly you nearly don’t hear him, “Let me do what I said I would. Please.”
You are a weak, weak woman. You’ve always known this. When it comes to school and things of that nature you’d always known you excelled. But, people? That was something that was way out of your league.
Your mom used to call you a people-pleaser. Said it’d end up in you getting hurt if you didn’t learn how to step away from things before they got out of hand. And you thought you had.
But maybe you hadn’t.
You sigh, finishing up brushing your teeth and washing your face. By the time you're finished the ends of your hair and the sleeves of your shirt are soaked, but you don’t care. He wouldn’t care what you looked like right now anyway. His brain is all jumbled up and you doubt you looking like a hot mess is the thing that'll fix it.
You open the door cautiously, and just as you’d expected he’s sat on the other side with his knees tucked into his chest. He looks so small here, so boyish. Not like the Park Sunghoon you’d seen from the spotlight, not like the school's star player and pride and joy. From here, he looks like a boy trying to find himself in a world too big for him.
You tug your bottom lip into your teeth, eyes choosing to look everywhere but at him. “I’ll go,” You finally mumble, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “But I’m not wearing the jersey.”
He smiles, shoulders sagging in relief. He tilts his head up so he can see you. “Jersey?” He smirks, crumbling up the fabric and shoving it behind his back. “What jersey?”
You grin despite yourself and nudge your foot into his lower back. “Whatever. Go home so I can get ready.”
He stands, knees popping as he does. He grabs his hockey stick from where it leans against your wall, fingers wrapping around it and giving it a firm squeeze. “Six pm, alright? I’ll get you and your friends a spot up front.”
You shake your head, “You don’t have to do that–”
He grins, and before you can even think about swerving him, leans in and places a gentle kiss at the crown of your head. You freeze, body flushing and eyes going wide.
His lips are softer than you thought they’d be, coated with a scentless chapstick that you’d seen him carry around with him for years. He pauses for a moment, his spare hand lingering at your waist. He never touches you directly, doesn’t even attempt to. But you can still feel the slight heat emitting from his hand, and it almost feels more intimate than if he'd just taken that final leap.
He swallows, taking a step away from you. There’s a slight pink blush dusting his cheeks, like he’s shocked by his own actions, but he’s quick to clear his throat and pretend like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what he’d just done. Like the entire thing was a regular occasion for the both of you.
“I’ll see you there, okay?” He mutters, raising a brow. Like he needs more reassurance that you’ll stick to your word and show up.
Your tongue darts out to wet your lips for a moment, eyes searching for any indication that maybe he understands what he did. That maybe the experiment's effects are starting to wear off. But when you look at him, you see the same exact thing you’ve been seeing since yesterday morning.
Pure, unbridled, love.
You suck in a breath, nodding your head slightly. “Yeah,” You manage, though your voice comes out low and breathless. “I’ll be there.”
He smiles, mumbles out a soft goodbye, and then leaves you in the middle of your hallway, body flushed and mind jumbled.
Yunjin, to your dismay, comes over as soon as you ask her too.
She looks ecstatic. You’d called her last night and explained the entire situation, but she, of course, couldn’t see how it was a very bad thing.
“Why are you so upset?” She’d asked over the phone. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was practically beaming. “The guy you’ve been secreltey obsessing over like some kind of stalker is in love with you! That sounds like a complete win to me!”
You’d winced, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. “Yeah, It sounds great! But he doesn’t…” You swallowed uncomfortably, “He doesn’t actually feel that way for me. He just thinks he does.”
You heard her take a drink of something before she sighed out, “How do you know that?”
You went silent, unsure of how to answer. What did she mean how did you know? It was obvious. Sunghoon accidentally drinks a love potion and now thinks he’s in love with you. That’s what had happened.
You tucked your legs under you and adjusted your phone against your ear. “I think that’s obvious, Yunjin.” You murmured.
She hummed, “I don’t know, [Y/N].” She said, tone strangely teasing. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”
So, when you’d called her and asked her to help you get ready for tonight’s match, she was ecstatic. And you appreciated her support, of course, but you weren’t sure she really understood what was happening here.
You and Sunghoon are nothing. When all of this was over, you’d go back to being two strangers who sometimes smiled awkwardly at each other out of obligation. And you needed to be able to be okay with that. You had to be.
“Okay, I think you should wear something super sexy so that Sunghoon’s knocked on his ass.” Yunjin quips, scouring through your closet and inspecting everything you own like it owes her something.
You sigh from where you lay on your bed, staring up at the stars on your ceiling like maybe they’ll save you. “We’re going to his game, Yun. I don’t want him to fall on his ass.” You chuckle, throwing up air quotes around the end of your sentence.
Yunjin rolls her eyes and throws another pair of jeans onto your desk chair. “I don’t mean literally. I just mean maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wear something different."
You sit up, bracing yourself against your elbows. “What's wrong with my usual clothes?” You ask, eyebrows raising teasingly.
Yunjin pauses, cautiously turning around so you’re face to face. “There’s nothing wrong with it," She attempts, lips twisting thoughtfully as she tries to come up with the softest way to say it. “But I don’t think a pair of sweatpants and some random shirt you got in middle school is quite the look we’re going for.”
You scoff, flopping back down onto your bed and pushing the palm of your hands into your eyes until white dots fill your vision. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with what you usually wear, even if it isn’t the nicest clothes ever.
But you can’t lie and say there isn’t a part of you that wonders how Sunghoon would react. Would he even care? If he did, would it even be real?
“I think that you’re blowing this way out of proportion.” You mutter, letting your arms wrap around yourself.
Yunjin snorts and tosses a shirt at you. You cautiously inspect the fabric–a blue long sleeved top with a deep neckline that you’d bought to make your ex-boyfriend jealous and then never wore. You scrunch your nose slightly at it and then toss it back at her.
“There’s no way I’m wearing that.” You snort.
Yunjin nods, grabbing a pair of dark jeans from your closet. “That’s what you think.”
The hockey arena, to no one's surprise, is full to the brim with die hard fans and half-way drunk college students. You, personally, have never been to a game before. Mostly because you know what they consist of, and you’d rather skip watching men fight over a puck on ice when you could be doing much more important things. Like rewatching New Girl.
But, alas, you, Yunjin, and Jungwon all find your seats right at the barricade. Beomgyu had chosen to skip so that he could keep working on some kind of fix for your current situation, but you had half the mind to believe it was because he simply didn’t want to come.
Jungwon takes a sip of his fountain drink, letting the red straw rest on his lip. “So, you’re telling me that Sunghoon drank the experiment, thinks he’s in love with you, and invited you here because he wants to prove to you that it’s real?”
You nod, shrugging your jacket off and laying it across the back of your seat. The players are warming up in front of you, their skates scratching against the ice as they yell instructions at each other. You can see Sunghoon talking to another boy with a serious expression, his hands moving admittedly as he does. You can tell he’s being stern with him, but the boy doesn’t look upset or scared in the least. If anything, he’s taking his lecture with pride–like getting told off by Park Sunghoon is a privilege.
And you think that goes into show just the kind of person that he is. He's kind, and funny, and defientley doesn't deserve what you're putting him through.
"Um," You sniff, adjusting yourself in your seat. “That’s pretty much it, yeah.”
Jungwon hums, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Is it weird that that isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened to us?” He asks.
You furrow your brows, “What could possibly be weirder then that?”
“Remember freshman year?” Yunjin chimes in, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “There was that full two weeks where Beomgyu was stained pink.”
“Oh,” You draw out, chuckling at the memory. “I do remember that.”
You giggle at the memory. Beomgyu had had a rouge experiment blow up in his face--literally--and spent two weeks looking like he'd just stepped out of the Barbie movie.
Jungwon shrugs, “I would argue that seeing Beomgyu walk around campus like a real-life monster high doll was definitely weirder than this.”
You don’t respond, instead turning your attention back towards Sunghoon. He still hasn’t noticed you–which you’re mostly grateful for, but it also makes you anxious for when he does.
While you’ve never been to one of the matches in person, you have seen them online. You know that they can get heated and violent. You’ve seen Sunghoon walk into class with the occasional black eye or scabbed over knuckles.
It makes worry build in your stomach, thick and strong and nearly overwhelming. And you know you shouldn’t care. Sunghoon isn’t your boyfriend, even if he seems to think he is. But, still, the thought of him getting hurt makes you want to throw up.
You lean back in your chair, leg bouncing anxiously, and then you see it. It’s a subtle movement from the corner of your eye, but you catch it nonetheless.
Two seats down from you, Sophia sits down with her friends, all of them looking like they just stepped out of fucking vogue. And Sophia, with her perfectly blown-out hair and sickly sweet smile, is wearing Sunghoons jersey.
Your heart drops, stomach becoming an endless pit as you stare at her. You’d assumed they broke up, but what if they hadn’t? That was the only explanation you could think of for why she was here wearing that. What if you had accidentally ruined her relationship with Sunghoon?
Not to say that their relationship wasn’t already on the brink of disaster, but still.
You nudge Jungwon with your elbow, forcing your gaze onto the rink. The other team has come onto the ice now, and you can see Sunghoon's jaw tick. But he isn’t watching the other team, no, he’s searching the stands.
Searching them for you.
You suddenly feel a wave of guilt at what you’ve done, even if it was an accident. You’ve inadvertently forced yourself into the middle of a relationship that was never any of your business. Does this make you a homewrecker?
“Jungwon,” You mumble, “Tell Yunjin we’re leaving.”
“What?” He asks, eyebrows knitting together. “The game hasn’t even started.”
You sink into your seat as you watch Sunghoons gaze get closer and closer to you. “Sophia’s here.” You say through your teeth, “And she’s wearing his jersey.”
Jungwons gaze shifts past you, lips parting when he spots her. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” You murmur, “Oh.”
Jungwon turns and tells Yunjin, and you watch as her head pops out from behind him, her lips pulled into a frown. “Oh, this is so fucked.”
You cover your face with your hands and groan, “I’m a homewrecker!”
“Okay, no,” Yunjin scoffs, still eyeing Sophia like maybe if she stares at her long enough she’ll disappear, “This is all just a really small misunderstanding.”
You groan again, dropping your hands to your lap and looking back onto the rink. Sunghoon finally spots you then, a smile curling onto his lips as he skates over. Your stomach churns, letting yourself steal a glance to Sophia, who is also smiling at Sunghoon.
You sink further into your seat.
“Y/N!” He calls once he approaches, placing a hand in the glass separating you. You can practically feel Sophia’s gaze burning into your skull, and for once, you can’t even be mad that you’re on the other side of her icy glare.
“Um,” You manage, clearing your throat and cocking your head as subtly as possible towards Sophia. “Sunghoon, you should probably go say hi to your girlfriend before you say hi to me.”
You can feel Jungwon and Yunjin holding their breaths, like they’re scared any sudden movement will set off some kind of bomb. But Sunghoon either doesn't notice the tension, or he’s actively choosing to ignore it.
He cocks his head to the side, smile faltering a bit. “What are you talking about—”
“Hoonie!”
There’s something very distinct about Sophia’s voice—just the right amount of feminine to be cutsey, but still bordering on the edge of nails on a chalkboard. Normally, the sound of it would make you roll your eyes and resist the urge to pull your hair out, but now it just makes you feel sick with guilt.
Sunghoons expression immediately shifts, his smile curling downwards, eyes narrowing slightly. When he spots Sophia, he almost looks bored. Like the sight of her is nothing special.
She climbs over the people next to you, a mom and her toddler, both of whom she doesn’t apologize to when she steps on the tips of their shoes.
“Hoon,” She sighs, adjusting her skirt. “I missed you.”
She doesn’t even spare you a glance, which you’re partially thankful for. But, you also can’t help but wonder if it’s because she doesn’t even see you as a threat.
Which, you’re not—but still. It’d at least be nice to be considered one.
Sunghoons jaw ripples, gaze icy and nearly angry. “What’re you doing here Sophia?” He asks. His gaze falls downwards, onto the blue jersey she wears proudly across her chest, and scoffs. “And why are you wearing that?”
Sophia doesn’t even flinch at his tone, if anything she seems to revel in it. “Why wouldn’t I be here, silly?” She giggles, “I’m supporting my boyfriend!”
Jungwon glances over at you, but your eyes stay on the floor. What are you supposed to say? Actually, you’re boyfriend thinks he’s in love with me, so sorry! You’d just sound crazy.
Sunghoon leans closer, voice lowering an octave. “Are you forgetting that I caught you fucking my roomate last weekend?” He spits, gripping his hockey stick so hard you’re convinced it’ll break. “Or am I supposed to just get over that like everything else?”
You can’t help the gasp that leaves you. A small sound, but it’s enough to catch her attention. She whips her head around, dark eyes catch yours, nose scrunched like she’s staring at the trash on the side of the sidewalk and not a person.
You half expect her to apologize for having such a private conversation in front of you, but she doesn’t do that. Why would she? Instead, she barks, “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation? Go somewhere else.”
You blink, lips parting as you try to come up with something to say. But, Sunghoon beats you to it.
“Don’t talk to her like that.” He defends, eyes blazing something nearly protective. It makes your heart flutter and heat fill your stomach for all the wrong reasons.
Sophia takes a moment to process, but when she does, you would’ve thought Sunghoon had just told her he’d made out with her mom.
“Why are you defending her?” She asks, letting out a humorless laugh. She really takes you in then, eyeing you up and down. You sink into yourself instinctually, arms wrapping around your stomach like a shield. “Don’t tell me this is my replacement?” She chuckles, like the thought of you even being near Sunghoon is amusing.
You shake your head, hands shooting out in front of you. Even though she doesn't deserve it, you don't want to be the other woman. “No, no, that’s not—”
But Sunghoon doesn't let you finish. “She can’t be a replacement when there’s nothing to replace.” He mutters, tongue leaking venom.
Sophia, for what you’re sure is the first time in her life, is rendered speechless. Her glossy lips part, eyes widening a fraction. “Sunghoon—”
He turns to you then, completely ignoring her like her prescense isn’t even a blip on his radar. His eyes soften, cheeks flushing the lightest shade of pink. “Meet me after the game, okay?” He mumbles.
A buzzer sounds, and both teams on the ice skate over to their respective coaches to get ready for the game. Your lips part as you wrack your brain for a response, but it’s hard when Sophia is sneering at you like you’d just said the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.
Sunghoon sighs, throwing you a final glance before pushing off the glass and beginning to skate towards the rest of his teammates.
His jaw ticks once, throwing Sophia an icy look over his shoulder. “Go home, Sophia.” He mumbles.
Sophia doesn’t say anything else, just shoots you a glare and then stomps back to her waiting friends. They all look sympathetic when she tells them what happened, shooting you not-so-subtle death glares. As if you did something. Well, you did—you unintentionally home wrecked her relationship, but still, it was all accidental!
Yunjin lets out a low whistle, crossing her leg over her knee and clasping her hands around it. “Can we make more of those love potion things?” She asks with a chuckle. “This is reality tv kind of entertainment.”
Jungwon nods, “Rivals love island, honestly.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, “This isn’t a reality tv show.” You mumble.
Yunjin shrugs, popping a piece of candy into her mouth. “We know, but it might as well be. Or maybe the plot of some super bad fanfiction.”
And, well, you can’t really argue with that.
But you’d never been good at confrontation, and Sophia keeps looking at you like you’d owe her something. Her lips pulled tightly together, friend whispering in her ear like she knows your deepest darkest secrets.
And somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a subtle prick of insecurity. One that forces you deeper into your seat and into your own head.
The game goes by in a blur, one that you barely pay attention to. It’s not that you don’t want to, but it’s a little difficult when Sophia keeps glancing over at you and laughing with her friends.
You aren’t stupid. You’ve been laughed at before--been the victim of bullies who thought they had the upper hand for whatever reason. But that had been in high school, never in college. And even though you try to push it away—try to block it out—those awful thoughts still crawl their way from the depths of your mind. Thoughts that you hadn’t had since you’d sat alone in a chemistry classroom in tenth grade, back before you’d met Beomgyu.
So, when the game is over (Sunghoon led the team to victory of course, because why wouldn’t he?), you don’t hesitate shrugging your jacket back on and climbing your way over people to get to the exit.
Yunjin and Jungwon stumble behind you, calling your name in an attempt to get you to slow down, but you don’t. Can’t, really.
You didn’t sign up for any of this. Didn’t sign up to be the target of Sophia’s stares, didn’t sign up to be the girl Sunghoons convinced he’s in love with.
You just wanted to go back to your life before. When you were still just in the background with your select circle. You wanted to go back to watching Sunghoon from afar—to being the girl he’d never look twice at.
Because this? This was too much for you.
And you know none of it is his fault, but that almost just makes it worse. He has no idea how much all of this is really hurting you. How much it breaks your heart every time he looks at you like you mean something to him.
The wind hits your face when you step outside, neon lights of the stadium lighting up the parking lot around you. You finally let out a breath, eyes glassy and lips chapped. Maybe you’re being dramatic, but you really don’t care.
“[Y/N]!” Yunjin calls, jogging slightly to catch up with you. Her jackets hanging off her arms awkwardly, purse dangling from her elbow. “Where are you going?” She presses, grabbing your bicep gently and forcing you to a stop. “What’s going on?”
You force your gaze to the ground, shoving your hands in your pockets. “I’m going home,” You tell her, voice raw. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. If I had known he was still with Sophia—”
“Woah, hold on,” Yunjin interrupts you. Jungwon approaches then, his blonde hair blowing over his forehead awkwardly. “Did you not hear Sunghoon? They’re broken up.”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “They’re always broken up.”
Yunjins lips pull in tight, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Is this because she was here?” She asks you, tone serious and deadly. "You know you don't need to care about whatever it is her and her friends think."
It’s rare for her to speak to you so seriously, always the one looking towards humor to lighten up situations. So when she does, you tend to listen.
“Sophia is a bitch, plain and simple. Sunghoon is not. And he’s actively trying to prove to you that he wants you, and you’re not letting him.” She insists.
You pull your arm from her grip at that, eyebrows knitting together. Does she seriously think anything Sunghoon is doing he actually means? If that were the case, you wouldn't even be in this situation.
“Yunjin, he doesn’t know what he’s doing!” You spit, tone harsher then you mean it. You don’t mean to aim your anger towards her, but she just keeps pushing and pushing until you finally explode. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t feel like that towards me.” Your voice breaks, eyes brimming with tears. “He doesn’t feel anything towards me.”
Jungwon swallows, his eyes downcast. He was usually good in situations like this, usually the one to take the lead and get you laughing again, but now he can’t even meet your eyes.
Yunjin reaches for you again, sympathy written all over her face, but you pull away. You don’t want her comfort right now, even though you know it comes from a place of love.
You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze onto the sidewalk in front of you. The pavement is wet from rain earlier in the day, collecting in small puddles below your feet. “I’m just going to go home, okay? Tell Sunghoon I’m sorry.”
“[Y/N]…” Yunjin mumbles, but you’re already walking away, arms wrapped around yourself and bottom lip trembling.
Is it pathetic to be crying over a stupid boy and a mean girl? Maybe. But you also know that having feelings is human, and sometimes, when the time is right, it’s okay to cry.
And you think right now is one of those times.
You don’t cry hard. Not full, chest-heaving sobs, just occasional hiccups—a steady stream of tears flowing down your cheeks that you stain your sleeves with every time you wipe at them.
Your apartment is cold when you enter, the air brushing harshly against your face. You shrug your jacket off and toss it onto the couch, padding over to your room with exhaustion sinking into your bones.
You peel off your clothes–the top Yunjin had insisted you wear for Sunghoon suddenly feeling suffocating and tight. It isn’t often you let yourself wallow in self-pity like this, but tonight was going to have to be an exception.
You change into a stained t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a rip in the knees and collapse onto your couch. You wonder if Sunghoon said anything when he noticed you weren’t there. Was he disappointed? Or had he finally realized it wasn’t you he should be chasing after?
Your heart hurts at the thought, aching and heavy in your chest.
It isn't fair to him that you feel like this. It isn't fair to you that he's unknowingly playing with your heart. The entire thing is a bad dream you wish you could just wake up from.
You barely register the knock at your door at first, too stuck in your head while trying to pretend you’re paying attention to whatever sitcom’s playing on the TV.
But then it comes again, not harsh, just louder. More insistent. Like whoever’s on the other side is desperate to see you.
You roll your eyes, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders and forcing yourself to pad over. “Yunjin,” You sigh, clicking the lock and swinging the door open. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
But it isn’t Yunjin standing on the other side. It’s Sunghoon.
His black hair is a mess, bangs covering his eyes in a way you know can’t be comfortable, a pair of black-rimmed glasses resting against his nose. He’s not wearing his jersey anymore, but the black compression shirt he wears under it is still there, a pair of gray sweatpants laying dangerously low on his hips.
He looks dangerously handsome without even trying.
Your breath catches before you can stop it, gaze falling down his body like you’re commiting it to memory. You’re both silent, just staring at eachother, waiting for the other to cut through the tension first.
It shouldn’t hurt seeing him right now as much as it does. You don’t have any claim on him. He loves Sophia, you’ve known that from the start.
So why does it feel like tonight was just one big slap in the face? Like the universe was reminding you of exactly what your place with him really is?
Sunghoon swallows, eyes shaky as they try to search your own. You don’t let him though. You know if you look him in the eye right now, you’ll break, and that’s the last thing you want him to see.
“You left,” He whispers, tone low. You can hear the hurt seeping through his voice, but it’s masked by a weird kind of warmth. Like even though you hurt him, he can’t physically be mad at you.
You think that’s probably a side effect.
You shift your weight uncomfortably, twiddling your thumbs in front of you. You can’t look at him—too scared of what you’ll find if you do.
“Sunghoon,” You start, voice trembling. “You don’t want me.” You don't say it like a question, instead it's a statement.
His fingers tighten into fists at his sides, knuckles going pale. “Why do you keep assuming you know what I want?” He asks.
You shake your head, “You’re just confused—”
“Stop,” He interrupts, taking a small step towards you. “Stop saying that when I know I've never been more clear headed in my life.”
You stiffen, unsure of how to respond. You know for a fact he has no idea what he’s doing or talking about. And that’s what makes it hurt the most. He genuinely believes he loves you, and fuck, you’d give anything for it to be real.
His hand reaches out, but he hesitates and drops it back to his side. "Let me prove it to you, okay? Just like I said I would. No games. No Sophia. Just me and you.”
You force your gaze up then, eyes narrowed. You shouldn’t say yes, not when your heart is already on the brink of collapse. But Sunghoons staring at you like he’ll break into pieces if you say no—like the thought of you rejecting him is too much to handle.
You lean against the doorframe, lips twisting slightly. “I don't know,” You attempt, “it’s already so late and I look a mess—”
“Please,” he breathes out, voice wrecked. “Stop thinking so hard and let me show you how much you mean to me.”
Your knuckles tighten until your fingernails dig into your palms, forming little crescent-shaped marks into the soft skin. Everything inside of you is telling you to say no. To tell him to go home and lock himself in his room until Beomgyu figures out how to fix this.
But there’s still that small part of you—the part that wonders if maybe he really did mean every sweet word that fell from his perfect lips. If maybe, just maybe, all of this was real.
And that part of you wins.
Sunghoon doesn’t let you change—just ushers you into your jacket and leads you with a hand on your lower back out of your apartment and back towards the rink.
You don’t notice that’s where you’re heading at first, not until the lights outside the parking lot come into view. Your stomach twists at the memory of your last conversation with Yunjin and Jungwon, but you push it away. You’d fix things tomorrow.
“Why are we here?” You ask, glancing up at the raven-haired boy. His palm hasn’t left your back since you started walking, almost like he was staking his claim there. Imprinting the shape of him into your skin like it’s second nature.
He shrugs, mischief flashing in his smile. “You’ll see.”
You’ve never seen the stadium empty before, but now that you are, it makes you realize just how daunting it really is. The lights pointed at the rink are still on, reflecting off of the ice and glinting across its surface. You can see the slight scuff marks and dents from numerous skates, small puddles forming in their wake.
Sunghoon jogs in front of you, pulling out a set of keys and opening the gate that the hockey players use to get onto the rink. He holds an arm out to you, gesturing for you to come over to him.
You do so cautiously, arms wrapped around yourself. The ice from the rink makes the air frigid, crawling up your spine like a garden snake. Menacing, but not dangerous.
“I don’t have any skates.” You mumble.
Sunghoon smiles, reaching out and wiggling your hand out from where it rests under your arm, “That’s okay,” He says softly, intertwining your fingers. His hands are large, this is something you’ve always known. It’s hard not to notice when he makes his pencil look like a fucking mini-brand every time he writes down his notes—but now you realize just how much they dwarf your own. “We don't need them.”
He pulls you onto the rink then, and feet immediately slip on the slick ice. You yelp when you feel your foot begin to slide from beneath you, back arching and spare arm flinging to your side, but Sunghoon grips your hand and pulls you to his chest like he’d been expecting it.
You huff when your face meets his chest, heat crawling viciously up your neck from embarrassment. Sunghoons chest vibrates with laughter against your cheek, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head and pull you closer to him.
“Finally falling for me?” He teases.
If only he knew.
You scoff and cautiously step away from him, tightening the muscles in your legs so you don’t slip again. “You wish.” You say, meaning for it to come out harsh, but instead it sounds soft. Playful. Everything it shouldn’t be.
He rolls his eyes and drags you to the middle of the ice, careful not to tug too hard or walk too fast, instead matching his pace with yours.
You look around at the thousands of seats surrounding you, the blinding lights on the ice. There isn’t even anyone here, and you still feel slightly intimidated. It makes you wonder how he’s able to deal with all of it so efficiently.
He stops suddenly, forcing you to as well. For a split second, you think he almost looks nervous.
He sucks in a breath, brown eyes finding your own. You just raise your brows, staring at him expectantly. You assume he must’ve brought you here for something—it’s just whatever that is that puts you slightly on edge.
“Do you remember that glass duck you carried around at the beginning of the year? The one with the weird monocle and pink jacket?” He asks, releasing your hand and shoving it into his coat pocket. You can see something round in there, you just have no idea what it is.
You frown. You do remember that duck. You’d found it on your trip with Yunjin to Europe over the summer in some rundown antique shop. It was stupidly overpriced and honestly kind of ugly, but you’d fallen in love with it for whatever reason. Maybe because it was a little different then the other ducks, with a weirdly shaped beak and slightly bigger beady eyes. But it was perfect to you.
At least, it was until Jungwon accidently broke it on Halloween weekend. He’d drunkenly slammed into you and knocked it loose from its place on your bag, and it ultimately shattered as soon as it hit the floor. You remember you’d been devastated and refused to talk to Jungwon for a week after, but that was it. You hadn't really thought twice about it for a while now.
But, how did Sunghoon know about it? Why was he asking you? You’d never talked about it with him—hell, you barely said two words to him back then.
Your chin lowers slightly in suspicion, “I do, yes. Why?”
He swallows, and you can see his free hand twitch. “Well, I saw it break at that party on Halloween. And you looked so sad. And…I really hated it. So,” He takes a breath, finally revealing whatever it was he had in his pocket. “I fixed it.”
You blink. Once. Twice. He’s holding out the duck to you, cracks from where it'd shattered all over its little glass body but ultimately put back together.
It takes you a second to fully process what’s going on, but once you do your lips part in a gasp and you take it from him. You hold it up to your face, cradling it in your hands. “How did you—what? Why? I-I don’t understand—” You’re talking so fast you barely even understand yourself, but Sunghoon just laughs, and you notice the way his shoulders slowly relax in relief.
He shrugs, like this is any other day and he didn’t just reveal to you he’d fixed your most prized possession. “I didn't want you to lose it,” He admits, taking a careful step towards you. “You don’t deserve to lose things you love.”
You glance up at him then, and you realize just how close he really is. The last time you’d been in this position he’d placed a soft kiss on your hairline, and although your heart feels like it’s skipping a beat, it’s not out of fear this time.
It’s something more dangerous, something you shouldn’t be allowing yourself to feel. Not with his condition. You glance back down to the glass duck, hesitation gnawing at your stomach.
Ultimately, you know that what you feel for Sunghoon is not returned. But this... this changes things. He’d taken the time all those months ago, before the experiment was even thought of, and fixed something you’d deemed unfixable simply because he didn’t want you to be sad. Usually, you’d think that meant something.
But isn’t that also just the kind of boy he is? Kind, golden-hearted Park Sunghoon. Campus golden boy. Star hockey player. Everything you could never have.
“Sunghoon,” You breathe out shakily, still holding the duck in your palm. “Thank you.”
Although you're feeling conflicted about where he really stands with you, you know you're overall grateful. You've never had someone do something so kind for you simply because they can.
He doesn’t respond, just gives you a shy smile. It’s the first time you’ve seen him look so bashful. It’s cute. “It wasn’t any problem.”
You hum, tapping your nails against the duck's glass tail. “Can I ask why you needed to bring me here to give me this?” You question, a teasing lilt to your voice.
He shrugs, “It’s more romantic here then in the middle of your living room.”
You laugh aloud at that. For once, the mention of romance with him doesn’t make you want to throw up and die all at the same time. Instead, it leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy and all the things you know are going to hurt you in the end.
Because while this entire illusion is going to be over at some point, right now, in this moment, Sunghoon is in love with you. And you’re starting to wonder just how wrong it’d be to let him.
Your heart is heavy in the morning as you fidget with the duck. It’s hanging off your purse again, safely locked into place with a keychain. You’d asked Jungwon and Yunjin to meet you for coffee so you could talk, and both had agreed easily.
You guys never really did well with bad blood. Any arguments you had were always resolved fairly quickly, because otherwise it would simmer until you thought too hard about it and ended up doing something you regretted.
And you know you owe them an apology–Yunjin, especially. She’d only been trying to help, and you’d spat venom at her like she’d done something wrong. You didn’t want to be like that, and it was important to you that she knew how sorry you were. That they both knew.
They arrive together, steps slow as they approach the table you’d saved. You shoot them a sad smile, unsure of just how angry they were.
They sit next to each other across from you, sharing a glance that makes your stomach churn. You suck in a breath, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry,” You start, choosing to skip the awkward pleasantries and getting straight to the point. “You guys didn’t deserve that. At all. And I–”
“Stop,” Yunjin sighs, not letting you finish. Your heart drops, immediately assuming she's about to end your friendship. But she doesn't--instead, she points between herself and Jungwon and says with a quiet finality, “We should be the ones apologizing.”
You raise a brow at that, spine straightening in your seat. “What? No–”
“Yes,” Jungwon interrupts now, his eyes full of concern. “You were rightfully upset with everything going on, and we pushed it aside simply because we didn’t understand how you were feeling.” He sniffs, head tilting to the side slightly. “I didn’t realize how hard this must all be for you. Having the guy you like constantly telling you he’s in love with you, and then not even know if he means it? It’s unfair to you.”
You’re silent, a wave of relief and guilt crashing over you at once. You’re relieved that your emotions are being validated, but you also feel guilty that they think they need to apologize to you when you yourself are struggling with what you should feel. Before last night, you would've agreed with them wholeheartedly, but now you weren’t sure. You glance down at the figurine hanging from your bag once, heart filling with so much warmth you think it may burst.
“You’re right,” You murmur, leaning back in your chair. “It is unfair, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe…maybe I was wrong.”
Yunjin’s eyes widen, confusion written all over her face. “What?”
You smile softly, reaching for your purse and spinning it around so they can see the once-broken glass duck. They both study it for a moment, and you watch as recognition flashes in their eyes.
Jungwon frowns and looks back at you. “I thought I broke that ugly thing?”
“It’s not ugly,” You scoff, snatching your bag back and carefully unclipping the little duck from where it hangs. You place it in the middle of the table with a small shrug. “He fixed it.”
The three of you stare at it, studying the cracks the run along it’s surface.
“What do you mean he fixed it?” Yunjin asks.
“I mean,” You sigh, “He saw it break on Halloweekend, and took it upon himself to fucking glue it back together.”
A beat. And then, “Are you serious?”
You don’t laugh, even though you want to. It is entirely ridiculous, but it happened. You’ve spent the last twelve hours mulling it over in your mind, and you can only come to one conclusion.
Maybe Sunghoon noticed you more than you thought.
And if that were true, what did it mean now?
You manage a soft smile, picking at the skin around your fingers mindlessly. “Yep,” You hum, popping the P. “Gave it to me last night.”
Yunjin squeals, gripping Jungwon's bicep and shaking him. He huffs and rips his arm from her grip. “Quit!” He hisses.
Yunjin just ignores him, her full attention on you. “I know I shouldn’t be feeding into this anymore, but that,” She gestures towards the duck, “That is more than some stupid experiment.”
You sigh, voice small when you say, “I know. I just…I don’t know what the right thing to do is anymore.”
And for the first time, you’re starting to feel like you’re finally being honest with yourself.
“Well,” Jungwon shrugs, leaning back in the booth. The waitress comes around and drops off three milkshakes, vanilla for yourself, and chocolate for Jungwon and Yunjin. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try it out.”
Your eyebrows furrow, “Test it out?” You repeat, taking a small spoonful of whipped cream and stuffing it into your mouth. You'd always been a sucker for ice cream.
Jungwon nods, “There’s a party tomorrow night to celebrate the hockey team's win last night. Sunghoon will obviously be there, and maybe you can test out what he does when it’s not just the two of you.”
Yunjin sucks in a sharp breath, “But,” She draws, “Sophia will be there too.”
Jungwon snaps his fingers, “My point exactly.”
You aren’t really understanding where he’s trying to go with this. “So what?”
Jungwon continues, “We don’t really know if he’s still under the influence of the experiment,” He explains, nodding towards the duck, “that changes things. So, I think we should see if his feelings are real or not at the party.”
Your lips twist in thought, “How do you plan to do that?” You push. It's not that you don't understand what he's trying to say, it's just hard for your head to fully wrap around it.
He smiles then, that same mischievous smile he’d given you all those weeks ago when he’d initially suggested this whole disaster, and it’s then that you know you shouldn’t listen to anything that comes out of his mouth.
“Simple,” He shrugs, taking a sip of his milkshake. “We ask.”
Your lips part to respond, but your phone ringing in your pocket interrupts you. Beomgyu’s name flashes across the screen, bold white letters that usually bring you comfort, but strangely are now doing the opposite.
You clear your throat, “Hello?”
Beomgyu’s voice sounds from the other side, exhausted and groggy, but he’s got that spark he always does when he says, “I did it.”
You glance up at Yunjin and Jungwon, stomach twisting low. “Did what?”
“I figured it out,” He swallows, “I’ve got the cure or whatever we’re calling it.”
And while it should be relief that floods your chest, instead what you’re met with is a cold pinch of disappointment.
You’d never been one for parties. Even now, dressed in some slim black dress Yunjin picked for you, a vial of something you aren’t even sure works in your purse, you’re reminded just why you don’t like them.
They’re overcrowded, filled with college students all looking to either pass out drunk or find someone to fuck until they forget why they were even there in the first place. It wasn’t your crowd, and you’d found peace with that a long time ago.
And yet, you're still here.
Beomgyu nudges your shoulder, eyes searching around the crowd of sweaty bodies. He wasn’t one for parties either, but when you explained to him just why you were coming, he insisted on joining. Of course, Yunjin and Jungwon had been ecstatic and you had to explain to them that you were not coming just to have a good time.
You were coming to find out the truth, and that was it.
“Are you sure he’s here?” Beomgyu asks.
You nod, “He texted me earlier and invited me. Said he’d meet us here.”
Sunghoon had been slightly surprised but happy when you confirmed you already planned to come. He’d told you he might get a little busy with people trying to talk to him, but he’d make sure to try and come find you at some point. You'd scoffed, in disbelief that you seemed to have to schedule a time to talk to him. You knew he was popular, but people here seriously treated him like some celebrity and not a normal college student.
Yunjin smiles next to you, plucking a drink from the countertop. She tips it back against her mouth and chugs it, wiping off the small droplet that spills from her lips.
Beomgyu makes a disgusted face, “You don’t even know where that came from.”
“Does it matter?” She asks, grabbing another one and shoving it towards you, “It all ends up in someone's stomach.”
You push her hand away and take a cautious step back. “I’m good, thanks.”
She just shrugs like she’d been expecting that and hands it to Jungwon, who happily accepts it. “Suit yourself.”
You don’t respond, instead unknowingly floating closer to Beomgyu. Your eyes rake along the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar head of black hair, but instead you’re met with the one person you didn’t want to see.
Sophia is wearing a soft baby pink skirt and a white top that make her look like the picture of innocence, lips red and tempting. The guy she’s flirting with clearly isn’t immune to her strategy, because his eyes keep falling down to her soft neckline like he’s hoping he’ll suddenly develop x-ray vision.
Normally, the sight of her wouldn’t bother you. It really shouldn’t considering you haven’t interacted with her at all outside of the hockey incident. But, for some reason, all you can see when you look at her is Sunghoon.
Sunghoon looking at her like she’d hung the moon and stars. Sunghoon dragging her to his games. Sunghoon fixing things for her simply because he didn’t want her to be sad. Sunghoon telling her he loves her.
You have no right to feel it, but jealousy curls deep in your stomach.
You recognize the boy she’s talking to. Jay, The hockey teams co-captain, and Sunghoons roommate. The same roommate who you’re assuming slept with Sophia.
You don’t know any of the details–never thought it appropriate to ask, really. But you do know that if Sunghoon saw this, he’d probably be pissed. You wonder if that’s why she’s flirting with him so openly, because she wants Sunghoon to see. You wouldn’t put it beneath her.
The night continues like that, with you and Beomgyu hanging around awkwardly while Yunjin and Jungwon drink until their vision goes blurry. You keep catching glimpses of Sophia, and each time she’s talking to a different guy. A different pawn, actually.
You haven't even seen Sunghoon once, which is kind of strange considering this party is kind of for him. You’d even texted him, a quick "you here?" and had gotten no reply.
The antidote feels heavy in your purse for reasons you can’t exactly explain. You were going to give it to him tonight no matter what, you’d already decided that. Even if you found out that this entire thing meant more to him then you thought it did, you were going to give it to him. Your heart flutters in your chest at the thought, forcing yourself to bite back a smile.
You know you shouldn’t get your hopes up, but it’s hard. The duck had to be proof that this whole thing wasn’t just a massive fuck up–maybe it was exactly what you’d needed to finally lead the both of you to each other.
And then, as if it’s fate throwing it in your face, you see Sunghoon.
He’s laughing at something someone's saying, his cheeks flushed and hair falling over his forehead like he’d deliberately placed it there. He looks good–but when does he not?
You nudge Beomgyu (Yunjin and Jungwon are too busy on the dance floor) and nod your head towards the black-haired man.
Beomgyu exhales lowly and grips the strap of your bag. “No matter what he says, he has to drink this.” He insists, “I know it might be easier to keep up with the lie–”
“I know,” You interrupt, placing your hand atop his. You give it a light squeeze, “No matter the outcome, he has to drink it.”
Beomgyu physically exhales and then shoots you a small smile, “For what it’s worth,” He murmurs, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
“Yeah,” You reply, “Neither do I.” And you really mean it.
Sunghoon doesn’t notice you approach at first, not until you push past one of his friends—Heeseung, you think his name is—and his attention snaps to you.
The look he gives you isn’t one you’re used to seeing from him. It’s softer. Like light rain on a warm day. Like the beginning stages of a love that lasts a lifetime.
Every other time it’s been strong. Fierce. Like a house fire at its peak. But now…now it makes your heart melt just like it did when you’d seen him for the first time three years ago.
“Hi,” You breathe.
“Hi.” He replies.
His friends have dispersed now, leaving just you and him in the sea of bodies. The moonlight filters through the windows, reflecting across his face in a way that really should be illegal.
“You came,” He says after a moment, but he doesn’t sound surprised.
“I did.”
The air crackles between you in a way it never has before. Real and raw and entirely strange. It should scare you—it does scare you—but you lean into the feeling. Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned the past couple of weeks, it’s to embrace the fear.
You reach into your purse and pull out the vial. It’s small, with a few drops of a see-through pink liquid that you don’t think anyone should ever be drinking.
“I need you to do something for me,” You tell him, voice shaking slightly. Embrace the fear, you remind yourself. “I need you to drink this.” You say, pushing the vial towards him.
His eyes flicker down to it, and then back up to yours, and for a moment you think he looks guilty.
“Look, [Y/N]—”
“Hoonie!” Your blood feels like it goes cold. Sophia approaches from behind you, shoving past and making her way in front of you like weren’t even there.
“I got your text,” She grins, voice sweet. But you know she knows what she’s doing. You know she’s doing it on purpose to upset you, but you’re not going to give her that satisfaction. “I knew it was only a matter of time before you came to your senses.”
Oh.
Your eyes widen slightly, something mean twisting in your stomach. Your heart feels heavy in a way that physically hurts. Of course. The experiment must’ve worn off, and he was trying to figure out the best way to tell you that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said. That’s why the air between the two of you had been so different.
You look at the antidote in your hand, and suddenly it feels pointless. Beomgyu did all that work just for it to wear off on its own. But you’d promised that you’d get him to drink it no matter what, and you weren’t planning on breaking that.
Sunghoon shakes his head, “Sophia, that’s not why I texted you.” He practically spits, “Stop trying to spin this into something you know it’s not.”
She looks genuinely taken aback for a moment but recovers swiftly. “I’m not trying to do anything,” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re the one who asked me to meet you, yes?”
His eyes flicker to yours, like he’s begging you to hear him out before you jump to conclusions. “I did, but—”
“Then what else am I supposed to assume? Unless,” She turns back to you then, finally acknowledging the fact that you’re there. The sneer on her face when she looks at you is nearly enough to make you feel small. “You didn’t want to say it in front of your rebound.”
Sunghoon visibly bristles, “She’s not—”
But you've heard enough. “It’s fine,” you say, not letting him finish. You manage a small smile, but it feels like poison against your skin. “I just need you to drink this so we can make sure everything goes back to normal without any hiccups.”
You push it back towards him, but he refuses to take it. “[Y/N], just let me explain.” He begs.
“You don’t need to explain to me.” You reply, and you mean it. You’d done the exact thing you’d been afraid of since the beginning, and that wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault that you’d taken everything too seriously despite knowing it was all manufactured by your own hands. He’d just been an accidental victim. “Just drink it and then we can pretend none of this ever happened.”
When you let your eyes meet his, it hurts so bad you think you’ll collapse right there and then. He looks genuinely devastated, eyebrows pulled taut and lips parted. But you can’t for the life of you understand why. He was getting what he wanted, right? He was getting Sophia back. He was getting his life back. And so were you.
So why does it feel like nothing will ever be the same again?
He looks like he’s going to protest again, but holds back. Whether it’s for his own sake or yours, you aren’t sure.
He takes the vial from you with shaky hands, unscrewing the cap and swallowing it down in one gulp. He doesn’t make a face, even though you’re sure it can’t taste pleasant.
Once it’s done, you don’t bother saying bye. You just nod at him and turn on your heel, ignoring the smirk you can practically feel growing on Sophia’s face.
Sunghoon got what he wanted. So did you. That’s all that should matter.
But you still can’t stop the tears from flooding your eyes.
You don't look for your friends, you just get out of there as fast as possible. You knew this would happen, it was exactly why you'd been so worrued at first. And you did exactly what you said you would, you got too involved. You let his words seep through the cracks in your walls instead of strengthening them.
And now you weren't sure they'd ever be fully put back together again.
You spend the next few days locked away in your dorm. You skip class, even though you know you shouldn’t, and spend your time watching reruns of New Girl and eating bowls of Lucky Charms.
Usually, hiding away for a few days and letting yourself marinate in your ugly helps. But it’s been days since the party, and the ache in your chest hasn’t subsided at all.
Sunghoon tried to text you once, just to check up on you since you hadn’t shown up to class, but you didn’t respond; just shut off your phone and shoved it in between the couch cushions.
You’d known this would happen when it started. Knew you’d end up hurt, and the worst part was that it wasn’t even anyone’s fault. There was no one you could shift blame onto; no one you could justify being angry with.
It’d all just spiraled out of control before you could fix it.
The following Monday you finally decide to suck it up and go to class. You weren’t going to let a boy get in the way of your schooling, even if the thought of seeing him made you sick to your stomach. (Also because Yunjin had threatened to call your mom if you didn’t show up again, and you really didn’t want to have to deal with that.)
Your feet drag when you get there, head hanging low. You’re expecting Sunghoon to have gone back to his spot before, but when you look up, he’s still in the chair next to yours. He looks different. Tired, almost. Like he hasn’t gotten proper sleep in days. You doubt you look any better.
You approach cautiously, hoping and praying that he won’t try and say anything to you. Does he even remember everything that happened? Was memory loss a symptom? You weren’t really sure, and you weren’t that interested in finding out.
You feel his eyes on you when you sit down, pulling out your computer and crossing one leg over the other. You’re hoping you look the picture of casual, not like your heart was just unknowingly crushed by the boy next to you.
Sunghoon, for what its worth, doesn’t talk to you for the majority of the lesson. Just shakes his leg anxiously and sneaks not-so-subtle glances your way. He keeps biting his bottom lip like he wants to say something, but stops himself before he can. Truthfully, it takes everything in you to not look at him. It’d be so easy to look into those brown eyes and remember everything he’d said–to remember every almost-kiss and every i love you that spilled from his lips like oil spilling into an endless clear blue sea.
It’d be so easy to pretend that nothing had changed between you. That the last two weeks had never happened and things were still how they were before–when he was the moon and you were the star blinking just for him, hoping for just a sliver of attention.
But, you know things will never be the same.
You barely even register the lesson ending, not until you feel Yunjin at your side. She must’ve known you’d need her support right now, and that much you can appreciate.
“You good?” She mumbles, glancing over at Sunghoon. The lecture hall has begun to clear out now, only a few stragglers remaining. Everyone must be ready to get out of this weather.
You nod, but it’s not sincere. “Yeah,” You manage, stuffing your laptop into your bag. It clinks against the glass duck softly, and your heart twists again. “I’m all good.”
Yunjin gives you a look that says she doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. You stand, starting to make your way down the stairs and finally away from him–but he stops you.
“[Y/N].”
You almost don’t hear him at first, but you’d recognize that tone anywhere. The same one he’d used when he asked you to come to the rink with him. Insistence teetering on the edge of pleading, but there's something that underlines it. Something you’ve been recognizing within yourself a little too much lately.
You make the mistake of turning to look at him, and your breath catches in your throat. That look in his eyes is one you’ve seen before, the same one you’d convinced yourself meant nothing.
Pure, unfiltered, love.
Except now there isn’t any experiment to fall back on.
“Can we…” He glances back at Yunjin and clears his throat. “Can we talk?”
Everything inside of you screams at you to say no–to turn around and ignore the way your body feels like it’s being pulled towards him. Like the world has tilted on its axis and he is your only source of gravity.
Against your own will, you hear yourself say, “Okay.”
You’ve only ever felt genuine fear three times in your life.
That time in the second grade when your dad thought it’d be funny to take you on a roller-coaster despite your fear of heights, and you’d cried so hard you ended up throwing up onto the lady in front of you. Then, there was the time you’d accidently switched up a water bottle and literal acid your freshman year of college and watched as your professor drank one of the liquids (It’d been the water, thank God). And, of course, the time you watched Sunghoon drink your experiment.
But now, standing in some empty corridor with Park Sunghoon, you think you might have to add this to the list.
Embrace the fear, you remind yourself.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at you with this unreadable look in his eyes. His hands are shoved in his coat pockets, posture slightly slumped. He doesn’t look like the put together golden-boy you’d fallen in love with. He looks more vulnerable; more like a person instead of an idea.
He sniffles and juts his chin towards the duck hanging off your bag, “You aren’t scared it’ll break again?” He asks softly.
You glance down at the cracked glass, reaching out and holding it between your fingers. “I guess I wasn’t worried,” You mumble, “Because last time it shattered someone put it back together.”
You hear his breath catch at that, and he takes a small step towards you. He’s close enough now that you can smell his cologne, can feel the ghost of his lips on the crown of your head.
“Do you know why I fixed it?” He asks.
You swallow, having to lift your head slightly to see him. “Because you’re a nice person, Sunghoon.” You murmur, forcing yourself to take a small step back. Enough distance that his presence doesn’t feel like it’s consuming your very soul. “You would’ve done it for anyone.”
He breathes out a disbelieving laugh, “That’s not true.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyebrows knit together, “I know you’re smarter than that.” Even though his words are harsh, his tone is soft. Like he can’t even conceptualize the concept of being upset with you. Like it's an emotion he’s never even experienced.
He’s right, you are smarter than that. But last time you let yourself believe, you’d ended up exactly where you knew you would be–with a broken heart and tear-stained cheeks.
“You don’t understand,” You manage, voice breaking slightly. “You don’t feel that for me. I know you don’t.”
“How do you know that?”
You pause, bottom lip finding it’s way between your teeth. “You’ve been with Sophia for so long, and I’m just-just me. She’s beautiful and popular and I spend more time watching fucking Harry Potter with my friends then I do actually socializing and–”
Sunghoon cuts you off, voice level. “Exactly.”
You blink. “What?”
“Sure, Sophia is popular and objectively beautiful, but she isn’t you.”
It takes you a moment to fully process what he’s saying. But still, all you can find in yourself to manage is a quiet, “What?”
He takes another step closer, enclosing in on your personal space like he's always belonged there. “She isn’t you.” He repeats.
You’ve only felt genuine fear four times in your life. But only once has it ever melted into something so genuine–something so raw and real that your heart has felt like it was bursting at the seams.
“That night Jungwon shattered your duck, you said something. Do you remember what it was?”
You shake your head softly. All you remember from that night is how upset you’d been that it’d happened and trying to find it in yourself to forgive Jungwon.
Sunghoon’s lips twitch softly, “You said you loved it because it was different. You said you didn’t care that it was a little strange on the outside, because you knew it had a good heart.”
You don’t even remember those words coming out of your mouth. Honestly, you don’t even remember Sunghoon being close enough to hear them.
“I think that’s when I fell in love with you,” He admits quietly. “I didn’t know it at first, but it was there. Everytime you sat down in class and tried not to laugh at something Yunjin said, everytime I saw you and Jungwon studying at the library, I felt it.” He sucks in a breath, “And then I drank the experiment.”
You shudder at the memory, lips twisting slightly in discomfort. You’re expecting him to say that it made him realize his feelings for you weren’t actually there–that this was all just an elaborately cruel way to reject you.
But then, without even blinking, he says, “But it didn’t work.”
Your world stops for a moment. There’s no way that’s possible. You’d seen him with your own two eyes acting like a fool to get your attention. Constantly following you around, texting you late into the night, tucking your hair behind your ear–all things he’d done because the experiment gave him the confidence to. But, if that wasn’t true and the experiment hadn’t worked then that meant that all of it had been real. There’d never been any pretend. There’d never been any accidents.
It’d all been real.
Your eyes widen, hands gesturing in front of you. “But that doesn’t make any sense.” You insist, “You were acting like you…” Love me. The words linger in the air, like mistletoe teasing you.
You think at first, part of you still didn’t believe that he loved you even with him standing here pouring his heart out to you. It just didn’t make any sense in your head. But now it was undeniable. It was a burning truth that had forced its way into the light without so much as apologizing.
“Because I do,” He murmurs, “And maybe it was stupid to go about it this way. I won’t argue with you on that. But, can you blame me? Do you know how hard it was to approach you?”
You scoff, “Me? What about you? And what about Sophia–”
He shakes his head, “That’s done. Has been for a long time now. That’s why I texted her at the party, I wanted to make sure she finally got it through her head that there was nothing there.”
“Oh.”
Sunghoon chuckles, voice deep and soft. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Oh.”
You look up at him now, into those swimming pools of chestnut. His pupils are slightly dilated, light reflecting off of his irises in a way that looks serene. The air around you fills with a soft tension, one that you’d have to focus on to even really notice.
You don’t miss the way his eyes glance down at your lips, silently asking for a permission you’d given him years ago.
He leans in closer, breath warm against your lips. “I really want to kiss you right now,” He murmurs. Your skin tingles when his fingers brush the apple of your cheek, before cupping it softly.
You lean into him, reaching a hand up to cover his own. “What’s stopping you?”
He smiles, a big toothy grin that shows off his canines, and then leans forward slowly.
It isn’t really a kiss at first, more like he's just lingering there, letting your breaths intermix. His hand travels from your cheek to the side of your neck, gently holding you in place.
And then he surges forward, mouth moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize you. He’s gentle, holding you like you’re something fragile—like he’s terrified you’ll disappear if he pushes too hard.
He pulls away slowly, grinning from ear to ear like he’s just won the lottery. “You have no idea how bad I've wanted to do that.”
You giggle, heat crawling up your stomach and swirling around your cheeks. “Maybe you should do it again just to make sure it sticks.”
Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate then. His hand finds your waist and pulls you into him, lips colliding with yours in a way that makes your head spin. You think colors swirl behind your eyes, but you can’t find it in yourself to care.
“I love you,” Sunghoon murmurs against your lips, “I love the way your nose scrunches when you’re focused,” He kisses the tip of your nose. “I love how kind you are even when people don’t deserve it,” Another one to your cheek. “I love that you’re unapologetically you.”
Your heart stutters, laughter bubbling out of your chest uncontrollably.
“You sure it isn’t because you accidentally drank a love potion?” You tease, reaching a hand up to tangle in the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.
He huffs, finally pulling away so he can get a good look at you. “I don’t think I’d need a love potion to find my way to you.” He says, voice so sincere it nearly makes tears spring to your eyes.
So, yeah. The thing about Biochemistry is that it’s extremely difficult and sometimes shows you that maybe you should let your curiosity remain exactly that—curiosity.
But sometimes, if you’re lucky, it can lead you to exactly where you’re supposed to go.
Sunghoons hand traces down your arm until it finds your hand, and he easily intertwines your fingers like he was always supposed to fit there. “Let me take you home?”
For the first time, you see no reason to argue. No reason to protect your heart or turn him away. So, without a single protest, you say, “Okay.”
You aren’t sure exactly how it happened. One minute Sunghoons walking you home, smiling like a kid in a candy store, and the next he’s kissing you like he’ll die if he isn’t touching you. Your apartment door shuts softly behind you, leaving just the two of you in your space.
You remember the last time he’d been in here, how he’d kissed the crown of your head with tender care. He’d seemed nervous then, like the action was scandalous. Now, it was nearly the opposite.
He isn’t rough, no, he’s deliberate. Fingertips tracing across the curve of your waist, teasing against the hem of your shirt. He kisses you like you’re the oxygen he needs to survive, like he's an addict and your lips are his fix.
It steals your breath away and breathes the air into your lungs all at once.
“Tell me to stop and I will.” He grunts against you, hands tugging at your waist and pulling you closer against him until you’re flush against his body.
“Sunghoon,” You gasp when you feel the growing bulge in his pants brush against your thigh. “Don’t you ever stop.”
That’s all it takes before he’s tapping your thigh once and lifting you into his arms. His hands take up half your thighs, kneading the skin as he carries you to your bedroom. You’re giggling the whole way there, hearts in your eyes and cheeks flushed.
He places you down on the bed gently, your hair fawning out around you like a halo. He sucks in a breath and crawls over you, eyes trained on your face. His knuckles brush your cheek, and you lean into it on pure instinct.
“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, voice tender. “Can’t believe you’re letting me love you.”
You smile, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. “There’s no one in this world for me except for you, Park Sunghoon.”
He grins, burying his face in the nape of your neck like he’s embarrassed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” You answer, not even having to second guess yourself. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”
He whines at your words, lips tracing across the skin of your neck, the length of your jaw, the space behind your ear, tongue darting out occasionally to mark you as his.
He tugs gently at your shirt and you arch your back so he can pull it over your head and toss it across the room, but it gets stuck on your elbow and he has to tug it loose. You laugh when it finally comes off, your hair falling in places it isn’t supposed to.
Sunghoon giggles and pecks your lips. “You’re making this difficult," he teases.
You just shrug and settle back down, ignoring the way his fingers trail over your bare stomach and pop open the button of your jeans. “I have to make you work for it.”
He smirks, devilish and no longer with any of that boyishness he’d had earlier. “Yeah, baby?” He whispers, voice husky. “Want me to beg you to let me taste you?”
Your breath hitches, bottom lip finding its way in between your teeth. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore.
He unzips your jeans and slowly drags them down your legs, tossing them to the floor and out of sight. “Want me to beg you to let me fuck you?” He continues.
You whimper, the sound escaping you without your permission. You’d be lying if you said the idea of Sunghoon on his knees for you doesn’t make something burn deep in your belly, but the thought of admitting that to him make your nerves spike with embarrassment.
He chuckles, sinking down to his knees until his face is level with your cunt. You can’t help but squirm in place, because even though your panties still cover you, you feel completely exposed. If you would’ve known this was going to happen today, you would’ve worn something much cuter. Not your days of the week pantied and an old bra that was a pathetic excuse for lacy.
Sunghoons breath ghosts against your growing slick, and you know your panties are already damp. “You gonna let me touch you, baby?” He asks.
You nod your head insistently, hips searching for any kind of relief. He just chuckles and places a hand on your tummy to hold you down. “Need to hear you say it.” He murmurs. You can feel his lips brushing against your core, his nose nudging in the junction of your hip. He’s so close to giving you what you want, but he won’t. Not until he hears it coming from your own lips.
“Please,” You gasp. Your own voice sounds so needy, completely foreign to your own ears. “Wan’ you to touch me, Hoon.”
He groans, but immediately obliges. He doesn’t devour you at first, just lets his tongue lick small little kitten licks over your panties. You jump at the feeling, but he uses his spare hand to grip your hip and hold you down.
He’s messy with it, even when he’s being gentle. He licks you open until you’re teary eyed and your panties are so drenched they look nearly see-through. He just sighs dreamily, like he’s enjoying some five-star meal and not like he’s eating you out like his life depends on it.
Pretty soon though you get over feeling everything without actually feeling it, because yes, it feels fucking insane–but you want to actually feel his lips against your bare folds. Want to feel him suck against your clit while his fingers get you ready to take him. It’s just actually admitting that that’s the hard part.
“Sunghoon,” You whine, hips stuttering slightly. “Stop teasing me.”
He pulls off of you, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I’m not teasing you, baby.” He chuckles, thumb rubbing soothing circles on the skin of your hip.
You huff, “You are.”
He raises a brow and begins to stand, and your stomach immediately drops. “You want me to stop then?”
“No!” You cry, shaking your head furiously. “God, no, don’t-don’t stop.”
He nods slowly, finding his place on his knees in front of you once again. “Then be a good girl and tell me what you want.”
It shouldn't be as embarrassing as it is. You’re a twenty-something year old woman with a sparkling GPA and enough experience under your belt that asking for something like this should be easy. But Sunghoons looking at you so tenderly, his hair a slight mess and eyes fucked out without even having been touched, and you’re finding it difficult to get the words out.
“I want…” You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze to the ceiling. “I want you to eat me out. Properly.”
He grins and presses a chaste skin to the inside of your thigh. “See?” He hums, “that wasn’t so hard was it?”
You don't bother giving him a response, because he’s already pulling your panties off your legs and plunging back in like a man starved. His lips wrap around your clit and suck the bud into his mouth, causing your back to arch and a loud moan to fall from your lips.
He doesn’t stop after that, licking and sucking with such expertise you wonder how Sophia could ever want anything else. She had all this and genuinely thought she was going to get better? What a fucking joke.
“S-Sunghoon–” You gasp, fingers tightening into fists in his hair. He groans when you tug lightly, and you swear you see his hips roll against nothing.
The hand on your belly travels down until he reaches your fluttering hole, gently pushing his middle finger inside of you. The stretch isn’t intense, more like just a subtle pressure between your hips, but it’s drowned out by the stimulation against your clit.
His fingers aren’t abnormally large, but they are long. So long he finds your g-spot with ease and curls his finger against it until you swear you’re seeing stars. You let out a choked whimper, hips stuttering against him.
He seems to take that as a good sign because he’s slipping another finger inside now, intensifying the stretch and making your eyes roll back. His fingers move in tandem with his tongue, licking and thrusting until your vision starts to blur at the corners. You’re close, you know it–can feel it tightening deep in your stomach.
“Gonna-gonna cum, fuck, m’cumming–”
Sunghoon hums, and the vibrations are exactly what you need to reach your peak. Your back bows off the bed, mouth falling open and eyes squeezing shut. You release with a silent cry of his name. He fucks you through it, and you can feel his eyes on you as he does. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your legs shake slightly with aftershocks. He’s studying this image of you, fucked out and empty-headed, like he’s committing it to memory.
When he finally pulls away your vision is slowly starting to come back to you. You barely register him maneuvering to come up next to you until you watch him rid himself of his shirt and you come face-to-face with the hard plains of his chest. His skin is soft and milky, the soft lines of his abs rising and falling as he takes in breaths of air.
You reach for him and he complies, falling over you until you’re chest to chest. You don’t waste any time before you’re kissing him again. You can taste the saltiness of your own slick on his lips, but you don’t care–instead, you kiss him deeper.
His tongue slips until your mouth, brushing against your own. It’s wet and gross and fucking perfect. “Sunghoon,” You manage between pants, “Fuck me.”
A beat passes as his eyes find yours, “Yeah?”
You nod, and that’s all the answer he needs. He wastes no time ridding himself of his pants and lining himself up with your entrance. He pushes in slowly, taking in every expression you make like he’s scared he’ll hurt you. And, yeah, he’s big. Like, bigger than anything you’ve ever taken. But the stretch is also perfect, filling you so completely your eyes nearly roll back.
“Fuck, you’re warm,” He mumbles, words slurring together. He sounds drunk on you.
When he bottoms out, you swear you’re seeing soundwaves and hearing colors. His tip nudges against that spot in you perfectly, curved at just the right angle.
He takes a moment to let you adjust, but you can tell he’s holding himself back. His fingers drip the sheets with effort, bottom lips in between his teeth. You roll your hips once, testing the waters, and the pleasure that floods through you forces a moan out of the both of you.
“Don’t do that,” He says breathily, voice on the verge of collapse. “Fuck.”
It takes a second, but his hips slowly start to push into yours. His thrusts are shallow at first, just little pushes that help you to accommodate his size, but it’s not long before they turn rougher.
He pulls out halfway just to slam back in, and your breath actually gets ripped from your lungs. Stars swim behind your eyes as he finds his pace, “Fuck,” You breathe.
Sunghoon gasps, burying his face in your neck. “I love you,” He groans, “Fuck, I love this pussy. I love the way you sound. Love the way you fucking feel. You’re perfect,” He babbles.
You part your lips to reply, but all that comes out is a sob when he thrusts particularly hard. You tighten instinctively around him, and he falters for a split-second before he’s finding his tempo again.
He fucks you like you’ve been denying him for years, like he’s spent every night dreaming of this. Tears of pleasure begin to streak across your cheeks; each he kisses away without so much as a hum.
It’s so intimate, so perfect, so full of love that you don’t even notice you’re approaching your climax until it crashes over you.
“Fuck, just like that,” Sunghoon whimpers, reaching down and rubbing light circles over your clit. “You’re so perfect. Such a good fucking girl. My good girl.” And then he’s releasing inside of you, hot spurts of cum painting your insides.
He stays inside of you after he comes, both of you panting hard, sweat and fluids leaking from your bodies. He eventually pulls out and lays down next to you, his arm across your middle.
You’re silent for a moment, collecting your thoughts. You just had Sex with Park Sunghoon. Not only that, but Park Sunghoon is in love with you. He’d said it enough times tonight for you to finally really believe it.
“You okay?” He asks softly, reaching up and tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. The gentleness in which he treats you now is such a stark contrast to the brutalness of which he just fucked you that you nearly laugh.
“Yeah,” You hum, voice a bit raspy. “I’m perfect.”
Sunghoon grins and pulls you into him. He kisses you again, but there aren’t any intentions behind it. Instead, it’s slow and sweet, like he’s hoping to convey every emotion he’s ever felt into the kiss.
“Good,” he says, pulling away slightly. “Because I’m going to remind you of how much I love you as much as I can.”
You laugh, “Are you asking to fuck me again?”
He shakes his head, “No,” He whispers, “I’m asking if I can make love to you again.”
And it doesn’t take much for you to say yes.
You’ve been dating Park Sunghoon for nine months and fourteen days. Nine months of hockey games, late night study session, and weekly dates (all of which he insisted he pay for). Nine months of surprise gifts, of sweet words, and daily reminders of just how lucky you are to have him.
Yunjin groans next to you, typing away furiously on her phone. “I can’t believe this is happening again!” She whines.
“I told you that a man you met on snapchat quick add wasn’t going to end up the love of your life.” Beomgyu sings knowingly, shoveling popcorn in his mouth.
“For what it's worth, he really wasn’t even that cute.” Jungwon adds.
She shoots him a glare, “Shut up, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Jiung was fucking beautiful and now he’s ghosting me!”
You shiver slightly, watching Sunghoon glide on the ice. He’s instructing his teammates to do something; you aren’t really sure. He’d tried to explain the rules of hockey to you months ago, but your brain was very clearly made for science and not sports.
“Try not to worry about it, Yunjin,” you say sympathetically, placing a comforting hand on her back. “You just haven’t met your person yet.”
She scoffs, gesturing at your shirt. “Easy for you to say when you’re already practically married to, like, the most perfect guy on the planet!”
You glance down at what you’re wearing–a blue jersey with the number 23 sprawled in the middle. Sunghoons hockey number.
You would argue with her, maybe try to make her feel better, but your eyes lock with Sunghoons across the rink for just a moment, and you stop yourself.
Because, well, she’s right. You did get lucky. You glance down at the duck hanging off of your bag, the very thing that had unknowingly started this entire thing.
“Yeah,” You shrug, “You’re right.”
And when you go home that night, listening to Sunghoon ramble about scoring the winning goal, you know that there's nowhere else you'd rather be.
thank you guys so much for reading 🥲 this story took everything out of me but i’m mostly happy with how it came out. ily guys <3
: ̗̀➛ Summary: You’re the daughter of a powerful music executive— gorgeous, privileged, and bored with your silver-spoon life. Jay Park is the rising star your father just signed— talented, damaged, and running from demons you can’t see yet. What starts as a reckless hookup at an industry party becomes an addictive spiral of drugs, sex and destructive love. As Jay’s status rises and his addiction deepens, you’re pulled into a darkness you can’t escape. Some love stories don’t have happy endings. Some people are too broken to be saved. And sometimes, love isn’t enough to keep someone alive. Will any of it matter when he burns it all down?
: ̗̀➛ Content warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+ MDNI), graphic drug use (cocaine, alcohol), substance abuse and addiction, fatal overdose, verbal and emotional abuse, degradation (sexual), rough sex, dubious consent (both parties under the influence), cheating and infidelity, toxic codependency, self-destructive behavior, manipulation, childhood trauma mentions, no condom use, graphic descriptions of drug use and overdose, character death, grief, depression, no happy ending, tragic ending.
: ̗̀➛ Word count: 22.3k
: ̗̀➛ Song: Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey
: ̗̀➛ Authors note: This fic destroyed me to write, so I hope it destroys you to read. Jay and reader are based in 2007 LA— flip phones, paparazzi culture, and the height of industry excess. This is a tragedy about addiction, toxic codependency, and the brutal reality that love alone cannot save someone who’s determined to self-destruct. There’s no redemption arc here, no happy ending, no lesson learned. Just two people who loved each other in the most destructive way possible. Reblogs, commmets, likes and feedback keep me writing, but please take care of yourselves while reading this.❤️
: ̗̀➛ My masterlist
The party is already in full swing when you arrive, fashionably late because that’s what’s expected of you.
Your father’s label has rented out the entire top floor of some pretentious hotel in West Hollywood—the kind of place with marble everything and champagne that costs more than most people’s rent. The bass from the speakers thrums through the floor, some remix of a top 40 hit that’ll be forgotten in a month. Crystal chandeliers catch the light from the DJ booth, scattering fragments of gold across the crowd of executives, artists, socialites, and people who are famous for being famous. You’ve been to a thousand parties exactly like this one. You’re bored before you even step off the elevator.
Your mother air-kisses both your cheeks without actually touching you, careful not to smudge her lipstick. She’s wearing Chanel— she’s always wearing Chanel— and her smile is the same one she uses for magazine covers. Practiced. Perfect. Empty.
“Darling, you look beautiful,” she says, even though she helped pick out the dress. Black lace slip dress that barely reaches mid-thigh, red bottom Louboutins that make your legs look endless. Your father’s credit card swiped without a second thought at Barneys yesterday afternoon.
“Thanks, Mom.” You accept a champagne flute from a passing waiter, though you have no intention of drinking it. Champagne is for people who want to look like they’re having fun. You prefer substances that actually deliver.
Your father appears at your mother’s elbow, already deep in conversation with some A&R rep whose name you’ve forgotten. He notices you and his expression shifts into that particular brand of paternal pride that’s really just self-satisfaction. “There’s my girl,” he says, pulling you into a one-armed hug that’s more for show than affection. “I want you to meet some people. Come on.”
You follow because that’s what you do. Smile, shake hands, laugh at jokes that aren’t funny, let men twice your age hold your hand a little too long while their wives pretend not to notice. You’re good at this. You’ve been trained for this your entire life.
The party stretches out before you like every other party—a blur of small talk and stale ambition. You excuse yourself after twenty minutes, slipping through the crowd toward the balcony where you know you’ll find relative privacy.
The Los Angeles skyline glitters below, smog softened by distance into something almost beautiful. You pull a pre-rolled joint from your clutch— you’d rolled it this morning, something to take the edge off— and light it with your Cartier lighter.
The first inhale settles something in your chest. The second makes the party sounds fade to background noise. By the third, you’re floating just enough to tolerate going back inside.
You smoke two joints in quick succession, letting the high build until the world has that pleasant fuzzy quality that makes everything bearable. When you finally return to the party, your eyes are glassy and your smile is genuine for the first time all night.
That’s when you see him.
He’s standing near the makeshift stage with your father and two other men, and you know immediately he’s the rising star your dad’s been going on about all week. Some musician the label just signed, the “next big thing,” another artist who’ll either make it or burn out spectacularly within a year.
Jay Park.
You’ve heard the name. Seen it on some blog or another. But you weren’t prepared for him to look like that.
He’s wearing all black— fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing forearms that are surprisingly cut, dark jeans that sit low on his hips, leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His hair is longer than the usual corporate clean-cut, falling into his eyes in a way that’s probably calculated but looks effortless. There’s a silver chain around his neck catching the light.
He looks like sex and danger and bad decisions.
And he’s staring directly at your ass. You catch his eyes flick up when he realizes you’ve noticed, but he doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed. Instead, he smirks— slow and deliberate— before turning his attention back to whatever your father is saying. Cocky. You hate that it works on you.
Your father sees you approaching and his whole face lights up with that particular brand of enthusiasm that means he’s about to use you for networking.
“And here she is!” He reaches for you, pulling you into the circle. “Gentlemen, my daughter. Sweetheart, I want you to meet Jay Park. He’s the artist I’ve been telling you about— the one who’s going to change the game.”
Jay extends his hand, and when you take it, his grip is firm, his hand warm. His eyes meet yours and there’s something sharp in them, assessing. Like he’s trying to figure out what you’re worth.
“Pleasure,” he says, and his voice is lower than you expected. Rough around the edges in a way that suggests cigarettes and late nights.
“The pleasure’s mine,” you reply, your tone bored even though your pulse kicks up a notch.
Up close, he’s even more attractive. Sharp jawline, full lips, eyes that are almost black in this lighting. There’s a restless energy to him, like he’s barely containing something wild. You can smell whiskey on his breath, see the slight dilation of his pupils that suggests he’s not entirely sober.
“Your father says you’re interested in music,” Jay says, though the way he’s looking at you suggests music is the last thing on his mind.
“I’m interested in a lot of things.” You let the words hang, ambiguous and inviting.
His smirk widens. “I bet you are.”
Your father, oblivious to the undercurrent, launches into some speech about Jay’s demo, the sound he’s cultivating, the tour they’re planning. You tune it out, watching Jay instead. The way he nods along, saying all the right things, playing the part of the grateful artist. But his eyes keep finding you, trailing down your body with an appreciation that’s just shy of inappropriate given the setting. You wonder if your father notices. You wonder if you care.
“Jay’s performing tonight,” your father says, finally wrapping up his pitch. “A few songs, let people hear what we’re working with. You should stay and watch.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” you say, directing the words at Jay rather than your father.
Something flickers in Jay’s expression— heat, promise, danger. He holds your gaze for a beat too long before your father is pulling him away, introducing him to someone else, someone more important.
But before he goes, Jay leans in close enough that you can feel his breath against your ear. “Stick around after,” he murmurs. “I’ve got something you’ll like.”
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and heat pooling low in your stomach. You need another joint.
An hour later, you’re leaning against the bar nursing a vodka cranberry you haven’t touched when the lights dim and your father takes the stage.
He gives the usual speech— thanking everyone for coming, talking up the label, building anticipation. Then he introduces Jay, and the crowd shifts, attention focusing on the stage as Jay steps into the spotlight.
He’s ditched the leather jacket. The stage lights catch on the silver chain, on the rings on his fingers when he picks up the guitar. There’s a moment of feedback, then he’s playing— something dark and hypnotic, all minor chords and driving rhythm. And then he starts singing.
His voice is raw and raspy, the kind of voice that sounds like it’s been dragged through gravel and smoke. The lyrics are explicit without being crude, sexual without being tacky. It’s the kind of music that makes you think of sweat-slicked skin and tangled sheets and the kind of mistakes you make at 3 AM.
You watch his fingers move on the guitar strings, watch the way his throat works when he hits the high notes, watch the way he rolls his hips slightly on the downbeat. It’s hypnotic. Sexual. Deliberate. And he’s looking right at you while he does it.
The song builds, tension coiling tighter and tighter until it finally breaks on the chorus, and you feel it in your body— that same tightening, that same need for release. Around you, people are nodding along, but you’re frozen, trapped in the pull of his gaze. He performs three songs total. Each one filthier than the last. Each one feeling like it’s meant for you specifically.
By the time he finishes, you’re wet and you haven’t even touched him. The crowd applauds. Your father looks pleased. Jay sets down the guitar and disappears backstage, and you wait exactly ninety seconds before you follow.
You find him in the hallway outside the green room, leaning against the wall with a bottle of wine in one hand. He’s already drunk half of it, you notice. There’s a restlessness to him now that the performance is over, that manic energy that needs an outlet.
“Enjoy the show?” he asks, not bothering with pleasantries.
“You were okay,” you lie.
He laughs— sharp and knowing. “Liar. You were eye-fucking me the entire time.”
“Maybe I was just trying to figure out what all the hype is about.”
He pushes off the wall, closing the distance between you in two strides. Up close, you can see the sheen of sweat on his skin from the stage lights, can smell whiskey and something sharper underneath. Drugs, probably. The thought should concern you more than it does.
“You’re pretty when you lie,” he says, his voice low. “But you’re even prettier when you’re high. How many joints did you smoke before you came back inside?”
Your breath catches. “Two.”
“Mm.” His eyes drop to your mouth. “You got any left?”
“Maybe.”
“You gonna share?”
“Depends.” You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “What are you offering in exchange?”
His hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up. “What do you want?”
The honest answer is you. The honest answer is that you’ve been wet since the moment he looked at you. The honest answer is that you want him to push you against this wall and make you forget your own name. But you don’t say any of that. Instead, you lean in close enough that your lips almost brush his ear.
“Surprise me.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. The hallway is empty, the party sounds muffled through the walls. There’s nothing but the sound of your breathing and the tension crackling between you like a live wire.
Then Jay’s hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, and he’s kissing you.
It’s not gentle. There’s nothing sweet or exploratory about it. His mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue pushing past your lips, tasting like whiskey and want. You kiss him back just as hard, fisting your hands in his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between you.
He walks you backward until you hit the wall, never breaking the kiss. His free hand finds your waist, your hip, slides down to grab your ass through the thin lace of your dress. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, biting your bottom lip hard enough to sting.
“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’re trouble.”
“So are you.”
His hand slides higher, fingers brushing the edge of your dress where it’s ridden up. “Your daddy know you’re out here with me?”
“My daddy doesn’t know a lot of things.”
“Good.” His fingers hook under the hem of your dress. “Let’s keep it that way.” Then he’s pulling back, grabbing your hand, dragging you down the hallway. You follow without question, your pulse pounding in your ears, heat coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
He pushes open a door— a bathroom, marble and gold and excessive like everything else in this fucking hotel— and pulls you inside. The lock clicks.
For half a second, you just look at each other. His pupils are blown wide, his breathing ragged. There’s a wild look in his eyes that should scare you but instead just makes you wetter.
“Last chance to walk away,” he says, but his hands are already reaching for you.
You grab his shirt and pull him in. “Shut up and fuck me.”
Something in him snaps. He spins you around, pushing you forward until you’re bent over the marble sink, your palms flat against the counter. The mirror reflects both of you back— your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, his hands already shoving your dress up over your hips.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. “Daddy’s little girl, bent over and desperate for it.”
“Fuck you,” you gasp, but there’s no heat in it.
“Oh, I’m going to.” His hand comes down hard on your ass and you bite back a moan. “But first, I want to see how wet you are.”
His fingers hook into your panties, dragging them down your thighs. You hear his sharp intake of breath when he sees how soaked you are, and it sends a bolt of satisfaction through you.
“Dirty little thing,” he says, almost to himself. Then louder: “You get this wet for everyone, or just for me?”
“Just you,” you admit, and it’s the truth.
“Good answer.” His fingers slide through your folds, teasing, and you push back against his hand. He laughs, low and mean. “Desperate already? We haven’t even started.”
“Then start,” you demand, and he responds by pushing two fingers inside you without warning. You cry out at the sudden fullness, and his other hand clamps over your mouth.
“Quiet,” he commands. “Unless you want everyone at this party to know what a dirty money whore you are.” The words should offend you. Instead they make you clench around his fingers, and he notices.
“Oh, you like that.” His fingers pump in and out, rough and fast. “You like being reminded that underneath all that expensive lace and designer heels, you’re just a spoiled brat who needs to be fucked.”
You moan against his palm, your hips rocking back to meet his thrusts. His fingers are thick and skilled, finding that spot inside you that makes your legs shake. But it’s not enough. You need more.
As if reading your mind, he pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss. You hear the sound of his belt, his zipper, and then his hand is on your hip, positioning you.
“Condom?” he asks, and there’s a hint of hesitation there, the first crack in his dominant facade.
“Pill,” you gasp. “I’m on the pill. Just—please—”
“Please what?”
“Please fuck me.”
“That’s better.” He pushes inside you in one hard thrust and you both groan. He’s bigger than you expected, the stretch almost too much, almost painful. But then he’s moving, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in, and the pain melts into pleasure so intense you see stars.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunts, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking my cock like you were made for it.”
He sets a brutal pace, each thrust driving you forward against the sink. The marble is cold against your palms, a sharp contrast to the heat building inside you. You watch in the mirror as he fucks you— his face twisted in concentration, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hips snapping against yours with a rhythm that’s almost musical.
Your own reflection is wrecked— hair falling out of its careful styling, makeup smudged, lips parted as you try to stay quiet. But it’s getting harder with each thrust, each time he hits that spot deep inside that makes your whole body light up.
A particularly hard thrust makes you cry out, and his hand moves from your hip to your mouth again.
“I said quiet,” he growls. “Or do I need to give you something to keep that pretty mouth busy?” He pulls his hand away just long enough to push two fingers past your lips. You suck them obediently, tasting yourself on his skin, and he groans. “That’s it. Suck my fingers like the good little slut you are.”
His other hand snakes around your body, finding your clit and rubbing harsh circles. The combination of sensations— his cock inside you, his fingers in your mouth, the pressure on your clit— is overwhelming. You feel your orgasm building, that familiar tension coiling tighter and tighter.
“You gonna come for me?” he asks, his voice rough. “Gonna come all over my cock while your father’s just down the hall?” You nod frantically, unable to speak around his fingers, and he picks up the pace. His thrusts become erratic, harder, and his fingers on your clit are relentless.
“Come,” he commands. “Come for me right fucking now.” And you do.
Your orgasm hits you like a wave, so intense your legs actually give out. He holds you up with one arm around your waist while you shake and spasm around him, and you feel it— a rush of wetness that you’ve only experienced a handful of times before.
“Fuck yes,” Jay groans, feeling you squirt around him. “That’s it, that’s my girl, give it to me—”
He fucks you through it, prolonging your orgasm until you’re sobbing against his fingers, overstimulated and wrung out. Only then does he let himself go, his rhythm stuttering as he buries himself deep and comes inside you with a low groan.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, the bathroom filled with the sound of it and the lingering smell of sex. Slowly, he pulls out, and you feel his cum drip down your thigh.
He tucks himself back into his jeans while you straighten up on shaky legs. Your reflection in the mirror is obscene— thoroughly fucked, makeup ruined, hickeys already blooming on your neck and collarbone that you’ll have to cover up before you go back out there.
Jay meets your eyes in the mirror, and for a moment something passes between you. Recognition, maybe. Or acknowledgment of what you’ve just started. Then he smirks, adjusting his shirt.
“You should clean up. Can’t have daddy seeing you like this.” The spell breaks.
You pull paper towels from the dispenser with shaking hands, cleaning yourself up as best you can. Your panties are ruined, so you ball them up and shove them in your clutch. Your dress is wrinkled but there’s nothing you can do about that. The hickeys are going to be a problem, but you’ll figure it out. Jay watches you the entire time, that infuriating smirk still on his face.
“What?” you snap, suddenly irritated with him, with yourself, with this whole situation.
“Nothing.” He reaches for the door handle. “Just thinking this is going to be fun.”
“What is?”
“This. Us.” He looks you up and down one more time. “Whatever the fuck this is.”
Then he’s gone, slipping out of the bathroom without another word, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the ache between your legs.
You wait five minutes before you follow. Long enough to fix your hair, dab at the hickeys with concealer you don’t have, give up and hope no one looks too closely.
When you finally emerge, the party is still going strong. Nobody seems to have noticed your absence.
You spot Jay across the room, surrounded by industry people, playing the part of the grateful artist again. He catches your eye for just a second, and the heat in his gaze makes your breath catch.
Then someone hands you a drink, pulls you into a conversation, and you’re back in your role too. Daddy’s perfect little girl. The socialite. The trust fund baby who has everything. But underneath the expensive dress and the fake smile, you can still feel him between your legs. Can still taste his fingers in your mouth. Can still hear his voice calling you a dirty money whore.
And you want more.
—
You don’t hear from him for a week. Not that you expected to. You didn’t exchange numbers, didn’t make plans, didn’t do anything that would suggest the bathroom at your father’s party was anything more than what it was— a quick fuck between two people who wanted each other.
Still, you check your phone more than you’d like to admit. Flip it open during boring lunches with your mother, during shopping trips on Rodeo Drive, during another insufferable charity gala where you smile and nod and pretend to care about whatever cause is trendy this month.
You tell yourself you don’t care. There are plenty of other guys— actors, models, trust fund brats who’d love to get their dirty hands on you. You’ve fucked half of young Hollywood already. Jay Park is nothing special.
Except you can’t stop thinking about the way he bent you over that sink. The way he called you daddy’s little girl. The way he made you squirt all over his cock while your father was down the hall. You smoke more weed than usual that week but it doesn’t help.
It’s the following Friday when you see him again.
Your father’s having another industry thing—this time it’s a showcase at some trendy club in West Hollywood, the kind of place with velvet ropes and a guest list that determines your worth as a human being. Several of the label’s artists are performing, including Jay.
You almost don’t go. But your mother insists— “It’s important to support your father’s work, darling”— and you’re bored enough that even a shitty showcase sounds better than another night alone in your apartment getting high and watching reality TV.
You dress deliberately. A red slip dress this time, even shorter than the black one. Fuck-me heels. Your hair loose and wild. If you’re going to run into him, you atleast want him to remember exactly what he’s missing.
The club is packed when you arrive, already thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of expensive cologne. The music is too loud, the drinks are overpriced, and everyone is trying too hard. Standard LA bullshit.
Your father finds you immediately, pulling you into the VIP section where he’s holding court with various executives and artists. You accept a vodka soda from the waitress and settle in for a long night of forced conversation.
That’s when you see them.
Jay is standing near the bar with a woman you don’t recognize. She’s older than you— maybe late twenties, early thirties— dressed in a crisp white button-down tucked into fitted black pants. Professional. Put-together. The kind of woman who actually has her shit figured out.
They’re standing close, her hand on his arm as she talks to him. She’s laughing at something he said, and he’s smiling back, comfortable in a way you haven’t seen him before. Something ugly twists in your stomach.
“Ah, there he is!” Your father’s voice cuts through your thoughts. He’s waving Jay over, and you watch as he says something to the woman before heading your way.
Up close, he looks good. Too good. Black t-shirt, leather jacket, jeans that fit perfectly. His hair is slightly messy like he’s been running his hands through it. When his eyes land on you, something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone before you can identify it.
“Jay, you remember my daughter,” your father says, oblivious as always.
“Of course.” Jay extends his hand like you’re strangers, like he wasn’t inside you a week ago. “Good to see you again.”
You take his hand, your skin tingling at the contact. “Likewise.”
The woman from the bar appears at Jay’s elbow, and your father’s face lights up. “Ginny! Perfect timing. Have you met my daughter?”
So this is Ginny.
She’s even more polished up close— sharp features, calculating eyes, a smile that doesn’t quite reach them. She extends her hand and you shake it, noting the expensive watch on her wrist, the diamond studs in her ears.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Ginny says, her voice smooth and professional. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Have you?” You keep your tone light, disinterested.
“Ginny is Jay’s manager,” your father explains. “She’s been instrumental in his development. We’re lucky to have her on the team.”
“How nice.” You take a sip of your drink, your eyes flicking to Jay. He’s watching you with that same unreadable expression.
Ginny shifts slightly, and that’s when you see them. Hickeys. Dark purple bruises just visible above the collar of her white shirt. She’s tried to cover them with makeup but the lighting in here is unforgiving. Your stomach drops.
You look at Jay, and he’s smirking. Actually fucking smirking at you. He did that. You know he did.
“We should probably get ready for soundcheck,” Ginny says, her hand landing on Jay’s arm again. Possessive. Familiar. “They want you on stage in twenty.”
“Right.” Jay nods to your father. “I’ll see you after the set.”
“Looking forward to it,” your father says.
Jay’s eyes meet yours one more time before he walks away, and there’s a challenge in them. A taunt.
What are you going to do about it?
You down the rest of your drink in one swallow.
Jay’s set is different from the party performance. Rawer. The venue is smaller, more intimate, and he feeds off the energy of the crowd. His voice is rough and hypnotic, the lyrics even filthier than before. He moves across the stage like he owns it, guitar slung low, every motion deliberate and sexual.
And he keeps looking at you. Not obviously enough that anyone else would notice. But you feel his gaze like a physical touch, burning across your skin, reminding you of things you’re trying to forget.
By the third song, you’re wet and furious about it.
Ginny is watching from the side of the stage, her arms crossed, her expression proud. Like she has any right to be proud of him. Like she has any claim to him at all. But those hickeys say otherwise.
The set ends to enthusiastic applause. Your father is beaming, already talking about booking bigger venues, planning a tour. Jay says all the right things, plays the humble artist, but his eyes keep finding you in the crowd. You need air.
You slip away from the VIP section, heading toward the back of the venue where you know there’s a door that leads to the alley. You need to smoke, need to clear your head, need to figure out why the fuck you care that Jay is apparently fucking his manager.
You’re halfway down the dim hallway when you hear footsteps behind you.
“Running away?” Jay’s voice cuts through the darkness. You turn. He’s leaning against the wall, backlit by the glow from the club, and he looks like every bad decision you’ve ever made.
“I needed some air,” you say coolly.
“Bullshit.” He pushes off the wall, stalking toward you. “You’re pissed.”
“Why would I be pissed?”
“Ginny’s hickeys.” He’s close now, close enough that you can smell whiskey on his breath. “You saw them.”
“So what if I did?”
“So you’re jealous.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Then why are you out here instead of in there with daddy and all his important friends?”
You lift your chin, refusing to back down even though he’s crowding you against the wall. “Maybe I just don’t want to watch you perform like a trained monkey.”
His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around your throat— not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of what he can do to you.
“You’re such a bitch,” he murmurs, but there’s heat in his voice.
“And you’re an asshole.”
“Yeah.” His thumb presses against your pulse point. “But you’re still thinking about me fucking you. Still wet for me even though I left marks on someone else.”
“Fuck you.”
“That’s the plan.”
He kisses you hard, his tongue pushing into your mouth, tasting like whiskey and cigarettes and bad choices. You kiss him back just as rough, biting his lip, fisting your hands in his jacket. This is stupid. Your father is in the club. Ginny is probably looking for him. Anyone could walk back here.
You don’t care.
Jay’s hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up, and you spread your legs for him without hesitation. His fingers find you already soaked, and he groans into your mouth.
“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he breathes. “All from watching me on stage?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You reach for his belt, but he catches your wrist. “Not here. Too exposed.” He glances around, then grabs your hand. “Come on.”
He pulls you further down the hallway to a door marked “Storage.” It’s unlocked, and inside is exactly what you’d expect— boxes of liquor, cleaning supplies, random equipment. And barely any light. Perfect.
The door barely closes before Jay is on you again, spinning you around and pushing you face-first against the wall. Your cheek presses against the cold concrete as his hands yank your dress up over your hips.
“No panties?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
“I learned my lesson last time.”
“Good girl.” His hand comes down hard on your ass and you bite back a moan. “Learning so fast.”
He’s already unbuckling his belt, the sound of his zipper obscenely loud in the small space. Then he’s pushing inside you in one brutal thrust and you both groan.
“Fuck,” he grinds out. “Still so fucking tight.”
There’s no finesse to this. It’s fast and rough and desperate, his hips snapping against yours hard enough that you’ll have bruises tomorrow. One hand is fisted in your hair, pulling your head back, while the other grips your hip hard enough to hurt.
“This what you wanted?” he growls in your ear. “Wanted me to fuck you like the needy little slut you are?”
“Yes,” you gasp, past the point of pride.
“Say it properly.”
“I wanted you to fuck me.”
“And I’m doing that, aren’t I? Giving you exactly what you need.” His hand slides around to your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Even though your daddy’s right out there. Even though Ginny’s probably wondering where I went. You don’t care, do you?”
“No.”
“Because you’re addicted to this cock.”
You want to argue, want to tell him he’s wrong, but he chooses that moment to change his angle and hit that spot inside you that makes you see stars.
“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around him. “Take it. Take all of it.”
His hand moves from your throat to your mouth, two fingers pushing past your lips.
“Suck,” he commands. You do, hollowing your cheeks, tasting the sweat on his skin. He groans, his rhythm getting erratic.
“Gonna come,” he warns. “Gonna fill this pussy up and send you back out there dripping with my cum.”
The thought alone nearly pushes you over the edge. His other hand finds your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and that’s all it takes. You come hard, your whole body going taut, and you feel him follow a moment later— his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and fills you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, your legs shaking, your mind blissfully blank.
Then Jay pulls out and the spell breaks once again. You straighten up on unsteady legs, smoothing your dress down. He’s already tucking himself back into his jeans, running a hand through his hair.
“You should get back out there,” he says, his tone casual like he didn’t just fuck you in a storage closet. “Before someone notices you’re gone.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll wait a few minutes. Can’t have people talking.”
Right. Because that would be bad for his image. Bad for the career your father is building for him. You head for the door, but his voice stops you.
“Hey.” You turn. “This works, right? Us?” He gestures between you. “Just fucking when it’s convenient?”
Something in your chest tightens, but you force a smile. “Perfectly convenient.”
“Good.” He leans back against the wall, and in the dim light you can see the hickeys you left on his neck at your father’s party the other week, already fading. “I’ll see you around then.”
“Yeah. See you around.”
You slip out of the storage room and make your way back to the club, your legs still shaky, his cum slowly dripping down your thigh. No one seems to notice your absence. Your father is still talking business, your mother is holding court with the wives, and Ginny is back at the bar, scanning the crowd. Looking for Jay, probably.
You grab another drink from a passing waitress and down it, trying to ignore the bitter taste in your mouth that has nothing to do with vodka.
This is fine. This is what you wanted, just really good sex when the opportunity presents itself. So why does it feel like you just lost something you never even had?
The pattern establishes itself quickly after that.
You run into each other at industry events— always with your father present, always having to play the part of polite acquaintances. Jay performs, you watch, and somehow you always end up fucking in whatever private space you can find.
A bathroom at a restaurant during a label dinner.
The backseat of his shitty car in a parking garage.
Your apartment when your parents think you’re at a friend’s house.
His apartment— a cramped studio in a building with questionable plumbing— when Ginny is out of town.
It’s never planned. You don’t text each other to make plans, don’t call just to talk, hell you don’t even have eachother numbers. You just… find each other. And when you do, you fuck. Hard and fast and without words beyond the dirty talk that gets you both off.
Sometimes he’s drunk. You can taste it on his tongue, smell it on his skin. He’s rougher those nights, meaner with his words, more likely to leave marks.
Sometimes you’re high. Everything is softer then, slower, your body more sensitive to every touch. He seems to like you better that way— pliant and needy and willing to do whatever he asks.
You never ask about Ginny. He never asks about the actor you were photographed with last week, or the model the week before that.
Because this isn’t that. This is just sex. Convenient, really fucking good sex. That’s all it is. That’s all it needs to be.
Three months in, your mother brings it up over brunch at some overpriced restaurant in Beverly Hills. “Your father tells me you’ve been seeing quite a bit of Jay Park,” she says, delicately cutting her egg white omelet into precise pieces.
You nearly choke on your mimosa. “What?”
“Don’t play coy, darling. You’re always at the same events, you’re seen talking to him, leaving around the same time…” She gives you a knowing look. “Are you two dating?”
“No,” you say quickly. Too quickly.
Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches. “No?”
“We’re just… friends. Barely that. I’m being polite because of Dad.”
“Mm.” She doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, if you were dating, I’d approve. He’s quite talented, your father says. And he’s going to be very successful. That’s the kind of man you should be associating with— someone with ambition, drive. Not these vapid actor boys you usually waste your time with.”
You stare at her. “You’d approve?”
“Of course. He’s rough around the edges, certainly, but that can be polished. And having a successful musician on your arm would be good for your image. Make you seem more… substantial.”
Substantial. Like you’re a product that needs better marketing.
“I’m not dating him,” you repeat.
“But you could be.” She sets down her fork, fixing you with that look she gets when she’s about to give you life advice you didn’t ask for. “Darling, you’re twenty-three years old. It’s time to start thinking about your future. About building the right associations. Jay Park could be very good for you.”
For you. Not for your heart, not for your happiness. For your image. For the family brand.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say, reaching for your mimosa again. Your mother smiles, satisfied, and returns to her omelet.
You finish the brunch on autopilot, nodding and smiling in all the right places, and all you can think about is how fucked up it is that your mother would approve of you dating Jay for all the wrong reasons.
Almost as fucked up as the fact that you’re not actually dating him.
You’re just letting him fuck you in storage closets and leave his cum dripping down your legs while he goes home to his manager with the hickeys on her neck.
Yeah. Totally not fucked up at all.
Four months into whatever this is, and you still don’t have his number. It’s almost laughable. You’ve fucked him in more places than you can count, you know exactly how he likes his whiskey (neat, expensive), you know the sounds he makes when he comes— but you don’t have a way to contact him outside of these chance encounters at industry events. Not that it matters. You always find each other eventually.
Tonight is another one of your father’s things of course— a celebration at some exclusive club in Hollywood. Jay’s first single just hit the Billboard charts, and your father is practically glowing with pride. “I told you he was the next big thing,” he keeps saying to anyone who’ll listen, and for once you don’t even roll your eyes because he’s right.
Jay’s everywhere now. Radio, magazines, MTV. The label is pushing him hard, and it’s working. He’s still raw, still edgy enough to be interesting, but polished enough for mainstream success.
You’re proud of him, you realize. Which is stupid, because you’re not together. You’re not anything. You’re just two people who fuck sometimes. Well, a lot actually.
The club is packed, bass thumping so hard you feel it in your chest. Your father has the VIP section locked down, of course, but you got bored of that scene within the first hour. The same executives, the same conversations, the same fake smiles.
So you’ve migrated to the dance floor. You’re three drinks in and feeling good— that perfect buzz where everything is softer around the edges but you’re still in control. The music is loud enough to drown out thoughts, and you let yourself get lost in it.
A man pulls you close— older, maybe forty, expensive suit and the kind of watch that costs more than most people’s cars. You don’t know his name and you don’t care. He’s just a body, just hands on your hips as you grind your ass back against him.
You can feel him getting hard against you, and it’s gratifying in a shallow way. This is what you’re good at. Being wanted. Being desired. Being the girl everyone notices.
His lips find your neck, kissing up to your ear. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmurs, and you smile even though the words mean nothing.
Another man joins you— younger this time, maybe early thirties, pulling you against his front so you’re sandwiched between them. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your dress.
This is dangerous. Reckless. Your father is upstairs, probably wondering where you are. You don’t care.
The music shifts, something darker and heavier, and you lose yourself in the rhythm. The older man’s hands are on your hips, guiding your movements, while the younger one kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.
You need to pee.
Reluctantly, you extract yourself from their grip, ignoring their protests as you head toward the back of the club where you know the bathrooms are. The hallway is dimmer, quieter, the bass reduced to a muffled thump through the walls.
That’s when you hear it. A familiar voice, low and rough, followed by laughter. You follow the sound to a darker section of the hallway, a semi-private area with velvet couches and low lighting. And there he is.
Jay.
He’s sprawled on one of the couches with three older men you don’t recognize— industry types, probably, based on their expensive clothes and the way they carry themselves.
There’s a glass table in front of them, and on it— lines of white powder, neat and precise.
Jay leans forward, a rolled-up hundred dollar bill in his hand, and snorts a line in one smooth motion. He sits back, his head tilting up, eyes closed, and even from here you can see the way his jaw clenches, the way his whole body goes taut for a moment before he relaxes.
Then his eyes open and land directly on you. A slow smirk spreads across his face.
“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice rougher than usual. “Look who found the fun.”
He’s drunk. You can tell by the way he’s sitting, loose-limbed and careless, by the glassiness of his eyes. But the coke has sharpened him somehow, given him an edge that makes your pulse quicken.
“Didn’t know you were here,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your heart is racing.
“Your daddy’s party and you didn’t know I’d be here?” He laughs, the sound bitter. “That’s cute.”
The men with him are looking at you now, their gazes sliding over your body in a way that should make you uncomfortable but instead sends a thrill through you. You recognize the look— hunger, want, the kind of attention you’ve been craving all night.
“Come here,” Jay says, and it’s not a request. You should walk away. You should go back to the dance floor, back to VIP, back to safety.
Instead, you walk toward him.
He reaches out when you’re close enough, his hand wrapping around your wrist and pulling you down onto the couch next to him. His arm immediately goes around your shoulders, his hand sliding down to grope your ass possessively.
“Gentlemen,” he says to the men, “this is—” He pauses, his smirk widening. “Actually, I don’t think we’ve ever established what you are to me. What should I call you?”
“Don’t call me anything,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“So mysterious.” His hand squeezes your ass harder. “They know who you are, though. Everyone knows who you are. The exec’s daughter. The trust fund baby. The girl who gets everything handed to her.”
There’s an edge to his words, something sharp beneath the surface, but you’re too focused on the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his hand feels on your body.
One of the men leans forward, pushing something across the table. A credit card, a small plastic bag of white powder. “You want some?” the man asks, looking at you.
You glance at Jay. He’s watching you with those dark, glittering eyes, waiting to see what you’ll do.
“Have you ever tried it?” he asks, his voice low enough that only you can hear.
“No.”
“Want to?”
You should say no. Weed is one thing— harmless, relatively speaking. But cocaine is different. Cocaine is the kind of thing that ruins lives, that turns people into hollow versions of themselves.
But Jay does it. And he seems fine. And you’re so tired of being good, of being careful, of being the perfect daughter who does everything right.
“Yeah,” you say. “I want to.”
His smirk turns into a full grin. “That’s my girl.”
He doesn’t let the men prepare it. Instead, he takes the bag and the credit card himself, cutting out a line on the table with practiced precision. It’s smaller than the one he did, you notice. Considerate, in his own fucked-up way.
“You’re gonna feel it hit fast,” he tells you, handing you the rolled bill. “It’s gonna make your whole face go numb, and your heart’s gonna race. You might feel like you can’t breathe for a second, but that’s normal. Just go with it.”
“Okay.”
“And after, you’re gonna feel fucking incredible. Like you can do anything, like you’re on top of the world.” His hand slides up your thigh. “Like you need to fuck immediately.”
Your breath catches.
“Do it,” he encourages, his voice rough with want.
You lean forward, press the bill to your nose, and inhale. The burn is immediate and intense, worse than you expected. Your eyes water and you sit back quickly, your hand flying to your nose.
“Breathe,” Jay says, his arm tightening around you. “Just breathe through it.”
You do, and he’s right— your face goes numb almost instantly, this strange tingling spreading from your nose to your cheeks to your whole head. Your heart starts racing, pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat, and for a second you think you might be having a heart attack.
Then it shifts.
The numbness fades into something else entirely. Every nerve ending in your body lights up at once. The music from the club, muffled before, suddenly sounds crystal clear and impossibly good. The lights are brighter, more vivid. And Jay’s hand on your thigh feels like fucking fire.
“Holy shit,” you breathe.
He laughs. “Good, right?”
“So good.”
“Told you.” His hand slides higher, his fingers brushing the edge of your underwear. “How do you feel?”
“Like I could run a marathon. Like I could fuck for hours. Like—” You turn to look at him and the intensity in his eyes steals your breath. “Like I need you right now.”
“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath your underwear, finding you already wet. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”
“Your fault.”
“My fault for being so hot? For corrupting daddy’s little girl?” His fingers slide through your folds, teasing. “What would he think if he knew you were down here, high on coke, letting me finger you in front of strangers?”
The men are definitely watching now, not even pretending to look away. One of them adjusts himself through his pants, and the knowledge that they’re getting off on this makes you even wetter.
“I don’t care what he thinks,” you gasp as Jay’s fingers find your clit.
“Liar. You love the thrill. Love knowing you could get caught.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re such a bad girl. And I fucking love it.”
Then he’s kissing you, hard and demanding, his tongue pushing into your mouth. You kiss him back desperately, your hands fisting in his shirt, and you don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care about anything except the way he tastes, the way his fingers feel inside you, the way the coke is making every sensation a thousand times more intense.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “We need to go. Now.”
“What about—” You gesture vaguely at the men, at the scene.
“Fuck them. I need to be inside you.” He stands, pulling you up with him, and you’re unsteady on your feet for a moment before the world rights itself. Everything is so bright, so loud, so much.
Jay grabs your hand and starts pulling you toward the exit. You catch a glimpse of the VIP section as you pass— your father is still there, surrounded by people, completely oblivious to what his daughter is doing. Good.
The fresh air hits you like a slap when you step outside, and you gasp. The coke is still thrumming through your system, making your skin feel electric.
“Where’s your car?” Jay asks, already pulling you toward the parking structure.
“I got dropped off.”
“Mine then.” The parking structure is dimly lit and mostly empty this high up. Jay’s car— still the same beat-up Honda— is parked in a far corner. He unlocks it with shaking hands, yanking open the back door and practically shoving you inside.
You hear a voice calling out— “Jay!”— and you both freeze. Ginny is walking toward you from the elevator, her expression thunderous.
“Shit,” Jay mutters.
“What are you doing?” Ginny demands when she’s close enough. Her eyes flick from Jay to you, and her face hardens. “We’re supposed to be at the label meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Tell them I’ll be late.”
“You can’t be late, it’s—” She stops, really looking at him for the first time. At his dilated pupils, his flushed face. “Are you high?”
“So what if I am?”
“So we have a meeting, Jay. An important one. You can’t show up like this.”
“Watch me.”
Ginny’s gaze lands on you again, and the look she gives you could strip paint. “This is your fault.”
“Excuse me?” You’re high enough that her hostility is more amusing than threatening.
“Every time you’re around, he gets worse. Drinks more, uses more, makes stupid decisions.” She steps closer. “He doesn’t need you dragging him down.”
“Ginny—” Jay starts, but you cut him off.
“Dragging him down?” You laugh. “Sweetheart, he was doing lines before I even showed up tonight. Don’t blame me for your inability to control your client.”
“He’s not just my client.”
The implication hangs in the air, and even through the coke haze, it stings.
“Then maybe you should be a better girlfriend,” you shoot back. “Because he certainly doesn’t act like he has one when he’s fucking me.”
Ginny’s face goes white, then red. “You little—”
“Enough!” Jay’s voice cuts through the tension. He steps between you, facing Ginny. “Go to the meeting. Make an excuse. I don’t care. But I’m not going.”
“Jay—”
“I said I’m not going.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Now leave.”
Ginny looks like she wants to argue more, but something in his expression stops her. She shoots you one more venomous look before turning on her heel and stalking back toward the elevator.
The moment she’s gone, Jay rounds on you. “Get in the fucking car.”
The shift in his tone sends a thrill through you. You climb into the backseat and he follows, slamming the door behind him.
For a moment, you just stare at each other, both breathing hard. Then you’re moving at the same time, crashing together in a tangle of limbs and desperation.
You climb into his lap, straddling him, and his hands immediately go to your ass, yanking your dress up around your waist. Your hands work his belt, his zipper, freeing his cock with shaking fingers.
“Condom—” he starts, but you shake your head.
“Don’t care. Need you now.”
“Fuck yes.”
You sink down onto him in one swift motion and you both groan. The coke makes everything sharper, more intense. You can feel every inch of him, every ridge and vein, and it’s almost too much.
“Ride me,” he demands, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Show me how bad you need this cock.”
You do, lifting up and slamming back down, setting a brutal pace. His head falls back against the seat, his throat exposed, and you lean forward to bite down on the tendon there.
“Fuck!” His hips buck up to meet yours. “You’re such a needy little slut for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp, too far gone to care about pride.
His hands slide up to your breasts, yanking down the top of your dress so they spill out. He leans forward, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking hard.
“Jay— oh god—”
He switches to the other nipple, biting down hard enough to make you cry out. You’ll have marks tomorrow, evidence of this, and the thought makes you clench around him.
“You like that?” he growls against your skin. “Like when I mark you up? So everyone knows who you belong to?”
“I don’t belong to anyone.”
“Liar.” His hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “You belong to me. This pussy belongs to me. Say it.”
“Make me.”
He releases your throat and before you can process what’s happening, his hand comes down hard on your ass. The sharp crack echoes in the small space, and the sting sends pleasure shooting straight to your core.
“Say it,” he demands, spanking you again.
“Fuck you.”
Another spank, harder this time. “Wrong answer.”
You’re close, so close, the combination of the coke and his cock and the pain pushing you right to the edge. But you won’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you say it.
His fingers find your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and that’s all it takes. You come with a scream, your whole body convulsing, and you feel him follow a moment later— his cock pulsing inside you as he fills you up.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, covered in sweat, your body still trembling with aftershocks.
Then you feel his phone buzz in his pocket, and reality crashes back in.
You climb off him, wincing at the soreness already setting in. Your dress is ruined, your makeup definitely smudged, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you.
Jay tucks himself back into his jeans, running a hand through his hair. He looks wrecked— pupils still blown, lips swollen, scratches visible on his neck where you dug your nails in.
“Give me your phone,” he says suddenly.
“What?”
“Your phone. Give it to me.”
You pull your phone out of your clutch— a flip phone, because this is 2007 and smartphones don’t exist yet— and hand it to him. He flips it open, punches in some numbers, and hands it back.
“That’s my number,” he says. “Text me when you get home.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Okay.”
“And next time you want to see me, don’t wait for some fucking industry event. Just call.”
“Okay,” you repeat, softer this time.
He leans over and kisses you— softer than before, almost gentle. “Go clean up. I’ll get you a cab.”
You text him that night, just a simple made it home.
He responds immediately: good. same time next week?
your place or mine?
yours. your bed’s bigger.
You smile despite yourself. ok
wear that dress. the red one.
why?
because I’m gonna fuck you in it.
And just like that, everything changes. You trade numbers. You make plans. You start seeing each other outside of chance encounters— though you still fuck at industry events too, because the risk is half the fun.
He comes to your apartment three times a week. Sometimes you fuck immediately, quick and desperate against the door. Sometimes you do lines first, letting the coke build the anticipation until you can’t stand it anymore. Sometimes he brings his guitar and plays for you— raw, unfinished songs that he says aren’t ready but that you think are beautiful.
You learn things about him in those in-between moments. That he takes his coffee black. That he’s left-handed. That he has nightmares sometimes and wakes up swinging. That his father used to tell him he’d never amount to anything, and some part of him still believes it no matter how successful he gets.
You don’t tell him about your own fears, your own insecurities. But sometimes, when you’re both high and loose-limbed and honest, things slip out. How you feel like a fraud. How everyone loves the version of you they’ve created, but no one actually knows you. How you’re terrified that if they did, they’d realize there’s nothing there worth knowing.
“That’s bullshit,” Jay says one night, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your bare stomach. “You’re more than your father’s name.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. You’re also incredible pussy.”
You smack his chest and he laughs, catching your wrist.
“I’m kidding. Mostly.” He pulls you closer. “You’re smart. Smarter than you let people see. And you’re funny, even if your humor is mean as fuck. And you…” He trails off.
“I what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
But something in his tone makes you think he was going to say something else. Something that mattered. You don’t push.
The cocaine becomes regular. Not every time you see each other, but enough that you start to recognize the signs— the way he gets when he needs it, jittery and irritable until he can get his fix. He never offers to sell you any, but you give him money sometimes anyway. Call it a contribution to his habits. Call it enabling.
You’re not proud of it. But you’re not going to stop either.
—
Six weeks into your new arrangement, Jay cancels on you for the first time. You’ve just gotten home from a charity luncheon with your mother, and you text him: im home. you coming over?
The response takes twenty minutes: can’t tonight. something came up.
You stare at the message, trying to ignore the disappointment curling in your stomach.
tomorrow?
busy. ill let you know.
That’s it. No explanation, no apology. Just I’ll let you know. You tell yourself you don’t care. You have other things to do, other people to see. Jay Park is not the center of your universe.
But you spend the next week checking your phone constantly, waiting for a text that doesn’t come.
When you finally see him again, it’s at another club opening. Your father dragged you along, and you went because you were bored and maybe, just maybe, Jay would be there. He is.
He’s in VIP with the usual crowd— executives, other artists, hangers-on. And Ginny, sitting close to him, her hand on his thigh.
Your stomach drops. You knew they had history. You knew they probably still fucked sometimes. But seeing it, seeing her touching him like she has a right to, makes something ugly twist in your chest.
You down your drink and order another.
By the time Jay spots you, you’re three drinks in and dancing with some actor whose name you can’t remember. The actor’s hands are on your waist, your ass, and you let him because you want Jay to see. Want him to feel even a fraction of what you’re feeling. It works.
Jay’s eyes darken when he sees you, and you watch as he says something to Ginny before standing up. He makes his way through the crowd, his gaze locked on you, and when he reaches you, he doesn’t say a word. He just grabs your wrist and pulls.
You let him, following him through the club to a back hallway, to a door marked “Private.” He shoves it open— some kind of office— and pulls you inside, locking the door behind you.
“What the fuck was that?” he demands.
“What was what?”
“You, grinding on that asshole like a cheap whore.”
The words hit like a slap. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He steps closer, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath. He’s drunk. Really drunk. “You trying to make me jealous? That your game?”
“I’m not playing any game. I can dance with whoever I want.”
“Not when you’re mine, you can’t.”
“I’m not yours!” The words come out sharper than you intended. “You made that very clear when you ghosted me for a week to fuck Ginny.”
His jaw clenches. “I didn’t fuck Ginny.”
“Bullshit. I saw you two. Her hands all over you—”
“She’s my manager. She’s always all over me. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then where were you?” Your voice cracks despite your best efforts. “I texted you. I called. You ignored me for a fucking week, Jay.”
“I was busy—”
“Busy fucking her.”
“I wasn’t!” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I was in the studio. I was working. I didn’t have time for—”
“For me. You didn’t have time for me.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“But it’s what you meant.” You cross your arms, hating how much this hurts. “Whatever. We’re not together. You don’t owe me explanations.”
“Then why are you acting like I cheated on you?”
“I’m not—”
“You are. You’re pissed that I didn’t text you back, pissed that Ginny was touching me, pissed that I have a life outside of fucking you.” His voice is getting louder, meaner. “What did you think this was? Did you think because we exchanged numbers, because I fuck you in your fancy apartment, that means something?”
Each word is a knife, but you refuse to let him see how deep they cut.
“No,” you say coldly. “I know exactly what this is. We’re fuck buddies who occasionally do coke together. Nothing more.”
“Then act like it.”
“I am acting like it. You’re the one who dragged me in here.”
“Because watching another man touch what’s mine—” He stops himself, his jaw clenching.
“I’m not yours,” you repeat, but your voice is weaker now.
“Aren’t you?” He closes the distance between you in two strides, backing you against the desk. “You think about me when you’re with them, don’t you? Think about my hands, my mouth, my cock. Wonder if they could ever make you feel the way I do.”
“Fuck you.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” His hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but we both know the truth. You’re mine. You’ve been mine since that first night.”
“And what about you?” You look up at him, defiant even with his hand on your throat. “Are you mine?”
For a moment, something flickers in his eyes— vulnerability, maybe, or fear. Then it’s gone, replaced by that familiar cruelty.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” he says. “Not you, not Ginny, not your father. I’m not some pet you can claim.”
The words shouldn’t hurt as much as they do. “Then let go of me.”
“No.”
“Jay—”
“I said no.” His other hand slides up your thigh, pushing your dress up. “Because even though you piss me off, even though you’re a spoiled brat who thinks the world revolves around her, even though I should walk away right now— I can’t.”
His fingers find you wet despite everything, and he laughs— low and bitter. “You hate me right now, don’t you? But your body doesn’t care. Your body knows who it belongs to.”
“I don’t hate you,” you whisper, and it’s the truth. You wish you could hate him. It would be so much easier.
“You should.” He pushes two fingers inside you, rough and fast. “I’m not good for you. I’m not good for anyone.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will.” But even as he says it, he’s kissing you— hard and desperate, like he’s trying to punish you or himself or both. You kiss him back just as hard, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even though he’s right. Even though this is toxic and destructive and wrong.
He spins you around, bending you over the desk, and you hear his belt, his zipper. Then he’s pushing inside you with no warning, no preparation, and you cry out at the stretch.
“This what you wanted?” he growls in your ear, setting a brutal pace. “Wanted me to fuck you like I hate you?”
“Yes,” you gasp, even though it’s not true. But hate is easier than whatever this actually is.
His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling your head back. “Say my name.”
“Jay—”
“Louder.”
“Jay!”
“That’s right. So everyone knows who’s fucking you. So that asshole out there knows you’re mine.”
You’re crying now, but you’re not sure if it’s from pain or pleasure or the emotion of it all. Everything is too much— his cock inside you, his hand on your throat, the words he’s saying, the words he’s not saying.
“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself come on my cock.”
Your hand slides between your legs, finding your clit, and the added stimulation pushes you closer to the edge. But something is different this time. The pleasure is there, but it’s tangled up with hurt, with anger, with feelings you can’t name.
“I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” His voice softens slightly, and somehow that makes it worse. “Come for me, baby. Show me you’re mine.”
The endearment breaks something in you. You come with a sob, your whole body shaking, and you feel him follow— his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep and fills you.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re bent over the desk, his body covering yours, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulls out, and the loss feels like more than just physical.
You straighten up on shaky legs, not looking at him. Your makeup is definitely ruined now, your dress wrinkled, and you can feel his cum starting to leak out of you.
“We should—” you start, but your voice cracks.
“Yeah.” He’s tucking himself back into his jeans, not meeting your eyes either. The silence is awful.
Finally, he speaks. “I wasn’t with Ginny. Not like that.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it. Whatever we are, I wouldn’t—” He stops, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t do that to you.” You want to believe him. But you’re not sure you can.
“It doesn’t matter,” you say, even though it does. “Like you said, we’re not together.”
More silence.
“I should get back,” you say, moving toward the door.
“Wait.” He catches your wrist. “Tomorrow. Come over tomorrow.”
“Jay—”
“Please.” The word costs him something, you can tell. Jay Park doesn’t say please.
“Okay,” you whisper. He lets go of your wrist, and you leave without looking back.
The next day, you show up at his apartment like nothing happened. Like he didn’t verbally eviscerate you. Like you didn’t cry while he fucked you. Like this is normal.
He answers the door shirtless, his hair messy like he just woke up. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
You expect him to pull you inside, to kiss you, to skip straight to the sex. Instead, he just looks at you for a long moment. Then, quietly: “I’m sorry.”
The words shock you more than anything else he could have said. “For what?”
“For last night. For the things I said. For—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “For being a fucking asshole.”
“You were drunk.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
You don’t know what to say to that, so you don’t say anything.
“Come in,” he says finally, stepping aside. You walk into his apartment— still shitty, still cramped, but more familiar now. There’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, a guitar propped against the wall, papers scattered across the coffee table that you recognize as lyrics.
“You want something to drink?” he asks.
“It’s two in the afternoon.”
“So?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having.” He pours you both whiskey, neat, and hands you a glass. You sit on his ratty couch and he sits next to you, close but not touching.
“I wasn’t with Ginny,” he says again. “I was in the studio. We’re recording the album and it’s been… intense. I lose track of time when I’m working. I didn’t mean to ignore your texts.”
“But you did.”
“Yeah. I did.” He takes a drink. “I’m not good at this. At whatever we’re doing. I don’t know how to balance everything.”
“Then maybe we should stop.” The words hang in the air between you, heavy with implication.
“Is that what you want?” he asks quietly.
No. God, no. But you should want that. You should want to walk away from this toxic mess before it destroys you both.
“I don’t know what I want,” you admit.
“Yeah. Me neither.” He reaches over and takes your hand, lacing your fingers together. It’s such a simple gesture, but it feels more intimate than anything else you’ve done together.
“I like you,” he says, not looking at you. “I know I’m shit at showing it, and I know I say terrible things when I’m drunk, but I do. Like you, I mean.”
Your heart clenches. “I like you too.”
“So maybe we just… keep doing this? Figure it out as we go?”
“Figure what out?”
“Whatever this is.” It’s the most honest conversation you’ve ever had. No pretense, no games. Just two fucked-up people admitting they can’t stay away from each other.
“Okay,” you say softly. He finally looks at you, and there’s something raw in his eyes. Vulnerable.
Then he’s kissing you, and it’s different than before. Slower. Softer. Like he’s trying to tell you something he can’t say out loud.
You kiss him back, your free hand coming up to cup his face, and when he pulls you into his lap, it’s gentle. Careful.
You make love that afternoon. Because that’s what it is, even though neither of you would call it that. It’s slow and sweet and terrifying in its intimacy.
And when you come, gasping his name, he’s looking right at you— really seeing you— and you think maybe this could be something. Something real. Something more than just sex and drugs and destruction.
But deep down, you know better. This isn’t a love story. This is a tragedy waiting to happen.
And you’re both too far gone to stop it.
—
Eight months in, and you can’t remember what your life looked like before Jay Park.
The days blur together now— a haze of cocaine and whiskey and sex that feels both like everything and nothing at all.
You’ve stopped going to most of your mother’s charity events, stopped pretending to care about the socialite circuit. Your friends have stopped calling, stopped inviting you places, because you always say no anyway.
There’s only Jay. The high. The crash. The cycle.
Your father still loves him, still talks about him like he’s the future of music. The single dropped two weeks ago and it’s climbing the charts. There’s a tour coming up— twenty cities, sold-out venues, the kind of exposure that turns rising stars into superstars. Your father is so proud. So blind to what’s actually happening.
Sometimes you wonder if he knows. If he sees the way Jay’s hands shake in the morning, the way his eyes are always slightly glassy, the weight he’s lost. If he notices the way you’ve changed too— thinner, quieter, more hollow.
But he doesn’t say anything. Because Jay is making him money. Because you’re an adult. Because it’s easier not to know.
It’s a Thursday night when your father mentions the studio. You’re having dinner at some expensive restaurant in Beverly Hills— you, your parents, and a few executives from the label. You’ve barely touched your food, moving it around your plate while your mother shoots you disapproving looks.
“Jay’s in the studio tonight,” your father says casually, cutting into his steak. “Working on the album. He’s been there every night this week.” Your heart skips.
You haven’t seen Jay in three days. He’s been distant lately, canceling plans, not answering texts until hours later with vague excuses about work.
“He’s very dedicated,” one of the executives says. “That’s what I like about him. Real work ethic.”
“Absolutely,” your father agrees. “He knows what it takes to make it in this business.”
You push your food around your plate, thinking about Jay alone in the studio. Probably high. Definitely drinking. Working himself into the ground because that’s what he does— burns bright and hot until there’s nothing left.
“You should stop by,” your father says, and it takes you a moment to realize he’s talking to you. “He’s been asking about you.”
Your mother gives you a look. “Is there something going on between you two?”
“We’re friends,” you say automatically.
“Friends.” Your mother’s tone suggests she doesn’t believe you, but she doesn’t push. She never does. As long as you’re discreet, as long as there’s no scandal, she doesn’t care what you do.
After dinner, you tell your parents you’re meeting friends. They don’t question it. They never do.
You drive to the studio with your hands shaking on the wheel, and you’re not sure if it’s anticipation or withdrawal. You haven’t done a line since yesterday morning, and your body is starting to feel it— that restless, itchy feeling under your skin, that need for more.
The studio is in a nondescript building in North Hollywood, the kind of place you’d drive past without noticing. You’ve been here before, enough times that the security guard just waves you through.
You find Jay in Studio B, the door slightly ajar. You can hear music bleeding out— something dark and hypnotic, layered with his voice. You push the door open quietly.
He’s sitting at the mixing board, his back to you, headphones on. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the equipment and a single lamp in the corner. There are empty bottles scattered around— beer, whiskey, you can’t tell in the low light.
And on the table next to him, the telltale signs: a credit card, a razor blade, a small plastic bag of white powder.
He’s high. You can tell by the way he’s moving, slightly too fast, slightly too focused. His hands fly across the board, adjusting levels, replaying sections, completely absorbed.
You watch him for a moment, and something in your chest aches. This is what he loves. Not you. Not the sex. Not even the drugs, really. This. The music. The creation. The one thing that’s his.
You’re just a distraction.
“Jay,” you say softly.
He spins around, pulling off the headphones, and his face goes through several expressions— surprise, pleasure, guilt. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice is rougher than usual. “What are you doing here?”
“My dad told me you were working. I wanted to see you.”
“Yeah?” A slow smile spreads across his face. “Miss me?”
“Maybe.”
He gestures to the couch against the wall. “Come here. Listen to what I’m working on.” You walk over, your heels clicking on the floor, and sit down. He brings his laptop over, settling next to you close enough that you can smell him— cigarettes and whiskey and that sharp chemical smell that means he’s been doing lines for hours.
“This is the new track,” he says, hitting play. The music fills the room— dark, atmospheric, his voice raw and vulnerable in a way that makes your chest tight. The lyrics are about addiction, about need, about wanting something you know is destroying you.
It’s about you. Or maybe it’s about the drugs. Or maybe there’s no difference anymore.
“What do you think?” he asks when it ends.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah?” He’s looking at you intently, his pupils so dilated his eyes look black. “You think so?”
“Yeah. But it feels like something’s missing.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’ve been listening to it for hours and I can’t—”
You kiss him.
It’s impulsive, born of three days without him and the ache in your chest from the song. He responds immediately, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss. When you pull back, you’re both breathing hard.
“I have an idea,” he says, his voice low.
“What?”
Instead of answering, he stands up and pulls you with him, leading you toward the vocal booth. It’s small, soundproofed, with a microphone in the center and foam padding on the walls.
“What are we doing?” you ask, but you already know. Your pulse is racing.
“Adding what’s missing.” He positions you in front of the microphone, his hands on your waist. “You trust me?”
“Yes.” And it’s probably the most stupidest this you’ve ever said in your life.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through your dress. You can feel him getting hard against your hip.
“Jay—”
“Shh.” He reaches past you and presses a button on the interface. The recording light comes on, a soft red glow. “Just let me.”
His hands are everywhere— your breasts, your waist, sliding up your thighs. You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound, his fingers finding the edge of your underwear.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your lips. “Let me hear you.”
This is insane. You’re in a studio, in a professional recording space, and he wants to— his fingers slide inside you and you gasp, your head falling back. The microphone picks up everything— every breath, every moan, every wet sound his fingers make moving inside you.
“You’re so wet,” he breathes, his voice low enough that you’re not sure if the mic will catch it. “Already so ready for me.”
“Please,” you whimper, past the point of embarrassment. He turns you around, bending you slightly forward so you’re braced against the mic stand. You hear his zipper, feel his hands lifting your dress, pulling your underwear to the side.
Then he’s pushing inside you, slow and deep, and you both groan. This is different from your usual frantic fucking. He sets a slow rhythm, each thrust deliberate and controlled. One hand is on your hip, the other reaches around to play with your clit, and every sound you make is crystal clear in the booth.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, his lips against your ear. “Give me everything. Let them hear how good I make you feel.”
Your moans are breathy, desperate, obscene. The knowledge that he’s recording this, that he’s going to use this in his song, should horrify you. Instead it makes you wetter.
“Jay,” you gasp. “Oh god, Jay—”
“Say my name,” he demands, his fingers working your clit faster. “Say it louder.”
“Jay!”
His rhythm picks up slightly, still controlled but more urgent. You can hear the wet sounds of him moving inside you, can hear your own desperate whimpers, and it’s so intimate and exposing that you feel tears prick your eyes.
“I’m close,” you warn.
“Come for me. Let me record you coming on my cock.”
The combination of his words and his fingers pushes you over the edge. You come with a cry, your whole body shaking, and you feel him follow moments later— his hips stuttering as he buries himself deep.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re both breathing hard, the only sound in the booth other than your racing hearts.
Then Jay reaches past you and stops the recording. He pulls out slowly, and you feel his cum start to drip down your thigh. You’re too shaky to stand on your own, so he holds you up, his arms around your waist.
“You okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah. That was—” You don’t have words for what that was.
“Come listen.” He leads you out of the booth, pulls you down onto his lap in the chair at the mixing board, and pulls up the recording.
Your cheeks burn as you hear yourself— the moans, the desperate way you said his name, the wet sounds of sex.
“It’s perfect,” Jay says, already working on integrating it into the track. His hands move across the board, isolating certain sounds, layering them with the music. It should feel wrong. It should feel like he’s using you. Instead, you feel something else entirely. Something warm and terrifying in your chest.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hands still on the board. The words hang in the air between you, heavy and impossible to take back.
“What?” His voice is careful, controlled.
“I love you,” you repeat, turning to look at him. “I’m in love with you, Jay.”
For a moment, his expression is unguarded— raw and vulnerable and something that might be fear. Then it shutters closed.
“You’re high,” he says.
“I’m not. I haven’t—” You realize he’s right. You haven’t done a line tonight, but the comedown is making you emotional, making you say things you shouldn’t. “That doesn’t change what I feel.”
“You don’t love me.” He’s already pulling away, physically and emotionally. “You’re addicted to me. To this. It’s not the same thing.”
“It is for me.”
“Well, it’s not for me.” The words are sharp, cutting. “We fuck. We get high. We have fun. That’s all this is.”
“Jay—”
“I have to work.” He’s standing now, practically pushing you off his lap. “You should go.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I need to finish this track and you’re—” He gestures vaguely. “You’re distracting me.” The dismissal stings more than any of the cruel things he’s said before.
“Fine,” you say, grabbing your purse. “I’ll go.”
“Good.” You’re halfway to the door when he speaks again. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, not looking at you. “But I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love. If that’s what you’re looking for, you should find it somewhere else.”
You want to scream at him. Want to tell him that it’s too late, that you’re already in too deep, that he doesn’t get to decide how you feel. Instead, you just leave.
—
Jay doesn’t call. Days pass. Then a week. Then two.
Your phone stays silent except for texts from your mother asking where you are, from old friends you’ve been ignoring, from people who don’t matter.
Nothing from Jay.
You try not to care. You tell yourself it’s better this way, that you needed the distance, that maybe this is the universe giving you an out.
But every day that passes feels like dying a little. You stop eating. Your mother notices, makes comments about you looking too thin, but she’s secretly pleased. Thin is good in her world. Thin is fashionable.
You can’t sleep. You lie awake at night staring at your phone, wondering if he’s thinking about you, if he’s fucking someone else, if the song he made with your voice is finished yet.
You start going out more, trying to fill the Jay-shaped hole with other things.
Parties. Clubs. Men who look at you like you’re something to consume. But nothing helps.
Your father announces the tour dates. Twenty cities. Starting in two weeks.
“You should come,” he says over breakfast one morning. “For the first few shows, at least. Show your support.” Your mother gives you a look. She knows. Maybe not everything, but enough.
“I don’t think—” you start.
“I insist,” your father says. “Jay’s been asking about you. And it’ll be good exposure for you. Networking opportunities.”
Because that’s all that matters to him. Exposure. Networking. Using you as a pretty accessory for his business dealings. You want to say no. You should say no.
“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll come.”
The drinking gets worse. Not yours—though that’s gotten bad too. Jay’s.
You hear about it through your father, who hears about it from Ginny, who’s trying to manage a man who’s actively trying to destroy himself. He’s showing up to rehearsals drunk. Missing promotional appearances. Getting into fights with the band.
“He’s under a lot of pressure,” your father says, making excuses. “The tour, the album, all the expectations. He just needs to blow off some steam.”
You wonder if your father would be so understanding if he knew about the cocaine. About the whiskey for breakfast. About the way Jay’s been spiraling since— since you told him you loved him.
This is your fault. You pushed too hard, asked for too much, and now he’s self-destructing because that’s what he does when things get real.
You want to call him. Want to text him. Want to show up at his apartment and make sure he’s okay. But you don’t. Because he made it clear he doesn’t want you.
So you do what you do best— you self-destruct too.
The tour kicks off in San Francisco, and you fly up with your father and a few label executives on a private jet. Your mother stayed home— she hates rock venues, hates the crowds and the noise and the lack of sophistication. You wish you’d stayed home too.
The venue is massive, thousands of people packed in, the energy electric. Jay’s opening act goes on first, and you watch from the VIP section with your father, drinking expensive vodka and pretending to care.
Then Jay takes the stage.
The crowd goes insane. Screaming, pushing, a wave of bodies surging forward. And Jay— well, he looks like shit.
You can see it even from a distance. He’s too thin, his movements slightly uncoordinated, and when he starts singing you can hear the roughness in his voice that comes from too much whiskey and not enough sleep.
But he’s electric. Raw. Dangerous. The crowd loves it.
Your father is beaming. “He’s incredible,” he says, having to shout over the music. “This tour is going to make him a star.”
You just nod, your eyes locked on Jay. He hasn’t looked at the VIP section once, hasn’t acknowledged your presence.
The show is ninety minutes of controlled chaos. Jay prowls the stage like a caged animal, his guitar an extension of his body, his voice rough and hypnotic. The new single gets the biggest reaction, and when it plays— when you hear your own moans layered into the track— your face burns.
No one else knows it’s you. But you know. And somewhere, Jay knows.
After the show, there’s an after-party at the hotel. You consider not going, but your father insists. “Just for an hour,” he says. “Make an appearance. It’s important.”
The party is in a suite on the top floor, already packed with band members, crew, hangers-on, and groupies. The music is loud, the air thick with smoke and perfume and the particular energy that comes after a successful show.
You get a drink from the bar— whiskey, neat, because that’s what Jay drinks and maybe if you drink enough of it you’ll understand him better.
You’re on your second when you see them.
Jay and Ginny. They’re in a corner, standing close, her hand on his chest. She’s saying something and he’s laughing, and there’s a familiarity between them that makes your stomach turn. You should look away. You should leave. But you can’t move.
Jay’s hand slides down to Ginny’s ass, squeezing, and she leans up to whisper something in his ear. Then they’re moving, heading toward one of the bedrooms off the main suite.
Your father is across the room, deep in conversation with some producer. He doesn’t notice when you set down your drink and follow Jay and Ginny.
You shouldn’t do this. You know you shouldn’t. But you need to see it. Need to confirm what you already know.
The bedroom door isn’t fully closed. Through the crack, you can see them. Jay pushes Ginny against the wall, kissing her hard. His hands are already yanking up her skirt, and she’s fumbling with his belt. It’s rough and fast and nothing like the way he touched you in the studio.
“Fuck,” Jay groans as Ginny sinks to her knees. “Just like that.”
You should leave. You should turn around and walk away and pretend you never saw this.
But you’re frozen, watching as Ginny takes him in her mouth, watching as Jay’s head falls back and his hand fists in her hair.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, and the endearment— the same one he’s used with you— breaks something inside you.
Tears blur your vision. You turn and run, pushing through the party, ignoring the calls of people asking if you’re okay. You make it to the elevator, to your own room two floors down, before you completely fall apart.
You cry so hard you can’t breathe. Great, heaving sobs that feel like they’re tearing you apart from the inside. He doesn’t love you. He never loved you. You were just convenient. Just another warm body. Just another distraction.
There’s a knock on your door. You ignore it.
“I know you’re in there.” It’s not Jay. It’s some guy— one of the executives you met earlier. “Your father sent me to check on you.”
You wipe your face, trying to pull yourself together. When you open the door, the man takes one look at you and his expression shifts from concern to something else.
Opportunity.
“Rough night?” he asks, stepping into your room without being invited.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” He’s older— forty, maybe forty-five— handsome in that distinguished way that comes with money and power. “You look like you could use some company.”
This is a bad idea. You know it’s a bad idea. But you’re hurting and angry and desperate to feel anything other than the pain in your chest.
“Yeah,” you hear yourself say. “I could use some company.”
He kisses you and you kiss him back, trying to lose yourself in it. Trying to forget Jay’s hands on Ginny, Jay’s voice calling her “my girl,” Jay’s complete indifference to your existence.
The man— you don’t even remember his name— pushes you back onto the bed. His hands are confident, experienced, but wrong. Everything is wrong.
When he pushes inside you, you close your eyes and try to pretend it’s Jay. But it doesn’t work. It feels hollow. Empty. Like you’re going through the motions of something that used to mean something.
He comes quickly, and you don’t come at all. He seems not to notice or care.
“That was great,” he says, already pulling his pants back on. “We should do this again sometime.”
“Yeah,” you lie. “Definitely.”
He leaves and you’re alone again, feeling worse than before. Used. Dirty. Desperate.
You take a shower, scrubbing your skin until it’s red, trying to wash away the feeling of hands that weren’t Jay’s. It doesn’t work.
You fly home the next morning without saying goodbye to anyone. Your father calls, asks if you’re okay, if something happened. You tell him you’re sick, that you need to rest. He believes you because it’s easier than the truth.
Back in LA, you lock yourself in your apartment and don’t answer the door for days.
Your mother calls. Your friends text. Even your father stops by once, but you pretend you’re not home. You just want to be alone. To wallow in your misery. To figure out how to breathe without Jay.
It’s been three weeks since you told him you loved him. Three weeks since he pushed you away. Three weeks of silence.
You’re starting to think this is how it ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper. With him on tour, living his life, while you fall apart in your expensive apartment.
Your phone buzzes. You almost don’t check it. But something makes you pick it up.
It’s Jay: where are you
Your heart stops. Then starts again, racing: home
im outside
You run to the window, and there he is— leaning against his car in the street below, looking up at your building. Even from here you can see how bad he looks. Thin. Exhausted. Wrecked.
You should tell him to leave. You should block his number and move on with your life.
But you’re already running down the stairs, your heart in your throat, because despite everything— despite the pain and the drugs and the destruction— you love him. And you know this is going to kill you.
But you don’t care.
You’re shaking when you open the door.
Jay is leaning against the frame, and up close he looks even worse than he did from the window. His eyes are bloodshot, ringed with dark circles. His face is gaunt, cheekbones too sharp, and there’s a tremor in his hands that wasn’t there before. He’s wearing the same clothes from the show— ripped jeans, a black t-shirt that hangs off his frame.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He probably hasn’t.
“Hey,” he says, his voice rough.
“What are you doing here?”
Instead of answering, he reaches up and cups your face with both hands. His palms are warm against your cheeks, his touch achingly gentle. His thumbs brush away tears you didn’t realize were still falling.
“I brought something,” he says, his eyes searching yours. He pulls a small plastic bag from his pocket. White powder. Enough for a whole night. That’s his peace offering. Not an apology. Not an explanation. Just drugs.
You should slam the door in his face. Should tell him to fuck off and never come back. Instead, you step aside and let him in.
He walks into your apartment like he owns it, like he hasn’t ignored you for three weeks. He goes straight to your coffee table, pulls out his wallet, and starts cutting lines with practiced efficiency.
You watch from the doorway, your arms wrapped around yourself.
“Are we going to talk?” you ask.
“About what?” He doesn’t look up.
“About the fact that you ghosted me for three weeks. About Ginny. About—”
“I don’t want to talk.” He finally looks at you, and the intensity in his gaze steals your breath. “I want you.”
Three words. That’s all it takes.
You cross the room and he pulls you down onto the couch, kissing you hard and desperate. His hands are everywhere— your face, your neck, your waist— like he’s trying to memorize you through touch.
You kiss him back just as desperately, fisting your hands in his shirt. You’ve missed this. Missed him. Even though you hate him, even though he’s destroyed you, you’ve missed him so much it physically hurts.
“I saw you,” you gasp against his mouth. “In San Francisco. You and Ginny.”
His hands still for just a moment. Then he’s pulling back to look at you.
“That was nothing,” he says. “She doesn’t mean anything.”
“You fucked her.”
“So?” His hand slides up your thigh. “I’m here now, aren’t I? With you.”
It’s manipulation. You know it’s manipulation. But you want to believe him so badly that you let yourself.
“I only want you,” he murmurs, his lips finding your neck. “You know that, right?”
“Then why—”
“Shh.” His hand slides between your legs, and he goes very still.
You’re not wearing underwear. You haven’t bothered with them since you got home, too depressed to care about anything. But that’s not why he’s frozen.
His fingers slide through your folds and he pulls back, his expression dark.
“You fucked someone else,” he says flatly.
Your heart stutters. “Jay—”
“You fucked someone else.” His voice is rising. “After you saw me with Ginny, you went and fucked some other guy.”
“You don’t get to be mad about that. You don’t get to—”
“Who was it?” He’s standing now, towering over you. “Tell me who it was.”
“I don’t even know his name.”
Something flashes in his eyes— hurt, maybe, or rage. It’s hard to tell.
“Some random guy,” he says, his voice dripping with contempt. “You let some random guy fuck you.”
“Like you care. You were fucking Ginny!”
“That’s different.”
“How is that different?”
“Because Ginny knows what she’s getting into. She knows what I am. She doesn’t expect more.” He steps closer, and there’s something dangerous in his expression. “But you— you’re supposed to be different. You’re supposed to be mine.”
“I can’t be yours if you won’t be mine!”
“I told you— I don’t do relationships. I don’t do love. I made that clear from the beginning.”
“You did,” you agree, your voice breaking. “But I fell in love with you anyway. And you knew. And you kept coming back. You kept using me—”
“Using you?” He laughs, sharp and bitter. “Baby, you’re the one who gives me money for coke. You’re the one who spreads your legs the second I show up. Don’t act like you’re some victim here.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Fuck you,” you whisper.
“Yeah, that’s what you’re good for, isn’t it?” His hand wraps around your throat— not squeezing, just holding. A reminder of his power. “Being pretty and available and desperate for my attention. Take away the money and the tight pussy and what are you? Nothing. You’re nothing without me.”
You should push him away. Should tell him to leave. But his words have hit something true and terrible inside you. Because he’s right. You are nothing without him. You’ve let yourself become nothing.
“I hate you,” you say, but there’s no conviction in it.
“No, you don’t.” His grip on your throat tightens slightly. “You love me. You said so yourself. And that’s your problem, not mine.”
“Jay—”
“Bedroom. Now.” You go.
Because despite everything— despite the cruel words and the manipulation and the knowledge that this is destroying you— you still want him. Need him. Can’t breathe without him.
He’s gentle at first. He lays you down on the bed, his hands tender as he undresses you. He kisses every inch of exposed skin— your neck, your collarbone, your breasts. His touch is almost reverent, like you’re something precious.
“I missed you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Missed this.”
You want to ask if he missed you or just missed fucking you, but you’re afraid of the answer.
His mouth finds yours again, the kiss slow and deep. When he pushes inside you, he does it carefully, watching your face. “Okay?” he asks, and it’s the most considerate he’s been in weeks.
“Yes.”
He starts to move, still slow, still careful. It’s almost like making love. Almost like he actually cares.
But then his rhythm changes. Gets harder. Faster. His grip on your hips turns bruising.
“You let him touch you here?” He thrusts particularly hard and you gasp. “Let him fuck this pussy that belongs to me?”
“Jay—”
“Did he make you come? Did you moan his name the way you moan mine?”
“No,” you gasp. “No, it wasn’t— it didn’t feel like this—”
“Good.” His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. “Because you’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours.”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours!”
He fucks you harder, rougher, and the gentleness from before is completely gone. This is punishment. This is him reminding you who you belong to. And you take it. Because you want it. Because some fucked-up part of you needs this.
When you come, it’s intense and devastating, and you’re crying— from pleasure or pain or the emotional wreckage of it all, you’re not sure. Jay follows moments later, burying himself deep and groaning your name.
For a long moment, you just lie there tangled together, both breathing hard. Then he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you.
“We should do a line,” he says, like he didn’t just fuck you into oblivion.
You do lines at three AM on your bedroom floor.
The coke hits hard and fast, sharper than usual. Jay must have gotten better quality. Or maybe you’re just more desperate for it now.
“This is good shit,” you say, your heart already racing.
“Only the best for you.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. You do another line. Then another. The room gets brighter, sharper, every sensation heightened. Jay’s hand on your thigh feels electric.
“Come here,” he says, pulling you into his lap. You straddle him, and he’s already hard again. The coke does that— makes him insatiable, makes him able to go for hours.
This time when he fucks you, it’s different. Slower. More intense. You’re both high enough that every touch feels magnified, every sensation almost too much.
“I can’t do this without you,” he murmurs against your neck. “I’ve tried. I can’t.”
Your heart clenches. “Jay—”
“I’m serious. These past three weeks have been hell. I’ve been drinking more, using more, and nothing helps. Nothing makes it better except you.”
It’s the closest to a love confession you’ve ever gotten from him. And even though you know it’s probably the drugs talking, probably manipulation, you cling to it anyway.
“I need you,” he continues, his hands gripping your hips as you ride him. “I know I’m shit at showing it. I know I fuck everything up. But I need you.”
“I need you too,” you gasp, and it’s the truth. As destructive as it is, you need him like air.
“Promise you won’t leave me.”
“I promise.”
“Promise you won’t fuck anyone else.”
“I promise.”
“Good.” His hand slides up to cup your face, forcing you to look at him. “Because you’re mine. And I don’t share.”
The irony isn’t lost on you— he doesn’t share but he still fucks Ginny. But you don’t say that. You just kiss him and lose yourself in the feeling of him inside you, the high making everything feel possible.
You come together this time, both crying out, and in that moment you almost believe this could work. That love and need and desperation are enough to build something real on. Almost.
You wake up around noon, your head pounding and your nose burning.
Jay is still asleep beside you, one arm thrown over your waist. In sleep, he looks younger. More vulnerable. The harsh edges of his face softened. You watch him for a moment, your chest aching with a complicated tangle of love and resentment.
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from your mother: Lunch today? We need to talk.
You slip out of bed carefully, trying not to wake Jay. In the bathroom, you look at yourself in the mirror and barely recognize the person staring back.
You’ve lost weight. Too much weight. Your face is gaunt, your collarbones too prominent. Your eyes are hollow, dark circles permanent fixtures now. Your skin looks gray, dull. You look like an addict. Because you are one.
The realization hits you like a punch. Somewhere along the way, this stopped being recreational. Stopped being fun. Now you need it. Need the high to feel normal. Need Jay to feel whole. You’re addicted to the drugs and to him, and you’re not sure which is worse.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door. “You okay?” Jay’s voice, rough with sleep.
“Yeah. Fine.”
He opens the door anyway, leaning against the frame. He’s naked, unselfconscious, and even now—even knowing what he is, what this is—you want him.
“My mom texted,” you say. “Wants to have lunch.”
“So?”
“So she probably knows something’s wrong.”
“Then don’t go.”
“I can’t just avoid her forever.”
“Why not?” He steps into the bathroom, wrapping his arms around you from behind. In the mirror, you can see both of you—two hollow-eyed ghosts clinging to each other. “Stay here with me instead.”
“Jay—”
“I have to leave for the tour again in three days.” His lips find your neck. “I want to spend every minute with you until then.”
Your stomach drops. “Three days?”
“Yeah. Two more weeks of shows, then I’m back.” Two more weeks. Two more weeks of him being gone, of you falling apart, of wondering if he’s fucking Ginny in every city.
“I’ll come with you,” you blurt out.
“What?”
“On tour. I’ll come with you. My dad already suggested it anyway.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around you. “That’s not a good idea,” he says finally.
“Why not?”
“Because—” He stops, seeming to struggle for words. “Because Ginny will be there. And the band. And I won’t be able to focus on you. I’ll be busy and stressed and I’ll just—I’ll fuck it up.”
“So you’d rather I stay here? Alone? Wondering who you’re with?”
“I told you, Ginny doesn’t mean anything.”
“Then why can’t I come?”
“Because—” His jaw clenches. “Because I don’t want you to see me like that. On tour. Using. Drinking. I don’t want you to see how bad it gets.”
“It’s already bad, Jay.”
“It gets worse.” The admission hangs between you, heavy with implications.
“Let me help you,” you say quietly. “Let me be there for you.”
“You can’t help me.” He pulls away, running a hand through his hair. “No one can help me. This is just who I am.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is true!” His voice rises. “I’m fucked up, okay? I’ve been fucked up since I was a kid, and no amount of love or support or whatever the fuck you think you can give me is going to fix that.”
“I’m not trying to fix you—”
“Yes, you are. That’s what you do. You see broken things and you think you can fix them, make them better, save them. But I don’t want to be saved.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I want to feel good. I want to not think. I want to fuck and get high and make music and not have to deal with feelings or futures or any of that shit.” Each word is a knife, but you force yourself to stand there and take it.
“And what about me?” you ask. “What do I get?”
“You get me. When I’m here. When I can be.” His expression softens slightly. “That has to be enough.”
“And if it’s not?”
For a moment, something like fear flashes in his eyes. Then it’s gone. “Then leave,” he says flatly. “I’m not keeping you here. You can walk away any time.”
But you both know that’s not true. He is keeping you here—with promises and manipulation and the way he touches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. “I can’t leave,” you whisper.
“I know.” He pulls you back into his arms. “That’s the problem.”
The next three days blur together in a haze of cocaine and sex and moments of almost-tenderness that feel like torture.
You skip lunch with your mother. She calls you repeatedly but you don’t answer. Your father texts asking if you’re okay. You lie and say you’re fine. You’re not fine.
You and Jay exist in this bubble—your apartment, your bedroom, your bathroom. You order food you don’t eat. You do lines at all hours. You fuck until you’re both exhausted and then do it again.
He’s insatiable. Always wanting more. Always needing you. And you give him everything. Because this is all you have. These three days before he leaves and you’re alone again.
On the second night, you’re both coming down from a high when he says it.
“I think about you when I’m with her.”
You’re lying in bed, tangled together, sweaty and exhausted. “What?”
“Ginny.” His voice is quiet. “When I’m with her, I think about you.”
You don’t know what to say to that. It should make you feel better, but it doesn’t. “Why do you fuck her if you’re thinking about me?”
“Because she’s there and you’re not. Because it’s easier than feeling what I feel when I’m with you.” He traces patterns on your bare shoulder. “Because I’m a coward.” It’s the most honest he’s ever been.
“Tell me you won’t fuck her anymore,” you say. “Promise me you won’t.” Silence. “Jay—”
“I can’t promise that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll break it. Because when I’m on the road and I’m drunk and high and lonely, I’ll take what’s available. And I don’t want to lie to you.” At least he’s honest. That’s something, you suppose.
“I hate this,” you whisper.
“I know. I hate it too.”
“Then why—”
“Because I’m fucked up. Because this is all I know. Because—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Because if I let myself actually be with you—really be with you—I’ll destroy you. I’ll pull you down with me until there’s nothing left. And you deserve better than that.”
“Let me decide what I deserve.”
“You can’t see it. You’re already halfway gone.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. “You’ve lost weight. You’re using more. You’re pulling away from everyone who cares about you. I’m destroying you and you’re letting me.”
“So leave. If you care about me at all, leave.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m selfish. Because even though I know I’m bad for you, I can’t give you up.”
You kiss him then, desperate and needy, and he kisses you back just as hard. You fuck again, slower this time. Almost gentle. And when you come, you’re both crying.
The third day, Jay leaves for the airport at dawn. You’re still asleep when he gets out of bed, but you wake to the sound of him moving around the room. “Don’t go,” you murmur.
“I have to.”
“Stay. Just one more day.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and cups your face. “I’ll be back in two weeks.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He kisses you goodbye—soft and sweet and heartbreaking. Then he’s gone.
You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling hollowed out. Your phone buzzes. A text from Jay: I left you something in the bathroom
You drag yourself out of bed and find it. An eight ball of cocaine. Enough to last you a week if you’re careful. Longer if you’re not.
There’s a note too, scrawled on a piece of paper: Don’t do it all at once. And don’t fuck anyone else. -J
You should flush it down the toilet. Should call someone—a friend, your mother, a fucking therapist. Instead, you do a line right there at the bathroom counter. Then another. Then another. Because Jay was right. You’re already halfway gone. And you have two weeks to fall the rest of the way.
The two weeks pass in a blur of white powder and empty promises you make to yourself. You’ll be careful, you tell yourself each morning. You’ll only do a little. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to get through another day without Jay. But careful becomes careless becomes desperate becomes the only thing keeping you functional.
The eight ball Jay left you should have lasted two weeks. It lasts nine days.
You measure your life in lines now. Morning line to wake up. Afternoon line to feel normal. Evening line to go out. Late night line to sleep, except you never actually sleep anymore. You just lie in bed staring at the ceiling, your heart racing, your mind spinning with thoughts of Jay.
Is he thinking about you? Is he with Ginny? Is he using as much as you are? Your phone stays silent though. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
Your father texts you updates you don’t ask for: Jay killed it in Chicago. The crowds are insane. He’s going to be huge.
Your mother calls repeatedly. You let it go to voicemail. When you finally listen to the messages, her voice is tight with concern: Darling, we need to talk. Please call me back. Your father and I are worried.
You delete them all.
You go out to clubs some nights, trying to fill the Jay-shaped hole with other things. Other people. Men buy you drinks, pull you onto the dance floor, press their bodies against yours. You let them kiss you—sloppy, drunk kisses that taste wrong. You let their hands wander, let them think they have a chance.
But you never take them home. Never let it go further than kissing. Because despite everything, you’re still his. He told you not to fuck anyone else, and even though he’s probably fucking Ginny every night, you keep that promise. It’s the only thing you have left.
Day twelve, you run out of cocaine. The crash is brutal. You sleep for sixteen hours straight, wake up feeling like you’ve been hit by a truck, and immediately start calling the number Jay got his supply from. The dealer doesn’t answer. You call six more times before you accept that he’s ghosting you.
You try to get through the day sober. You manage four hours before you’re tearing your apartment apart looking for anything—old baggies, residue, something. You find nothing.
Your reflection in the bathroom mirror is a stranger. You’ve lost at least fifteen pounds. Your cheekbones are razor-sharp, your eyes sunken and hollow. Your skin has that gray, papery quality you’ve seen on actual addicts.
You are an actual addict. The realization should scare you more than it does.
Your phone rings. Your father. “Hello?”
“Sweetheart! I’ve been trying to reach you.” His voice is bright, oblivious. “Jay’s last show is tomorrow night. I’m flying out to see it. You should come with me.”
“I can’t—”
“It’s in LA. At the Palladium. It’s going to be incredible. The label is throwing a huge after-party.” He pauses. “Jay asked if you’d be there.”
Your heart stops. “He did?”
“Well, Ginny mentioned it. Said Jay’s been distracted, not himself. Thought seeing a familiar face might help.”
Ginny mentioned it. Not Jay. Of course. “I’ll think about it,” you say.
“Don’t think too long. I can have a car pick you up at seven.”
After you hang up, you stare at your phone. Jay’s last show. Tomorrow night. Which means he’ll be home the day after. You just have to make it one more day.
You don’t go to the show. You tell yourself it’s because you look too awful, because you don’t want him to see you like this. But the truth is you’re terrified. Terrified of seeing him with Ginny. Terrified of the way he might look through you like you don’t exist. Terrified that two weeks apart has made him realize he doesn’t need you at all. So you stay home and try to sleep and fail.
Around midnight, your phone buzzes. It’s your father: Show was incredible. Jay’s a star. See you at the after-party? You don’t respond. Another text, an hour later: Are you okay? You’re worrying your mother and me.
You turn off your phone.
He shows up at noon the next day. You’re not ready. You’ve barely slept, haven’t showered, are wearing clothes you’ve had on for two days. But when you hear the knock on your door, you know it’s him.
You look through the peephole just to be sure. Jay is leaning against the wall across from your door, his eyes closed. Even from this distance you can tell he’s fucked up. His clothes are wrinkled, his hair a mess. There’s something defeated in his posture that you’ve never seen before.
You open the door. His eyes snap open and land on you, and something in his expression breaks.
“Hi,” he says, his voice wrecked.
“Hi.” You stare at each other for a long moment. He looks terrible. Worse than terrible. His face is gaunt, his eyes bloodshot, and there’s a tremor in his hands that makes your stomach drop.
“Can I come in?” You step aside. He walks past you into the apartment, and you can smell whiskey on him. It’s barely noon and he’s already drunk.
“How was the tour?” you ask, your voice small.
“It was fine.” He’s not looking at you, his gaze distant. “Good crowds. Good shows.”
“My dad said you were amazing.”
“Your dad says a lot of things.” The bitterness in his tone is new.
“Jay—”
“I missed you,” he says suddenly, finally looking at you. “I missed you so fucking much.”
Your chest tightens. “You didn’t call. You didn’t text. Nothing for two weeks.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I picked up the phone, I’d think about what I’d say. And every time, I realized there was nothing I could say that would make this okay. That would make us okay.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We’re not okay. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“But I still can’t stay away from you.”
He crosses the room in three strides and kisses you, hard and desperate. You kiss him back just as desperately, tasting whiskey and cigarettes and something darker underneath.
His hands are already pulling at your clothes, and you let him. Because this is what you do. This is all you have.
You fuck right there against the wall, fast and rough and joyless. It’s mechanical, going through the motions. Like you’re both just trying to feel something, anything.
When he finishes, he pulls out immediately and tucks himself back into his jeans. “I have to go,” he says.
The words hit like a slap. “What?”
“I have meetings. Label stuff. I just wanted to see you first.”
“That’s it? You fuck me and leave?”
“What did you expect?” His tone is harsh. “Did you think I was going to stay and cuddle? Tell you I love you? That’s not who I am.”
“I know who you are.” Your voice is shaking. “I’ve always known.”
“Then why do you keep expecting more?”
“Because I’m an idiot. Because I love you. Because I keep hoping that maybe—” You stop, blinking back tears. “Never mind. Just go.”
He doesn’t move. “I should go,” he says, but he sounds uncertain now.
“Then go.”
“I will.” But still he doesn’t move. He just stands there looking at you with something that might be regret or might just be exhaustion.
“I have to make a stop first,” he says finally. “Then I’ll come back. We can talk. Really talk.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
He kisses you one more time—soft, almost gentle—and then he’s gone. You slide down the wall and sit on the floor, feeling emptier than you’ve ever felt in your life.
Hours pass. Then more hours. It gets dark. You text him: where are you? No response.You call. It goes straight to voicemail.
Around eleven PM, you can’t take it anymore. You need to see him. Need to know he’s okay. You drive to his apartment, your hands shaking on the wheel. His car is in the parking lot. The lights are on in his window.
Relief floods through you. He’s home. He’s fine. He probably just passed out or forgot to charge his phone or— you’re halfway up the stairs when you see her.
Ginny is leaving his apartment, pulling the door shut behind her. Her hair is messed up, her shirt buttoned wrong. She freezes when she sees you. For a moment, neither of you speaks.
“He’s not well,” Ginny says finally, her voice careful. “You should go home.”
“Get out of my way.”
“I’m serious. He’s—he’s not himself right now. Give him space.”
“I said get out of my way.”
Something in your tone makes her step aside. You push past her and open the door.
The apartment is dark except for the light from the bathroom. Music is playing softly from somewhere—one of Jay’s tracks, the one with your moans layered in.
“Jay?” you call out. No response.
You walk through the apartment, your heart starting to race. Something feels wrong. The air feels wrong.
The bathroom door is ajar. You push it open. Jay is on the floor, his back against the bathtub, his eyes half-closed. There’s a needle on the floor beside him, a tourniquet still tied around his arm.
Your brain stutters, trying to process what you’re seeing. “Jay?”
His eyes flutter open, unfocused. When he sees you, he smiles—slow and sad and so fucking broken. “Hey, baby,” he slurs. “You came.”
You drop to your knees beside him, your hands shaking. “What did you do? Jay, what did you take?”
“Everything.” His hand comes up to touch your face, the movement uncoordinated. “All of it. Felt good.”
“How much? Jay, how much did you take?”
“Does it matter?” His eyes are already closing again. “Wanted to feel good. Wanted to stop thinking.”
Terror claws at your throat. You fumble for your phone, hands shaking so hard you can barely hold it. “I’m calling 911—”
“No.” His hand catches your wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “No hospitals. No ambulances. Just… just stay with me.”
“Jay, you need help—”
“I need you.” His eyes open again, and there’s a clarity in them that wasn’t there before. “I love you. Did I ever tell you that?”
The words you’ve been desperate to hear for months, and they’re coming now. Like this. “Don’t,” you choke out. “Don’t do this. Don’t say it now—”
“I love you,” he repeats, his thumb brushing your cheek. “I’ve loved you since that first night. Since you let me fuck you in that bathroom. Since you looked at me like I was worth something.”
“Then let me help you.” Tears are streaming down your face. “Let me call for help—”
“Too late.” His breathing is getting shallower. “It’s already too late.”
“It’s not. It’s not too late. We can fix this—”
“You can’t fix me.” His hand falls from your face, landing in his lap. “No one can fix me. I’m too broken.”
“You’re not broken—”
“I am. I’ve always been.” His eyes are glazing over now, his words starting to slur together. “My dad… he was right. I’m worthless. Nothing. Just like him.”
“That’s not true.” You’re sobbing now, clutching his hand. “You’re talented and brilliant and—”
“I’m an addict.” The word is barely a whisper. “Just like him. I became everything I hated.” His breathing is getting slower. More labored.
“Jay, please—”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “For everything. For using you. For not being able to love you the way you deserved. For—” He coughs, and it sounds wet, wrong. “For not being strong enough to choose you over this.”
“You’re choosing now,” you beg. “You’re choosing now. Just let me call—” But his eyes are closed now, his chest barely moving.
You grab your phone with shaking hands and dial 911, but even as you’re talking to the operator, giving them the address, begging them to hurry, you know. You know it’s already too late.
You cradle his head in your lap, your tears falling onto his face, and you watch the boy you love slip away. “I love you,” you whisper. “I love you, I love you, please don’t leave me—”
His chest rises one more time. Then stops. The music is still playing. Your voice, moaning his name, layered over dark beats and his rough vocals. A monument to what you were. What you did to each other.
The paramedics arrive seven minutes later. They try. They really try. But Jay Park is already gone.
The funeral is three days later. It’s huge. Industry people, fans, press. Everyone wants a piece of the tragedy. The rising star who burned out too soon. The cautionary tale.
Your father gives a speech about Jay’s talent, his potential, his bright future cut short. He doesn’t mention the drugs. Doesn’t mention the drinking. Doesn’t mention how he enabled it all in pursuit of profit.
Your mother sits beside you in black, her face carefully composed. She squeezes your hand once, and that’s the extent of her comfort.
You sit through it all in a numb haze. You haven’t slept since that night. Haven’t eaten. You’re running on empty and coffee and the small amount of cocaine you managed to score yesterday. You needed it. Needed something to get through this.
Ginny speaks too. She talks about Jay’s dedication, his artistry, his complexity. She cries. Real tears. You wonder if she loved him too. If he told her he loved her before he died. You’ll never know.
When it’s over, people approach you with condolences. They know you were close to him. Your father made sure everyone knew his daughter was friends with his star artist. Friends. Like that’s all you were.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” they say, over and over. You nod and smile and thank them mechanically. None of them know. None of them understand.
You didn’t just lose Jay. You lost the only person who understood the worst parts of you. The only person who saw you completely and wanted you anyway. You lost everything.
A week after the funeral, your father calls you into his office. You know what’s coming. You’ve been avoiding this conversation, but it’s inevitable.
He’s sitting behind his desk when you arrive, and your mother is there too, perched on the couch. They both look at you with matching expressions of concern that don’t quite reach their eyes.
“Sit down, sweetheart,” your father says. You sit. “We need to talk about what happened,” he continues. “With Jay.” You say nothing.
“The police found drugs in his apartment. A significant amount. And they’re investigating where he got them, who supplied him.” Your father’s jaw tightens. “They asked if you knew anything about his drug use.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That you were friends. That you might have known he partied, but that you weren’t involved in anything illegal.” Of course. Protecting the family reputation. Always. “But we need to know the truth,” your mother says, her voice careful. “Were you involved with Jay? Romantically?”
You could lie. You should lie. But you’re so tired of lying. “Yes,” you say. “We were together. For almost a year.”
Your mother’s face tightens. Your father’s expression goes carefully blank. “Were you using drugs with him?” your father asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you still using?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. They can see it in your face, in your weight loss, in the hollowness of your eyes. Your mother makes a small sound—disappointment or disgust, you’re not sure which.
“This is unacceptable,” your father says, his voice cold. “Do you have any idea how this looks? My daughter, involved with an artist who overdosed? Using drugs? If this gets out—”
“If this gets out, you’ll look bad,” you finish. “That’s what you’re worried about. Not me. Not the fact that I just lost someone I loved. Just your reputation.”
“That’s not fair—”
“Isn’t it?” You stand up, your hands shaking. “You pushed him. You knew he was using, you had to know, but you pushed him anyway because he was making you money. You worked him until he broke.”
“That’s not true—”
“It is true! You saw what you wanted to see. You ignored all the warning signs because Jay Park was going to be a star, and that’s all that mattered.”
“You don’t get to blame me for this,” your father says, his voice rising. “You’re the one who chose to get involved with him. You’re the one who started using drugs. Those were your choices.”
“You’re right. They were my choices. And I have to live with them.” You head for the door. “But so do you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“We’re not finished—”
“Yes, we are.” You leave before they can stop you.
You find yourself at the cemetery on a Tuesday afternoon. Jay’s grave is in the back, under a tree. The headstone is simple: his name, his dates, and a line from one of his songs: “Burned bright, burned fast, burned out.” It’s depressingly fitting.
You sit down on the grass beside his grave, your back against the headstone. From your purse, you pull out a small bag of cocaine. The last of your supply. You cut a line right there on top of his grave, using a credit card and the smooth marble surface.
“I love you,” you whisper to the stone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.” You snort the line. The burn is familiar, almost comforting.
The high kicks in slowly. That familiar rush, that feeling of everything being okay even when nothing is okay.
You lean back against the headstone and close your eyes. You should get clean. You should get help. You should choose to live instead of slowly killing yourself the same way Jay did. But you won’t.
Because without him, you don’t know how to be anything else. Without him, you’re just empty. Just going through the motions. You’re too far gone. Just like he was.
The sun is warm on your face. The drug is warm in your veins. And for a moment— just a moment— you can almost pretend he’s here with you. That you’re both okay. That love was enough.
*synopsis: Montana is the state where the most beautiful summer camps of all are held, every year hundreds of children couldn't wait to spend three months away from their families to stay at a summer camp cooking marshmallows, hiking the various nature trails, and swimming in the campus's natural pools. You too had been through all these experiences from your 10s until you were 15 and now that you were of age you would have become an entertainer but you hadn't counted on something that would be on summer campus too Niki, Niki was the classic “bad boy” of the town with all the girls at his feet and with petty crimes caused as a ‘joke’. But what if Niki had to be sent to work as an entertainer on summer campus for “punishment” and you, the classic good girl with zero experience in boys, had to share a room with him? A disaster from day one you can't get along with him but between bonfires with marshmallows, dives in ice water and confessions under the stars maybe the idea of spending 3 months on summer campus with Niki wasn't so bad
*word count: 34k
*tags: At first Y/n and Niki can't stand each other, they love teasing each other, first kiss (many kisses) fluffy, Niki may seem a little bit of an asshole but then becomes obsessed but in a good way with Y/n, masturbation, discovery of spicy books, loss of virginity (protected sex) there will be misunderstandings, jealousy, +18, tattoo kisses, love statement, pet names (good girl, wren)
The sky above Camp Montana was a blue so deep it almost looked unreal, the mountains in the distance veiled by a soft haze. The chirping of birds lulled you into relaxation, while the gentle lapping of waves against the shore in front of the common room’s porch gave the place an air of tranquility, though in just a few hours, it would transform into a bustling summer camp, teeming with kids eager to find their cabins and meet the friends who would share the secrets of a summer unlike any other.
Camp Montana was one of the most famous summer camps in the stat and beyond with hundreds of kids signing up months in advance for an unforgettable experience. As a child, you were one of them: not just another little girl with dirt-streaked braids and scraped knees, but now, an animator. You wore the iconic red Camp Montana hoodie, the eagle emblem emblazoned on the chest, your name stitched beside it. Your jeans bore the camp’s logo, and you carried all the gear and perks that came with the role, everything you’d dreamed of as a kid.
Back then, this place was pure magic. You’d spend nights by the campfire under a sky full of stars, sticky fingers wrapped around half-burnt marshmallows. You’d race through the woods with your friends, laughter echoing across the lake as you leaped from inflatables into the water. It was the place where you dreamed of growing up, of wearing that hoodie, of being loved by the kids just like your favorite animators—women you still remembered fondly.
But now? Now, Camp Montana was different. Now, there were responsibilities of every kind: comforting homesick children, reassuring worried parents over the phone, pulling night shifts to make sure no one snuck out of the cabins. There were judgmental glances from the other animators, whispers, and gossip slithering between the bungalows. You’d expected a peaceful summer, but life had other plans. Maybe fate was playing a cruel trick on you—or perhaps, the most beautiful one of your life.
The common room at Camp Montana was a massive wooden space, its walls covered in faded photos of summers past, some of them featuring you, with your childhood braids and braces. Colorful flags hung from the ceiling, each one signed with the names of past animators. The air was thick with the scent of coffee, freshly baked butter cookies, and burning wood. On one side, there were industrial kitchens and long tables where chaotic, noisy meals were served every day. On the other hand, a small loft where the camp president a man in his sixties with a stern, gray-bearded face was outlining the rules on a flip chart, rules that would govern the next three months, especially the ones animators were forbidden to break.
Lia, one of your closest friends: someone you’d spent countless summers with at camp, sat beside you, legs crossed, a mischievous smile playing on her lips as she read aloud the "Forbidden Things for Camp Animators" written in bold red on the board:
FORBIDDEN THINGS FOR CAMP ANIMATORS:
Swimming in the lake after 10:00 PM (seriously dangerous without a lifeguard on duty).
Alcohol or drugs (zero tolerance anyone caught using drugs will be expelled immediately).
Outside guests (no bringing in boyfriends/girlfriends).
Smoking in common areas (there are two designated smoking zones—check the camp maps).
Public arguments (keep your drama private, not in front of the kids).
Abandoning your shift (if you’re on duty, you stay on duty until your shift ends).
Bringing weapons (this is a summer camp—parents expect their kids to be safe).
Damaging nature (we’re here to teach kids to respect the environment—no cutting trees, littering, etc.).
You studied the rules carefully. Most of them were reasonable, but Lia didn’t seem to agree.
"Listen to this, Y/n," she whispered, pointing at the first rule. "‘No swimming in the lake after 10:00 PM.’ Pfft! We all did it! Remember when we used to sneak out at night and dive in, then run back screaming like maniacs?" She giggled, and you bit your lip to keep from laughing. Yes, even though you’d always been seen as the "good girl," the studious one, you’d had your share of rebellious moments at 16 or 17—moments you now carried in your heart.
"Yeah, but we’re animators now, Lia," you reminded her, nudging her gently. "We’re here to work, have fun, and most importantly set a good example for the kids."
Lia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please! Give it a week, and 99% of us will have broken every single rule. Look around, half these people are just here to escape their parents, hook up in the bungalows, and have a summer they’ll tell their future kids about in a few years."
Before you could respond, the door to the common room swung open. It couldn’t be the kids, they weren’t arriving yet. Instead, what you saw—what everyone saw—was a head of bleached-blond hair with dark roots, broad shoulders, and a towering height of at least 1.95 meters. His expressive eyes and lips were the kind every girl in the room would dream of kissing. Niki because that’s who it was ducked slightly to fit through the doorway, as if even the entrance had to adjust for him. He walked toward the group of animators with an arrogant confidence that sent shivers down spines, and every girl in the room gasped:
"Oh my God..."
"Is that....?"
"It can’t be him."
You turned away sharply, trying not to look, but Lia’s eyes widened, and she elbowed you. "What the hell is Niki doing here?!" she hissed, her voice a mix of shock and excitement. "Wasn’t he supposed to be doing community service for that mess with the stolen cars? Everyone knows he organized those illegal races during the Cowboy Festival!"
You shrugged, feigning indifference, even though your heart was pounding. Unfortunately, you knew Niki. You’d grown up in the same small town, gone to the same university, you studied child psychology while he leaned into the arts, photography, and drawing.
I have no idea," you muttered, biting your nail. "But one thing’s for sure: that guy is a walking disaster. He can’t be an animator here with all these kid —he’s a ticking time bomb."
Niki sat down two rows ahead of you, crossing his long legs with effortless nonchalance. You clenched your fists as he tilted his head slightly, his signature cowboy hat—now in a "baggy style"—shadowing his face. The president glared at him with open disdain, clearly afraid Niki would bring trouble to this little slice of paradise.
The president clapped his hands loudly and cleared his throat into the microphone. "Alright, now that all our camp animators have graced us with their presence, we can begin!" His voice was sharp, dripping with sarcasm. "As you know, every year, we pair you up for teams and bungalows. Each bungalow has two single beds, a small reading area, a mini kitchen, a bathroom, and a porch with a hammock. Some overlook the lake, others the mountains, and some are near the kids’ cabins. The pairs are mixed—it’s been a tradition for years, and we’ve never had issues with boys and girls sharing. You’re all adults and responsible, so I trust you’ll have a great time with your new roommate. Now, let’s announce the pairs!"
You glanced at Lia, who rested her head on your shoulder and smirked. "I’d bet anything we’re rooming together, but we both know that’s not happening." You nodded, already resigned. A murmur spread through the room.
"I’d pay gold to be paired with Niki!" a red-haired girl shrieked. "I want Keeho!" another yelled, eyeing the guy sitting next to Niki. "Joshua’s mine!" another chimed in, her English flawless.
You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for whatever chaos was about to unfold.
The camp president scrolled through countless slides on the interactive whiteboard, and with each new slide, your stomach twisted tighter. For what felt like an eternity, your name and photo refused to appear. As anxiety clawed at you—like it always did—you started gnawing at the nail of your index finger, eyes locked on the screen. It was as if the blank slide delighted in torturing you, flashing one animator pairing after another, but never yours.
Then, your name blared through the speakers, just a little too loud.
"Y/n will be paired with Niki for the next three months in Bungalow 20," the president announced, his gaze almost pitying as it landed on you.
You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. There, on the screen, was your photo—smiling, the picture of the "girl next door"—paired with Niki’s. If you’d had a permanent marker, you would’ve drawn giant horns on his head and a ridiculous mustache over that smirking mouth of his. It was a low blow, no, a cruel joke from fate. The president must’ve had a twisted sense of humor, or maybe he was just a sadist, delighted at the thought of turning your summer into the worst one of your life.
Lia, your so-called best friend 'the traitor' started patting your head sympathetically, but it didn’t take long for her to dissolve into giggles.
"Well, look on the bright side," she whispered, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. "If you survive three months living with him, your psychology thesis will write itself. Either that, or you’ll end up in the news as an accomplice in some illegal drift racing scandal. Either way, Y/n, you’ll be legendary."
You shot her a glare and buried your face in your hands, feeling your ears burn. "I hate you," you mumbled. "This is a nightmare. He’s literally the one person in all of Montana I wouldn’t even want to share an elevator with, let alone a bungalow for three months."
With that, you bolted up, grabbed your things, and stormed out, avoiding everyone’s eyes—especially his. You could feelNiki two rows ahead, smirking, that infuriating grin plastered on his face. You lugged your bags with a strength you didn’t know you had, marching toward the upper part of the camp until you reached Bungalow 19… and then, Bungalow 20.
And Bungalow 20 was objectively perfect.
If it weren’t for your soon-to-be roommate, you might’ve cried with joy. The bungalow sat on a small hill, its wooden porch complete with a hammock big enough for more than two people. The view of the lake was straight out of a National Geographic postcard, and the mountain ridges stretched across the horizon. You pouted at how beautiful Montana could be, then dragged your suitcase—heavy as if you’d packed a corpse inside up the steps and threw open the door to your new home.
The interior was cozy, with a scent of vanilla. On the table, two shiny new badges gleamed in the afternoon light, beside a basket of warm butter-vanilla cookies a welcome gift from the camp kitchen. Next to it, a letter with the camp’s official stamp and the president’s signature. You skimmed it:
The animator pairs hadn’t been chosen at random. No, the president had studied each of you carefully, spending days crafting the "perfect" pairings. You were cautious, level-headed, someone who hated lying and taking risks. Niki, on the other hand, was cunning, self-serving, and always looking for a challenge. "You’re the sun, and he’s the storm," the letter read. "You’ll balance each other out."
You couldn’t believe what you’d just read. You wanted to crumple the paper into a ball and hurl it into the lake, but you knew Niki would have to read it too. So, like the good girl you were, you slapped it back onto the table and shoved a cookie into your mouth, chewing angrily as you stormed into the bedroom.
The beds were too close: both queen-sized, separated only by a flimsy nightstand. You claimed the one by the window, thinking that if either of you stretched out an arm in the night, you’d probably touch. You shook your head, muttering to yourself as you unzipped your suitcase and started unpacking. For twenty minutes, the world almost felt normal. You could hear the distant sounds of other animators unpacking, laughter echoing from nearby bungalows, the gentle lapping of waves against the lake’s rocky shore, and the chirping of birds. Normally, these sounds would’ve soothed you.
But peace wasn’t going to last.
The bungalow door creaked open, and the thud of Niki’s leather duffel bag hitting the floor told you one thing: your peace was officially over. The longest three months of your life were about to begin.
He strode toward Bungalow 20, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes in that defiant, street-meets-prairie style of his. He still couldn’t wrap his head around how his life had turned into some cheesy teen movie. He and his friends had planned to leave Montana for a couple of months a road trip through California, Oregon, all the way up to Canada. But then, surprise, he’d been caught behind the wheel of a stolen, tricked-out car, drifting like an idiot after watching one of his best friends win the world rodeo championship. It had been a stupid move, and his parents had bailed him out—literally—paying his bond for the joyride with stolen cars. He’d expected to end up picking up trash on the side of the road or serving meals at a soup kitchen. Instead, fate had other plans.
And now here he was, strolling through a summer camp, sentenced to three months of untouched nature, suffocating rules, and an endless horde of screaming kids as a counselor. When the town—and his parents—had first suggested it, he’d laughed in their faces. Him, babysitting a bunch of rule-breaking brats (just like he’d been)? No thanks. But here he was, and the cherry on top of this absurd sundae? You.
You were the classic good girl of the town: mayor’s daughter, straight-A student, the kind of girl every mom dreamed of for their wayward sons. The thought of spending three goddamn months with you made him want to punch something. But at the same time, it intrigued him. Because even good girls had secrets, and he was dying to uncover yours.
When he pushed open the bungalow door, the contrast hit him like a slap. The air smelled of vanilla, butter, and cherry—sickeningly sweet, almost too clean, the exact opposite of his own scent of mint and spice, the kind that lingered even from a mile away. He dropped his duffel with a heavy thud onto the wooden floor. His eyes landed on the vanilla-butter cookies left by the kitchen staff, the note reading, "Made with all the love for our favorite new counselors." He rolled his eyes, then spotted the president’s letter. As he read it aloud, his expression shifted from shock to amusement. The letter praised you like some saint, while it described him as if he were a seven-headed monster. He shook his head, laughing at how surreal this whole situation was.
With half a cookie still in his mouth, he walked into the bedroom. You were bent over, meticulously arranging your tank tops with a precision that both irritated and fascinated him. He watched your wispy braids sway with every movement, and admitting it only to himself your body wasn’t half bad for someone who spent their life buried in books. The way your jeans hugged your hips, the way your tank top accentuated your chest—damn. He cleared his throat, unable to resist.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his smirk promising nothing but trouble. "If it isn’t Miss Braids herself...my roommate for the next three months."
You whipped around, glaring at him with a look that could’ve incinerated anyone else on the spot.
"Oh, joy," you snapped, your voice sharp as a blade. "I’m thrilled to share a room with a two-bit delinquent."
Niki chuckled, reaching out to brush his fingers over the cover of one of your classic novels Wuthering Heights, some psychological thriller he’d never even heard of. "Looks like even the library mouse knows all about my life."
You crossed your arms, lifting your chin in defiance. "I couldn’t care less about your life. In fact, the less I hear about it, the better. But we do live in a small town where gossip spreads, and unfortunately, my dad’s the mayor, so I’ve had to listen to more about your stupid antics than I’d like."
You took him in, your lips curling into a slight pout. Niki had an undeniable aura intimidating, yet magnetic. He was the kind of guy you didn’t forget easily, and that annoyed you even more.
Niki sighed, ignoring your jab, and flopped onto his bed. The wooden frame groaned under his weight—all 6’5” of muscle and arrogance seemed almost too much for the half-queen mattress. He stretched lazily, the movement hitching his oversized hoodie up just enough to reveal a sliver of golden skin and the waistband of his Playboy boxers peeking out from his low-slung jeans. You knew Niki had his own style, and you couldn’t deny even to yourself—that it wasn’t entirely unappealing. Your eyes flickered there for just a millisecond, and he caught it. A victorious smirk spread across his lips.
"Your parents are gonna lose it when they find out their sweet little angel has to share a room with a ‘criminal’ for three months," he mused, touching his lips thoughtfully, shattering the brief peace.
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart raced. "They trust me and I won’t do anything reckless...or wrong in your presence."
You crossed your arms tighter beneath your chest, a defensive gesture that only drew Niki’s attention. In two quick strides, he closed the distance between you, towering over you with his imposing frame. The scent of spiced mint filled the air, thick and intoxicating.
"Mmm, we’ll see," he murmured, lowering his head near your ear. "If I were a parent, I wouldn’t be too comfortable knowing my daughter had to spend countless nights in my company, wren."
Your face flushed with anger and something else, something forbidden. You slapped his arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath the fabric. "You’re just a lost cause, Niki and stop calling me wren!"
He let out a low, rough laugh as he headed toward the bathroom to unpack. "Never. We both know you’ll never outgrow me."
And there you stood, frozen in the middle of the room as the bathroom door clicked shut, your heart pounding, anger battling with an annoying, unwelcome rush of adrenaline.
A week had passed since the summer camp started, and if there were an award for patience, they should name a town square after you or better yet, erect an entire statue in your honor right in front of your hometown’s city hall. Sharing Bungalow 20 with Niki wasn’t just a challenge, it was a refined form of psychological torture. And for someone as naturally calm and patient as you, he made every day harder than the last.
Problem number one? Sleep. You loved slipping between the sheets at a decent hour—okay, maybe you were a little too fond of going to bed early. By 9 PM, you could already be drifting off to sleep, lulled by the sound of the stream outside. But Niki had other plans. Let’s just say he forgot to mention one tiny detail: he suffered from insomnia. Watching you fall asleep in five minutes flat had thrown him off because he was a night owl. He’d stay awake until 2 AM, whistling, spinning his phone between his fingers, or sketching with the music blasting. You’d politely suggested he could stay outside there were comfy puff chairs or even a hammock but he’d just smirked and said, "No thanks, I’d rather not get eaten by a bear."
And then there was the issue of tidiness. The word "order" didn’t exist in Niki’s vocabulary or maybe it did, but he took great pleasure in driving you insane. You weren’t a neat freak, but you at least tried not to turn the room into a refugee camp. The bungalow wasn’t huge just a wooden entrance table, a cushioned bench with big windows overlooking the clearing, a tiny sitting area, and an open space with your two beds and a bathroom (which, admittedly, was bigger than necessary, and you weren’t complaining about that).
Niki, on the other hand, scattered his oversized hoodies everywhere like he was marking his territory. And don’t even get started on his razors left on the sink. "For the two stray hairs on your face, you could at least put them away!" you’d yelled one morning, but he’d just flashed that infuriating smirk while shaving his cheek.
But the final straw was the ID card prank. Every counselor had to carry theirs to access camp areas, and one morning, yours had vanished—poof, like magic. You were in full-blown panic, tearing the place apart: under the bed, between books, in the bathroom, under the bench. Then Niki leaned against the doorframe, watching you huff and mutter, that annoying smile playing on his lips.
"Looking for this, Princess?" he asked, dangling the ID card from his index finger.
You lunged to grab it, but he lifted his arm, using all of his 195 centimeters to keep it out of reach. You glared as you hopped uselessly, trying to snatch it.
"You know," he murmured, letting you nearly collide with his chest as you jumped, "you should keep it somewhere safer… maybe pinned right here…" He tapped the neckline of your tank top with the edge of the card, watching your cheeks flush pink. He’d discovered he loved seeing your round cheeks turn every shade of red, and without another word, he draped it around your neck, letting it fall against your chest. Then he winked and disappeared into the kitchen.
But the incident that truly made you snap happened one late afternoon. You’d just returned to the bungalow after an exhausting day of supervising dozens of kids screaming on the lake’s inflatables, your hair a disaster and your legs shaking with fatigue. Without a care in the world, you flung the door open, only to freeze.
Sitting on Niki’s bed was a girl, one of the sports group counselors, laughing hysterically at something he’d said. She was practically straddling him. You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly popped out, your face turning as red as a bell pepper—not from embarrassment, but from pure, unadulterated rage. You shot the girl a look that could’ve killed a grizzly bear.
When Niki gestured for her to leave like she’d never been there, you pointed a finger at him and snapped:
"It’s incredibly disrespectful to bring random people into our bungalow, especially at this hour when you know I come back exhausted! I’m seriously tired, I just want to shower and sleep, and instead, I walk in to find you doing… who knows what with that girl!" You crossed your arms, glaring, and Niki pressed his lips together to keep from laughing at how furious you were. He sat up, running a hand through his blond hair, and looked at you with an amused grin.
"What’s wrong, Shorty? You’re not… jealous, are you? I didn’t know the mayor’s daughter cared so much about my free time."
You shot him your worst glare. "Jealous? Of you?!" you scoffed, pointing at him. "Right now, I’m furious, not jealous! If you’re going to bring girls in here whenever you feel like it, then starting tomorrow, I’ll bring a guy in too, no, I’ll bring a different one every night!" You gestured to the bungalow, and Niki stiffened instantly. His jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscles in his neck tighten, and his gaze darkened, almost dangerous but only for a second. The next moment, he burst into laughter, flopping backward onto the bed.
"Why the hell are you laughing?!" you demanded, even angrier, but he just stretched out, taking up the entire bed with his endless legs, and looked at you with tears in his eyes from laughing so hard.
"Oh, this is rich! The girl with the braids—who I’m pretty sure has never been kissed in her life—wants to bring some random guy into our room! Go ahead, Y/n, you wouldn’t even know where to start."
Your cheeks burned a shade of red you’d never experienced before. Jabbing a finger at him, you hissed, "You don’t know the first thing about me, Niki!" Your voice trembled with indignation. You grabbed your robe and toiletries and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door so hard the wooden walls of the bungalow shook.
Under the shower’s spray, you cursed him in every language you knew. But deep in your chest, your heart refused to calm down and you weren’t sure if it was from the insult or the way he’d looked at you when you’d mentioned bringing another guy in.
That morning, the soft Montana dawn light filtered through the curtains, bringing with it the usual chorus of birds and the steady murmur of the stream just a few meters from your bungalow. You would have given half your counselor’s salary to stay under the blankets for another ten minutes or maybe the whole morning because as a kid, you never truly realized how much work animators had behind the scenes. But duty called, and that week, you’d been assigned to fabric painting at 9:15 AM. So, with a lazy groan, you sat up, and just like every single morning since this nightmare began the first thing your eyes focused on was the occupant of the bed beside you.
Your gaze landed on Niki, a tangle of icy blond hair and heavy sighs. You noticed how his hair was slowly growing out, the dark roots of his natural color peeking through. His lips were slightly pouty in sleep, and he clutched the pillow beneath him like he was afraid someone might steal it. His thick eyebrows, usually furrowed in annoyance, were finally relaxed, making him look almost… innocent. Just a boy too big for a bed too small.
You knew he also had fishing duty at 9:15 AM, but after a week of stolen ID cards and jokes about how you embodied the "good girl" ideal, you decided your "act of kindness" would be letting him sleep. A wicked little smirk tugged at your lips as you thought, I could let him sleep… so he doesn’t wake up in time for the start of activities. You reached out to shake his shoulder but then stopped yourself. With a quiet chuckle, you muttered under your breath as you closed yourself in the bathroom, "Let him be late."
And so, you began your skincare ritual: slathering on pounds of sunscreen (because your skin had to stay flawless, even if you were going to sweat or get thrown into the water), adding a touch of self-tanner (since you still hadn’t achieved the exact shade of tan you wanted), and then pulling on your swimsuit, a T-shirt, athletic shorts, and braiding your hair as you finished, you noticed a stack of Post-its leaning against the mirror. You grabbed the pad and started decorating the bathroom mirror like it was a Christmas tree of warnings.
Green Post-it: I DON’T KNOW WHAT WORLD YOU LIVE IN, NIKI, BUT THERE’S SOMETHING CALLED A CLOSET FOR A REASON -> PUT YOUR HOODES IN THERE (Otherwise, the one on my chair is about to become a mop for the floor, and I don’t think you’d like that—especially since I know some of your hoodies cost as much as two months of our salary).
Blue Post-it: STOP PLAYING THOSE WAR GAMES AT 2 AM. Some people need to dream about things other than explosions and actually sleep peacefully. Try unplugging from those electronic gadgets and falling asleep to the sound of the stream and night crickets.
Yellow Post-it: TRY NOT TO USE MY SAKURA BODY WASH! I don’t think the scent of cherry blossoms helps your bad-boy reputation. What will the other girls think when they smell you reeking of girliness? They’ll just get even more jealous of me…
Orange Post-it: RAZORS HAVE A HOME. IT’S CALLED A ‘PERSONAL CABINET,’ NOT A ‘BATHROOM SINK DECORATION. Also, you’ve got, like, two stray hairs max, stop acting like you’re grooming a lion’s mane."
Pink Post-it: If you feel like breaking the next girl’s heart, don’t bring her into our room. I’d rather not see another girl leaving in tears because of you!
You checked the time: 8:15 AM. Niki hadn’t moved a millimeter, lost in a deep sleep that made him look almost… innocent. Almost, obviously. You grabbed the last Post-it before heading to breakfast and stuck it on the exit door. In your neat but determined handwriting, you wrote:
Oops, looks like your human alarm clock had a technical malfunction this morning or maybe just ‘forgot’ to share her air with you. Hope those five hours of sleep (well, six now) were enough, since you spend your nights doing everything but sleeping. I let you sleep, obviously, because I care’ and not at all because I wanted you to be late… (nope, not at all). Consider this my ‘welcome gift’… or maybe just proof that I can play dirty too, Niki. See you at the lake—if you can keep your eyes open and make it to roll call on time:)
Your favorite roommate:)
Niki was about to explode. He’d grown up with two other girls his age, and sure, there had been disagreements and fights, but you? You outdid them both. When his eyes finally opened and focused on the clock, his first thought wasn’t panic over being late it was a name spat like a curse between his teeth: "Y/n."
When he turned to see if you were still there, he found your bed perfectly made and rolled his eyes. He dragged himself out of bed, cursing you in every language he knew, because you two had an agreement or rather, you had established the rules, and he had grunted in assent, that you’d wake each other up but no, today you’d had the brilliant idea of leaving without calling him. And now, with twenty minutes until activities started, he was still in his boxers, his hair a wild mess.
He stumbled into the bathroom, tripping over one of his own hoodies left on the floor, only to find himself facing an explosion of colorful Post-its on the mirror. He grumbled under his breath as he splashed water on his face.
"She seriously took the time to write out all these stupid rules instead of waking me up?" he muttered through a mouthful of toothpaste foam, glaring at the green Post-it.
"Put away your hoodies… use my body wash… but look at this one..." he said, mimicking your voice and grabbing a cookie from the table while frantically searching for his ID card. The taste of chocolate clashed violently with the minty toothpaste, creating a disgusting mix, and he wondered how Sunoo, one of his best friends could stand that contrast.
Just as he was about to leave, he spotted the last Post-it on the door and read it twice, the cookie still between his teeth: "Because I ‘care’ and not at all because I wanted you to be late… (nope, not at all)."
Niki blinked, then let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a growl and an incredulous laugh.
"‘I care,’ huh?" he muttered to himself, glaring at the yellow paper. "You’re such a little liar, Shorty. You left me to rot in bed so that you could enjoy the show of me running around like an idiot."
He grabbed his ID card, adjusting his cowboy hat with a sharp motion, but his movements were less furious than before. There was a strange electricity humming under his skin. Obviously, that Post-it was a provocation of course it was but it was also glaring proof that the mayor’s daughter, the so-called "untouchable" girl, wasn’t just putting up with his presence. She was studying him. She knew how many hours he slept, that he played video games until 2 AM, and even that he used your body wash. She was paying way too much attention to him.
With a small smirk lighting up his gaze, he tucked the Post-it behind his phone case. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was doing it, but the idea of carrying a little piece of your neat handwriting with him appealed to him more than he wanted to admit.
And with that, he rushed off to the little ones’ fishing activity, fully intending to drive you just as crazy that day.
The weekend had finally arrived, and the atmosphere at Camp Montana had shifted. While most of the counselors were loading up their cars to escape to the nearest town, searching for parties, cocktails, or luxury hotel retreats to unwind, you had very different plans. The wildlife trail started just a 10-minute walk from the camp’s parking lot, and you were looking forward to two hours of hiking, surrounded by the scent of hay, sun-warmed trees, and the sun beating down on your skin. But what you were really looking forward to was a hearty plate of melted cheese with sausage and mushrooms, topped off with a wild berry panna cotta the meal you’d been dreaming about for days.
That night, you’d gone to bed more excited than usual, simply because you couldn’t wait to spend a day completely free of Niki. When you woke at dawn, the sky was still painted in soft violet hues, and the first birds were beginning to chirp. You stretched, instinctively turning toward Niki’s bed, expecting to see the usual tangle of blond hair and blankets strewn in every direction. But to your surprise, the bed was empty. Your heart gave a little leap, it was the first time you didn’t have to deal with his impossible schedule. That is, until you heard the water running.
You made a slightly confused face and thought to yourself, It’s seven in the morning, and he’s already up? Where is that guy even going? I hope he’s not up to something stupid.
With those questions swirling in your mind, you headed to the kitchen to make coffee, watching as the first rays of sunlight set the mountain peaks ablaze. A few moments later, Niki emerged from the bathroom, his hair still damp and tousled. He was wearing a faded ‘80s band T-shirt that clung to his broad shoulders, baggy jeans, and sturdy hiking boots. He pulled his New Yorker cap on backward, and you had to admit, reluctantly that his style was growing on you. Maybe even a little too much. You quickly looked away.
"Where are you going?" you asked, clutching your coffee mug like a shield. Niki reached out, snatching a cookie from the table, and took a bite with casual indifference.
"Hiking with you and your little friends," he said, his voice still rough with sleep. You closed your eyes, certain he was joking. When you opened them again, you nearly spilled your coffee into the sink, coughing in surprise.
"Wait, what? You...you’re coming with us? Into the woods? For hours?" You tried to talk him out of it. "I don’t think that’s your ideal habitat."
Niki shrugged, shooting you an amused glance from under the brim of his cap. "What? Surprised? I can walk like a normal person, Shorty. And I can adapt to any natural habitat..especially when you’re there." He winked at you, and you opened your mouth to retort, but no words came out.
"So… you’re telling me you’re coming with us? You’re actually waiting for me?"
He nodded, picking up the mug you’d only taken a sip from and downing the rest of your coffee. "Yeah, just don’t take an hour to get ready." He stepped outside onto the porch, and the word "ready" made your cheeks burn. You didn’t need to be told twice. You rushed to the bathroom, washing your face at lightning speed and braiding your hair into your usual neat plaits. You threw on a ribbed tank top with faded rainbow stripes that gave you a fresh, lively look, a pair of comfortable jeans that ended just above your knees, your hiking boots, and your New Yorker cap. When you stepped outside, grab your backpack and camera, you found Niki lounging on the porch hammock. The moment you appeared, he lifted his gaze and looked you up and down. For a second, his usual smirk faded, replaced by an unreadable expression. Without meaning to, he inhaled, catching the faint scent of your sakura-scented body wash, your signature fragrance in the bungalow and, apparently, his favorite in just a few weeks. With a fluid motion, he hopped off the hammock, slung his backpack over his shoulder, and gestured toward the trail.
You walked in silence to the meeting point, but it was a different kind of silence. Neither of you teased or provoked the other. For once, there was no war between you...
When Lia saw you both approaching, her eyes widened. Okay, sure, you’d told the whole camp that anyone who wanted to join the hike was welcome, but she hadn’t expected to see you arrive with Niki. She rushed over, linking her arm through yours and pulling you a step forward to whisper in your ear:
"And what is he doing here? He’s complained every day about not being able to sleep, and now that he has two whole days to catch up, he’s coming on a hike?"
"He decided to come hiking with us," you replied with a shrug, trying to sound indifferent while feeling Niki’s gaze burning into the back of your neck.
Lia turned to study him properly. Niki was leaning against a tree with effortless ease, observing the forest as if he’d known it his whole life. She was skeptical, she knew a guy like him wouldn’t choose a flat trail and a refuge lunch unless there was a more... personal reason. She looked at you, then at him, and a small, knowing smile spread across her face. Deep down, she already understood what was brewing between you, though she decided not to say anything, she didn’t want to make your cheeks burn any brighter. She couldn’t wait to see how your days together would unfold.
The crisp Montana air was like a jolt of pure energy, invigorating you with every breath. You took long, deep inhales, savoring the sweet sensation of fresh, clean air filling your lungs. You loved walking along the flat trail, surrounded by greenery, the sound of babbling brooks, and the occasional sight of cows grazing in the distance. Every few minutes, people would wave and wish you a good day, making you feel right at home, because deep down, you’d always loved spending time outdoors, and your years at summer camp had only deepened that love for nature.
You and Lia led the group with confidence, knowing every rock and turn of the path by heart after years of hiking it together. Each time, you’d discover something new, something you’d missed the year before. But every time you raised your camera to capture a snow-capped peak, a wildflower, or one of Lia’s funny faces, the lens somehow ended up framing Niki instead. He walked with an effortless swagger, earbuds in, his gaze shifting between the mountain peaks and your figure just a few meters ahead.
It was odd to wear earbuds when you could hear the birds, the cows, the rushing water but by now, you’d grown used to Niki’s quirks. If it made him comfortable, you weren’t about to say anything.
Niki took in the landscape, and it wasn’t half bad—though he’d never admit it out loud. He was a Chicago guy, used to 2 a.m. outings because he couldn’t sleep, extreme sports, and pure adrenaline. The quiet of nature usually bored him to death, but the thought of staying in the empty bungalow without your indignant glares and quick comebacks had convinced him that maybe a hike wasn’t so terrible. He liked watching you—how you were kind to everyone, sunny, the way people gravitated toward you because you gave off the vibe of someone everyone wanted to be around. But with him, you were the exact opposite, fiery, ready to snap the second he opened his mouth to tease you. That contrast was getting under his skin, and it annoyed him more than he cared to admit. It hadn’t even been a month since you’d started sharing your lives, and yet his eyes sought you out everywhere. He hated the effect you had on him.
At one point, the group stopped because a small stream had flooded the trail, creating a muddy, slippery passage. The guys in the group started playing the chivalrous heroes, helping the others cross. Niki quickened his pace until he was right behind you, his warm breath brushing against your earlobe, carrying the scent of mint and something spicy.
"Wren, let me go first," he murmured in that rough voice that sent a shiver down your spine. "Halfway through, I’ll grab your hand and pull you across." He smirked, and when he saw you startle at his sudden closeness, he chuckled. You whipped around, and your faces were inches apart, your cheeks flaming at the unexpected proximity.
"Thanks, but I can manage on my own," you said, proud. "Do you know how many times I’ve hiked this trail? A little water isn’t going to stop me."
He stepped aside with a dramatic flourish, gesturing for you to go ahead. You tried to proceed with dignity, and for a while, it went fine—until you reached a slippery, unstable rock. Panic set in. You hadn’t brought extra clothes or spare shoes, and the thought of ending up soaked in front of everyone—especially him—was a humiliation you couldn’t afford. You heard the others urging you to hurry, a small crowd forming behind you. You closed your eyes, swallowed your pride, and said:
"Niki… could you come to the middle and then go ahead? That way, you can grab my hand and pull me across?"
His smirk widened, lighting up his blond features—he had bet on you needing his help eventually. "Oh, so now you really get that you need me, wren?"
"Please, spare me the Montana hero speech and move that giant body of yours before I throw a rock at your head!" you snapped, trying to hide your embarrassment. You were stuck in the middle of the stream, and everyone was watching but you only cared about the gaze of one person in particular. He didn’t need to be told twice. With an effortless leap, he landed on the stable rock beside you, gesturing for you to hand over your backpack. Then, with infuriating ease, he launched himself toward the grassy bank, landing perfectly dry.
A moment later, he turned and reached his arm out to you. It was long, solid, veins standing out on the back of his hand, adorned with small silver rings. You wobbled slightly toward the water, and he stepped forward to catch you.
"Jump, Y/N. I’ve got you, you won’t fall," he said, rising onto his toes to get closer. You took a deep breath and leaped without thinking. His large, warm hands instantly closed around your waist, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. For an endless moment, you were pressed against his chest, feeling the heat of his body against yours. His minty, musky scent overwhelmed your senses, making you forget where you were. Without meaning to, you nestled closer to him. After a moment, you looked up and found his face just centimeters from yours, that victorious smirk still playing on his lips as he enjoyed the fact that everyone was staring.
"Thanks," you whispered, your cheeks burning as he set you down with maddening slowness. You tucked some loose strands of hair behind your ears, and Niki saw how utterly flustered you were. He found it ridiculously cute but didn’t say a word. Instead, he watched as you grabbed your backpack and hurried to catch up with Lia, who was barely containing a sarcastic comment about what had just happened. You shot her such a fierce look that she immediately raised her hands in surrender.
"Okay, okay, I’ll keep my mouth shut!" she said, laughing.
The trail leading to the refuge was a relentless uphill climb that seemed to never end, but the view waiting at the top made every drop of sweat worth it. Every time you hiked that path and reached the summit, the scenery was breathtaking. When you finally caught sight of the wooden cabin with its umbrellas and lounge chairs neatly lined up along the meadow, a chorus of relieved sighs rose from the group everyone was utterly exhausted.
You and Lia, without needing to say a word, quickened your pace—though maybe that wasn’t the best idea, since it left the others behind and your legs started aching but the moment you stepped inside the refuge, the smell of freshly cooked food wrapped around you, and your stomachs growled in response.
In front of the entrance, a menu written on a chalkboard made your mouths water: melted cheese with sausage and mushrooms, beef stew with potatoes, hot sausage sandwiches with various sides but it was the dessert list that made you both grin: panna cotta with berries, Sacher cake, strudel. You and Lia exchanged a look of pure complicity—you couldn’t wait to dig into those homemade sweets.
"Oh my God, I’m about to die from happiness," you said at the sight of so many treats, and Lia sighed at the sight of a waitress carrying a perfect slice of Sacher cake, already imagining the first bite of that heavenly dessert.
You dropped your backpacks onto a long wooden table, and while the others settled in, you couldn’t resist unbuttoning the first two buttons of your blouse, you wanted to soak up as much sun as possible and relax. You put on your sunglasses and stretched out on a lounge chair like a cat basking in the sun. Lia did the same, but unlike you, Lia was a first-class chatterbox and didn’t stop talking for a second:
"Damn, Y/n, look at Niki," she said, nodding toward the shade of the refuge. "He seriously hates the sun. How can he just sit there in the shade, sulking with that little notebook of his, drawing or writing who knows what, when he could be out here soaking up some sun and relaxing by the stream like normal people?"
You turned slightly and, sure enough, saw Niki leaning against the refuge wall, legs crossed, notebook on his knees, and a scowl that, for some reason, made a stupid little smile tug at your lips. You quickly shook your head.
Since when did you find him cute? you thought. He was everything you shouldn’t want in your life....especially that annoying pout of his, the way he ignored the world around him.
"Good thing he’s over there by himself instead of coming to ruin my free day too," you replied, trying to sound indifferent. Lia chuckled, noticing how you’d glanced at him.
"You know, it’s weird that, purely by coincidence, he ended up coming on this hike with us too. I think he came because…"
You pushed your sunglasses up and shot her a glare. She immediately clamped her mouth shut and raised her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, we won’t talk about you and him...well, we won’t talk about him at all, Y/n. Just today. I’ll put my headphones in and listen to a podcast or some music for an hour while we enjoy the fresh air and sunshine."
You nodded, but before sliding your sunglasses back down, you couldn’t resist sneaking another look at Niki. He was completely absorbed in sketching, his pencil moving swiftly across the page, his brow slightly furrowed. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, he looked up, and your eyes met. You immediately lowered your sunglasses and pretended to look around before lying back down on the lounge chair, but you could feel your cheeks burning.
Damn it… He always caught you looking at him. Every single time.
On the other side, Niki lowered his gaze back to his notebook, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at his lips. For the first time in a long while, there was a real person in his sketches, he’d been drawing the mountains, quick strokes and shading, but there was also the profile of a girl with braids taking photos by a stream and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
Lunch at the refuge had been devoured in the blink of an eye—everyone had grabbed food and shared it among laughter and old mountain stories meant to scare the group. But the peace lasted only until dessert arrived. When the waitress placed that slice of warm strudel in front of you, crispy pastry, vanilla ice cream already melting into a delicious cream, you thought you’d died and gone to heaven. You’d been dreaming of that slice for ages, but you hadn’t accounted for Niki’s presence. Without a word, he stretched his fork toward your dessert and, with zero hesitation, broke off half your slice.
"Hey! That’s my cake!" you exclaimed, eyes wide, as Niki didn’t even bother looking at you. With a little smirk, he broke off another piece, and you, furious, jammed your fork between the tines of his to block him. He finally lifted his gaze, those expressive eyes locking onto yours.
"This is my cake, Niki. You have your yogurt, which is probably just as sour as you are," you hissed, aware that half the table was snickering at your little scene.
"Everyone said we should share," he countered, "and I’ll share mine with your dessert." He gestured to your strudel, and you snapped:
"Well, I’d never trade my cake for yogurt I could get in the camp cafeteria!"
Before you could finish, he swooped in with lightning speed, bringing a piece of strudel to his mouth. You opened your lips to protest, but the sound died in your throat as Niki closed his eyes and let out a low, guttural moan, almost like a purr of satisfaction, that made your stomach flutter. He brought a finger to his lips to wipe away a trail of vanilla ice cream, and in that moment, you felt your ears burning.
"Mmm… I get why you don’t want to share," he said, his gaze lingering on your lips a second too long. "It’s delicious. I’ll have another bite." He leaned even closer to your plate, and you snapped:
"Forget it!" You clutched the plate to your chest like it was your most precious treasure, and he kept talking:
"Come on, Y/n, share a little. Don’t be a baby," he teased, and Lia, beside you, burst out laughing.
"You two are like an old married couple fighting over the remote. Y/N, just give him a piece—you know he’ll win anyway."
You shot her a glare. "You’re supposed to be on my side, Lia!" you grumbled, finishing your slice in quick bites while glaring daggers at Niki, who returned to his "boring" yogurt with berries. Halfway through, he held out the spoon with some fruit, but you shook your head proudly. Niki thought you were seriously acting like a child—a little pouty, a little stubborn—but that angry pout of yours made him feel things he shouldn’t, and he noticed how your eyes never left him, even if your glare was murderous.
After eating, the group split up, some hiked higher, while Niki, against all expectations, flopped onto a lounge chair in the sun. By 5 PM, when the air started cooling, Lia and the others approached you.
"We’re heading back, Y/n. Coming?" she asked.
You glanced at Niki, fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. It was strange: back at the bungalow, he fought insomnia until 2 AM, but here, on an uncomfortable wooden lounge chair, he looked like an angel (maybe a fallen one), wrestling with his demons. Without realizing it, you said:
"I’ll stay another half hour. We share the bungalow—I’ll make this sacrifice and head down with him."
Lia looked slightly surprised and glanced at the dark clouds gathering over the peaks. "Okay, but don’t take too long, the weather here changes in a heartbeat. Text me when you get back to camp."
You nodded and sat beside him, trying to focus on The Mistake by Elle Kennedy, but the words danced on the page. You’d been stuck on the same page for 10 minutes. When only a few people remained, you stood up and poked his back with a finger.
"Niki, stop sleeping. We need to go down," you said, but there was no response, you realized he had headphones in. You yanked them out with a sharp motion, cutting off the music.
"Niki Nishimura! We have to go back! You can sleep at the bungalow!"
He opened his eyes slowly and saw your braids swaying inches from his face. He let out a lazy, warm chuckle, and you huffed.
"What’s so funny? It’s past five, and it’s about to rain!"
Instead of answering, Niki reached out and tugged lightly on one of your braids, twirling it around his fingers with a familiarity that stole your breath...only your family ever played with your hair like that. You slapped his hand away.
"Are you crazy? Don’t touch my hair again, and let’s go—look what’s coming over the mountains!" You pointed to the dark clouds forming, and he sighed, stretching like a cat. In the movement, his ’80s band T-shirt rode up, and your eyes widened, right there, on his V-line, was a tattoo… red lips? They looked perfect, inked in such a scandalous spot that it made your head spin. Whose lips were those?
You shook your head, heat flooding your face. Grabbing your backpack, you spun around and jabbed a finger at him. "I’m not waiting for you anymore! Everyone else left an hour ago, and if you want to stay here and get struck by lightning, be my guest—because I’ve already been too nice waiting for you, and I don’t even know why!"
You stormed off, heart pounding at the memory of that tattooed skin shaped like lips, but after a few minutes, a familiar shadow fell over you. You turned and saw Niki, less than two steps behind, hair tousled, backpack slung over his shoulder, and that usual scowl etched on his face. You rolled your eyes, but deep down, the fact that he hadn’t left you alone sent a strange, annoying twist in your stomach. You nearly stopped in your tracks, and he said:
"Walk, wren," he murmured, brushing past you, leaving the scent of mint in the air. "Or I’ll have to fish you out of the mud when it starts raining!"
You hated Niki Nishimura with every fiber of your being, or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself as the rain poured down, turning the Montana trail into a slippery, muddy mess. And for once, Niki had been right. Just minutes earlier, he’d said, "I’ll have to fish you out of the mud,"—and now, his words had become reality. You wanted to scream and kill him at the same time. The storm had only been raging for five minutes, but the water was already cascading down in sheets, and you clutched your backpack over your head in a desperate, useless attempt to stay dry. Meanwhile, you were seething—at yourself for not leaving with the others, at Niki for walking with an infuriating calm, as if he actually enjoyed this situation.
You shot him glowering looks until a deafening crack split the sky, thunder roaring through the mountains. You froze, paralyzed by the ominous sound. Everyone—your father, every camp instructor—had always drilled into you: "Never stay near trees during a mountain storm." And here you were, smack in the middle of a giant forest, your heart pounding with fear—for yourself, for Niki, for the fact that something terrible could happen to either of you.
Niki, realizing you’d stopped, whirled around. His usual bored expression vanished in an instant when he saw you—motionless, eyes squeezed shut, shoulders trembling. In three long strides, he was at your side.
"Why did you stop? We need to move!" he shouted over the rain, but you just stared at him, wide-eyed, hair plastered to your face.
"We’re going to get struck by lightning, Niki! It’s your fault! We’re still over an hour from camp, and we’re in the middle of nowhere!" you panicked. Another thunderclap, even closer, made the ground tremble. Before you could say another word, you felt Niki’s large, warm hand grab yours, and there was no time to protest—he started running, dragging you along in a frantic sprint through the downpour. You had to match his pace, even though you weren’t used to it.
"Do you even know where the hell you’re going?!" you yelled, but Niki didn’t answer. At the fork that led back to the summer camp, you watched in horror as he suddenly veered left.
"Are you SERIOUSLY going left?! The camp is to the RIGHT! Niki, I swear if I die because of you, my ghost will haunt you for the rest of your EXISTENCE—no, for ETERNITY!" you screamed. But instead of panicking, Niki burst out laughing a liberating, wild laugh, the kind of someone who hadn’t felt this alive and free in years, far from Chicago’s underground races and his parents’ problems. When he finally spotted an old abandoned barn between the trees, he pointed at it with a sharp gesture. As you stumbled inside, you were furious and immediately yanked your hand away as if it burned.
"I can’t believe this… How unlucky can I be? Why didn’t I just go down with Lia and the others? Why did I have the brilliant idea of waiting for you?!" you ranted, shivering from the cold. Niki shook the water from his hair like a wet dog and looked down at you—you seemed even smaller and more vulnerable, soaked and trembling.
"You should be thanking me, actually," he said with a vague gesture. "We’re safe, under a roof that’s protecting us from killer lightning and the storm."
You raised an eyebrow. "Thank you? For what, exactly?"
He huffed, stepping dangerously close to you. "Because you didn’t even know this shack existed. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be out there, frozen like a statue in the dark, drenched, and panicking in the storm. But hey, no problem, Y/n." He smirked, and you opened your mouth to retort but another flash of lightning lit up the sky outside, followed by thunder that seemed to shake the barn’s foundations. You shuddered violently, and before you even realized it, you stepped closer to him, seeking protection—though you were still seething.
"It’s all my fault…" you murmured, voice trembling. "I should’ve gone down with the others and left you there sleeping on the lounge chair. Now we’re stuck here all night? No, I’m NOT spending the night in here! What if a wolf comes in? Or a bear and eats us both? Or the roof collapses...."
But before you could finish, your words were cut off by Niki’s lips crashing against yours. You froze, stunned by the unexpected softness of his mouth. Your thoughts spiraled:
What is he doing? Is he actually kissing me? Should I pull away? Will it be awkward? Will he realize it’s my first kiss?
But every doubt vanished when you felt his lips part slightly, inviting you to respond. This kiss was nothing like you’d imagined—not the rough, aggressive kind you’d expect from a guy like him, always surrounded by girls. Instead, there was an unexpected sweetness that stole your breath as his lips gently coaxed yours open. Your hands acted on their own—one fisted his soaked T-shirt, feeling the heat of his chest, while the other rested on his solid shoulder. You parted your lips further, letting him deepen the kiss, and you sighed into it, tasting the lingering vanilla ice cream mixed with the mint of his breath. Niki let out a low, satisfied hum against your mouth, his lips lightly sucking your lower lip, a barely-there smirk forming between you—as if he knew he’d finally shut you up.
But then reality hit like a slap. You jerked back, pressing a trembling hand to your mouth, your heart pounding in your throat.
Niki had just stolen your first kiss...your very first kiss.
He stood still, towering over you with wet hair falling onto his forehead, watching you with a small smirk—finally, he’d managed to shut you up.
"You…" you whispered, pointing at him with a trembling finger. "Why did you kiss me?" you shrieked, shocked. Niki just shrugged with an infuriating nonchalance.
"I wanted to shut you up somehow, and I figured kissing you was the quickest way. That’s all… You were rambling too much, Y/n, and I hate people who talk too much."
Your cheeks burned, and you didn’t know whether to slap him or kiss him again. You opened your mouth to unleash a string of insults, to tell him how arrogant and presumptuous he was, but the words died in your throat. With a smooth, unembarrassed motion, Niki pulled off his soaked shirt, leaving you frozen, your eyes glued to his body—sculpted like marble, dark lines of tattoos snaking across his skin in designs you couldn’t quite decipher. But your gaze inevitably dropped lower, to that defined V-line disappearing into his wet jeans, to that lip-shaped tattoo that seemed both scandalous and sexy. Your cheeks flared with heat, and you snapped your eyes downward, pretending sudden interest in the muddy tips of your shoes.
Meanwhile, Niki pulled out a gray long-sleeved shirt from his backpack too thin for the dropping temperature—then a thick, carefully folded gray hoodie. You assumed it was for him, but instead, he stepped closer. Seeing you speechless for once, he teased with a chuckle:
"Damn, if kissing you or showing off my tattoos is what it takes to shut you up, I should’ve done it ages ago back at the bungalow. You never stop talking from morning to night!" he said with an annoying smirk.
"You’re an idiot!" you snapped, giving him a little shove, but he didn’t budge an inch. Instead, he draped his hoodie over your shoulders.
"Take off that blouse and put this on," he ordered, his gaze suddenly serious as he watched you shiver. "At least you’ll stay warm and won’t freeze to death before we get back to camp, otherwise, you’ll have a fever of 40 tomorrow."His eyes lingered on you, and you wanted to strangle him, but your chattering teeth wouldn’t let you play tough. The hoodie was soft, plush inside, and you nodded, but first, you muttered:
"Turn around. I need to change."
Niki shot you a challenging look that lasted a couple of seconds, then sighed and turned his back.
"Don’t you dare turn around, Niki, seriously, or..."
He burst out laughing, a low chuckle echoing against the wooden walls. "Or what, wren? You’ll kiss me this time?"
You wanted to scream, but while he kept teasing you, you moved fast as lightning, peeling off your soaked blouse that clung to your skin like ice. You slipped into his hoodie....massive, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely, the hem falling to mid-thigh but the worst… or best part? The smell. It was intensely him: peppermint and something spicy, and without thinking, you buried your face in the high collar, inhaling his scent.
Niki turned slowly, expecting you to be done but when he saw you drowned in his clothes, your nose pressed into the fabric as you sought his scent, he froze. His mind raced: You looked so small in his hoodie, like it was made for you. And he hated how good you looked in his clothes, it drove him crazy. You were the classic "good girl" who should’ve stayed far away from someone like him… and yet, at the same time, he wanted to break you, make you his, just to prove to the world that even good girls needed a guy like him.
You realized he was staring at you longer than usual, and you whispered, "Thanks."
Niki raised an eyebrow, surprised by your response. "Whoa, I should mark this day on the calendar! The Princess actually said thank you without a judge forcing her!" he teased, chuckling. You rolled your eyes, trying to reclaim some dignity.
"You should thank me," you said, puffing up slightly as you clutched the long sleeves against your chest. He crossed his arms, amused by your answer.
"Oh? And what exactly should I thank you for?"
"For waiting for you!" you replied proudly. "Otherwise, you’d still be here asleep on that lounge chair in the middle of the storm." You shot him a glare, and Niki smirked, running a hand through his damp, icy-blond hair. He didn’t thank you with words, but his gaze softened for a moment before he turned toward a wooden ladder leading to the upper level of the barn, where dry hay awaited.
You walked to the heavy door, slamming it shut to block out the howling wind. Meanwhile, Niki tested the sturdiness of the ladder rungs with a sharp tug. The old wood groaned slightly, but he figured it could hold your combined weight. He climbed first, and when he reached the top, he found a small loft filled with the sweet scent of freshly gathered hay—soft enough to lie down on. There were even old burlap sacks stuffed with raw wool serving as makeshift pillows. It wasn’t luxury, but compared to the mud and rain outside, it felt like paradise.
"Wren, we can stretch out up here until the storm passes," he called, leaning over the edge as he watched you climb. Niki unconsciously bit his lower lip, his hoodie nearly swallowed you whole, your usually neat braids half-undone and messy, your lips still slightly swollen and trembling from the earlier kiss. For a microsecond, he thought you looked cute before shaking his head to banish the dangerous thought.
The space up there was cramped, so you kicked off your shoes, mimicking his movement, and knelt on the hay, trying to ignore how your legs brushed against his. You looked around, careful not to let your eyes linger too often on his face or his body.
"They’re definitely looking for us," you murmured, trying to reassure yourself as the wind howled through the cracks in the roof. "The camp director and all the counselors must have already sent out search parties. They’ll find us soon." You watched the sky grow darker, lit only by the flashes of thunder that made the entire structure tremble. Without thinking, you scooted closer to Niki, who was already half-reclined, a strand of hay caught between his lips, lazily shifting it with his tongue.
"I bet they’re worried about you, wren, not me," he said with a hint of cynicism, his intense gaze fixed on you. "You’re everyone’s favorite at camp—the perfect girl who never breaks the rules and I’m just… me." His eyes drifted to a fixed point in the barn.
"That’s not true," you countered, pulling your legs against your chest and burying your chin in the collar of his hoodie. "I bet all the girls who flock around you, the ones who sigh when you walk by and gossip about you—they’re all worried about you!"
Niki propped himself up on an elbow, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he detected the sarcastic edge—and maybe a hint of irritation—in your voice.
"Mmm, someone’s jealous, or maybe..."
You didn’t let him finish, swatting his arm playfully. "Stop it!" you snapped, glaring at him. He chuckled at your flushed cheeks, and another thunderclap tore through the sky, so loud it felt like it exploded right above you. You visibly shuddered, inching even closer to him.
"Are you scared of thunder, or are you just cold, Shorty?" he asked, looking at you almost protectively. You sighed, feeling a little pressured by his gaze.
"Don’t make fun of me, but… both. I was stupid not to bring a change of clothes like you did, and thank God you gave me your hoodie even if I know you’re cold too right now."
Niki murmured that you were perceptive, and you closed your eyes, feeling exhaustion and the chill in your bones as you tried to relax a little.
"Look, I know you don’t like physical contact, and you can’t stand me and trust me, the feeling is mutual but we’re human, right? Maybe we could… I don’t know, keep each other warm." You blurted out what you were thinking, though you might have phrased it poorly, because Niki’s eyes shot open, almost shocked. He nearly choked on his own saliva at what you’d just said.
"You know what you just said sounds really bad, right, Y/n? When a girl asks a guy to ‘keep her warm’… we tend to think of things that are a little more intimate than just sharing a blanket." He laughed, teasing you, and you immediately covered your face with your hands, feeling your cheeks burn.
"Oh my God, no! That’s not what I meant! This is so embarrassing! I gave my first kiss to a guy I can’t stand, I’m trapped in a falling-apart barn, I’m freezing to death, and..."
Before you could finish, Niki’s strong arms wrapped around you with a determination that brooked no argument, pulling you against his chest. Without meaning to, you nestled against him, hiding your face in the crook of his neck, your hands instinctively resting over his heart. For a moment, you froze, feeling it beating fast—too fast for someone who pretended to be so calm.
Niki stayed still for a few seconds, his breath catching in his throat. He was the guy everyone had warned you to stay away from—the one who had been the first to brush against those lips that tasted of vanilla and far too much innocence. He could imagine it, really, how it had been your first kiss, from the way you’d hesitated, from the sweet, uncertain tension in your movements. But hearing you say it out loud while trembling in his arms made him feel something he’d never experienced before. He closed his eyes, feeling the weight of your head against his chest, and for the first time, his usual arrogance gave way to a strange, unfamiliar curiosity.
"Wren… I never would’ve guessed I’d be your first kiss," he said quietly. "Between summer camp and university, half the guys are crazy about you. I just assumed at least one of them would’ve had the guts to kiss you by now."
You stiffened instantly, burying your face deeper into his hoodie. "Let’s not get into that chapter of my life. It’s embarrassing…" you mumbled, trying to turn away to hide the blush now creeping down your neck. But Niki didn’t let you. He held you close, forcing you to stay put until you both settled more comfortably in the hay. He stretched out fully while you propped yourself up on one elbow, trapped between his body and the slow, lazy circles his finger began tracing through the damp ends of your hair.
"Undo your braids, Y/N, or tomorrow you’ll have impossible knots, and it’ll all be my fault for dragging you through the storm," he teased, trying to lighten the tension between you. He twirled a strand around his finger, watching the way the dim lightning reflected in your hair. You pouted.
"You undo them, since you like playing with my hair so much!”
Niki didn’t need to be told twice. He looked at you intently, his fingers deftly unraveling the braids. When your hair tumbled loose over your shoulders and into his hand, he ran his fingers through it, almost enchanted by its softness. The scent of cherry filled the air, overwhelming the usual mint and rain, and for a moment, he thought he’d want to bury his face in your hair every damn morning, not just when you invaded the bungalow bathroom with that fragrance. But he quickly pushed the thought away when he saw you nervously tucking the strands behind your ears.
"I’m sorry I stole your first kiss," he started, but he didn’t look at you. "I bet you wanted to give it to some perfect, upper-class guy—you know, the kind with a perfectly ironed shirt and his whole future already mapped out."
You rolled your eyes and sighed deeply at the sudden chill in his tone. "Well, I can’t go back now, and my dream of giving my first kiss to someone I actually like—someone who actually likes me—is officially gone."
Niki was staring at you too intensely, his face too close, and said:
"Well, since we’re stuck here… why don’t you kiss me this time? You know, just for practice… Think of it as training for your future ‘perfect guy.’ At least you’ll know what to do when you meet him."
Your eyes widened, your cheeks burning. "What? No! Are you crazy?" you stammered, trying not to look at him, but he kept teasing you.
"Don’t tell me you’re scared to kiss me," he smirked, closing the distance between you by another centimeter. "Because if you’re scared, it means you’re scared to admit you actually like me." He was showing off, and you seriously wanted to slap him.
"I don’t like you, Niki, and I never will. Get that through your head," you shot back with all the confidence you could muster, even though your heart was pounding wildly against your ribs. You refused to meet his gaze, but he just grinned.
"Good. Then kiss me, Shorty. If you don’t like me, there’s no risk, right? You can just use me as your guinea pig for practice," he continued, amused by your flustered state. He leaned in even closer, his mouth a breath away from yours.
"Unless… you’re not doing it because you think that if you kiss me again, you won’t be able to stop."
But you didn’t let him finish. Just like he had done to you earlier, you slammed your lips against his to shut him up once and for all.
Niki smiled immediately against your mouth, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you hard against him.
Your lips were still uncertain, guided by a shyness that Niki seemed eager to devour with every touch but he also found it sweet. When you felt his tongue brush against your lower lip, he began to suck on those lips no one had ever dared kiss before, and a stifled moan escaped your throat. Niki thought he might just be the luckiest guy in the world, finding himself in this barn with you nearly in his arms, kissing like this.
The hand that had been resting over his heart slid lower, tracing the taut planes of his stomach, while Niki buried his fingers in your loose hair, pressing his palm against the back of your neck to keep you from pulling away—to pull you even closer, because he didn’t want this moment to end. He wanted you to feel just how much you were driving him crazy, and you sighed against his mouth, dazed by the sensations he was giving you with just kisses.
Then, driven by an instinct you didn’t even know you had, you leaned forward and imitated his gesture, timidly sucking on his lower lip. Niki let out a low growl, shifting slightly beneath you as he felt how you were trying—so shyly, so clumsily to drive him wild. But you’d been driving him wild since the first time he’d seen you in the bungalow. He craved more friction, more contact, as if even the smallest space between your bodies was still too much—though there was none at all. Without warning, he pushed his tongue past your lips, and when your tongues met for the first time, you both moaned.
Niki lowered you completely onto the hay, his weight hovering over you not crushing you, but making you feel protected by his warmth, by him. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you so close you could feel every muscle in his body pressed against yours. You kissed for minutes that felt like hours, not just fleeting kisses, but a mix of shy discovery, playful dominance, and restraint, your lips wandering to his jaw, the corner of his mouth. Both of you were drowning in a whirlwind of sensations and emotions you’d never felt before, and neither wanted to stop.
You pulled away just long enough to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You felt his fingers trace the skin at your side, slipping beneath the hem of the hoodie as he held you possessively against him.
"Niki…" you breathed, but he didn’t stop looking at you. Instead, he pressed a finger to your swollen, glossy lips and whispered:
"Don’t think, Wren. Just kiss me."
You didn’t need to be told twice. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him back to you with a force that surprised him, playing with the icy-blond strands at his nape, tugging lightly. Niki groaned against your lips, sending a shiver through you, and you continued to alternate between deep kisses and playful nips, exploring each other in that makeshift refuge while the Montana cold stayed locked outside those walls. For the first time, you felt truly warm but also protected by someone everyone had warned you to stay away from.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed one of you first, and soon, the only sounds in the barn were the drizzling rain and your steady breaths as you fell asleep, entangled in each other’s arms.
After that weekend trapped in the barn, reality hit hard again, because even though you’d kissed and fallen asleep together, you’d hoped those kisses might have changed something in Niki, made him softer or more "human." But you’d made the biggest mistake of your life thinking that, because Niki had gone back to being his usual self or maybe even worse.
His cynicism had doubled, his taunts had become more relentless, driving you crazy and making you curse him 24h-24h. He teased you endlessly but at the same time made it clear that nothing had happened between you, that those kisses had meant nothing. It was frustrating because you had to see him all the time, and you would’ve changed bungalows every day if you could. But when you finally decided you’d had enough, you found yourself walking near the rec area to make sure the kids didn’t wander off and then you saw something surreal, yet sweet enough to warm your heart.
Niki was sitting on the grass with his legs crossed, his back against an oak tree. In front of him was Nina, one of the liveliest little girls in the group, who never left him alone. As usual, Nina was chattering away, telling him how much she adored you and how badly she wanted braids just like yours because her little hands couldn’t manage to gather all her hair. You hid behind a tree, your heart beating strangely.
You saw that Niki wasn’t ignoring her like he usually did. Instead, he ran a hand through Nina’s hair to smooth it, then began braiding it with millimeter precision, his tongue slightly peeking out between his lips in pure concentration a gesture you knew well, one he always made when he was deeply focused on something. As he braided, Nina started talking again:
"I didn’t think someone like you would know how to braid!" Nina exclaimed with the blunt honesty of a child who wanted all his attention. "I bet you only know how because you can’t stop watching Y/N do hers in front of the mirror or when it’s too hot." She giggled, and you saw Niki freeze for a split second before chuckling and shaking his head.
"Oops, you caught me, Nina," he said, and you felt your cheeks warm slightly because you’d never noticed him watching you braid your hair.
"I bet you and Y/n will end up together someday, and you’ll invite me to your wedding in a few years!" Nina said, tilting her head. "Even though I’m just a little kid, I can see how you look at each other, and you should be nicer to her, like you are to me right now." You nodded in agreement and wanted to rush over to high-five Nina and hug her, but you saw Niki give her hair a playful tug when those words left her mouth.
"Ahia!" she protested, swatting his arm, and Niki’s expression suddenly turned melancholic. He grew serious, and you heard him say:
"Y/n deserves a prince charming like in the fairy tales you read, Nina. She doesn’t deserve someone like me… I’m not what she deserves, and I never will be." He tied off the braids, and those words hit you hard because everyone had warned you to stay away from him, and now even he was saying he wasn’t the guy you deserved. You stood frozen as Nina hugged him, barely reaching his waist, and told him to stop being "the bad guy" just because he had tattoos and a scowl. Niki hugged her back tightly, then took out his phone to show her the braids in the camera.
"They’re beautiful, Niki! Thank you! When I see Y/n, I’ll tell her you did them!" Nina said, giggling as she ran off to find you. Niki shot her a look, calling after her:
"Nina! Don’t you dare tell her I did them!" he yelled as she scampered away laughing, and an involuntary smile tugged at your lips. But that sweet moment was wiped away just hours later.
You were near the showers by the lake when you heard a group of counselors giggling. At the center was Chloe, a head counselor like you, but oozing confidence from every pore. She was touching her lips with a dreamy, almost theatrical air as she told her friends what had happened between her and Niki the night before.
"Girls, I swear, Niki is… unreal," Chloe said, adjusting her low-cut tank top with a practiced gesture to draw the attention of the guys fixing the boats. "Last night, behind the tool shed… we kissed for who knows how long, and girls, I’ve never had a kiss like that. Niki’s rough, and let’s be honest, he always wants to be in control, but he knows exactly what he’s doing with those lips of his, they were practically on my..." She giggled. "I’ve never felt so… dominated before, and you all know I’m usually the one calling the shots with guys!"
You rolled your eyes, trying to push back the sudden sting in your eyelids at the thought of Niki kissing someone else as you walked back to the bungalow, you wondered:
Why do my eyes feel like this?
You were furious with yourself because you knew who Niki was a heartbreaker, a guy who lived for moments, not promises. You didn’t want to fall for him like everyone else… but maybe you already had. And you still had another month and a half of sharing a bungalow with him before returning to Chicago.
A month and a half had passed since the start of summer camp, and some of the kids, along with a few counselors had already headed back to Chicago. Thankfully, Lia had stayed with you for the entire summer. You’d said goodbye to all the kids and some of the counselors, and that very evening, fifteen new kids and four new counselors two guys and two girls had arrived.
Two weeks had passed since John’s arrival, and for Niki, every single second he saw or heard him was a struggle not to roll his eyes. John was the exact type of guy Niki despised: a campus swimmer with a blinding smile straight out of a YouTube ad preview, the kind that made you want to skip the video in the first five seconds. He studied English literature and flaunted quotes from authors who had been dead and buried for centuries. It was infuriating.
As you leaned over to tighten the kids’ life jackets, John hovered around you like always—ever since he’d arrived at camp, he’d had the brilliant idea of positioning himself as the prince charming you supposedly needed.
"Be careful, Y/n, don’t strain your back too much. Let me pull these canoe ropes—I wouldn’t want you to overdo it," John said, resting his hand on your shoulder for a second too long for Niki’s liking. Niki watched with a groan of despair as John flirted like an idiot something he’d been witnessing for days now: John sitting next to you at meals, John constantly finding excuses to touch you (though you were reluctant to his advances). One morning, Niki had even found him standing outside your bungalow at 7:30 AM, flashing that smug smile of his. Niki had wanted to make him disappear in zero seconds.
Let’s just say Niki didn’t like John, and the feeling was mutual. So when John found out you were one of the few girls sharing a room with a guy, he’d insisted on asking for explanations. But you’d told him there was nothing to be done, the pairs were set for the summer, and deep down, you didn’t mind staying with Niki. John, however, wasn’t thrilled with your arrangement, especially since everyone could see—and hear that there was still something unresolved between you two.
On the dock, while Niki waited his turn to get into the canoe with Nina, Lia approached him, thoroughly enjoying the show of his irritation toward you and John, a smirk playing on her lips.
"Mmm, someone here doesn’t seem to tolerate another alpha male in his territory," Lia murmured, crossing her arms as Niki snapped his head toward her, eyes narrowed.
"Mind your own business, Lia. That guy’s just… a loser."
Lia chuckled, watching as Niki couldn’t stop glancing at you for even a second.
"A loser, huh? Well, that ‘loser’ is getting all the attention you used to have just a few weeks ago! When are you going to stop acting like a jerk and show her who you really are? She won’t wait forever, Niki. It’s obvious from a mile away that you feel something for Y/n and it’s definitely not hate… Let’s just say ever since you kissed in that barn, the tension between you two could power the entire camp."
Niki froze for a second at Lia’s words, his expression confused. "How do you know that..." He cut himself off, realizing of course you and Lia were best friends and best friends told each other everything. Niki closed his eyes for a moment, and against his will, his mind played tricks on him, memories flooded back: the feel of your fingers in his hair, the way you’d responded to his kiss with that shy hesitation that had made his heart race, the way you’d clung to himl ike you were afraid he’d disappear from that barn.
When he opened his eyes again and saw how you smiled at that guy, he thought: John doesn’t know and never will what it’s like to feel you tremble when someone kisses you, how good it feels to be touched by you, how beautiful you look beneath him with swollen lips, neither of you able to stop kissing…
"I don’t feel anything for her, Lia. She could start dating that John kid tomorrow, and I wouldn’t care," Niki said, looking down for the first time in minutes and deep down, he didn’t even believe himself. Lia shook her head, looking at him with a pity that made him furious.
"You know, you’re not very good at lying, Niki. I thought you were smarter than this, but you’re just like every other guy in the world: the second you realize you feel something, you refuse to face the consequences. What’s the matter? Afraid that admitting even a scrap of emotion will make your ‘bad boy from Chicago’ aura vanish into thin air?" she taunted.
"You don’t know shit about me, Lia, and it’s better if your best friend stays as far away from me as possible… I’m not the happy-ending type, and she doesn’t need someone like me ruining her life," Niki hissed. Lia started walking toward her canoe but paused to land one last jab.
"Cut the tough-guy act, Niki, because if you keep this up, you’ll end up alone forever and trust me, a life with no one brave enough to love you, and no one you’re brave enough to love, isn’t much of a life. I’ll say it one more time: she won’t wait for you forever, Niki. So make a move, because honestly? I don’t like John either." She gave him a little smirk before walking off, leaving Niki standing there, motionless, as you climbed into the canoe with John’s help—and Niki watched as John’s hand brushed your waist to steady you.
In that moment, Niki didn’t just feel jealousy. He felt something else maybe the realization that he could lose you soon. And Niki wasn’t the type to lose something he wanted.
That evening, Niki was sprawled on his bed which was slightly too small for his height, relaxing and playing on his Nintendo Switch. He tried to focus on the game, but it was getting harder and harder not to steal glances at the creaky bathroom door you both shared. From the other side, your slightly off-key voice drifted out as you sang Legendary Lovers by Katy Perry, laughing between verses. You’d been in there way too long, usually, it took you ten minutes to throw on one of your matching, childish pajama sets after slathering on some weird aloe vera mask from too much sun. But when the door finally swung open, Niki expected to see you in your usual sleepwear.
Instead, you stood there in a short, black, slightly glittery top and a denim skirt that left your tanned legs bare. Your hair wasn’t in its usual braids—it was loose and wild, a mess of curls and waves tumbling over your shoulders. The scent of sakura hit him immediately, now so familiar it felt like home. Without realizing it, he let his Switch slide onto the comforter and propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze locking onto you as you adjusted yourself in front of the mirror.
"Where are you going, Y/n?" Niki asked, already dreading your answer. "As far as I know, there’s no bonfire tonight, and we’ve got to be up at seven tomorrow. Every human on this planet needs at least seven or eight hours of sleep." He mentally cursed himself, him, the guy who spent nights staring at the ceiling because of insomnia, was lecturing you about sleep.
"I’m going out," you said, checking your reflection in the mirror. Niki huffed, sitting up sharply. "I see your observational skills are still top-notch, Shorty. Obviously, you’re going out but where and with who? Not that it takes a genius to figure it out."
You didn’t answer. You were too focused on applying a bit of lip gloss that made your lips look even more tempting than they had that night in the barn. The memory alone made Niki’s fists clench.
"I bet you’re going out with John, huh?" he asked, almost laughing. "What’s the plan tonight? Is he gonna gift you a fairy-tale book or recite some famous 19th-century author to flirt with you?"
You whipped around. "Yes, I’m going out with him, and stop making fun of him. At least he’s kind a concept you struggle to understand, especially when it comes to me." You jabbed a finger at him, and right then, your phone buzzed on the table. A message from John: "I’m here."
When you looked up, Niki’s eyes were still locked on you and you on him. The tension in the room was electric, thick enough to cut with a knife. Neither of you wanted to make the first move. You were both too stubborn, too proud, neither breaking eye contact for even a second until Niki finally spoke:
"Go on, Y/n. Wouldn’t want to keep your dear John waiting. Just remember...midnight curfew, or this bungalow might turn into a pumpkin… and I might turn into something dark." He smirked, and you looked at him with a small smile before heading for the door.
"Don’t worry, Niki. I’ll be back by midnight. And don’t stay up waiting for me."
The door clicked shut behind you, and Niki stayed frozen, listening to the sound of your voice greeting John outside. He dragged a hand down his face, groaning as he flopped back onto the bed, running his fingers through his hair.
Like hell I’m not staying up waiting for you, Wren.
Your date with John was going perfectly...too perfectly, perhaps and that was the main problem. John seemed like the prince charming every mother would dream of for her daughter.
You were sitting on the dock, wrapped in a blanket he had spread out with maniacal precision, surrounded by snacks and drinks arranged like a scene from a 2000s romantic movie. Everything was perfect: fireflies dancing over the water, stars twinkling in the sky, the moon casting a silver glow on the lake, creating an almost fairy-tale atmosphere. John was attentive, kind, funny, and you laughed a lot, he was the kind of guy who could put anyone at ease. For any other girl, this would have been the perfect date. But there was one problem for you: you felt nothing.
There was no tension, no attraction, no shiver running down your spine when someone looked at you in a certain way. John was perfect, yes but too perfect, like a character straight out of a book, one of those flawless ones, without the fire that made you feel alive. You couldn’t stand those kinds of characters because everyone had their demons, and it was beautiful to see people’s vulnerabilities and flaws. But John seemed to have none or he was just really good at hiding them.
"When we get back to Chicago, I’d love for you to come see me compete in the regional swimming championships. And who knows, if I win, I might even get you to wear a hoodie with my name on it," he said, smiling at you. You nodded, smiling back.
"It would be nice to come watch you. I’ve never been to a swimming meet only football or basketball games," you replied, looking around. He nodded.
"Then it’ll be an honor to be the first swimmer you come see at the campus," he said, preening slightly. A moment later, a light breeze picked up, tousling your hair. A few strands fell against your lips, still glossy, and you laughed but at the same time, you looked up, annoyed, because you hated when your hair stuck to your lips. You tried to brush it away, but John was faster. Gently, he leaned in and tucked the strands behind your ear.
"There you go, Y/n," he said, his hands lingering near your face for a second too long. Your eyes met, and in that moment, you thought only one thing:
Don’t kiss me. Don’t kiss me. Don’t kiss me.
But John couldn’t hear your thoughts. For him, this was the climactic moment, like in a romance novel or movie where the two protagonists finally kiss and confess their feelings. He saw you there, cheeks flushed from the wind, hair tousled, illuminated by the moon’s silver reflection on the water and he thought there was no better moment to lean in and kiss you. Without thinking, he slowly leaned toward you, closing his eyes and tilting his face, ready to claim what he thought was a silent invitation but deep down, it wasn’t. You immediately caught the scent of his expensive, good cologne, so different from Niki’s that sharp, spicy peppermint that only he could pull off.
Before John’s lips could brush yours, your body reacted on its own a survival reflex. You jerked upright, the wooden planks creaking under your shoes. When John opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the empty space where your face had been a second before. You stood a step back from him, arms crossed over your chest as if protecting yourself from a closeness you didn’t want. He remained half-reclined on the blanket, wearing the most humiliated, confused expression you’d ever seen on a guy.
"I… I’m sorry, John," you whispered, feeling just as embarrassed. You seriously wished you could vanish right then. "I can’t… I can’t return the kiss or anything else." You took another step back.
"Y/n, wait...did I do something wrong?" he asked, trying to get up, but his voice was thick with the awkwardness of someone who’d just been brutally friend-zoned.
"No, you were perfect," you answered sincerely and it was true. John had been sweet to you from the start, and for any other girl, this date would have been perfect. "I’m the problem, not you. This whole date you planned was magical… but not for that’s the point. I’m sorry, again."
And without giving him a chance to respond, you turned and walked quickly toward the bungalows, not stopping even when you heard your name called faintly in the distance. You kept your head down, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, your heart pounding almost relieved that you hadn’t kissed John back and you realized it was pounding because you didn’t want a perfect prince, you wanted a guy with a thousand flaws, a thousand fears of admitting what he truly felt for you.
You tiptoed in, your heart still pounding from your hasty escape from the dock, hoping against hope that Niki had somehow fallen into one of his rare deep sleeps, though you knew there was a 99% chance he was awake (that guy barely slept at all). Your hope died the moment your eyes landed on the fully lit room and his hulking figure.
Niki wasn’t asleep. He was lying on his side, his feet hanging off the edge of the mattress, one hand propping up his blond head, and the other clutching your copy of The Mistake by Elle Kennedy, the cover already creased. Your eyes widened in horror at the sight.
"What the hell are you doing, Niki? Put that book down right now!" you shrieked, your voice shattering the silence as your cheeks burned.
He jolted at the sound of your voice clearly not expecting you back so soon but recovered his usual arrogance in a heartbeat. As you lunged for the book, Niki sat up and lifted his arm toward the ceiling. At over 185 cm tall, reaching it was like trying to scale a skyscraper.
"Damn, it’s not even 11:30, and you’re already back? That date must’ve been a disaster, Shorty!" he chuckled, flashing that infuriating smirk. You wanted to slap him.
"My date is none of your business! Give me back my book, now!" you huffed, rising onto your toes and uselessly trying to climb his solid chest to reclaim your precious paperback—especially since you hoped he hadn’t gotten far enough to read the slightly "spicy" scenes in the early chapters.
"Who would’ve guessed?" he continued, ignoring your desperate attempts. "Y/n, the girl with the perfect braids and the 'good girl' soul that everyone adores, reads what’s basically porn disguised as literature! Does John know? Or does he still think you’re completely innocent?"
You froze, hands pressed to your face to hide your mortification, not just because Niki had discovered your romance novels, but because they weren’t normal romances. No, these had full-on steamy chapters. You were too tired, too confused, too embarrassed by everything that had happened that night, so you snapped:
"Keep the damn book, Niki. Do whatever you want with it. I’m going to change." You threw your hands up in defeat, and Niki’s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting up in shock.
Is she seriously letting me win? Just like that?
But he didn’t let you be. As you stepped into the bathroom to remove your makeup, you heard his footsteps follow you. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his muscular arms over his chest, watching you through the mirror as you nervously wiped away your mascara.
"It must’ve gone really badly if you don’t even have the energy to fight with me, Y/N. Come on, Shorty, tell me. What did that loser do?"
You stayed silent, but he kept teasing you, stepping closer and lowering his head to enter your line of sight. "Come on, Y/N, what did he do to make you come back so early? It hasn’t even been two hours since you left… Honestly, if I had a date with a girl I liked, I’d stay with her all night." He watched you, and you sighed, exhausted by his questions and the whole situation.
"He tried to kiss me, Niki!" you blurted out, spinning around so fast you nearly threw the cotton pad in your hand at him.
For the first time in a long while, the room fell into a deafening silence. Niki’s jaw clenched so hard you saw the muscles in his neck tighten like ropes. His mocking gaze darkened, and he lowered his face slightly, avoiding your eyes for a moment.
"Did you… I mean… did you kiss him back?" he asked quietly. You stayed silent for a few seconds, watching him, and saw a shadow of sadness, something you’d never seen on his face before—cross his features. Niki took your silence as confirmation.
"No, Niki. I didn’t kiss him. In fact, one of the most embarrassing things of my life happened. While he leaned in, thinking he had me, I moved away, and he just sat there with his mouth open like a goldfish, staring at space for what felt like forever until he realized I wasn’t there anymore." You said it all in one breath, and for a full minute, neither of you spoke. Niki brought a hand to his lips, trying to stifle a sound that was half sigh of relief, half hysterical laugh, and tried to speak—but you shot him a glare.
"Now get out of here because I need to change, and I just want to go to sleep. Please don’t ask any more questions, Niki." You pushed him out with all your strength, slamming the door shut and leaning against it.
"Y/n?" he called softly, his tone suddenly serious.
"Go to bed, Niki. Please."
For the first time in weeks, Niki listened. He got into bed and waited for you. When the bathroom door finally reopened, he watched you walk slowly and turn off the small light, letting only the moonlight filtering through the curtains illuminate the room. You slipped under the covers and, for the first time in hours, felt safe maybe even at peace with yourself because Niki was just a few feet away.
"Sweet dreams, Wren," he murmured into the darkness, his voice completely sincere for once.
"Goodnight, Niki," you replied, your mind already sinking into the pillow. Niki waited until he heard your breathing slow and steady, and only then did he close his eyes. And for the first time since he’d arrived in Montana, he fell asleep too maybe because, deep down, he knew you hadn’t kissed that guy back because there was someone else in your heart, and that someone was him.
The wind howled outside the window, and the rain pounded relentlessly against the bungalow’s glass, the distant rumble of thunder stirring a mix of anxiety and drowsy comfort in you. You burrowed deeper under the covers, savoring that moment of peace before reality hit but it didn’t last long—the walkie-talkie every counselor kept on their nightstand screeched to life, and you groaned, stretching out a sleep-heavy arm to grab it, still half-asleep.
As you blinked your eyes open to keep from dropping the device, you saw that Niki was still fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the apocalyptic weather outside. One arm dangled off the bed, and his face was twisted into an adorably childish pout—nothing like the arrogant, athletic guy he pretended to be during activities. The camp director’s voice came through clear and lively, snapping you back to reality, and you tore your gaze away from the guy snoring softly with his mouth open.
"Good morning, everyone," the director’s voice boomed from the walkie-talkie, followed by a chorus of groggy "good mornings" from the other counselors. You mumbled yours, too.
"I think you’ve all heard and seen what’s happening outside your cabins, trees down, the path to the main lodge is completely flooded. Strong wind gusts are expected today and tomorrow, rain for the next three days straight, and a violent thunderstorm with lightning is forecast for late afternoon." As the director spoke, you heard Niki let out a sleepy groan as he began stretching like a cat, his too-long, too-bulky body barely fitting on his bed.
"The kids are safe in the main building with us," the director continued. "Those of you in the bungalows will have to stay inside for at least two days. You’ve all got kitchens and enough food to survive. Stay safe, and please… don’tkill each other if you don’t get along. I know some pairs have… history, but behave, you’re not kids anymore! The radios stay on for emergencies. Have a good day."
Niki opened one eye, then the other, and looked at you, his voice still thick with sleep. "What’d he say?" he mumbled, sinking back into his pillow.
"He said we’re officially prisoners," you replied, staring at the low, gray clouds beyond the window. "Every time it rains, you and I end up stuck sharing the same space. It’s a curse." You pouted slightly, and Niki chuckled, watching you.
"Come on, wren, don’t tell me you’re complaining. Think about it—you could’ve been stuck with John. Having him around 24/7, knowing you’d friend-zone him after two..."
Before he could finish, you grabbed your pillow and hurled it at his face with all your strength. He burst into loud laughter, effortlessly catching it with his annoyingly quick reflexes, the pillow never even grazing his face.
"Please, Niki! Let’s not talk about John or yesterday’s disaster date," you groaned, sinking back into bed and pulling the covers up to your nose. You just wanted to disappear and forget the embarrassment of last night.
Niki stayed quiet for a moment, watching you hiding under the covers, and something in him swelled at how cute you looked. Without thinking, he said:
"What do you say we watch a movie or a show these next few days? We can push the beds together to make one big bed and watch it side by side?" He watched you, clutching the blankets tightly, waiting for an answer.
Your eyes widened from under the covers, a ping of anxiety shooting through you.
What did he mean by this? Did he want to be close to me? Did he want to sleep with me? Or was this just another way to tease me like usual? You wondered, pushing the warm blankets off your body. You saw him watching you and nodded.
"No problem for me. Let’s move them...at least your giant body that’s more like a pole will be more comfortable, and you’ll stop kicking at nothing."
He rolled his eyes at your joke but couldn’t hide a small smile. He got up while you were still sitting on your bed, and with ease, he started shifting the nightstand between you. In just a few minutes, his bed was aligned perfectly with yours, the two now connected with a mountain of shared blankets in the middle.
"First, though, I need to eat," you said, your stomach growling. "Otherwise, the next thunder you hear might be my stomach." You patted your belly, and Niki laughed, taking in the sight of you—hair tousled, way too cute for his own good.
The kitchen was tiny, and every time one of you moved, you bumped elbows or backs into the other. It looked like one of those cute couples from ads, feeding each other—except you two weren’t a couple.
Niki handled the moka pot, while you started slicing strawberries and bananas with surgical precision. He popped bread into the toaster until it was perfectly crisp, then began spreading on a generous layer of Nutella, so much that the edges were already oozing over as you watched him get his fingers messy, you laughed.
"That’s bread with Nutella, Niki, not Nutella with a little bread," you teased, sitting on the counter and swinging your legs.
"Life’s too short to skimp on chocolate, wren!" he shot back, stepping closer to add your strawberries on top of the dark spread.
You and Niki continued eating in an unusual silence for the two of you, broken only by the rumble of thunder and the sound of rain pounding on the tent. Every now and then, your eyes met, only to quickly slide away toward the window, where the clouds were so low it felt like you were in a place that wasn’t quite real a world where it was just the two of you.
As you took the last bite of your second slice of bread and Nutella, you felt his eyes on you. It wasn’t the look of someone who wanted to argue or tease you—there was something almost thoughtful in the way he watched you.
"Wait, you’re messy. Again," he said, his tone a mix of amusement and provocation, pointing to his own lip as a reference for where you should clean. "You really don’t know how to eat like a normal person, do you, Shorty?"
You rolled your eyes, trying to wipe your mouth. "If I’m messy, it means I enjoyed it. Or maybe someone here went way overboard with the Nutella, and that’s why I’m covered in it!" you shot back, trying to clean your lips with your index finger, but all you managed to do was smear the sticky mess even more. Niki let out a sound that was half sigh, half laugh. Without a word, he took two steps forward, then leaned in between your legs, forcing you to tilt your chin up to maintain eye contact. His hair was still a little tousled from the pillow, falling over his forehead in a soft fringe that gave him an almost "good boy" vibe.
Your heart pounded against your chest at his closeness. Niki hadn’t been this close to you since… well, that kiss in the barn.
He raised his hand slowly, as if giving you time to pull away but you stayed still, and you felt the pad of his thumb press against the corner of your mouth. A violent shiver ran down your spine as he traced the entire outline of your lower lip with maddening slowness. Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t look away. A moment later, he pressed his thumb gently against the Nutella smear on your lip, collecting the last trace of chocolate.
"There. All clean, Shorty," he murmured in a husky voice. Then, with a boldness only Niki could pull off, he brought his chocolate-stained finger to his lips and slowly licked it, never breaking eye contact. The intimacy of the gesture so forbidden, so raw—left you stunned, your lips parting slightly in shock.
You and Niki were centimeters apart, and if he had leaned in even a millimeter, your lips would have met again. You swallowed hard, and for a second… you wanted it. You wanted him to do it again but then, like a sudden flash, you remembered all the campus rumors—all the girls he’d looked at with those same eyes, all the girls he’d kissed so you took control of the situation.
"Well… thanks for cleaning me up," you said, your voice trembling slightly. You placed your hands on his chest and gently pushed him away, sliding off the counter in one swift motion.
"I… I’m going to the bathroom for a second, and then yes, we can watch a show. You can even pick it. Happy?" you said, rushing toward the bathroom and shutting the door behind you, pressing your back against it.
Montana had decided to play cruel tricks or maybe it was just trying to force you and Niki together as much as possible. What was supposed to be a brief storm had turned into an endless weather alert: the two days of forced isolation had stretched into four, turning your bungalow into a temporary refuge where you had to coexist with Niki for four straight days without stepping outside.
Incredibly, for forty-eight hours straight, you hadn’t killed each other. In fact, you’d even established a routine, though, of course, the jabs and teasing never stopped. They were what kept the electricity in the bungalow alive. Niki had teased you all through the first night after you, terrified by the thunder and jump scares from the horror movie he had insisted on watching (you cursed yourself for letting him pick), had spent the night wide-eyed until 3 AM until Niki, in the dark, had reached out and let you grip his strong fingers until you finally fell asleep. The next morning, his hand was still entwined with yours, and both of you had shifted closer in the bed.
You, of course, hadn’t let up on how useless he was in the kitchen, the man would’ve survived on instant ramen for all four days if you hadn’t been there. He had the uncanny ability to make even the water in the kettle disappear if you weren’t careful. But thanks to you, you ate normally. By the third day, you were exhausted from being so close to him, so you decided to hide in the bathroom for a regenerating shower, and honestly, you got lost in your thoughts, taking advantage of a lull in the lightning to truly relax—maybe even staying under the water a little too long.
When you finally stepped out, wrapped in steam, your eyes widened in horror when you saw that where you swore you’dleft your change of clothes for the night, there were only your panties. No shirt, no pants...nothing.
You swallowed hard, realizing you had to get out somehow, and you definitely weren’t calling Niki, he’d never let you live it down. So, carefully, you opened the door to Niki’s closet, which was right there within reach. It was filled with his "organized chaos" a system only he understood. Without overthinking it, you grabbed a deep burgundy T-shirt of his that smelled like him and tried on his pants but they were comically huge. The shirt, however, reached mid-thigh, and you thought:
Whatever. It’s only five steps to my closet. He won’t even notice I’m wearing his shirt.
You dried your hair, applied your sakura-scented cream, smelling of spring and cherry blossoms and opened the door. A wave of that fragrance immediately filled the bungalow, but your heart stopped when you saw Niki. He wasn’t at his PC, wasn’t playing his Switch, he was lying on the bed, his back against the wall, and in his hands was your Elle Kennedy book… that book… the one with the colorful Post-its marking the spiciest scenes.
"Niki, put that book down!" you squealed, your voice cracking with embarrassment. He burst out laughingm but when he looked up, his eyes weren’t on the pages anymore. They were locked on you on his burgundy shirt clinging to your body, on your bare legs, still warm from the shower, radiating heat and scent. You tried to lunge for the book, but with his lightning reflexes, he lifted his arms above his head. So you stood on your toes, pressing your body against his in an attempt to reach it but you heard Niki swallow loudly. You were so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, and you realized the shirt was riding up dangerously as you stretched.
"Niki, stop reading that thing! Give it back!"
"And why should I? It’s a good book," he said, his voice rough. "Every time I read further, I find scenes that are… decidedly spicy… scenes that you, the good girl you pretend to be, act like you don’t understand, right, Wren?"
You kept struggling until, with a sharp motion, he tossed the book onto the floor. You glared at him with pure hatred.
"Oh my God, I can’t stand you, Niki! You always have to snoop, you always have to touch my things! I don’t touch yours! I never touch the stupid drawings that you guard like a relic! And I don’t know how we’ve gone two days without fighting, you’re insufferable!" you shouted, turning your back on him to rush and pick up the book from the floor. But he moved faster, blocking you before you could bend down and this time, he wasn’t laughing.
"You’re insufferable too, Y/N!" he shouted back. "I can’t stand the way you look at me. I can’t stand when you pretend not to realize how damn hard it is for me to be locked in here with you 24/h, I can’t stand my own head, always bringing me back to you, making me imagine what you’d be like if you were really mine and I can’t stand that you play innocent and then read these stories where the characters do everything because it’s driving me crazy!"
He took a step forward, looming over you, and you stayed frozen, staring at him.
"I can’t stand seeing you in my clothes because I want to see you in them all the time, to mark you as mine but at the same time, I want to rip them off you and I hate....I hate with every part of me seeing you with other guys, especially that loser John. I can’t stand you because from the first moment I saw you in this damn summer camp, the only thing I wanted was for you to be mine and the worst punishment they could’ve given me was making me live with you, Y/n."
He said it all in one breath, and the silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of the rain. Niki shot you one last burning glance, then turned toward the kitchen, heading straight for the exit door. He wanted to leave, to run out into the storm rather than face what he’d just confessed and you hated his completely bipolar personality.
But you couldn’t let him go, not after that. You were tired of this situation, and before his hand could grab the doorknob, you reached him and grabbed his wrist tightly.
"Don’t you dare walk away from me, Niki," you whispered, your voice low. "Don’t you dare leave me here after saying all that."
Without hesitation, you rose onto your toes, your fingers gripping the fabric of his burgundy shirt at his chest, and timidly pulled him toward you, pressing your lips against his. For a moment, Niki stayed frozen, surprised by your boldness so far outside your comfort zone but then, as if an electric shock had jolted him awake, he took control, not wasting a second to claim what he’d wanted for so long.
His hand slid possessively over your side, his long, warm fingers pressing into your skin through the thin fabric, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other. With his other hand, he cupped your cheek, his thumb gently tracing your soft skin in a way that stole your breath. The kiss shifted instantly, no longer the awkward, hesitant one from the barn. Now, it was passionate, desperate, as if both of you had been craving this for far too long. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers burying into his still-damp hair, while he leaned down slightly, erasing every last centimeter of distance between you.
His tongue insistently traced the outline of your lips, teasing, asking for access and you granted it with a deep sigh that sent shivers through Niki. When his tongue finally slid against yours, the kiss deepened, and the only sounds in the bungalow were the patter of rain, the howl of the wind, and your ragged breaths.
Niki let out a low, rough chuckle against your lips at the sound of your sigh, and he couldn’t wait to hear you moan in pleasure, to see you vulnerable and responsive under his touch.
"God, you drive me crazy, wren…" he murmured between kisses, before playfully nipping at your lower lip.
"Niki…" you moaned softly, almost worried someone might hear. His name slipped from your lips in a way that was so sweet, yet so sexy, it made him shiver for a moment. Usually, when you said his name, it was to tease or scold him, but now… now, you were saying it because yes, he was teasing you but in a way he wanted to do every day, to kiss you, to drive you wild with his touch.
Niki pulled back slightly, your faces just centimeters apart, and sighed near your lips:
"Tell me it’s the same for you, Y/n. Tell me," he demanded, slowly pushing you backward toward the sleeping area. A few moments later, your knees hit the edge of the "super-bed", and you tumbled onto the mattress, pulling him down with you. Niki positioned himself above you, supporting himself on his forearms so as not to crush you, while you kept your arms locked around his neck.
You tried to kiss him again, but he pulled back with a challenging smirk.
"No, no. I’ve laid my cards on the table, wren… now it’s your turn. Otherwise, we’ll stay like this all night… or all day tomorrow until you talk." He grinned, and the silence grew heavy again until Niki decided to torture you further, lowering himself slowly and pressing his lips against the warm, sensitive skin of your neck.
"N-Niki… please…" You whispered, tilting your head to give him more space.
"You speak just fine when you want to, Y/n, too well, in fact," he murmured against your skin, alternating wet kisses with playful nips of his teeth. "So tell me what’s going on in that head of yours, or we’re not going anywhere."
You clung to his biceps, feeling the strength of his muscles under your fingers, and tugged lightly at his hair to get his attention.
"Fine! Fine, you win!" you blurted out in one breath. "I can’t stand you either, Niki. Everyone, every single person told me to stay away from you, that you were trouble, and maybe you still are. But fate decided to be ironic and stuck us in this bungalow for the whole summer… At first, I really couldn’t stand you: you were grumpy, arrogant, you teased me every second, and you were way too bipolar for my taste!" You said it all in one rush, and he chuckled against your skin, his lips placing light kisses as they traveled up toward your jaw while his hand slid under the hem of your shirt, stopping at the bare curve of your waist. You bit your lip to hide how much you liked his touch—too much for your own good.
"Keep going, Y/n. Don’t stop now," he murmured against your ear, and you lifted your eyes, feeling vulnerable but determined to say what you felt.
"You win, Niki. Ever since you kissed me in that barn, everything changed… My feelings went out of control for you. And just like you hate John… I… I hated hearing the other counselors talk about you, hated hearing how good you were at kissing, or how they wanted to get your attention or end up in your bed. And yes, I’ll admit it, it drove me crazy with jealousy. So yes… what do you feel? That’s exactly what I feel."
You lowered your gaze, unable to hold his, afraid for a second that he might laugh at you or go back to being his usual cynical self. But instead, you felt his fingers gently lift your chin, and when you met his eyes again, you saw something different in his gaze. He leaned toward you, stopping a breath away from your lips.
"We’ve been two stubborn fools for not realizing this sooner, Y/n," he murmured, his breath mingling with yours. "And I don’t intend to waste any more time. We’ve figured out we like each other, and that’s all that matters in this damn bungalow but don’t think I’ll stop giving you a hard time," he added, pinching your side lightly to make you flinch. "We’ll never stop cursing each other out, right?"
You laughed and pulled him closer, nodding fiercely. "Never, Niki. I’ll never stop teasing you or busting your balls."You caressed his cheek, and he smiled against your lips a real, bright smile you’d never seen on him before and kissed you again, but this time more gently, as if he wanted to seal every word you’d just said into his memory.
That evening, you were tangled in the blankets of your "super-bed," kissing until your lips were tender, alternating between kisses and long moments of silent gazes while a K-drama played on the screen. Niki, who had initially pretended to watch it just to humor you, ended up being the most invested in the plot, commenting on every twist and teasing how obvious it was which of the two protagonists would fall in love first. He mocked how cliché and over-the-top it all was just to make any girl dream but even he couldn’t hide his interest.
But after a couple of episodes, you yawned for the tenth time in half an hour, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.
"What a lightweight you are, Wren," Niki muttered, rolling his eyes with an amused smirk. "It’s barely 10 PM, and you’re already crashing. Are you really just a little girl who needs her beauty sleep, or do you turn into a grump without it?" He watched as you snuggled deeper into the warm blankets and muggled into them.
"A lightweight? Please. It’s a talent not everyone has, to fall asleep in a minute and sleep more than eight hours,"you replied, your voice already thick with sleep as you settled more comfortably against the pillow. "I love sleeping, and I love going to bed early. It’s a natural gift." You closed your eyes slightly but could still feel his gaze on you, almost like a physical sensation.
"Stop staring at me, Niki," you mumbled, keeping your eyes shut.
"And how do you know I’m staring at you if your eyes are closed? Do you have psychic powers, Wren?" he shot back, amused.
At that, you suddenly opened your eyes wide and caught him red-handed. Niki, with his lightning reflexes, quickly shifted his gaze to the wooden wall as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world, but a guilty little smirk gave him away.
"Busted!" you exclaimed in a whisper, stretching a hand under the blankets. Your fingers searched for his, and almost playfully, you brushed the back of his hand. He stayed still for a second, didn’t fully intertwine his fingers with yours, but he didn’t pull away either. You felt his warmth blend with yours, and then he squeezed your hand.
"Mmm… I was thinking about that night you held my hand because you 'knew I was scared of horror movies'…"you started, teasing him with a sly expression. "Admit it, it was just a pathetic excuse to get a little physical contact with me. The camp’s bad boy needed to hold my hand?" You laughed, feeling his grip tighten slightly. He huffed, trying to pull away, but you were faster. You grabbed his hand firmly and pressed it against your chest, holding it tight over your irregularly beating heart.
"Shut that mouth of yours, wren, and go to sleep, or I’ll throw you out of bed," he grumbled, but he made no move to take his hand back. Instead, you felt his thumb gently trace the warm skin of the back of your hand, and you chuckled softly, savoring that moment of pure sweetness.
"Goodnight, Ki," you said but before drifting off completely, you did something you would’ve never dared just a few days ago—maybe it was the coziness of the bungalow that gave you courage. With a quick movement, you propped yourself up slightly on your elbows and, in a move that would’ve shocked your past self, you leaned toward him and planted a quick kiss just under his chin, right where a new mole was. Then, as if nothing had happened, you burrowed back under the covers, pulling them up over your nose to hide the triumphant smile lighting up your face.
From your privileged position, you caught a glimpse of his face through a gap in the blankets. Niki was literally stunned, his usually teasing eyes wide as they stared at you, his jaw slightly slack, and a faint, almost invisible blush tinting his cheekbones. You heard him sigh as he, too, closed his eyes, continuing to gently stroke the palm of your hand until you both sank into a deep sleep almost completely tangled together, hands still intertwined.
The fourth day of isolation began with the same terrible weather as the day before, and Montana showed no signs of letting up. The sky was still heavy with rain, and every so often, thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed through the windows.
After a lazy breakfast filled with whispered laughter and lingering glances, you finished the TV series marathon you’d both enjoyed. Niki, using the excuse that he hadn’t slept well all summer, finally gave in to exhaustion and fell into a deep sleep that afternoon.
He’d dozed off with one arm possessively wrapped around your waist, pulling you close, and you’d never have guessed, seeing him up close like this how much he looked like a puppy while he slept. At the same time, you couldn’t help but notice how much he needed to touch you. You’d already realized back in the barn that Niki loved physical contact with you, but after yesterday, he hadn’t stopped resting a hand on your waist while you cooked, playing with your loose hair, tracing circles on your palm, or kissing you casually. And deep down, you loved this side of him that he only showed to you.
You stayed awake, your heart still beating a little faster from his closeness, and finally picked up The Mistake by Elle Kennedy again. For over an hour, the only sounds in the bungalow were the rustle of pages and Niki’s steady breathing against your shoulder as he napped. You were completely absorbed in Logan and Grace’s story, chuckling to yourself at Logan’s ridiculous lines and underlining the most iconic scenes the book was now covered in colorful Post-its peeking out from the edges.
"I’m going back to sleep for a bit, and of course, you’ve used that as an excuse to get further into this porn disguised as romance!"
Niki’s sleep-thickened voice made you jump, and you instinctively pressed the book to your face to hide your guilty expression. He unwound his arm from around you, stretching lazily, his hair falling over his forehead. When his eyes landed on the book, a crooked smirk tugged at his lips as he took in the avalanche of new Post-its you’d added since the last time he’d seen it.
"Come on, Wren, don’t play innocent," he said, rolling onto his side to get a better look at you. "Admit you like it and admit you don’t just like it because it’s a 'romance,' but because of those spicy scenes you’d love to try for the first time in your life." He chuckled, and you let the book slide just enough for him to see your eyes a mix of embarrassment and something else.
Your cheeks were a soft pink, a stark contrast to the burgundy of his shirt, which you were still wearing. Niki thought you looked beautiful, but most of all, he thought your little pout was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.
"Niki, spicy scenes are in every book these days," you shot back, trying to sound confident. "You shouldn’t be surprised. I’m not as innocent as you think. Okay, fine, I haven’t had… direct experience… but I know what happens between a man and a woman when they like each other. So…"
Before you could finish, Niki lunged at you with feline speed, closing the distance between you. His face was a breath away from yours, but instead of kissing your lips, he diverted to your earlobe, brushing it lightly with his lips.
"And what do you know, Wren?" he whispered. "Come on, tell me what you’d want the guy you like… who happens to be me… to do." He added that last part with the arrogance that usually made you furious but now, it just made you shiver.
You rolled your eyes, muttering that he was getting too full of himself, but your knuckles were white from how tightly you were gripping the book’s cover.
"Come on, Y/n," he insisted, his voice rough. "Tell me what those two protagonists do… what you’d want you and me to… replicate?"
You swallowed hard, feeling how much Niki was teasing you, pushing you. "I… I’d like to be kissed in other places… not just on the mouth," you confessed, closing your eyes.
Niki smiled against your skin, and you felt the warm, wet pressure of his lips just below your jaw, a slow kiss that traveled up toward your ear. "Keep going," he urged, still teasing.
"I’d like… yes, for your hands to touch me in places no one ever has… and at the same time…" You paused, feeling your cheeks burn. "I’d like to kiss you in a very specific spot."
Niki froze for a second at your words, his mind racing through all the possible scenarios of where you might want to kiss him. You heard him swallow hard, one eyebrow arching in an expression somewhere between disbelief and ecstasy.
"And where would you like to kiss me?"
You lifted a trembling finger and pressed it just below his waist, on the left side right where the lip-shaped tattoo marked his skin, just above the waistband of his pants. "Here."
Niki stared at you in silence for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. You looked at him with a slightly offended pout, but he never took his eyes off you. Still watching you, he grabbed the hem of his shirt and, in one fluid motion, pulled it off, tossing it somewhere onto the bed. You were left breathless at the sight of his defined biceps, sculpted chest dusted with ink, and that perfectly chiseled V-line that looked like it had been drawn by an artist obsessed with his muse and then there was the lip tattoo, now fully exposed in front of you. Niki sat properly in front of you, legs spread apart, hands resting on his thighs as he tapped his fingers lightly, fixing you with a small smirk.
"Come here, wren," he murmured.
You shifted cautiously, feeling a mix of vulnerability and nervousness, but deep down, you trusted Niki. You positioned yourself straddling him, and the physical contact was immediate, your bare thighs against the fabric of his pants, his large hands gripping your hips to pull you even closer between you.
Niki tilted his head back, watching you, and found you adorable in your hesitation, unable to meet his gaze.
"Come on, Wren… don’t be afraid. Show me what you want to do," he murmured, his voice rough. You wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his messy hair, and leaned down slowly. You caught the scent of your sakura-scented body wash on his skin and chuckled before beginning to place small, chaste kisses, almost shyly, starting from the base of his jaw and working your way down to his prominent collarbone. But when you felt Niki’s hands tighten on your hips, almost begging for more pressure, your courage grew. Driven by newfound confidence, you began to suck lightly on his fair skin, alternating kisses with playful nips. Niki let out a stifled moan as his head fell back further against the headboard, his skin already flushing redder than usual. You smirked to yourself, thinking that maybe tomorrow, the other girls would notice that this guy was secretly yours.
"Fuck, Wren…" he breathed, his voice ragged. You found a sensitive spot just below his earlobe, and when you nipped at it, you felt him shiver beneath you. You smiled against his skin because you’d discovered his secret, you’d found a spot where he was weak, and you couldn’t wait to uncover what other places would make him beg and lose control.
You leaned down further, exploring his sculpted, ink-stained chest. The yellow light in the room made every muscle, every defined line from his summer of hard work stand out, and when your kisses reached his nipples, your curiosity took over. You licked one with the tip of your tongue, and Niki jolted because damn, he hadn’t expected that from you… No one had, honestly, given how "pure" you seemed in everyone’s eyes. He gently grabbed your hair, pulling just enough to force you to lift your gaze and meet his desire-clouded eyes.
"Don’t stop… please, keep going," he begged, and that plea in his usually gruff voice made you feel incredibly powerful. So you continued to tease him, alternating your tongue with deep kisses, until your hands slid down his tight abs, feeling how hard they were, like marble, under your fingertips. You paused for a moment, biting your lower lip as you admired the masterpiece of a body that looked like it had been drawn by an obsessed artist.
"You’re really beautiful, Niki," you whispered, slightly embarrassed but also aware of what you were saying to the guy in front of you. Niki’s breath caught in his throat because he was used to the easy compliments from campus girls, the empty words whispered in hallways. But hearing it from you—while you looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world—had a devastating effect on him. For the first time, he felt something unravel inside him, and he didn’t know if it was desire, love, or what he felt for you in that moment. But he didn’t mock you. Instead, he gently caressed your cheek with his thumb, looking at you softly and it was a new feeling for both of you.
"Y-You… you shouldn’t say things like that to me, Wren," he said, playing with your hair.
"Could you… lie down a little, Ki?" you asked, using the nickname that made him smile. He slid down the bed, propping himself up on his elbows to stay partially raised, desperate not to miss a single moment of what you were about to do because he was genuinely curious to see what you’d come up with. You tucked your hair behind your ears, and such a simple gesture made him swallow hard. With slightly trembling fingers, you hooked the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled them down a few centimeters, revealing the elastic waistband of his boxers—and right next to it, the red lip tattoo that had haunted your forbidden dreams for weeks. Niki let out a low whistle, trying to regain his usual cockiness.
"Well, well… the good girl’s aiming straight for the forbidden zone. Are you sure you can handle what you’ll find down there, Wren?"
You shot him one last challenging look before pressing your lips right over that tattoo, and the contact of your mouth with the warm skin of his lower abdomen silenced him instantly.
Niki clenched his jaw, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the sheets, overwhelmed by the sight of you curled between his legs, kissing that intimate mark with devotion. Small shivers ran through his entire body.
You began to trace its outline with the tip of your tongue, lingering on the warm skin that pulsed with every touch, and Niki let out a beautiful moan as his back arched slightly off the mattress. You smiled against his skin because the camp’s "bad boy" was melting under your simple touch.
You moved lower, placing small, wet kisses just below his navel, brushing against the gray cotton edge of his boxers. Every movement you made, innocent on the surface but designed to drive him wild—and every time your body pressed against his thighs as you straddled him, you felt his erection grow harder, more insistent, pulsing against you.
"Fuck, Wren… you’re killing me," he cursed, his voice rough. Every time you placed small kisses right below the edge of his boxers, he couldn’t stay still because your lips always sought out his most sensitive spots, and he was reaching his limit.
"I don’t think you’re ready for a blowjob, Y/n… and if you keep this up, I’ll lose control. How about you stop teasing me and let… let me take charge? You’ve provoked me enough, little one. Earlier, you said you wanted to be kissed elsewhere… where?" he almost stammered, his voice shaking from how close he was to coming like a teenager if you kept teasing him with your movements and kisses. His hands slid down your thighs, squeezing them lightly in a possessive gesture that stole your breath.
"Look how you’re trembling… does it turn you on to know I’m the one affecting you like this? The guy you’re supposed to hate, the one you’re supposed to stay away from?"
You nodded as you sucked on the fair skin of his lower abdomen, instinctively tightening your thighs around his hips. Niki cursed again, his hand sliding up your thigh and squeezing the flesh with just enough pressure.
He gently rolled you onto your back, stretching you out on the "super-bed," and took a second to adjust his boxers before positioning himself above you, looming over you with his muscular frame. But he kept himself propped up on his forearms, careful not to crush you, and traced the edge of your lips with his thumb, his expression suddenly serious and protective.
"First of all… are you sure you want this? Sure you want me to touch you?"
"Yes," you answered, and he smiled—but it was a different kind of smile. There was no trace of teasing, no hint of the guy who loved to rile you up. Just a softness you’d never have associated with the Niki everyone described.
"I know no one’s ever touched you before, Wren. And I don’t want to scare you. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything. We’ll use three colors, okay? Like a traffic light. Green if you’re good, yellow if you’re embarrassed or want to slow down, and red if you want me to stop immediately. No pressure, got it?" He caressed your cheek as he spoke, and you were struck by how this rebel without rules was now the guy trying to make you feel safe and comfortable.
"It’s perfect," you whispered. Niki leaned down and stole a soft, chaste kiss before his hands slid under the burgundy shirt you were wearing. You felt his large, rough hands against your smooth, warm skin, and it was as if they were made to fit perfectly around your hips. He began lifting the fabric centimeter by centimeter, revealing your sun-kissed stomach, and murmured:
"You’re so soft…" He leaned down to kiss your skin, alternating gentle kisses with light sucks that made you gasp, and used the tip of his tongue to tease your ribs, making you let out small, muffled moans—part pleasure, part tickle.
"Color, Y/N?" he asked against your skin.
"Green…" you stammered, burying your fingers in his blond hair and pulling him closer.
"Can I play with your breasts?" he asked hopefully, his hand already toying with the hem of your shirt. The embarrassment was off the charts, but the way he looked at you, as if you were the most precious, desirable thing in the world gave you the courage to nod.
"Green," you answered, and he chuckled. "That’s my good girl."
You pushed the shirt up over your collarbones, letting the fabric bunch under your chin. When your breasts were finally free, the dim light accentuated every curve of your beautiful body. Niki’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of the contrast between your Montana-tanned skin and the pale, almost crescent-moon shape where your bikini had protected you all summer.
Niki had always thought you had a gorgeous body, but he hadn’t realized how much and he ran a hand through his hair.
"Fuck, Wren…" he cursed under his breath, his eyes devouring every inch of you. "You’re… you’re stunning."
He didn’t waste time. Like a man devoted to you, he cupped your breasts with his large hands. The contrast between the softness of your skin and the roughness of his calloused palms marked from summer work and weights made you let out a deep sigh. With one hand, he began torturing your right breast, using his thumb to press and roll your hardened nipple, while his mouth descended on the left one. The heat of his tongue enveloping the sensitive tip made you arch your back, and Niki sucked hard, sending electric shocks straight to your core for the first time. Without meaning to, you pushed your hips upward, unconsciously seeking contact with his hard, pulsing length pressing against his boxers, right against your thin lace panties.
"Ah… Niki…" you panted, digging your fingers into his blond hair and pulling him closer. He responded with a moan, loving how close you were.
"Christ, how the hell did I go all summer without putting my hands on you?" he muttered as his left hand squeezed your breast a little too eagerly, his possessive grip making you gasp.
"K-Keep going… but gentler on the left, Ki… I’m really sensitive there… my period’s coming soon." You stammered, and Niki lifted his gaze, his lips glistening, as he continued teasing your clit through your panties and squeezing your breast. A playful grin spread across his face.
"Fuck, that’s why they’re so full and hard…" he murmured, then began tracing slow circles with his tongue around your areola, blowing on it between kisses, savoring your endless shivers. After what felt like forever, he moved lower, licking the underside of your breast with long, deliberate strokes of his tongue, then climbing back up to nip at the pink bud with extreme care.
While his mouth made you feel so good, his hand slid down your smooth thigh. You felt his fingers creep up centimeter by centimeter, tickling the inside of your thigh and making your legs tremble, almost closing on instinct because no one had ever touched you there before.
"Color, Wren?" he whispered against your skin.
"Green…" you managed to gasp as he chuckled softly, his fingers not stopping, they slid under the elastic edge of your panties, finding you already wet and warm. Niki let out a sound of pure approval at how excited you already were, knowing it was all because of him, and that no one else would ever have this privilege in his life.
"Fuck, Shorty… you’re already ready for me," he murmured as his middle finger began rubbing your clit through your damp panties.
Your body arched with a jolt, overwhelmed by a pleasure so intense it was almost too much to handle. To increase the pressure, Niki pushed his hips forward, grinding his hard length against your still-covered core, and you let out a loud moan that filled the room. Embarrassed, you immediately clapped your hands over your mouth to stifle the sound, but Niki stopped, grabbing your wrists and pulling them away from your face, fixing you with an almost fierce intensity.
"No, no, little one… be a good girl and let me hear everything," he said, his voice rough. "I want to hear you moan, I want to hear you scream if that’s what you need. No one can hear us, remember? There’s only the storm outside… it’s just you and me here. So please, don’t feel embarrassed if you want to moan my name...it’s beautiful."
He returned his focus to your breasts, alternating hungry licks with gentle sucks on the lower curve. When he pulled away for a second, he noticed a small purple mark beginning to form on your fair skin. He thought about how he’d love to cover you in these marks, but he knew that soon you’d be back in your swimsuit or canoeing, so he’d save that for later.
His hands slid back to your hips, gripping them tightly, while his fingers inside your panties increased their rhythm.
"Green or yellow, Wren?" he asked.
"Green… please, green," you whispered, feeling him tease the edge of your panties. Niki pulled the thin lace asidewith a slowness that drove you wild, letting the cool air of the bungalow brush against your exposed, aroused skin. When his thumb made direct contact with your clit, the world around you seemed to dissolve—you’d never felt anything like this before, and it was so good.
"Tongue or fingers, Wren?" he whispered, and your eyes widened in surprise at his bluntness.
"I… I trust you. You choose," you said, embarrassed by his question. Niki lifted himself slightly on his arms, studying your expression as he saw how you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him at first.
"Green or yellow, Y/N?" he asked, stroking your cheek. You bit your lower lip, feeling the heat spread all the way to your ears from embarrassment.
"Green… it’s just that I’ve never done anything like this before."
He nodded, and with a gentle motion, he leaned down to place a chaste, reassuring kiss on your forehead, and that touch made you melt.
"Relax. I’ll make you feel good, Wren. Whatever you say, I’ll stop instantly, okay?"
With a fluid motion, he pulled your panties off completely, tossing them somewhere unknown. When his eyes fell on your swollen, glistening intimacy, he let out a deep breath and leaned down, blowing lightly on your clit, making you jolt from the contrast. Then, he gently spread your legs, draping them over his shoulders. For the first time in your life, you were completely exposed, vulnerable under his gaze. Without another word, his warm tongue dove into your clit, and you moaned instantly—it was a strange, wet, completely new sensation, and you finally understood why all the girls said they loved foreplay with guys.
"Fuck, you taste so good…" he cursed against your skin, continuing to tease you with small, circular licks in figure-eights, alternating pressure until you arched your back against the mattress. Feeling you were ready, Niki slid a finger between your folds, and you tensed instinctively, clenching your muscles. He stopped immediately, feeling his finger fully inside you.
"Relax, little one. It’ll be okay. Let me take care of you," he murmured.
You nodded, trying to regulate your breathing, and when his finger slowly slid in centimeter by centimeter, a sense of fullness you’d never felt before flooded you.
"Fuck, you’re so tight… you’re swallowing my finger, Wren," he said as he began to move it in a rhythm that made you tremble, sliding in and out with a patience that was driving you mad—because you wanted more, but you were too shy to ask for it. But Niki understood instantly.
"Can I slide another one in?" he asked, his eyes fixed on yours as they rolled back. You nodded frenetically, unable to speak.
"Good girl… I knew deep down you were this good, that you’d like these slightly dirty things," he teased, and when his middle finger, marked by small calluses from summer work, slid in beside the other, you screamed his name.
"Niki!" Your hands flew to his hair, pulling at it for support as he began to pump with more vigor.
"Damn, Y/n… you’re taking me so well…" he cursed, savoring the sound of your moans, which grew sharper and sharper. He began to coordinate his movements: while his fingers worked inside you with decisive thrusts, his mouth returned to your clit, sucking and licking in sync with his fingers to give you even more pleasure. That double stimulation made you lose all contact with reality, and you screamed even louder, your legs trembling on his shoulders
Niki manipulated you, both mentally and physically with expert precision, slowing down just as you were about to shatter, only to watch you beg for him. His fingers pumped deeper inside you, his thumb circling your clit with maddening precision, and his voice was a dark, velvety whisper against your skin.
"Look at you, Shorty. Look how well you take me… were you born to be like this under me, huh?"
Shivers raced up your spine, and an unbearable heat spread through your body. You gasped, tears pricking at your eyes from the frustration of pleasure as he continued to tease you, his fingers pumping harder inside you while his teeth grazed your clit just enough to drive you wild.
"Ki… please… I… I need to come!" you cried, your voice breaking.
But instead of giving you what you craved, he smirked that infuriating, arrogant smirk—the one you usually hated but now loved—and rather than letting you climax, he used his teeth to tease your clit while his fingers pumped even deeper, searching for that most sensitive spot inside you.
"You want to come, little one? Then take it."
He thrust his fingers harder, now that your body had adjusted to their size, with a frenetic rhythm that gave you no escape. And then—you came, screaming his name, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Niki loved how his name sounded on your lips, how one hand was fisted in his hair while the other clawed at the sheets, nearly tearing them. Your body convulsed in endless spasms, your arousal dripping down his fingers and thighs but he didn’t stop.
While you were still riding the high of your orgasm, he leaned down and licked away every trace of your pleasure, the intensity making you whimper.
"It’s too much… Niki, stop, it’s too much!" you sobbed, but he lifted his head just enough to lick you again, murmuring:
"It’s never too much for you, Wren. Look how you’re trembling… you’re pathetic and beautiful at the same time."His hand gripped you possessively, pulling you flush against him. "Do you really think I’d let you rest now, after showing you how good your body can feel?"
And that night, with only the storm’s roar breaking the silence, Niki kept his promise: he gave you no mercy, pushing you to the edge two more times until you were nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, obsessed with his touch, your body singing his name like a prayer.
When everyone woke up at dawn on the fifth day, the Montana sky was finally a brilliant, cloudless blue, streaked only by the chirping of birds. As the bungalow doors swung open, everyone breathed in that crisp air and the scent of wet pine and fresh grass the kind everyone loved.
The general gathering in the sports pavilion was a chaos of voices and laughter from the kids, who had been cooped up in the dorms with emergency activities. They were all excited to run and bicker with each other again. You smiled as Nina came sprinting toward you and Niki, hugging you both and complaining about how boring it had been to be stuck inside 24/7 with the other kids.
Thankfully, the damage had been minimal: a few broken branches had fallen, there were piles of pine needles and dead leaves forming slippery carpets, and a couple of clotheslines had blown away.
But the real surprise, the one everyone was whispering about and that had shocked even the counselors and camp directors was Niki. He was no longer the sullen guy who ignored everyone, shooting hateful glares at anyone who dared breathe in his direction. He was… softer? He’d always been good with the kids, but now, with the other counselors, you noticed he talked, helped, even smiled without grumbling. Sure, he wasn’t suddenly a ray of sunshine, but most of all, he seemed to have a magnet pulling him constantly into your orbit.
He teased you endlessly: if you were carrying a bucket, he’d tap the back of your knee to throw you off balance, and the kids would giggle every time they saw you two bickering from morning to night. If you were talking to another counselor, he’d insert himself into the conversation even if it had nothing to do with him. Sometimes, you’d even steal the sticks he’d just picked up, only to drop them again while he gathered more from another spot. When he’d look up, you’d just shrug, but every time your eyes met, there was a secret in his gaze—the memory of those nights in the bungalow, getting to know each other, teasing, touching.
In the afternoon, while you were setting up for the bonfire you’d all agreed to have that evening—a way to finally reunite everyone—you were arranging chairs in a circle. The heat was starting to build, so you stepped behind the tool shed to find some shade and water. But before you could take three steps, a strong hand grabbed your arm, pulling you behind the shed, into the shadows of the wood and foliage. Niki leaned over you, his hands settling on your hips.
"Hey, wren," he murmured with a smug grin. You looked around in terror, afraid a kid or worse, the camp director might appear around the corner.
"Niki! What are you doing? If someone sees us...."
"I’ve been trying to get you alone all day. I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this," he said, reaching out to gently tug one of your braids, watching as your face flushed a deep pink but suddenly, you felt bold. You rolled your eyes, placing your hands on his bare chest under his open shirt.
"Mmm, so the big bad boy of summer camp misses his… girlfriend?" you teased, and the words "his girlfriend"hung between you, heavy and new. Niki flinched, he’d never thought you’d actually become his girl, and he your boy. He didn’t answer right away, but his eyes lit up with a new light, and with a fluid, decisive motion, he pushed you back against the rough wooden planks of the shed, pinning you with his body.
"Shut up, Wren," he murmured, his lips a millimeter from yours.
"Who would’ve thought," you chuckled, rising onto your toes to bury your fingers in his wind-tousled blond hair. "The guy who loved keeping to himself, who was grumpy all the time… needs attention?" You teased him, and before you could finish, he leaned in and kissed you possessively.
Your arms wrapped around his neck as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And Niki wasn’t shy: as his tongue slid between your lips, claiming you, his right hand slid down, slipping into the back pocket of your jeans with a possessive grip, squeezing your flesh and lifting you slightly against him so you could feel just how reactive he was to your touch. His other hand pressed into your side.
"Fuck, I’ve missed you… you have no idea," he growled against your mouth. You smiled against his lips, nipping lightly at his lower lip, enjoying the small shudder it pulled from him. But just as the atmosphere was about to get too heated, the sharp sound of breaking branches and the laughter of approaching kids reached you from just a few meters away. With a jolt of panic, you pushed him away, trying to compose yourself as your heart pounded too hard. Niki took a step back, chuckling as he watched you reclaim your "good girl" aura.
"We… we should go help the others," you murmured, trying to regain a professional tone. "Otherwise, they’ll get suspicious… The director already has her eye on you for how much you’ve changed these past few days."
He nodded but didn’t take his eyes off you until you glanced back at him one last time before disappearing around the corner. Niki ran a hand through his messy blond hair, making it even wilder, and stayed there for a second in the shed’s shadow.
"Fuck…" he muttered to himself, shaking his head with an incredulous smile on his face. "That girl’s gonna kill me before the end of summer."
The atmosphere at camp had become electric a mix of childlike excitement and the bittersweet melancholy of feeling autumn knocking at the door. The end-of-summer dance wasn’t just an event; it was the culmination of all those months spent under the sun—laughing, joking, playing cards, but also fighting, teasing, discovering crushes, and forging friendships under Montana’s scorching heat.
While the kitchen crew churned out endless trays of snacks and finger sandwiches, the outdoor activities team had set up chairs, tables, and colored lights woven through the willow branches by the lake, turning the gazebo into a kind of crystal chandelier with golden threads. The kids couldn’t wait to see all those lights lit up.
The weeks spent in the decoupage group had been exhilarating, you’d watched piles of card stock transform into messages of love or simple friendship, meant for their dance partners. Your heart tightened every time a child asked for your help to glue something, to draw, or to write the name of the person they liked.
That afternoon, you were leaning against the metal slide, watching the scene unfold a few meters away: Nina had asked you to go with her to Thomas, and with her perfect braids bouncing on her shoulders, she was facing her biggest challenge yet, Thomas, a perpetually grumpy-looking kid with his arms almost always crossed and his gaze usually directed elsewhere, as if a thousand thoughts were swirling in his head. For some strange reason, he reminded you terribly of Niki at the start of the summer.
You watched as Nina handed him the invitation—the one she’d worked on for hours, drawing a Formula 1 single-seaterwith the numbers of Thomas’s favorite drivers on the side. And when Thomas lowered his guard, you saw the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth. It was a silent victory for both you and Nina. You heard Thomas ask, "Why me?"
Nina was quiet for a moment, then said, "Well, you’re the only one who doesn’t talk much but says everything with his eyes or his face… And it was nice when I scraped my knee and you took me to the infirmary, and how every day, without anyone seeing, you changed my bandages especially the pink ones with princesses. So that’s why I want you to come find me at the dance for a little while."
Nina didn’t wait for an answer. She planted a small kiss on his cheek and ran toward you, her big eyes shining.
"He’ll definitely come find me," she declared, tucking a braid behind her ear. "Wow, Nina, you really have a lot of self-confidence. Never let anyone take that away from you when you grow up, okay? Promise?" you said, squeezing her small hand in yours.
But as you started walking toward the lake, the conversation took a turn you never expected.
"Who are you going to the dance with? I hope Niki asked you to go with him," she whispered, as if revealing a state secret, skipping along beside you. Your heart pounded at her words.
"Why… why would Niki ask me to the dance, Nina?" you asked, trying to sound indifferent, but the little girl just smiled knowingly.
"Well, because he likes you, Y/n. He’s been talking about you to me all summer. And I’ll tell you a secret...these braids?" She giggled, covering her mouth as if she’d just shared something she wasn’t supposed to. "He does them for me every morning because he learned how by watching you do yours in the mirror."
You were stunned by the image of Niki: his big, calloused hands, his famous rings carefully braiding a little girl’s hair, trying to mimic your movements. Your eyes almost welled up as you thought back to all those mornings in the bungalow, when you’d felt his burning gaze on the back of your neck through the mirror as you separated the strands. You’d thought… well, you’d thought he was judging you or just waiting his turn for the bathroom. But instead, he’d been memorizing every movement so he could replicate it on Nina’s hair.
"Nina, I… I and Niki, we’re just… I mean, he always teases me, it’s not possible that...."
But Nina wasn’t done demolishing your defenses. She added, with a touch of cheeky confidence:
"And besides, he should ask you because a couple of weeks ago, I saw you kissing near the tool shed. You’re not very discreet, you know? We kids saw you holding hands, or Niki pulling you away out of nowhere… or him coming to get you every time survival class in the woods ended. Those are things boys in love do… like my dad with my mom."
Your world tilted. The phrase "We kids saw you" echoed in your head like a gong. If seven- or eight-year-olds had figured it all out if they’d seen you pressed against that shed with Niki’s lips on yours then the entire camp knew. The other counselors, the director, maybe even the kitchen staff.
You brought a hand to your face and laughed nervously as Nina pulled you along, but before you went in, she said:
"I’m glad you’re Niki’s princess and not me… I’m too little for him but if I were his age, he’d already be mine!" She burst out laughing and ran off, leaving you alone on the path, your mind spinning.
The day of the dance had finally arrived, Niki had been asking you for days now and yet, you almost wished it never would. It was the last evening you’d spend together. Tomorrow, everyone would return to Chicago, and life would go back to normal, as if nothing had changed. Sure, you and Niki both attended the same university, but what would really change between you? You shook your head. Those questions would have answers in the coming days, not tonight. Tonight was meant to be perfect.
You gave yourself one last look in the mirror: the white and red top stood out against your sun-kissed, golden skin, the result of months under the open sky. The jeans with red stars hugged your curves as if they’d been tailored for you, and the soft, deliberately messy French braid gave you a playful yet polished look. When the sakura-scented perfumefilled the air, you felt ready.
As you stepped outside, you saw Niki leaning against the table, wearing his gray and red hoodie—the one he’d given you that night—unzipped, revealing his bare chest. When his eyes landed on you, you watched him swallow hard, and you smiled at the effect you had on him.
"Fuck, Wren… you look stunning," he murmured, his voice rough, and pulled you close, burying his nose in the crook of your neck as if he wanted to memorize your scent for the months to come.
"You don’t look so bad yourself, Niki," you replied with a sly smile, playing with the strings of his hoodie. "Though a shirt would...."
"Dream on, Wren. I’ll wear a shirt only at my graduation, my wedding, or a job interview not for a dance where there’ll be more brats stuffing their faces with snacks than people actually dancing to TikTok songs." He chuckled, pulling you even closer, and you played with his hair.
"You’ll have to cut this hair when we get back to Chicago," you said.
He rolled his eyes. "Mmm, why? I like it this length. Otherwise, when your hands go through it, you won’t be able to play with it or pull it." He grinned, and your cheeks flushed red. You gave him a light swat on the chest and muttered, "Pervert." His hand tried to slip into your back pocket, but you shook your head.
"Come on, Niki, we’re already late." He sighed, but when he placed his cowboy hat on your head, his expression changed.
It wasn’t just an accessory, it was a camp tradition, a cowboy ritual. He didn’t consider himself a cowboy by any means, but seeing you in his hat, the brim casting a slight shadow over your eyes, triggered a sense of possessivenesshe’d never felt with anyone before. In that moment, Niki realized you weren’t just his date for the night—you were his girl, symbolically claimed in front of everyone. The thought that in a few hours you’d both be on the train back to the city made him want to claim every second of the evening, as if to tell the whole world that you’d still be his in Chicago, too.
"Let me see…" he murmured, adjusting the brim with his fingers, which brushed your forehead. "Now no one will have any doubts about who your 'escort' is tonight." He smirked, and you dragged him in front of the bungalow’s mirror to capture the moment.
Niki huffed, pretending to be annoyed by your need for photos, but as soon as you positioned yourself, he stepped behind you. You felt his heat at your back, and with one hand, he gently lifted your chin, forcing you to look up, while with the other, he tilted the hat to create a small, private shadow between you, partially obscuring the phone’s frame. Then, just as the flash went off, he kissed your cheek and he knew one of those photos would end up as his phone’s wallpaper.
The warm lights danced on the dark surface of the lake, creating a magical atmosphere, and the air was thick with the familiar scent of campfires burnt wood, caramel popcorn, and cotton candy sticking to the kids’ fingers as they ran around, laughing and playing.
You and Lia had taken dozens of photos that looked like they’d come straight from a 2016 Tumblr feed: posing on a hay bale, holding a slice of pizza so big it covered half your torso, laughing with your teeth clamped around the rim of a red plastic cup, always looking back at the camera with flushed cheeks. At one point, you’d even herded a group of kids into the photo booth, helping them put on giant star-shaped glasses or fake mustaches until the line was empty and just as you stepped out of the booth, still giggling from your last "diva pose" with Lia, you saw Niki’s massive figure standing in front of you, arms crossed, that crooked half-smile that annoyed you but also sent a thrill through you.
"Have you two finished monopolizing the photo booth? There are other people who’d like to take some memories home, you know," he said, looking between you and Lia. Lia, never one to back down, pulled you closer.
"Oh yeah, Niki? And who exactly would you want to take pictures with? It’s not like you’ve become best friends with anyone here in the last three months!" she teased. He rolled his eyes, but his gaze never left your flushed face.
"Lia, there’s only one person in this entire camp I’d want a photo with, and that’s your best friend. So scram, please."
Lia grinned knowingly when she heard that, throwing her hands up in mock surrender. "Damn, this guy finally marked his territory. Thank God for that storm… you two were exhausting to watch—24/7 of teasing with zero payoff! Even the best K-dramas don’t have that much slow burn!" But before she disappeared into the crowd, she winked at you and mimed a "go for it" gesture with her fingers, reminding you of the pact you’d made: no thoughts for tomorrow just live in the present.
Niki took your hand, his warm fingers intertwining perfectly with yours, and nodded toward the photo booth entrance. The tiny plastic cubicle was clearly designed for kids, not a guy who was nearly six-foot-three. Niki went in first, muttering under his breath as his head nearly hit the ceiling. He sat on the swivel stool, leaving barely any room for you. As you hesitantly tried to perch on the edge of the seat, he grabbed your hips and pulled you onto his lap.
"Sit here," he ordered, patting his thighs. You hesitated, and he huffed against your skin.
"Come on, Shorty, stop pretending to be some innocent girl. You’ve sat on these legs in way less chaste ways than this, and we both know it." He chuckled, and your cheeks burned as he settled you sideways on his knees. One hand slid up your bare leg, squeezing lightly, while the other rested on your exposed side, his thumb tracing hypnotic circleson your skin.
"Pick the filter, Shorty, but do it for two strips
one’s mine, and the other’s yours," he said. You nodded, not realizing that even choosing a filter would turn into a playful fight.
"Let’s do the one with the little stars! It’s cute!" you suggested, pressing the option.
"Stars? Wren, I have a reputation to uphold. We’re not middle schoolers—go with the black minimalist one," he argued, trying to nudge your finger away from the screen.
"Your reputation died the day you learned how to braid Nina’s hair. Deal with it!" you teased, and after two minutes of bickering and playful shoves, you settled on the most basic option: a vertical filmstrip border with four shots, ten seconds apart.
First photo: The countdown started, and you exchanged an amused glance, bursting into spontaneous, slightly shy laughter as you looked at each other, Niki holding you tight, you trying not to fall off the stool.
Second photo:
You turned and kissed his cheek, and Niki rolled his eyes with a fake indifferent expression as if your kiss on his face(not even his lips!) didn’t affect him. But the way his hand tightened on your side told a different story.
Third photo:
The mood had shifted. Niki gently moved your French braid aside, exposing your neck, and you locked eyes intensely. There was nothing shy about your faces now—close, hungry, his gaze full of possession, as if he wanted to make it clear that he was all you’d ever need.
Fourth photo:
Just as the flash went off for the last time, Niki closed the distance, capturing your lips in a real, deep, possessive kiss just like him. He loved making it clear to everyone that you were his, and the photo captured it perfectly: you with your eyes closed, his hands pulling you even closer, his cowboy hat tilted slightly backward.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, now knowing he was your safe harbor, your fingers sinking into his messy blond hair at the nape of his neck. The photo booth felt even smaller with how close you were, and Niki didn’t waste a second. His hands settled firmly on your hips, his thumbs tracing small designs on the bare skin exposed by the cut of your top.
When your lips parted in a soft moan, he took it as an invitation, and his tongue slid into your mouth, claiming you. You let out a vibrant sound, and if anyone had been outside, they would’ve heard it but honestly, you didn’t care anymore. In that moment, there was only you two, lost in a mix of submission and longing that made Niki’s muscles tense as he felt you so close. You tried to shift, seeking even more intimate contact between your bodies, but he held you firmly in place, his grip on your hips pinning you to his lap, as if to say he was the one setting the pace—even in there.
When the photo strip finally slid out, the mechanical sound of the machine seemed to bring you back to reality. Niki snatched it quickly, almost fearful that someone else might see it. You both fell silent, staring at that last shot, the kiss captured by the flash was real, unfiltered. It looked so authentic that maybe, in that moment, Niki realized he’d found his person and he’d never expected it to be you.
"Fuck," he whispered against your lips, and you caressed the slightly rough skin of his jaw, where the stubble was just starting to grow. You bit your lip, still tasting him, and felt a flicker of anxiety creeping in because in a few hours, everything might change.
"Do… do you want to stay at the party, or go back to the bungalow?" you murmured, lowering your gaze and starting to nervously twist the end of your braid between your fingers. Niki watched you in silence. He knew, he could read every tic, every hesitation in you. He knew you were feeling uncertain, and he lifted your chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing you to look into his eyes darker than ever under the neon lights of the booth.
"Why do you want to go back to the bungalow? Aren’t you having fun out here, wren? You’ve been excited about this party for weeks, and now you want to leave already?"
"Everything’s perfect out here," you started, trying to find the right words, not wanting to seem embarrassed by what you were about to say. "But I… I’d like to spend the last night alone. I mean… completely alone. In our bungalow and we could… I don’t know…" You gestured between the two of you, and Niki lifted your chin with his finger, forcing you to meet his gaze, a small smirk playing on his lips. He silenced you, pressing a finger to your lips.
"You’re overthinking, Wren. Tell me what you really want… no beating around the bush." He watched you with eyes that were almost glossy with a new determination, mixed with shyness? But Niki wanted to hear you say it.
"I want you to be mine tonight… and me to be yours," you said, starting to nervously fidget with one of the silver rings on his finger. After dropping that bomb, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, afraid he might push you awayor mock you but Niki visibly swallowed, not expecting such a blunt answer from you, it wasn’t like you at all. For a moment, the Niki from the start of summer disappeared, replaced by a guy who looked almost dazed by the luck of having met you.
"Are… are you sure, Y/n?" he asked, his voice almost timid, which made you slightly doubt the guy in front of you. "You know that if we cross that threshold tonight… there’s no going back."
You nodded firmly, intertwining your hand with his, taking the initiative to stand up. Niki sighed deeply, running his other hand through his hair in a gesture of pure agitation because in that moment, he didn’t know if he should feel like the luckiest guy on the planet or the most terrified at the idea of not being worthy of your first time, of not being gentle enough or unforgettable enough for you. He was afraid of ruining everything you’d built over those summer months.
"Are you 100% sure, Wren?" His voice was rough as he hovered over you, his forearm muscles tense from the effort of not pressing too hard against your body.
You rolled your eyes with fake exasperation at his question. "Green, lime green, eater green…" you listed, naming every shade you could think of, and Niki shook his head with a crooked smile.
"You’re such a little brat, you know that?" he murmured, pulling you in for a quick kiss before his hands slid decisively toward your hips. When the button of your jeans popped open and the zipper slid down, the atmosphere in the room shifted drastically.
Niki pulled off your jeans, never taking his eyes off you. And when his gaze fell on the red lace of your semi-thong, his breath caught in his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, he was completely thrown off by your lingerie. He ran a hand through his blond hair, messing it up even more, thinking about how innocent you must’ve seemed to everyone at camp… but not to him. Not after discovering what you read, what you wore to drive him wild. When he heard your voice, he snapped back to reality.
"Do you like it?" you whispered, enjoying his shock with a fake innocent look. Niki let out a sound that was half groan, half choked laugh.
"I didn’t think the 'good girl' of summer camp was hiding these kinds of secrets under her clothes. I knew about all those romance books you try to hide from me… but this, Y/N!"
His hand slid down your inner thigh, and the cold silver of his ring against your burning skin made you jolt violently. You wanted to tease him, drive him crazy.
"There’s a lot you still don’t know about me, Niki…" you stammered, trying to keep a shred of composure. He closed his eyes for a second he’d figured out the game you were playing.
"And what would those be?" he challenged.
"Let’s find out together, shall we?" you replied.
Niki shifted, kneeling between your legs with a slowness that was pure torture. He grabbed your ankle and brought it almost to his face, then began kissing your skin, starting from your ankle, moving up your calf to the curve of your knee. Every kiss was almost torture for you because he was doing it on purpose, going so slow. Each touch was like a brand, alternating kisses with light sucks, and when he reached your thigh, his kisses became deeper, more insistent, leaving a tingling sensation that spread through your entire body.
When he buried his face in the inside of your thigh, the heat of his hot breath made you arch your back.
"Niki… stop teasing me," you pleaded.
But he didn’t listen. His kisses alternated with playful nips on the tenderest part of your thigh, followed by slow licksthat made you lose all sense of direction.
"Higher…" you whispered without thinking, and Niki froze, lifting his gaze to you with a serious look.
"Since when do you get to give me orders, Wren?" he asked, kissing you just one centimeter higher, driving you mad because that was his intent. From the first moment he’d seen you, he’d wanted to get inside your head, and he was succeeding.
"Please… Niki, don’t make me wait like this, you’re driving me crazy…" you stammered, your hands clawing at the sheets to keep from grabbing him directly. He chuckled, satisfied with his effect on you, and lifted your leg even higher. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed your clit hard through the thin veil of black lace, laughing softly.
"Damn it…" you cursed through your teeth, arching your back and digging your fingers into his hair, not knowing if you wanted to pull him deeper or push him away because you didn’t even know yourself. It was definitely calculated torture, what he was doing to you, and you responded by squirming beneath him.
"You’re a bastard, take this off and touch me for real!"
But Niki didn’t care about your urgency. He wanted to hear you beg, wanted to see how far your resistance would go before he made you completely his. So he let go of your leg but didn’t return to loom over you with his full weight. Instead, he crawled up your body with the same slowness as a predator, leaving a trail of fire with his kisses. He started at the elastic edge of your lace, then your navel, moving up your stomach where your muscles twitched involuntarily at every touch of his tongue. When he reached your breasts, he paused to admire them in the dim light, as if he hadn’t already memorized every inch of you, while your uneven, pleading breaths lift
He leaned down with surgical precision, capturing your hardened nipple between his lips. The contrast was delicious and intoxicating you’d never felt anything like it before. The wet heat of his mouth against your skin, and his cold, silver-ringed hand sliding up to squeeze and tease your other breast, made you even more pliable under his touch. You moaned his name a sound Niki loved hearing from your lips as your fingers tightened in his blond hair, pulling him deeper.
He sensed your impatience and chuckled right against your sensitive skin, making your chest vibrate. Then he dragged his teeth over the tip of your nipple before blowing a cool breath over it, making you jolt violently. But you had no intention of just lying there. You wanted him to feel the same burning need you were feeling. So you hooked your legs around his hips, pulling him into your personal space, and began moving your hips instinctively, grinding your lace-covered intimacy against the hard, unmistakable bulge of his jeans.
Niki froze for a second, caught off guard. But when he realized your movements weren’t accidental, that you were deliberately seeking friction against his length, trying to drive him wild, he stiffened.
"Fuck, Wren… stop moving like that if you don’t want me to lose control before I even take my clothes off," he growled, his voice low. But you didn’t stop. If anything, you pushed harder, chasing that heat that seemed like the only thing capable of extinguishing the fire inside you. And when he finally matched your rhythm, pushing back against you in a synchronized motion, a simultaneous moan escaped both your lips.
"Please…" you whispered, almost without realizing it. Niki lifted himself a few centimeters, surprised to hear you begging him for something.
"What are you begging for, Wren? A month ago, you couldn’t even stand to breathe the same air as me in this room. And now? What are you begging for?" he asked, challenging you with his gaze. But you looked back at him, unafraid to show just how much you wanted him.
"You couldn’t stand me as a roommate either, and yet here you are, worshipping my body like it’s your only religion. So stop talking, Niki, because we’ve teased each other all summer, and I think it’s time to let all this electricity explode—the kind everyone saw except us."
After your answer, Niki didn’t waste another second. With a fluid motion, he grabbed the edges of your thong, his patience was completely gone. He pulled your panties off in one sharp motion, letting them slide down your legs and leaving you completely bare beneath him. When his gaze fell on your glistening, swollen intimacy, a victorious grinspread across his face. He felt like a king—the first to see you like this, the first to possess your vulnerability. And he knew the mark he’d leave on you tonight would be indelible, because only he would have you like this.
"Where’s the girl who was talking too much a minute ago?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he watched you look away in embarrassment.
"She’s still here, Niki… don’t count your chickens just yet," you shot back, trying to reclaim a shred of dignity as you spread your legs for him. That gesture drove him wild with desire. He grabbed your thighs and hoisted them onto his shoulders, leaving you completely exposed and at his mercy. Then he leaned in, and his hot tongue flicked against your clit in one swift motion. You moaned at the sensation of his tongue against your core.
"God, Wren… are you still this sensitive?" he chuckled against your skin, feeling how you trembled. "It’s not the first time tonight—you should be used to my mouth by now."
"Just… just shut up!" you cursed, but his only response was to intertwine his hand with yours, pressing it firmly against the mattress. That gesture...so intimate and protective in the middle of all this lust made your heart beat harder than anything else, because Niki could act like a jerk, but when it came to you, he became almost someone else.
His other hand held your hip in place while his tongue began to work in perfect figure-eights, pressing insistently on the tip of your clit.
"I need to prepare you, Wren," he murmured between kisses against your folds. "If you want me to slide my cock inside you without hurting you, you need to be ready to take me."
You nodded frantically, unable to form coherent sentences. And when you felt his index finger tease your entrance, coating itself in your arousal before pushing in slowly, you felt so good, yet so protected by him because in that moment, you were trusting each other completely.
"Look how well you take this… and it’s just one finger. Yet here you are, already begging for more with those moans of yours, huh? You’re just a spoiled little girl who’s discovered how good it feels to be ruined by me." He smirked, and you moaned loudly as he began pumping his finger inside you, filling you in a way that made you feel complete yet starving for more and when he decided you could handle it, he slid his middle finger in as well.
The impact was shocking, you felt the cold edge of his silver ring against the hot, sensitive flesh of your lips, and you screamed, arching your back and clenching your legs around his face, swallowing his fingers up to the knuckle. The contrast between the icy metal and the fire inside you made you lose your mind.
"Niki… oh God, the ring… it’s… it’s too much," you stammered but Niki looked up at you from below, his lips glistening with your arousal, and pushed harder, coordinating the movement of his fingers with his tongue, which continued to torment your clit. When you started to cry from the intensity of pleasure, he froze for a second, doubting if he’d hurt you but then he heard your words.
"I’m… I’m about to come… Niki, please, don’t stop!"
He relaxed, and a predatory smile lit up his face. "Fuck, it’s so hot watching you cry while you beg me to make you come." He curved his fingers inside you, and you, overwhelmed by the double stimulation, pulled his hair with desperate force, clawing at the sheets with your other hand as the climax swept over you. The final contrast, his tongue, his fingers, and that cold metal made you explode against his mouth in a violent orgasm that left you trembling and spent, coming against both his mouth and his fingers.
"Fuck… that’s my good girl," Niki murmured.
When Niki pulled away from you, you swallowed hard. He leaned in again to give you a soft, lingering kiss, charged with the weight of what you were about to do, and asked:
"Are you 100% sure about this?" His voice was low, his fingers stroking your hair. You stayed silent for a moment, and those few seconds of hesitation felt like an eternity to Niki. But then you found the words, and he relaxed.
"Right now, there are no red lights, Niki. No orange warnings either," you whispered, echoing what he had taught you the first time he’d seen you naked and touched you.
"For me, everything is completely green right now… I… I want… I want to be yours." Your voice trembled, tears pricking at your eyes. Niki reached out, caressing your cheek with his thumb. His eyes were glistening too, and a crooked, moved smile lit up his face.
"I want to be yours too, Wren. Today, tomorrow, for the weeks to come, for the next months… and who knows how much longer."
With fingers still slightly trembling, you brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. "Niki… are you, by any chance, declaring yourself?"
He huffed with a half-embarrassed smile that tinted his cheeks a soft pink. "Fuck, you… you’ve made me soft too many times these past weeks, especially right now," he admitted, shaking his head, almost incredulous at the power you had over him.
"So… is it green for you too?" you asked, watching him closely. Niki’s eyes widened, he hadn’t expected you to ask for his confirmation too, but it was a mutual respect you’d found in each other. Then he smiled softly.
"Lime green, Tiffany green… I don’t even remember how many other kinds of green there are… but yes, it’s super green right now."
Your hands slid downward, meeting the buckle of his belt. With a determined but clumsy motion, you unclasped it, letting it fall somewhere on the floor. Niki didn’t waste time, he shimmied out of his jeans in quick movements, tossing them aside. When he leaned over you again, the contact between his erection, still covered by the thin fabric of his boxers, and your already sensitive, pulsing intimacy wrung a muffled moan from both of you.
"Take them off yourself, Y/N," he murmured. With fingers that refused to stay still, you played with the waistband of his boxers, sliding your hands up his hips before pulling them down. And when your eyes finally met his full nudity, his rosy, tense shaft already glistening with pre-cum, your pupils dilated with a mix of shock and desire at how big and thick he was. Niki closed his eyes, groaning.
"This… well, this is what you do to me, Y/N."
"Is that… a good thing?" you asked in a whisper, almost seeking confirmation of the power you felt over him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, chuckling softly.
"Yeah, it’s a great thing, Wren. Except when we’re in public and I can’t do anything about it."
Without asking for permission, you reached out and touched him, wrapping your hand around his hot, taut skin. You felt his breath catch instantly.
"I… there’ll be other opportunities where you can tease me like this… or where you can be on top of me," he stammered, trying to keep control as his muscles tensed under your touch. "But fuck, Y/N, if I’m not inside you in the next few minutes, I’m gonna come like some inexperienced kid. And I want your first time to be perfect." He almost laughed, and you nodded.
You watched as he reached toward the nightstand and grabbed a silver square a condom. "Don’t think the worst, it’s not mine," he said immediately, as if he needed to justify himself to avoid seeming presumptuous. "I asked someone I trust for it earlier and don’t think I planned this, or that I took you for granted...."
But you gently placed a hand over his lips, silencing him. You wanted him to know that his thoughtfulness meant more than he realized.
"Shut up, Niki. You’ve never pressured me into anything. In fact, I appreciate that you thought about protection. I’m not on the pill, and I want to do this safely."
He nodded, visibly relieved, and with expert but quick fingers, he tore open the condom. You, driven by curiosity, tried to help, but he gently shook his head, stopping your hands.
"Next time, I’ll teach you how, I promise… but we only have one, and I need to feel you as mine so badly that I can’t risk messing this up." His voice was urgent as he positioned himself above you.
Niki positioned himself with painstaking slowness between your legs, lifting your hips slightly with a pillow to ease the union. His eyes never left yours, searching for that final silent "yes." When you nodded, he leaned down to capture your lips in a deep kiss as his hips pushed gently against your entrance.
Feeling the tip of his cock tease your sensitivity wrung a moan of pure desire from you.
"I’ll stop immediately if it hurts, Y/N. Don’t be afraid or embarrassed to tell me, okay?" he whispered, his concern melting your heart, you’d never have imagined the guy you met over three months ago could be this tender with you.
"Please… I want to be yours," you breathed, your voice ragged. Niki didn’t need to be told twice. With a slow, controlled thrust, he slid inside you, and you both moaned in unison him from the heat enveloping him, you from the unfamiliar fullness you’d never felt before.
"Fuck… you’re so tight, it’s driving me crazy," he groaned through clenched teeth, feeling how snugly you clenched around him.
"It’s… it’s so big, Niki," you whispered, eyes wide. He looked at you with a mix of pride and worry, kissing the tip of your nose.
"I’m sorry, baby… I’ll try to be gentle. I don’t want to hurt you, but you’re gripping me so tight it’s hard to stay still."
He paused for a few moments inside you, letting your body adjust to his size. You could feel every millimeter of him, and soon, driven by an irresistible instinct, you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him even closer. Niki cursed again:
"God, Y/N… you’re making it impossible to keep any self-control." He tried not to hurt you, but you begged:
"You can move… please, move."
Niki pulled back slightly, then, without warning, pushed in almost fully, and you clung to his shoulder as you felt the walls of your vagina stretch to accommodate him completely. It burned—it was an intense stretch but the sensation of finally being "filled" by him overpowered any pain your body had ever felt.
When he felt you slowly relax, he began to move, first with caution, then with growing fervor. His shaft slid perfectly inside you, lubricated by your own desire, and with every deep thrust, the sound of your bodies colliding and your moans filled the room.
Your hands sought his hair, pulling him closer as your nails left red marks on his bare back every time he took you harder. Niki nipped at your neck a possessive gesture that made you lose your mind.
"Please, Niki! Don’t… don’t stop," you pleaded, now lost in pleasure, feeling how warmly you welcomed him, how your legs clenched around him. Niki decided to change the angle and shifted slightly on the bed, rolling you onto your side.
"Niki, where are you going? What are you doing?" you stammered, eyes glazed, your breath ragged with a mix of lust and panic.
"Trust me, Wren… I’ll make you feel good," he replied with a knowing smile. Niki slid one arm under your back, pulling you even closer, while his other hand grabbed your thigh, lifting it decisively over his hip. In that position, the angle changed drastically, his cock slid even deeper, reaching spots you didn’t even know were so sensitive. You felt his shaft press with surgical precision against your G-spot, and the pleasure was so sharp that you buried your face against his neck, biting his hot skin to keep from screaming too loudly—afraid someone might hear.
"More, Niki… more, please!" you begged between moans, your nails digging into his shoulders. He didn’t need to be asked twice. Feeling how completely at his mercy you were, he intensified his thrusts: he began alternating short strokes, making you feel only the tip entering and exiting, tormenting your pussy, before plunging deep and powerful, stealing your breath. He felt like he was in heaven as your vagina clenched around him divinely, as if it had been made just for him. But it wasn’t enough, while he continued to claim you, he slid his free hand between your bodies and began stimulating your clit with his thumb.
"Niki… fuck, it’s too much! I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come!" you cried, arching your back as the pleasure became almost unbearable from how divinely his cock slid inside you. He began whispering dirty, sweet words to make you lose all control.
"It’s not too much, Wren. It’s exactly what you deserve. Look at me while you come for me… look how beautiful you are while I take you like this." He lifted your chin, and you wrapped your other leg around his hip, erasing every millimeter of space between you.
"You’re so good, my little Wren… look how well you take all of me, look how you tremble for me."
You nodded, completely overwhelmed, until a second violent orgasm swept over you for the second time that night. The muscles of your vagina contracted rhythmically around him, milking him, and Niki groaned loudly, thrusting even deeper.
"That’s my good girl," he whispered, kissing you fiercely. You thought he was done, that your climax marked the end, but Niki hadn’t released his tension yet. With renewed fervor, he began fucking you again in that position, and the sound of his cock slamming into your pussy was the only thing filling the room, along with your breaths and moans. Then, suddenly, Niki’s muscles tensed he was coming too.
"Fuck, Y/N… I’m about to… I’m coming too," he stammered, eyes wide. You burst into tears at how stimulating it was to see him come, and as you felt Niki unload all his cum in hot spurts inside the condom, he stayed inside you for minutes, still, his chest rising and falling frantically. It was beautiful to still feel him inside, to feel his heat slowly calming, and he began stroking your entire body with infinite tenderness as you snuggled against his chest as if it were your only refuge.
"It was… it was beautiful," you whispered softly. Niki lowered his head and placed a gentle kiss on your sweat-dampened forehead. "Was it too much? Did I hurt you?" he asked, a hint of concern in his eyes. But you shook your head.
"It was unreal," you replied, making him smile in relief.
"I’m glad your first time was with me, Wren. And that you trusted me… even though I know I don’t exactly have a spotless reputation," he admitted, with a touch of melancholy that vanished as soon as you pulled him into a tighter embrace. With extreme slowness, he pulled out of you with a sigh, and you watched as he got up gracefully, removing the condom and tossing it in the trash before lying back down beside you, pulling you back into his arms.
The only sounds in the room were the rhythm of your breaths slowly returning to normal and, in the background, the muffled beat of the music still playing outside the summer camp. Niki lay beside you, his arm pressed against yours, and you could feel the cold metal of his rings absentmindedly playing with your fingers a nervous gesture that betrayed how shaken he still was.
When you lifted your gaze, you realized he hadn’t stopped staring at you, his expression unreadable. Curious as you were, you wanted to know what was going through his mind.
"Do… do I have something on my face?" you asked softly, suddenly feeling naked under his intense gaze. Niki shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.
"What’s on your mind?" you asked, stroking his cheek with your thumb. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the touch he loved so much, and said:
"I have so many things running through my head right now that I don’t even know how to act with you in this moment… I feel… strange, but in a good way."
You nodded and whispered, trying to reassure him: "You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, Niki."
"What we just did was beautiful… I hope you know how much I trust you… and I hope that, despite my lack of experience, it was special for you too." You said it, fearing for a second that you might have been "not enough" for him because you knew he’d had more experience. At those words, Niki seemed to snap out of it and turned fully toward you, hovering over your body without crushing you, and wrapped you in a protective embrace, burying his face against your neck as if afraid of being discovered or maybe just afraid of the new reality you both found yourselves in for the first time.
"Don’t joke around, fuck… it was amazing from start to finish. I’d do it with you forever… don’t think or compare yourself to anyone else," he murmured, and you felt the heat of his breath on your skin.
"Wren, I can’t keep pretending to be detached anymore… I… I… I like you so damn much." He said it against your neck, but he was seriously afraid of sounding like a fool in that moment. You chuckled softly, stroking his sweaty hair.
"I like you too, Niki. I think even the walls of this bungalow have figured it out by now." You said, and he lifted himself onto his arms, looking at you with almost frustration.
"No, fuck, that’s not what I wanted to say! It’s not just 'I like you.' It’s just that I… I…"
Seeing his struggle, you gently placed a hand over his lips, stopping the internal conflict you could read on his face, and said naturally: "I love you, Niki."
Niki’s eyes widened, and he froze, as if you’d just thrown down a challenge with those words. The silence lasted a second too long, and you seriously feared he wouldn’t say it back or would pull away from you. But then he scoffed loudly, letting his head fall back.
"Damn it! I was supposed to say it first, Y/N! You beat me to it!" he exclaimed, visibly annoyed with himself. You shrugged with a sly little smile.
"Well, you could’ve been faster." You teased, laughing, and he replied:
"I love you too, Wren. In case it wasn’t obvious from the way I look at you or from how I’m currently trying not to look like an idiot." He said it as he couldn’t stop touching you, a new light shining in his eyes. You pulled him back to you, enjoying the warmth of his chest against yours.
"I’m happy to hear you say it. It was a little embarrassing watching you suffer so much trying to spit out those two words!"
He rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop smiling. "Oh yeah, very funny. I’ll get my revenge, just you wait."
And he started kissing you everywhere—your chin, your cheeks, the tip of your nose—whispering "I love you" every time his lips touched your skin, as if it were now easier to say it spontaneously.
"I’m really glad they put us in the same room together," he finally said, tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling you in for a serious kiss. "It was the best thing that could’ve happened to us."
"Definitely," you replied, laughing in his arms, finally feeling completely at home.
Hii I love your writing so bad💞💞 and I've been thinking of a fic idea but I can't write for shit so I thought of you 😭 if it's ok and not out of your comfort zone can I recommend a jake smut where him and y/n are in the middle of doing the do when his roommates jay and Sunghoon walk in on them 😭 idk let whatever happens next be up to you lolol
ty for trusting me with your idea! (which I love btw) hope this is close to it loll also sorry for being so active recently i hope yall like it thoo x
18+ jake x f!rea ft. jay and sunghoon. possessive threesome degration praise dumbfixatjon pussy eating squirting face fucking spit kink
you hear the front door open and you genuinely do not care. you’re too far gone for that — too deep in the dumb, syrupy haze that settles over you when jake has been fucking you long enough, when he’s taken his time with it the way he likes to, slow and thorough and deliberately cruel about it, making you feel every inch every single time he bottoms out. you’re on your back in the middle of his bed with your legs hooked over his shoulders and your hands fisted in the sheets and your mouth open around sounds you’d be mortified by if you had the bandwidth to be mortified about anything, which you don’t, because jake sim has been rearranging your insides for the better part of an hour and your brain checked out somewhere around orgasm number two.
“shit—” jay’s voice, from the doorway. “oh my god.” sunghoon. jake doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even pause. his hips keep rolling into you at that same devastating rhythm, cock dragging against the spot inside you that makes your vision white at the edges, and he turns his head toward the door with the casual ease of a man who has been interrupted doing something he considers perfectly reasonable. “hey,” he says. “hey?” jay’s voice climbs. “jake, what the—” “close the door.”
silence. then the soft click of it shutting. neither of them leave. you can feel that they haven’t left — feel the specific, hot weight of being watched, the way the air changes when there are eyes on your body, on the obscene stretch of you around jake’s cock, on the slick mess of you that you can hear every time he moves. jake feels it too. his next thrust is harder. demonstrative. “she’s been like this for forty minutes,” he says, conversational, like he’s giving a tour. his thumb finds your clit and just holds there, pressure only, no movement, and you clench involuntarily and sob. “been coming since the second one. barely coherent.”
“is she—” sunghoon stops. “she loves it.” jake sounds so pleased with himself it’s obscene. he looks down at you, and there is something territorial in his face, something like ownership. “don’t you.” you make a sound that is not a word. jake takes it as confirmation. “she can hear you,” he adds. “she just can’t really answer right now.”
jay makes a low noise. you hear footsteps. the mattress dips near your head and then jay is there, crouching, looking at your face — your wrecked expression, your wet mouth, your eyes that probably aren’t focusing correctly — and something shifts behind his eyes. “hi,” he says. “hi,” you breathe back, and it comes out destroyed, syllables loose and slurred. “you want them here?” jake asks. his thumb starts moving and the question nearly dissolves before you can catch it. “tell me.” “yes,” you say. “yes, please, i want—” jake pulls his thumb away. punishing. “use your words.”
“i want them,” you manage, “i want more, please jake, please—” “good girl,” he says, and then quieter, almost private, layered with something that curls warm in your chest even through the haze: “mine, though. yeah?” “yours,” you say immediately. he smiles. looks up at jay and sunghoon. “she’s yours for tonight. don’t forget who she goes home with.”
sunghoon moves first. he settles at the foot of the bed and wraps a hand around your ankle and drags his palm slowly up your calf, your thigh, learning you, and when he reaches the inside of your thigh he stops and just watches where jake is fucking into you, the slick mess of it, the way your body takes him. “jesus,” sunghoon says softly. then his fingers move to replace jake’s thumb on your clit and the dual sensation makes you seize up and clench hard and jake groans through his teeth.
“keep doing that,” jake says. sunghoon keeps doing that. jay fists a hand in your hair — not gentle, not testing — and tilts your head back, and you open your mouth on instinct, already trained, already desperate, and he makes a low approving sound. “gonna use this pretty mouth,” he says, “that okay?” “yes,” you say, and it comes out like a plea.
he pushes in slow, giving you time to adjust, and then bottoms out against the back of your throat and holds there while you gag around him, eyes watering, throat working. he pulls back just enough and does it again. sets a rhythm that has nothing to do with gentleness and everything to do with using you, and the sounds you’re making are muffled and wet and humiliating and you love it, you love it so much your hips are rolling up toward sunghoon’s hand without your permission. jake watches you take jay’s cock with an expression like pride and hunger mixed together. “look at her,” he says. “fucking perfect.”
you gag again and your eyes water and spit is dripping down your chin and you can’t do anything about it, can’t move your hands from where they’ve braced against jay’s thighs, and it’s too much, it’s so much, sunghoon has added a finger inside you alongside jake’s cock somehow and the stretch makes you whimper around jay. “greedy,” sunghoon says mildly. “she’s greedy.” “she’s always greedy,” jake says, fond and contemptuous in equal measure. “such a needy little thing. she’d take anything we gave her, wouldn’t you?” he’s talking to you but he doesn’t expect an answer. “dumb little cumslut. made for this.”
the degradation lands somewhere low in your belly and you clench and both jake and sunghoon feel it. “there she is,” jake says. jay pulls out of your mouth and there’s a long strand of spit connecting your lips to his cock and he looks at it, then looks at you, then leans down and spits in your mouth, unhurried. it lands on your tongue and you swallow it without thinking and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a word. “good,” he says.
sunghoon is moving now — repositioning, pulling jake’s hand so that jake shifts too, maneuvering you between them in a way that makes you feel like a doll, like something being arranged, and you go where they put you without resistance because you can’t resist, you don’t want to resist, you want them to do whatever they want with you and then put you back together after.
sunghoon gets you onto your hands and knees and his mouth is on you immediately — licking into your folds, collecting the mess of you, groaning low against your cunt like you taste like something worth savoring, and the sound he makes is obscene and it vibrates through you and your arms buckle. jake is behind you a second later, sinking back in, and the combination — sunghoon’s tongue and jake’s cock and the fact that jay is tilting your chin up again — makes you sob out loud, finally free to. “there it is,” jay murmurs. “let us hear you.”
sunghoon’s tongue moves up. finds a different target. pushes wet and slow against your ass while jake’s cock fills your cunt and you make a sound that doesn’t belong to you, something animal and high, and sunghoon moans against you, pleased with himself. “she likes that,” jake observes. sunghoon hums confirmation. pushes his tongue in further. “jake,” you sob. “i know.” his hips snap forward. “i’ve got you.”
sunghoon works you open slowly, methodically — tongue and then one finger, two, crooking, patient — while jake fucks into your cunt and the feeling of being full everywhere, of being completely used and taken apart, makes your vision blur at the edges. you’re drooling on the sheets. your thighs are shaking. sunghoon crooks his fingers at the same moment jake bottoms out and you squirt, sudden and mortifying and completely involuntary, soaking the sheets and sunghoon’s hand and your own thighs, and the sound you make is barely human. “oh,” sunghoon says, like he’s delighted. “yeah,” jake says, breathless. “she does that.”
jay is lying beneath you now — you’re not entirely sure when that happened — and his cock is pressing up against your lips while your hand works him and you’re too far gone to be coordinated about it, just mouthing at him sloppily, taking what he gives you. he’s threading his fingers through your hair and guiding you, doing the work you can’t, and you let him, you let him use your mouth the way it was made to be used. “swallow everything,” jake says, behind you. he’s close. you can hear it in his voice, feel it in the way his rhythm is losing its precision, getting harder, more desperate. “don’t you dare waste it.” you nod, as much as you can with jay’s hands in your hair.
sunghoon comes first — he’s been grinding against your ass, working himself with his hand, and when he finishes it’s with a low, broken moan, painting across your lower back, and the warmth of it makes you clench again around jake. jake comes inside you a minute later with a rough groan thar he muffles against your shoulder, deep and pulsing, and you feel every wave of it, the flood of him, the mess of it starting to slip out before he’s even done and he pushes forward again like he’s trying to keep it inside you. “keep it,” he grits out. “don’t let it out.”
you clench around him, trying. failing. feel it dripping down your thigh. “christ,” jake mutters, pulling out slowly, watching it. he sounds devastated in the best way. he pushes it back with his fingers, working it back into you, and the oversensitivity makes you whimper. “messy girl. can’t even hold it.”
jay finishes in your mouth a moment later, one hand fisted in your hair, hips jerking up, and you swallow it down like he told you to, all of it, throat working, and he watches your face while you do it with dark eyes. “good,” he says. “good girl.” you collapse. you’re flat on the mattress, facedown, leaking cum onto the sheets, thighs still wet, arms useless. the room is reassembling around you slowly. sunghoon is breathing hard somewhere to your left. jay is quiet.
jake lies down beside you and pulls you against his chest and his hand moves in slow, warm circles on your spine. “okay?” just for you. private. all the possession still there, underneath, but soft now. “yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, i’m good.” “you’re perfect,” he says, and he means it completely differently than when he said it to the room. he presses his mouth to your temple. “mine.” “yours,” you say, already half asleep. from somewhere near the door, jay’s voice, dry as anything: “you’re both insane.” jake doesn’t even dignify that with a response. he just pulls you closer, and that’s that.
After years of being buddies, Park Sunghoon can’t seem to see you as anything more than one of his bros despite you being his girlfriend. afab reader x sunghoon ! smau ! angst ! cliffhanger ! highschool romance ! friends to lovers ! spontaneously written ! awkward hoon !
꒦꒷՞ 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 ˎˊ˗
OO1 . Jacket issues ; OO2 . heart made of steel ; OO3 . Loveria ; OO4 . hair theory ; OO5 . pretty cookies ; OO6 . just a picture ; OO7 . hoonpie's memory ; OO8 . Journal ; OO9 . face to face ; O9.5 . five feets apart ; O1O . give this lover boy a chance – the end.
MDNI ! NSFW ! Dancer reader x Truly Obsessive Sunghoon. Psychosexual, dark vibes step bro Sunghoon who's manipulative and have dacryphilia.
“You needed someone. I became everything. You cried for me, now I crave every soft, broken sound you make. I'll make you cross the line...”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who first saw you crying for him—soft tears of pure compassion—and knew he’d never let you go.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who tells himself he’s protecting you by watching—making sure no one goes too far—but all he really wants is to go too far himself. To pull you off stage and ruin you.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who watches your spine curve in a bend like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen—every rib counting down to where he wants to leave his mouth, his hands, and marks.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who touches you with feather-light fingers when no one’s looking, caresing your bare back and tightening your dress, getting off your every reaction.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who helps you dry off after practice, hand lingering a second too long, voice rough as he warns, “Don’t make me lose control, or I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who lets you straddle his lap, watching you mindlesly start moving against him, whispering apologies between gasps. His fingers dig into your waist, voice low and rough: “Don’t stop. I’ll take care of everything you need.” And you both get lost in that secret, forbidden pleasure only you share.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who starts bickering with you in the bathroom but can’t hold back—his hands grab your hips, and you both grind hard against each other until you hear someone and yank from each other, soaked and desperate.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who says, “I’ll use anyone to remind you how badly you need me—because you belong to me, no matter what.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who won’t let anyone else hold you but him, making sure he's starving you of affection until you cross every line and come begging into his arms.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who watches the slow roll of your hips in contemporary choreography and thinks, “That’s how she’d ride me. That’s exactly how she’d move if I told her she could cum.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who doesn’t storm out or make a scene at the club he found you dance for side money. He just book the VIP booth, and pays off the manager under the table to make sure no one touches you
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who takes that pretty, flirty dancer to dinner the same night you go out on date. He makes sure you see them, laughing, her hand on his thigh, his thumb grazing her lip, kissing her while looking at you.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks that same girl poolside at 2AM, right beneath your balcony, her moans echoing through the estate. And when he glances up mid-thrust, he sees your bedroom curtains flickers, a smile his lips.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks her the day she's dressed at your stan-in. Hand choking her lightly, hips snapping rough, hair pulled—not because he wants her, but because he wants you wrecked.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who sucks bruises into your inner thighs in the backseat of his Benz, until you're shaking and leaking onto the leather, only to zip up his slacks, wipe his mouth before walking into his family’s matchmaking dinner like he isn’t still hard for you.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who slips his fingers into you under the table at his own matchmaking dinner, face blank but hand trembling in your soaked heat—breath hitching as he leans in and whispers, “They want me to pick a wife, but I already belong to you. You know that, right?”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who shuts the door to his secret apartment, strips you bare with fierce hands, and bites into your skin while his fingers pry you open. His voice is rough, desperate: “I don’t care about their rules. I only want you—body and soul.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who ghosts on a futur in-law meeting to press your thighs around his face in his appartment—eating you out and loving you so violently he misses the in-law brunch entirely.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who takes his soon to be fiancée to a gala but spends the whole night texting you under the table—until she notices his fingers twitching and jaw clenching right when you appear in a dress he told you not to wear.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who wraps your own satin ribbon around your throat during that night jealous fuck, pulling. His mind full of : “Mine. Mine. Mine.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who leaves your bite marks on his collarbone before a family dinner with soon to be fiancée—and when she reaches to fix his shirt, she sees it. She sees it.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who drives you home after representation one night, lets you fall asleep in his lap in the backseat—and misses his date completely. Doesn’t even answer her calls after.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who ends up fucking you right there in the private studio he booked for you, on the Marley floor, because the way your body moved tonight was too much, and just couldn’t resist it.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks you hard against the mirror in your ballerina robe, hand over your mouth, breath in your ear: “Say you’ll leave again and I’ll make sure the only stage you dance on is my lap.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who grabs your packed suitcase with shaking hands and throws it across the room—then kneels in front of you, hair falling into his eyes, whispering, “Don’t go. I’ll give you anything. Just don’t go.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who leans into your skin, hands gripping your waist so tight your breath hitches, “You’re my only escape. Run all you want—but you’ll always come back to me.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who gets breathless and rough when you finally give yourself to him, voice cracking, “I’m gonna mark you... Fuck... Make sure everyone knows you’re mine." Then embrace you, "But I’m never gonna hurt you, babe.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who moves slow and careful, but every touch and sigh is charged with possessiveness, murmuring against your skin, “No one’s allowed to have you but me. Not like this.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who makes you beg for his touch after the other guy leaves, his fingers slipping between your thighs, rough and demanding, “You think you want him? I’m the only one who can make you scream like this.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who kisses you like he’s drowning, hands desperate and rough, but the way he whimpers into your mouth when you touch him back? That’s the sound of someone starved for love and losing control.
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who fucks into you slow and deep, voice trembling with rage and want, saying, “He wants to control me, but you’re the only thing I’ll ever obey. I’d give up everything just to stay inside you.”
CHAEBOL!STEPBRO SUNGHOON who lets you see him fall apart, lets you hold him while he’s still inside you, chest heaving, voice shaking, “I don’t care if it’s wrong. You’re home to me.”
BEST TO READ IN DARK MODE FOR EFFECTS
CONTENT ↠ fiction with smut, nsfw! mdni!, angsty toxic Heeseung, obsessive, psychosexual dark vibes step bro Heeseung, stalker heeseung, if I can't have you no one can typpa heeseung, deep voyeurism kink, needy/pervy/manipulative reader, strong depiction of fantasies, sexual tension, consensual edging, p in the v, overstimulation, light choking, public act, bad behavior's reader.
WC↠ 10k (proof read !!)
Was literally obsessed with those two songs when writing this : https://open.spotify.com/intl-fr/album/4OFZVvqlg84Czl7td7XddK?si=rakigTTnSJyY8CnPyp8A7w
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Heeseung barely glanced up the first time you met.
Not when your mom introduced you, her laugh sharp and grating over the clink of designer glassware. Not when she called you her little angel, like she hadn’t spent the last decade ignoring your existence—like a piece of cloth begging to be brought back just because it’s trendy now. And definitely not when you smiled at him like you actually meant it.
He just slouched further into his hoodie. Hood up, sleeves covering half his hands like armor. Said something that might’ve been “hey,” but it sounded more like: I don’t give a shit.
You smiled anyway. Quiet, composed. Like you didn’t notice he hadn’t met your eyes yet, hadn’t even registered the color of his irises. He had a good face, for sure. And a nice name. Heeseung. Hee—seung.
Let’s try not to forget it…
He’s Heeseung. The one who doesn't match the luxury flooring or manicured smiles. Heeseung, who looked more interested in his phone screen than the pricey piece of steak he’d just been served.
You...
You were different. And Heeseung noticed.
Because other girls—especially the daughters of his father’s revolving door of Stepford wives—always played the same game: almost flirty, too fake, self-obsessed, and excited to be part of the family.
You… you were calmer. Almost shy. Ashamed to even call your mom “Mom.” You were also interested in his presence—lightly tapping his foot with yours, giving him those apologetic doe eyes, like: Sorry that my shameless mom got a grip on your already-married dad just to milk him dry…
But it’s not like he divorced his mom for yours. And it’s not like you were the first one. Generally, the other step-siblings never asked about him. Never cared to know what lay beneath the hoodie-tortured-kid style he wore like armor.
You?
You looked at him like he was a person. Like you saw something he didn’t even believe was still there.
And with months—and then a year—maybe… you liked what you saw.
You asked questions. Not the fake kind. Real ones.
“You coded that game on your own?”
“You really won a national contest?”
“That glitch mechanic you added… did you write it from scratch?”
He wasn’t used to that kind of attention. Not anymore.
You leaned over his laptop one afternoon, wide-eyed, genuinely impressed. Your breath was warm on his shoulder, the scent of vanilla and soft detergent clinging to your hoodie—one he was almost sure used to be his.
“You’re kind of a genius,” you’d said, and smiled that smile. Soft. Easy. Like you weren’t afraid of him.
Because why would you be? You were always so nice and caring to him. You’d bring him a plate of food when his dad never cared to check even once. Leave Post-its with sweet pep talks before exams—ones that made him smile for the first time in a decade. Sit silently beside him after he got scolded for placing second on the honor board. Your hand, always soft and peach-scented, would stroke his hair like he wasn’t eight months older. And your eyes—so sweet when they met his.
You weren’t supposed to make him feel things.
And he wasn’t supposed to want someone like you.
But there you were. Not just prim—but infuriatingly so. You weaponized it. You made being stuck-up look like a goddamn virtue. All perfect posture and polite smiles. Still, something was off. Like how you made him open up to you, but never really talked about yourself—your life, your past. Always mysterious, always evasive when he got curious, always turning the tables on him.
You… you made him feel watched. Seen. Known.
And he didn’t like not knowing you back. Because he needed to know everything. It was pathological. Every variable that could disturb his life. Every secret.
And you... Oh you, you were the unknown variable. The only one he couldn’t figure out.
And the worst part?
Heeseung couldn’t match you. He wasn’t good with people. Never had been. Getting you to open up? Never happening. He even got tense in crowds. Even if girls liked him, he couldn't maintain relationships beyond hookups. He could throw a punch, sure—but he'd rather let the other guy walk off with a smirk, too bored to bother.
But he was good at something: systems. Code. Surveillance.
So he broke the rules he’d promised himself he wouldn’t... At least with you.
He hacked your devices.
He shouldn’t have connected to them. Shouldn’t have hijacked your phone. Shouldn’t have hacked your webcam feed like it was just another game level to conquer.
It started innocent—ish. Really. Just some harmless digital snooping. New mother, new stepsister, weird vibes, potential threat to his peace and privacy—totally justifiable.
But your passwords were laughable. The kind of thing a middle schooler could crack.
Seriously. “Bookworm123”?
Please.
After all he was Mr. Cybersecurity Prodigy. Award-winning code monkey. VPN for his VPN, two-factor-auth god.
And he peeked. Just a little…
Your instagram private account, that your mom swore you didn’t have because “socials medias was too destructive for her future doctor of a child.”
Your spotify. Pinterest boards. You’re files.
like essays about behavioral neuroscience and a note named “journaling” : Plans. Rage. Angry rebellion written between textbook reviews. Your escape plan : college far away, control of your own life, zero influence from Barbie and her string of Stepdads. How you craved more. Your identity crisis, GPA fetishist, and how competitive you were to the point of mania. Basically, a mirror of Heeseung in the shape of someone who tried to play the hero of his narrative.
Then, it got worse.
Because curiosity became fixation. He was too deep for it not to be.
On sleepless nights, Heeseung discovered things he absolutely shouldn't.
That his straight A’s and volunteering hours stepsister — was actually sneaking off to frat party with her friends, just feel alive, get waisted and let some sophomore finger her.
The music you fall asleep to, your “fuck” playlist too — the one you wouldn’t admit to owning even under threat of death.
That habit of yours to flirt with strangers like you had a death wish or just want to be ruined so badly being jailed would be for your own good.
That you send cropped pics, no face — just enough tits and thighs, to creeps then ghost them when they beg to meet, just to feel seen.
And he knew the kind of porn you watched on school nights, after wishing him sweet dreams. Earphones on, lips between your t-shirt collar like you’re scared someone might hear you in that big mansion. And what killed him is how fucking rough it is. Spit. Hair-pulling. Throat-fucking. Girls like you weren’t supposed to want that. Girls like you were supposed to blush and look away, like when he got too close. You’re supposed to be horrified at things like that — not get off to it at 1:38 a.m.
He discovered your texts with that secret boyfriend of yours. How badly he treated you, and how you let him, just to feel owned, loved. He knew when you snuck in those late-night FaceTimes, shirt half-off, hand between your thighs, playing the loyal girlfriend for him and his pathetic dick.
And Heeseung? He was obsessed with that version of you—the one he didn’t even dare to fantasize about, yet you handed to him on a silver plate.
Your self-care sessions got him hard under his desk. Got him jerking off to the way your fingers curled around your own throat in the dim hue of your bedroom, playing at power, pretending you didn’t crave being broken open.
You were too good at pretending. Sitting across from him, blouse crisp, smiling like a poetry award was the climax of your week.
What a goddamn lie.
But at least he’d seen you now. Most of you. And he understood better. Understood your issues. But something in him snapped.
Because this wasn’t just about obsession anymore.
It wasn’t about lust.
Or even protection.
It was about you.
And how you made him feel real again.
How you gave him a purpose.
You didn’t flinch when he glared. Didn’t avoid him at dinner. You just smiled, slid him your extra fries, and asked about the AI competition like it mattered. You looked at him like he was a person.
Not a project. Not a problem.
Not a hacker. Not a delinquent.
Not some mistake his father regretted.
And that… made you dangerous.
Because now you were a necessity. Something—someone—he cared about.
He did want to protect you.
But he also wanted to own you.
To erase the line between your bedroom and his. Between your thoughts and his access. Between your gasps at night and his name.
You weren’t supposed to get close.
You weren’t supposed to care.
And he wasn’t supposed to fall for you.
Fall for you?
...
But now what ?
You were the virus in his system.
The girl who said “good job” when he didn’t ask for praise. Who laughed when no one else did. Who touched his shoulder once—just once—and left him with a twitch in his fingers he couldn’t debug.
But you were a line of code he couldn’t rewrite. A live feed he couldn’t turn off.
And maybe, if he watched long enough, if he memorized every breath, every sigh, every single unguarded look, you wouldn’t disappear like the others.
Maybe, if he learned your pattern…he could break you open before you broke him.
And maybe, just maybe, you’d want him to. Even if it meant losing something. Even if it meant pulling you into the dark with him… and never letting you go.
Now you were sitting across from him. You spare him a glance while structuring your salad like a freak, with those doe eyes and he’s hard. Hard at a family dinner while they talked business.
Suddenly his breath catches your feet touching under the table. Like questioning, you good ?
Yeah it’s me, Heeseung. That sweet voice of yours haunting his head.
His foot slides slower in between your legs mindlessly and when you almost jolt, he realizes.
“gotta go sleep.” he blurred, rushing off the table. “Tomorrow is exam day.”
Fuck, he wants more. More of your secrets.More of you, the real you.
So he turned on your webcam, night after night, and your phone’s, and tab. like you were his favorite streamer, his favorite radio mc, the best sound to sleep. Like you wanted him to fantasise, think of it every night…
You were stretched across your bed, laughing into your phone, wearing nothing but a tank and panties, circling your finger on your belly mindless. The way girls do when they forget they’re being watched.
You laid out your clothes for the next day like some little honor-roll princess—giggling when your friend called you a chaebol, and you shrug her off.
But the way you lingered on the lace you never wear… the silk you only sleep on alone… the sheer pieces he has never seen— holding them up to your chest, slow movements like the reflection was his to tell you what to wear. It was fucking foreplay. You were a fucking siren, with your fucking hair finally down, and those dumb big scare glasses off.
And him ?
Heeseung…
He was already crashing on the rocks. He was a black-hat addict no-full-blown cyber-pervert. rock hard, mindlessly stroking his bulge at the sheer form of you in unmatched underwears.
So innocent. So mine.
Some days later, you knocked on his door while your parents were off circling the globe, allergic to stillness and obligations. Your hair was tied up but messier than usual, cheeks sun-kissed, eyes almost red—like you’d cried.
God, if someone made you cry… I’d kill them.
You held two glasses of soda, dripping with condensation. No way you could deny you’d been pacing by his door for the last hour.
“What are you up to, genius? I’m bored,” you said, voice half-curious, half-something else.
Heeseung—fool, addict, liar—let you in. Let you get too close. Showed you things he shouldn’t because you asked with that look that made him feel like a god, not a glitch. But also made him wonder who had made you sad enough to want to change your mind.
Still, you smiled at his screens like they were art. Touched his keyboard like it was sacred. No step-sister had ever looked at him like that before—hell, no one actually had. Fuck, he needed to focus. Focus on you, not you.
“You really made all this?”
He nodded, trying not to smirk, trying not to shake. His fingers danced across the keys like a seduction.
“Wanna see something fun?”
A window blinked open. He typed some commands, and grainy footage appeared: the neighbor’s yard. Middle-aged man with hedge clippers, snipping bonsai like manicuring his soul.
He tapped more keys. Suddenly, sprinklers roared to life. The neighbor shrieked, dropped the shears, and bolted.
You burst out laughing, collapsing into him, palm against his chest. That sound—reckless, sweet—made something snap inside him. It wasn’t just pride. It was possession. You weren’t weirded out. You liked it. Liked him. Not the fake polite way. The way that made him want to caress your cheek and kiss those red eyes.
But he was a coward—or your strongest soldier, as he liked to call himself. One who wanted you close, for good, not some fling you’d regret like the others he barely tolerated. No, he wanted you for life—and he was in the perfect position, as long as your parents behaved.
Then your eyes met. Dangerous idea sparking. You dared him with your gaze, then dashed out of his room.
“Try it on my bedroom camera!” you shouted, disappearing down the hall, hoodie flapping like a flag.
Fuck. If only you knew he was already connected.
Moments later — Cam03: Her Bedroom Feed lit up.
You stood in front of the lens—he used to fuck himself to thoughts of you—starry-eyed as he purposefully reactivated the red dot, signaling it was on. Made a mental note to re-enable it later.
You waved. Smiled like sin. Mouthing: “See me?”
He choked. Because yes—he saw you. Always had. But now? Now you saw him.
Like you always knew.
You reached for your top, lifted the hem just enough to flash bare skin, then darted out of frame, laughing like it was a game.
His chest burned. Panic and arousal mixed in his bloodstream like a drug. Heeseung’s brain broke.
But he didn’t shut it down. He couldn’t. Instead, he gave in. His trembling fingers dimmed your room’s lights, shifting godspeed to soft pink. He knew it was your favorite. Knew too much.
Then he started your playlist—the one with soft beats, gentle melody, moonstruck, your favorite.
You paused in the doorway. Turned just enough for the camera to catch you again. Smiled with pure fascination, like a kid. You should’ve been afraid. But you weren’t.
You looked at the cam again, really looked, like he was the sweetest boy, and you didn’t care much what he was capable of—because it was him.
You walked back to his door, dripping sunlight and mischief.
“That was so cool,” you said, high-fiving him like your heart wasn’t thundering. Like you hadn’t just exposed the darkest part of him and come back wanting more. “Can you, like… track people? Their phones or whatever?”
Heeseung blinked. “I-if their GPS is on. Or if they ping the network.”
You tilted your head. Bit your lip. “…Wanna play hide and seek?”
He scoffed in disbelief, but there was a glint behind his eyes—half challenge, half thrill. Like he’d just been dared to play a game he already knew the rules to.
He grabbed his laptop. The mansion was too big. Too full of shadows, quiet corners. A maze of marble, high ceilings, inherited guilt.
Heeseung sat somewhere, a storm brewing behind his eyes.
You texted him: “find me.” One signal. One flare. Then silence.
He tracked you through your phone GPS—chose not to use the hallway cams, even though he easily could have. Something intimate, invasive, about watching your little red dot move on his map. Every time he walked to you was an ode to the game only you two could play.
Library.
“Checkmate. You’re here.”
“Wow! So you really can!”
West Wing.
“If you're facing a mirror, it’s too easy… not even fun.”
“Fuck…”
Wine Cellar.
“If you’re trying to get drunk, pick the 2007 Bordeaux.”
You laughed.
The pool.
He stuck to the GPS. The red dot blinking. Stalling. Then disappearing.
You texted: “find me now.”
His screen dimmed like the whole house was holding its breath.
Heeseung’s pulse quickened. GPS cut out. No new pings. He tried again. Twice. Three times. Nothing. Every nerve in his body was a wire of curiosity. The air heavy with chlorine and humidity as he stepped toward the pool deck, leaving his computer by the bar.
Then he found it. Your phone, face down on the stone near the pool.
But you, you where—
“Got you!” You leapt.
Laughter, bare legs, hoodie off. Heeseung didn’t have time to react before you crashed into him—both of you tumbling into the water with a splash that shattered the silence.
You surfaced first, grinning like a devil. “You can’t find me if I don’t want you to, huh?” you teased, flicking water at him.
Heeseung stared at you, laughing mid-cough. Clothes heavy. Hair plastered to his forehead. The water clung to your skin in a way that made his hands twitch under the surface. You floated closer then. Then reached out and hooked your fingers in his bangs, stroking them like you always did. Then tugging gently.
“How about I cut your hair?” you whispered, too close to him not to have his eyes linger on your lips. “We’re starting university soon. Can’t show up like some code-goblin, right?”
He snorted. But you two didn’t move. Just watched each other's souls for too long. Heart hammering. Skin burning. You were in his pool. In his arms now. In his system.
“Are you okay?”
He asked, with the most considering eyes a family member ever gave you. But you just nodded to his biggest displeasure.
Something was wrong, yeah.
Actually, everything was wrong. And surely something was wrong with you. You felt trapped. In your studies, in your relationship, in these always-new families, in your boring unstable life. You wanted more. More attention, more love, more recognition, more freeness, just more…
You weren't special like Heeseung. You couldn’t clap your fingers and get that video back from your so-called boyfriend—he threatened to leak if you ever thought of leaving him again. Couldn’t clap your fingers and make a scholarship appear on your forms for one of the most prestigious university, and couldn’t clap your fingers to make you go to your best choice without the biggest loan you can think about.
But it was better to tell him everything was okay. Because if you didn't fake it… you’d be dead by now.
And maybe it’s the weather, or his concerned look, or his trembling hands on your ribs—not too low, not too high. But it felt good being with Heeseung, even better seeing the way he looked at you—
You really had a problem...
“Can you… like… if I ever asked you…”
“What?” He came closer, almost locking you in his hands, to force you to speal the tea. “Tell me…”
“If someday I needed you, would you… like… help me if I have something very complicated to solve... like… you know... Math.” You laughed it off like you weren't about to ask him to get that sextape back.
He nodded so obediently it hurt. The sub text was clear enough for him. And fuck, you had him in the palm of your hand without doing anything more than just letting him watch. Deny his ever-growing desire. Playing this game you caught him in.
Yeah… maybe you really were what your mom made out of you… sadly.
After that, Heeseung was like a man on a mission. He hacked every piece of info he could find on that deep shit. Until he found it… your complicated math exercise…
A tap of you and him. Filmed like you weren’t aware of it. Heeseung couldn’t find the courage to watch it…
Until he did.
And it was everything he ever fantasized doing with you.
He could frame him for anything he wanted. Crash his Tesla. His mind was spiraling as he bit on his nail, replaying that video again and again and again. Zooming on you.
I’ll protect you.
First, you needed an escape. Easy—that guy already cheated on you with so many girls, it was easy for you to catch him. So he wrote a fantasy he hoped you’d fall for. He drafted messages from your bf’s phone. A fake date. Something sweet, just enough like your boyfriend to pass.
“Meet me tonight baby girl. Just us. Let’s talk. 9PM. My room.”
“Baby girl…” you hated that name, but still couldn’t refuse him. And now Heeseung understood.
You saw it, and for a second, you believed. He watched you re-read it, then start getting ready—lip gloss, that fluttery dress, even that nervous little smile like it still meant something.
Meanwhile, your boyfriend was across campus, buried in someone else. Moaning her name. Careless, as always.
Heeseung watched it all, your hope fading when you opened that door, his betrayal, his choke. Your silence. Her grasp. One earbud in, one eye on every camera feed you both could offer.
You left the place in a rush, your phone starting to buzz as Heeseung watched every message your now-ex boyfriend sent you. You found yourself drifting in a club near by. You needed air, music, and drinks, a lot of them.
The music wasn’t even that good, your drink, not that strong. You didn’t plan to dance. And you didn’t plan for some no-brain guy with smooth hands to hit on you.
And you almost let him have his way near the bathrooms. Just to forget the sound of your phone. Forget that you had to go back to that guy until he decided he’d had enough or leaked the tape.
Almost.
Until Heeseung’s hand was on your wrist, showing up out of nowhere to pull you away.
“Heeseung?”
He got you out of the club, his hand digging into your wrist. The car ride was dead silent. Heeseung looked pissed. You were hollow, but not dumb. And you let him snap.
“What the fuck were you thinking?”
You didn’t answer.
“... Don’t you have a bf?”
Still silent. Tears welled up before you could blink them back, and Heeseung was at a loss for words. Yeah, it was that easy to shush him—crocodile cries easy.
“Stop crying…” he muttered, but he looked panicked now. Like your tears were acid on his skin. “Tell me what’s going on?”
Like he didn’t know.
But you had to play it well. Make him do it tonight, and no other night.
“He cheated…”
“Then leave him…”
“I can’t…” Hee looked at you with fake wonder. “He filmed me once… and…”
He nodded, enough to tell you you didn’t need to keep going.
When you got home, Heeseung took your hand before you stormed into your room, and he watched you—really watched—and got in a hug. Caressing your hair, getting closer to your ear, “I'll help you.”
You almost feared he could feel your smile. You detached your head with the saddest questioning expression.
“I’ll protect you,” he said, the heaviest stare he ever gave you.
You just nodded like you weren’t expecting much. When you actually wanted exactly what he gave you.
Back in your room, you kept re-seeing Heeseung’s expression. Almost mad, almost dangerous.
And you. You wanted more. You wanted everything—not just protection, but revenge. Revenge for the time you lost on that guy, for your virginity you couldn’t bring back, for the stress… for everything.
So you opened your laptop. Placed your phone next to it like it’s part of the performance. You know he’s watching.
You know.
Heeseung, on his part, got in his room ready to execute the next part of his plan when the ping of your camera alerts him. But tonight is not the night. After seeing you like that, he doesn't want to do that.
So he started to undress. Until—
“Heeseung?”
His head snapped to his monitor. WTF.
“You’re here, no? I mean, you’re watching.”
He almost fell on the ground, unable to walk straight to his computer.
The webcam light doesn’t flicker on right away when you open it.
You look at your reflection. This webcam is better than the last time you used it. Wide-angle. Pretty high-def. You can see almost your entire room. Bed. Closet. Console. The mirror angled just right to show the bathroom.
God. You made it so easy for him.
You let your fingers lazily drift to your dress straps. In a slow reveal. You watch yourself in the camera—legs tucked just right to keep mystery intact. Eyes locked on the return. You open your—
“You like it when I do that?” You looked almost innocent doing it. What the fuck were you doing, Heeseung’s mind screamed. “You want more?”
Heeseung was stunned. Too many questions. Too many desires.
He didn’t even respond, his hand mindlessly disconnecting your camera’s red dot and reconnecting again like Morse.
“Then ruin him for me. Make him as ashamed as I was.”
You were pulling his obsession like strings. A puppet master in silk cloth. The light on the webcam flickered once again.
You smiled, slowly nodding. “Good night, Heeseung.” Shut it all down.
By morning, half the campus was infected with a juicy little virus: dozens of very compromising photos of your now-ex, including a special feature of him being pegged by none other than his mom’s best friend.
Iconic.
The breakup text? Already sent. Blocked him before your brain even had a chance to process.
You didn’t see him all day. No dinner, no open door when you brought snacks. Nothing.
Maybe you really fucked up. Poor Heeseung, thinking you were innocent, only to find out you were just like everyone else—grey, messy, complicated.
But just before bed, your phone lit up. A note. Your password written clear on the screen.
You sat frozen, eyes flickering between the note that started typing on its own, and the webcam pointed right at you.
“I’ll always protect you.”
Then, an mp4 file popped up. Your lips curved into a shy smile.
You almost said something, but instead, you tapped beneath his words:
“Thank you, Heeseung. I don’t know what I’d have done if you weren’t there.”
The cursor blinked, paused—like he was thinking hard about what to say next.
“I protect what’s mine.”
Your eyes drifted to the webcam. “Am I?”
“Aren’t you?”
Your gaze dropped shyly, biting your lip to keep the smile from slipping out. Fuck, it was hot—this obsessive, protective boy who’d kill for you.
“I am…” you breathed, fingers playing with the thin straps of your dress.
“Maybe?”
Slowly, you peeled it off. No bra. No panties. Just you. Bare, glowing in the soft light of your screen.
On Heeseung’s side: He was a panting mess by just a look. Trembling. Rock hard. Watching was always intense, but this?
His brain shorted out. Every movement you made poured fuel on the fire in his chest, the way you loosened your hair, slid off your glasses, shy but teasing.
Your voice slipped through his headphones like a spell.
“Tell me what you want,” you breathed. “I’ll do it. As a thank you.”
He was nearly feral, watching you perched like a dream made just for him. But now you wanted him to take the lead. For once, you wanted control handed over.
And for a long, heavy moment, silence.
Then, a new line in your notes:
“Anything?”
You nodded, lips parting.
Another line.
“Touch yourself.”
“For me.”
You rose, heading for your bed.
Then:
“No. Here.”
You sat back down. Fully exposed. The chair never felt colder. The electricity on your skin was undeniable—the weight of someone watching, devouring every move.
You shivered. Something folded inside, vulnerable but not scared.
Then your screen flickered.
A video opened.
Porn.
But not just any porn. A girl like you—same frame, soft lighting. She was in a gaming chair, legs parted, cat headphones, a pink toy buzzing between her thighs. Moaning like she’d been waiting for eyes to watch.
You blinked. The message was loud and clear.
Your breath caught—not shocked, but challenged.
Back to the webcam—doe eyes, tempted. Your fingers traced lower, hips shifting, copying her exact position. Mimicry never felt so twisted.
You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers moved.
Heeseung watched like it was a live confession. Pupils dilated, chest heaving, gripping himself tight, trying not to explode too soon.
A message appeared:
“Slower.”
You obeyed, breath shaking, already slick with every stroke.
Another message:
“Fuck, you’re shaking.”
You were. Legs twitching, spine arching against the chair.
You never thought you’d go this far, but he was puppeteering you with his commands.
Then:
“I’ve never seen you like this. Fuck. I want to cum in you, pour every drop inside that godess cunt. In that chair. Just like that.”
You moaned, eyes fluttering shut, but you forced them open, locking onto the lens like it was him.
Another message:
“I want you ruined. For anyone else. Say it. Mine.”
You moaned, fingers freezing.
“I’m yours?” you whispered.
“Say it again,” he typed.
"I’m yours, Heeseung?"
The pressure built—right at the edge—
Then:
“Stop.”
“Don’t cum.”
Your breath hitched. You froze mid-stroke, legs trembling.
Another line:
“I said stop. If anyone makes you cum tonight—it’s me.”
Your fingers hovered, shaking. The ache burned deep in your thighs, stomach taut.
But you stopped.
Because his word mattered more than your desire now.
Your screen blinked.
“Get your toy.”
You swallowed, nodded, reached into your drawer.
The vibrator was familiar—sleek, pink, faintly scented from your date-night oil. You rubbed it, coating it with your wetness, then slid it slowly inside, breath heavy.
Then the toy buzzed. Flickered. Came alive.
You gasped—he was controlling it.
Before you could say a word, it pulsed hard. Your body jerked, chair creaking beneath you. Your grip tightened on the arms as pleasure rolled through you like a whip.
“That’s it,” he typed. “Don’t touch it. Just take it.”
You moaned—too much, too fast—your body trembling, legs spreading without control. The sounds you made were filthy, desperate.
Heeseung’s fingers typed again.
“Grip the chair.”
You obeyed.
The toy buzzed harder, relentless and cruel.
“Look at the camera.”
Tears pricked, but you held his gaze—through that little glowing lens. Your thighs trembled, breath catching—
He knew.
He memorized every sound, every gasp, every twitch.
Your climax hit like an explosion, so fierce your back arched from the chair. Toes curled, lips parted in a silent cry.
If only you could hear it—the gasp, the groan, the shuddering moan from his room. Rooms apart, perfectly synced.
You collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving.
The toy powered down. The room fell silent but electric. Only the Notes app stayed open. One final line appears:
“I know your body better than anyone ever will.”
You smile, eyes rolling, calming yourself. You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes.
Unknown Caller.
You smirk. Answer it without hesitation.
Hee,” you whisper, lazy satisfaction dripping from your tone.
You hear him, shaky, panting, like the edge nearly broke him. “Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck… You’re so pretty. So fucking pretty. You don’t even know what you do to me.”
His voice is hoarse, frayed with restraint. You picture him—still burning from his climax, hand resting low, skin flushed.
“You drive me insane. Every breath you take, every moan...” He watches you lift your thighs, tucking yourself shyly behind them like a girl playing innocent. “It’s mine. You’re mine. Don’t you get it? I want you so bad I—fuck—I can’t even—”
You cut in softly.
“Heeseung,” you murmur, voice smooth like silk sliding over a blade. “I never said I was yours...”
Silence.
You lean in, sugar-sweet, doe eyes locked on the lens, like you don’t quite know what you’re doing.
“You think this makes me yours?”
He breathes hard. You swear you hear the tension in his throat—how he swallows that growl.
“Then what?” he whispers. “What do I have to do?”
You hum, hiding your face in your thighs, thoughtful. “I’ll know.”
Heeseung almost chokes. “You’re playing with me.”
You tilt your head.
“Of course I am, Hee. Isn’t that what you like? What we always did? Playing games.” Your voice softens, teasing, the tone that always breaks him. “You’re obsessed, Hee. But to own me?” you shake your head slowly. “You’ll have to do more than just watch me cum on camera.”
A pause. You let it hang, let it burn. Then, low and teasing:
“If you really want me,” you whisper. “Stop being a coward. Show me.”
His breath catches. You almost feel the stillness on his end.
Click.
You hang up.
Still smiling, you toss your phone aside.
“Good night, Heeseung,” you murmur to the camera before shutting everything down.
🕧
Heeseung hadn’t heard your voice in three days.
Not on the phone, not through the headphones, not even that little intake of breath when you tiptoe around your room late at night.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours of silence.
No webcam flickers. No Notes app replies. No little “good night, Hee” teasing him through pixels.
Nothing.
He tapped at your IP like a lunatic. Pinging dead signals. Checked your cloud for new files. Scraped your cache for cam logs, anything—anything—that might prove you were still playing.
But you weren’t. You’d shut him out completely. Blocked him, in every way that mattered, except the one that destroyed him the most: in person, you were still perfect.
Because in real life, you were still her.
Still the step-sister who sat next to him at dinner, nudging his arm, sipping from his glass like it meant nothing. Still in those stupid soft modest dresses that smelled like your vanilla lotion and innocence. Still saying his name in that sweet voice that didn’t match the girl who once whispered “I’m yours” for a night, while fingering herself in his favorite dress.
Still shy smilling in front of the parents, like he wasn’t slowly going fucking insane of you ghosting him in the cruelest way possible.
Heeseung clenched his jaw until it hurt. His fists, tighter. You were torturing him. Training him with your silence. Denying him touch, sound, ownership—making him feel like just another loser watching from a screen.
And worst of all? You liked it.
He could see it in the way you smiled at him when no one was looking. Like the devil behind a halo. Like the dom who knew her puppy would crawl the moment she said good boy.
You knew what you were doing. And you knew he was starving.
He watched you meet someone new through your messages—tracked him from his first DM. The second the guy sent a heart emoji, Heeseung had full access to his cloud, laptop, phone, and location history.
So when you showed up at that guy’s place in that same dress as that night, Heeseung went feral. watching you through the guy’s hacked MacBook camera. Front-row seat. 1080p. Wide angle. Clear sound. Perfect view.
You didn’t even try to hide untapping your phone camera, angling it for him. But he was already there.
He watched the way you swayed when you walked into the room. That skirt was short—barely legal. Hair done like you were on a mission to ruin him. Lip gloss like you were asking to be kissed. Or owned.
Heeseung’s fists dug into his thigh. You let the guy kiss you. Hands on your hips. Heeseung scoffed in fury. The guy went down on you and Heeseung leaned forward—eyes glued to your face smiling at him. Not for the man.
Only for him.
You mouthed his name, Heeseung, made that sound again—that sweet gasp that cracked every nerve in his body—and his hands were already down his pants before he even realized it. Stroking slowly. Angry.
Then the guy started fucking you. It was… pathetic.
You looked bored. Pretty. But not wrecked. Not how Heeseung would have done you—needed you. Not how you looked when he edged you, whispering commands through your notes.
He texted :
He’s not even close to making you cum.Why are you with him?Stop.
Now.
Please.
You didn’t stop. You got louder. Not for performance, because knowing hee was watching, unleashed you.
Heeseung’s hand stuttered. He bit down on his bottom lip so hard it bled. You were performing. For him, not the other guy. You had to be. And yet you didn’t stop when he begged you.
Heeseung didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t call a friend.
He texted one of the girls who’d been orbiting him since he entered university—some pretty, pouty girl with no idea what she was walking into.
She came fast. Obedient. Heeseung fucked her like punishment.
Shoved her onto his lap, dragged her skirt over her hips without a single word. Didn’t ask if she was ready. Didn’t even pretend to care. Just spread her thighs, lined himself up, and buried in—rough, silent, merciless.
She moaned his name, kissing his neck. Heeseung kept his eyes on the screen. Because on the monitor behind her?
You were still live. Fucking someone else. His airpods were in. And he was moaning your name under his breath.
The girl was clueless to much overwhelmed by his deep, rough trust. Riding him like she thought she was doing a good job for him to be so feral.
Heeseung touched her the way he would have to you, controlling. forcing her in position trying to reach her deepest part, as he watched your hips roll on screen. Your nails dig into someone else’s back.
“Grippe my back. leave marks.” he ordered her.
He hiss, mouthing along with your sounds like a prayer.
“Fuck—Louder. Just like that... Just like that—fuck.”
The girl on his lap whimpered, “does it feel good, Hee?”
Heeseung stared at your body—your lips, your tits, your sweat-shined thighs.
“You’re so perfect,” he muttered. “Fuck—you…”
His climax came hard, violent. He choked your name on the exhale and came inside the girl like she didn’t matter—because she didn’t.
When the girl left, he stared at the screen for an hour. Watched you dress. Watched you check your phone. Smiling.
Not once did you reply to his messages.
You were killing him. Starving him. Making him beg. He slammed the laptop shut, chest heaving, hatred and love boiling into the same sick ache.
You were right. He was a coward. But not for much longer.
You found it on your bed. No card. No note. No sender. Just a black box, wrapped in a ribbon you never heard arrive. Inside: lingerie. Lace. Sheer. Decadent. Your exact size. Your exact taste. Lightly soaked in a scent you could recognize in your sleep—his cologne.
Your fingers trembled when you held it up to the light. No message. But then again, he never needed words.
Heeseung didn’t ask. He tried to command.
So, you didn’t text. Didn’t thank him. You just wore it.
That night, when the webcam light blinked to life, you were already sitting pretty in front of your laptop. Sheer fabric draped over your body like a sin begging to be confessed.
You leaned into the camera, eyes soft, voice sweeter.
“Goodnight, Genius. Hope uni’s not eating you alive.”
And then—
You logged off. Just like that.
Left him starving. You knew he’d pretend it didn’t affect him. He tried, bless him.
He texted the next day, like it was nothing. Invited you to his university party. Like this wasn’t war. Like he wasn’t already losing.
Of course, you went. Dressed in red. Not the lingerie—something sharper. Something that made his friends stare a little too long.
Heeseung barely spoke to you that night. Slipped back into his old self—like he hadn’t spent the week watching you like a man possessed. But he was in his element, charming his nerdy circle, and you were happy just watching him thrive.
Then, it changed.
He didn’t introduce you as his stepsister. That alone cracked the air between you. His hand found your back, fingers tracing lazy nothings while he laughed with his friends, eyes on you like you were art.
You liked seeing him smile. Liked knowing you made it easier.
And then—he excused you both. His friends wished you luck with admissions. So polite. So clueless.
He walked you up a narrow hallway, like it was nothing. A quiet corridor, half-lit.
Then he locked you in a hug.
And kissed your neck.
“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, hands already exploring.
“You too,” you murmured, smiling. “New haircut? You kept it long in the back. Looks good.”
“You said I should, so...”
You smiled harder, went in for a kiss—your first. His lips were maddening. Soft, sure, and hungrier than you expected. He kissed like he’d waited for years. Like he’d decided waiting was over.
"Untie your dress," he whispered against your mouth, voice low.
You raised a brow, smirking. “Thought you liked watching from afar.”
His jaw flexed. “Not tonight.”
You let the ribbon fall, letting the dress slip open. Underneath—his gift. His breath caught.
“You like it?” you teased.
He didn’t answer. He spun you, pressed you into the wall, and his hand was already between your thighs—finding you soaked.
His mouth brushed your ear, voice cracking with restraint.
“Fuck. You’re so wet for me. I’ve waited so long.”
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?”
His thrust was sharp—two fingers deep.
“Say you want me to ruin you. Say you like it.”
You whimpered, arching into his hand. “I like it when you ruin me.”
“Say it right.”
You licked your lips. “I want to be yours, Heeseung. Ruin me.”
His exhale was jagged—like something inside him broke.
Then came silence. Just heat. Breathing. Fingers moving in and out of you as he grinded against your body, shameless and reckless in a hallway anyone could walk into.
And just before you came—he pulled away.
“No,” he said simply. “Let’s go.”
“Home?”
“No. My room.”
His dorm was massive, dark except for the red glow of a snoozed monitor. His roommate was nowhere. Probably never real to begin with. You practically jumped on him. Messy kisses. Wandering hands. He kissed your neck, your shoulder, your back—and then—
Your hand brushed his desk. The monitors flared to life. And there you were—your webcam feed, glowing on the screen.
Recording. Your name as the file.
“You always make me watch,” he whispered, stripping you down to the lingerie. “Now watch yourself.”
He pulled you onto the bed, body still facing the screen.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, spreading your legs for the camera. “I’ve owned you since the first time you stepped into this house.”
On screen—your reflection trembled. Moaned. Melted in real-time.
He eased fingers inside you again while holding you in his lap, pinching a nipple until you gasped, breath tangled.
“I know what you fantasize about when you’re bored,” he whispered.
He started humping you, slow and heavy.
“I know what kind of porn you scroll past—then go back to.”
Thrust.
“I know which songs you loop when you touch yourself. I synced your playlist.”
You choked on a gasp.
“I know you changed your passwords, just to make me mad.”
His hand curled lightly around your throat.
“But I like it. I like when you pretend.”
He never slowed—just kept pushing you higher, mean and relentless.
And when you moaned his name?
He broke.
“I’m going to give you every twisted thing you’ve ever typed,” he growled. “Every fantasy you deleted. Every filthy draft you couldn’t finish. I’m going to make them real.”
Your climax slammed into you, shuddering through your bones—but he didn’t stop.
“I’ll tie you up in the library when no one’s looking,” he said, voice wicked. “Bend you over your best friend’s bed and leave a bruise only I’ll recognize.”
He laughed.
“I’ll make you cry my name with someone else inside you—just to remind you no one will ever ruin you like I do.”
You turned and kissed him, wild and unhinged.
He kissed back like a claim. Like he was branding your soul.
Then he grabbed you and threw you onto the bed. Reached for a condom.
You stopped him.
“It’s safe today, Hee. Do me raw.”
His pupils darkened. Something dangerous sparked.
He freed himself and dragged his cock against your wetness, teasing your entrance. You moaned each time the head kissed you. His smile was smug. Addicted.
“Heeseung. Please.”
He nodded—and slid in all at once.
You gasped, overwhelmed, stretched so good it hurt in the most perfect way.
He rocked into you deep and slow, biting your neck, lips pressed against skin he couldn’t stop worshipping.
Then he pulled you upright—still inside you.
“You like this position, huh?”
You nodded, dizzy, undone. He studied you like he’d been preparing for a test. He always aced those.
Then—his thrusts changed. Not faster. Just deeper. Harder.
“Hee—”
“Like that, yeah?”
You nodded again, mouth open, breathless at every delicious, punishing thrust.
He looked so fucking good like this—hair sticking to his forehead, lips parted, eyes glazed with need. You went for another kiss and he gripped your neck, slid to your hair, pulling until your back arched.
“Like that?”
“Yeah—yeah—fuck—don’t stop—”
He sucked your tits, relentless now, chasing both your highs. You clenched down so hard his groans turned ragged. He bit your nipple, then folded you in half, throwing your legs over his shoulders.
And then—he lost it.
He didn’t slow.
Not even as your body bucked under him, shaking.
He buried himself deeper, fingers biting into your hips, sweat dripping from his jaw as he fucked you like he wanted to unmake you.
The monitors kept rolling. Your name flashing on screen, over your own moans.
You reached for him—some desperate grasp for balance—but he pinned your wrists above your head, fucked you harder. One of your legs slipped off his shoulder, and he yanked it back up with a grunt.
“Keep it there,” he snarled, breath ragged. “Don’t move unless I say.”
You didn’t.
You couldn’t.
You were already too far gone.
You felt yourself stretch around him again, again, again, your walls pulsing and fluttering with every brutal thrust. It was filthy, unrelenting, and it wasn’t enough.
Heeseung's voice was in your ear, low and wrecked.
“This how you like it, hm?” he panted. “Getting used like this, getting ruined on camera for me?”
You sobbed a yes high and gasping, and he growled. His hips snapped forward again, this time shoving you higher on the bed.
“Fucking take it.”
He leaned in, biting your lip, grinding deeper. The rhythm turned meaner. Each thrust slamming into you with brutal precision.
“You like knowing I’ll replay this?” he whispered. “Jerk off to it when you’re not around?”
You moaned helplessly. “Want you to... I want you obsessed.”
"I am," he said. "You made me this."
His rhythm stuttered, he was close. You could feel him twitch inside, groaning against your mouth.
Then—
He came.
Hard. Buried deep.
His whole body went taut over yours, shuddering as he emptied himself, hips rolling slower, deeper. You felt the heat inside you, the stickiness, the way his cock throbbed even after the high.
And still, he didn't pull out. He kissed your collarbone, your throat, lazily now. Worn out. Quiet. The screen behind him kept glowing.
Your body was wrecked, your heart pounding against his chest. He pulled you close, like he wasn’t finished. Like he never would be.
🕔
The next morning, the sun barely broke past his blackout curtains. You were still half-naked in his sheets when you heard his fingers tapping at his laptop. A fresh hoodie hung off his shoulder, hair a messy halo.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
You groaned into the pillow. “Already working?”
He smirked. “Coding clears my head. Better than coffee.”
You rolled over. He looked too good like this. Soft around the edges. Eyes warm.
“I wish you could come here,” he said. “To my university.”
You blinked, suddenly alert. He smiled, but it didn’t reach all the way. “You did apply, right?”
“…Yeah.”
He nodded like he already knew. “But you didn’t tell me…pfff.”
Your stomach turned, just a little, as you smirked. “I didn’t want you to be happy for something so unsure.”
“I know.”
Silence. He got back typing.
“You really think I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “You think I’d just… let you leave somewhere else?”
You narrowed your eyes. “What did you do?”
He smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you’ll ever be able to prove.”
Your heartbeat slowed. Thick. Smiling unsure.
“Heeseung...”
He stood, walking over. Calm. Barefoot. Still smelling like last night and wanting more.
“I didn’t touch your application,” he said softly. “But I might’ve nudged the scholarship committee. You’re exceptional, after all.”
You froze. “Why?”
“Because you belong here, in that prestigious place and nowhere else.”
His fingers grazed your chin. Tender. Possessive.
“...With me.”
You swallowed. He tilted your face up to his, eyes half-lidded.
“You would've turned it down if you knew,” he murmured, getting his lips closer, smooching slowly. “You’re too proud for that kind of help. Too proud to admit you want to be kept.”
Your voice caught in your throat. “That’s not why I applied.”
“I know why you applied, just like me.”
His thumb ghosted over your lower lip.
“That’s why I made sure you’d stay. to be free.”
A flicker of something dangerous passed between you. Or maybe it had always been there. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear.
“You think you’re playing me right now, huh,” he whispered, “but—what if I like being used, if it means I get to keep you?”
Your breath hitched. And he smiled. Like he’d already won. Or maybe he was wrong. Maybe you’d just let him believe he had.
MASTERLIST
Author’s Note:
Babies~ here it is!! 💗 The second part of my enha stepbro AU (first one was HUNTED).
I really hope this one pleased you… did it??? 🥺 I worked so hard on this piece to match the exact vibe I had in mind. Like—why was I waking up at 3 AM with wild ideas for scene effects that were borderline impossible to execute?! 😭🌀
This one definitely has a different flavor! While HUNTED leaned into soft, needy sub!Jakey energy (bless him), I wanted TRAPPED to explore the more intoxicating side of obsession—but not so far that we start hating our sweet little Heeseung~ Just a touch of crazy, y’know?
I really hope the mood translated well, because after rereading it 500 times, I fully lost that "first read magic" feeling I’m not super proud of this draft yet—kinda wish I had more time to proofread and polish it up. I’ll probably update it later (perfectionist problems 😭). Next up is Part 3, which is supposed to be Sunghoon’s! Let me know if you want anything special in it—I’m all ears... and pervy brain. Just know it’s gonna involve dacryphilia, so bring tissues… for various reasons
summary: at a charity dinner in manhattan, y.n, a newly successful author, shuts down a sexist remark with sharp wit. and someone was watching — jay park, hotel heir and former singer, who finds himself captivated. when he finally approaches her, she challenges him with "so what? are you also afraid of feminists and don't consider them women?" and he answers: "afraid? i love women." and y.n is not one to be easily won.
playlist — American Love Story
coming soon
( tag list — open, ask me to add u trough comments or anon ask)
from the author: the fanfiction will be filled with the aesthetics of quiet luxury, rich heirs, which will greatly resemble the series "Love Story", but will not repeat the events. Make reblogs so you don't get lost, I'll post a story soon (it turns out to be very voluminous)
Jake usually moves through the house like a ghost, his "virgin nerd" persona defined by hunched shoulders and a nervous stutter that keeps the boundary between step-siblings firmly in place. However, behind closed doors, that awkwardness sharpens into a terrifyingly precise fixation, proving that his role as f-reader quiet step-brother was merely a mask for a deeply calculated hunger. When the tension finally snaps, the transformation is jarring; his stutter vanishes, replaced by a low, steady command and a raw, dominant intensity born from years of observing f-reader from the periphery of the family dynamic. This isn't about the hesitation of a novice, but a heavy-handed control where his intelligence is used to dismantle f-reader composure, turning years of repressed proximity into a rough, unapologetic claim.
────#GOOD BOY────
⋆. 𐙚˚࿔ 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫!jake 𝓍 f!reader 𝜗𝜚˚⋆
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : college AU, smut (MDNI), porn with plot
𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 : they are both 20, fake nerd!jake, voyeurism, stalking, obsessive behaviour, jealousy, manhandling, masturbating, edging, filthy talk, oral sex (m. receiving), grinding, degradation, use of nicknames : baby, angel, good girl, face fucking
𝐰𝐜 : 8.5k
part 2
𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ──── (specific order)
♫ An Eater - Matt Martians
♫ Freak - Doja Cat
♫ Need To Know - Doja Cat
♫ Love Potion - BJ Lips ft. princess paparazzi
♫ Killshot (Slowed + Reverb) - Magdalena Bay
♫ What You Need - The Weeknd
♫ Don't Run - PARTYNEXTDOOR
♫ Haunted - Beyoncé
♫ All Mine - PLAZA
📎- this was so fun to work on, i think it's one of my fav request so far :)) it has been sitting in my drafts for so long omg. I will probably make a PART 2 of you guys want it and since I paused my Jay ff (I’m procrastinating and might drop it guys). Enjoyyy :)
You wake up when the floorboards creak in the hallway. You wait in bed for five minutes, listening to the silence of the house, before you pull on a grey sweatshirt and walk downstairs.
In the kitchen, Jake is already sitting at the island, hunched over his laptop. His oversized black hoodie bunches around his neck, and his shoulders are rounded forward. When you step onto the tile, he flinches and quickly pushes his glasses up his nose.
"Oh. Hi," he says. His voice is quiet as he stumbles over the greeting. "Good morning."
"Morning," you say, walking to the counter. "Is there coffee?"
"Yeah. I made a pot." He points to the machine before he tucks his hands back into his sleeves. "It's still hot."
You pour yourself a mug. The ceramic is warm against your palms. You lean against the counter and look at him. "You have that midterm today?"
"Yeah, quantum maths. It's a pain in the ass." He types three keys and stops. "I've been awake since 5. My head hurts from looking at the formulas."
"Are you ready for it?"
"I think so. If I don't mess up the proofs." He looks up at you. His eyes blink rapidly behind his thick lenses and a faint red color spreads across his cheeks. "What about you? You have that group project presentation today, right? With the guy from your marketing class."
"Yeah, Damian. He hasn't sent me his half of the slides yet."
Jake's hands freeze on the keyboard. "He's a fucking idiot."
The sudden change in his tone makes you pause. His voice is flat and direct, without his usual wobble. When you look at him, he quickly slumps further into his hoodie, his eyes darting back to the screen.
"I mean," he mumbles, his voice rising back to its nervous pitch. "He just...he seems lazy. I see him sitting by the library sometimes, just talking on his phone."
"He is lazy," you say, taking a sip of the coffee. "I'll probably have to finish the presentation myself before noon."
Jake watches you drink. His head is turned toward you, his eyes fixed on your mouth, then your throat as you swallow. His face is completely still, devoid of the nervous twitching he usually does.
"You shouldn't have to do his work," Jake says.
You set your mug down on the granite. The sound makes him blink, and he immediately looks down at his keyboard again, his shoulders tensing.
"It's fine," you say. "I just want to get it over with."
"I could...I could look at your slides," he says, stammering slightly on the first word. "If you want. I can check the layout or make sure the alignment is correct."
"It's marketing, Jake. We just used a template."
"Right. Yeah. Of course." He nods quickly, his head bobbing four or five times. "Just...if you needed help."
He presses a key to lock his laptop before sliding it into his backpack. When he stands up, his actual height is obvious, he is clearly taller than you, but he immediately curves his spine, lowering his head as he zips the bag.
"I'm going to go to campus early," he says, his eyes focused on the floor near your feet. "I need to study more."
"Okay. Good luck on the test."
"Thanks." He walks past you, leaving a wide space between your bodies as he heads for the front door. "See you later."
The front door clicks shut and the kitchen is quiet again.
──────
You pull into the gravel driveway at the exact same time Jake’s car stops in the space next to yours. You both get out of your cars. Jake immediately ducks his head, grabbing his heavy backpack from the passenger seat and hoisting it over one slouched shoulder.
"Hey," he says, his voice quiet. He stands by his door, waiting for you to walk first.
"Hey," you say, walking toward the stone steps of the mansion. "How was the math midterm?"
"It was...hard. I think I got a B. Maybe a B-minus." He follows a few paces behind you, his sneakers squeaking on the stone.
Inside, the house is silent. Your mother is in Chicago for a week-long business conference, leaving just you, Jake, and his father.
Jake’s dad is already sitting at the long mahogany dining table when you walk into the dining room. A roasted chicken and some sides are laid out on silver platters.
"There they are," he says, looking up from his phone. "Sit down. How was it today?"
You both sit. Jake takes the chair directly across from you. He immediately pulls his plate close, keeping his eyes on his food as he serves himself.
"It was fine," you say. "Just a bit busy."
"That’s good. So, we need to talk about summer," his dad says while carving the chicken. "I’m booking a villa in Ibiza for July. You two are coming."
You set your fork down. "Oh, I don't think I can go. I wanted to take summer classes. I need to catch up on my biology credits."
Jake’s dad sighs, waving his hand. "You work too hard. Take a break."
You look at Jake. He is chewing slowly. He swallows and looks up, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He clears his throat twice.
"You, um...you can take the classes online," Jake says. His voice is small and hesitant. "The villa has high-speed internet. I looked at your syllabus on the counter yesterday. It's mostly reading and quizzes. I can...I can help you study if you get stuck. It wouldn't be a big deal."
He looks at you through his eyelashes, his expression nervous as if he is waiting for you to shut him down.
"See?" His dad says. "Jake will help you. It's settled."
Under the table, your knee accidentally bumps into Jake's. He doesn't pull his leg away immediately. He holds the contact for three seconds, his leg completely still against yours before he slowly flinches back and looks down at his plate.
"Okay," you say, looking at him. "I'll go."
After dinner, his dad goes to his study to make business calls. You and Jake sit in the main living room. A reality TV show plays on the flat-screen, yet neither of you is really watching it. Jake sits on the far end of the leather sofa, his knees pulled together and his laptop open on his thighs.
The air conditioning is on but the room feels stuffy. You pull at the collar of your t-shirt.
"It's fucking hot in here," you say.
"The compressor downstairs is old," Jake says, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. "Dad refuses to replace it."
"Let's go swim," you say while standing up. "The pool is clean. It'll feel better than sitting in here."
Jake looks up from his screen. He blinks. "Now?"
"Yeah, now. Come on, don't be boring."
He hesitates, his eyes darting to the door and back to his laptop. "Okay. I'll go change."
Ten minutes later, you meet by the outdoor pool. The blue lights under the water are on, casting bright reflections across the concrete patio. You are wearing a simple black bikini. Jake comes out in dark swim trunks and a white t-shirt.
"You're wearing a shirt?" you ask, dipping your legs into the water.
Jake sits on the edge, a foot away from you, letting his feet dangle in the pool. He looks at the water, keeping his eyes away from your body. "I don't want to get sunburned."
"It's 9 o'clock at night, Jake. There is no sun."
"It's a habit," he mumbles, his shoulders curving inward.
You splash a bit of water at his feet.
"Seriously, though," you say, leaning back on your hands. "Do you ever do anything fun? Do you even like girls?"
Jake freezes. His feet stop moving in the water. "What?"
"I've lived here for two years, and you've never brought a girl home. Not even a friend who is a girl."
He keeps his eyes on the water. His voice is very quiet. "I don't have time for that. I'm focusing on my degree."
"Right. Sure."
There’s a silence settling in between you two. So you decide to eventually break it.
"I haven’t heard anything from Jay. What about him?" you ask, watching his profile. "He came over last week to drop off your textbooks. You should invite him over more often."
The nervous and slouched posture Jake has maintained all night vanishes in an instant. His spine straightens. He turns his head to look at you, and the movement is fast, completely lacking his usual hesitation. His jaw is clenched so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek.
"Jay is a fucking jerk," Jake says.
His voice isn't high or shaky anymore. It is dry and perfectly steady. You stare at him, surprised by the sudden bite in his tone. "He was nice to me though."
"He's a dumbass who fails half his classes and spends his weekends getting black-out drunk just because he has the money for it," Jake says, his eyes locking onto yours. "He isn't coming back to this house."
"Why are you saying things like that?" you ask, your heart beating a little faster against your ribs. "He's your friend."
Jake stares at you for another second. The expression on his face is cold, without any of his usual softness. He looks down at your collarbone and slowly back up to your eyes. He clears his throat and slumps his shoulders back down, his head dropping as he rubs the back of his neck. The nervous stutter returns but it sounds slightly forced.
"I just...I don't want him around anymore," Jake stammers, his voice rising back to its soft and shaky register. "He's...he's being annoying. He makes a mess. And he's loud."
He slides into the pool, letting the water come up to his chest, hiding his frame. But even underwater, his eyes stay on you, tracking your every move.
──────
The house was unnervingly quiet. One week before summer break, and the entire afternoon stretched before Jake, empty and ripe with opportunity. Not for studying nor packing, it’s actually for you.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he pushed open the door to your bedroom. The air was filled with the scent of your perfume and he loved it. He breathed it in deeply, his eyes scanning the room. Your bed was perfectly made. However it was the walk-in closet that called to him.
He stepped inside, the soft carpet muffling his footsteps. Your dressing room was a sanctuary of all his desires. Dresses hung on one side, blouses on the other. But his gaze fell to the dresser, its top neatly arranged with perfumes and jewelry. He pulled open the top drawer. There they were. Rows and rows of your panties. Lace, silk, cotton. Thongs, briefs, boyshorts.
His hands trembled as he reached in, his fingers brushing against the delicate material. He pulled out a black lace pair. He brought them to his face, inhaling your scent that made his cock twitch in his pants. He was sick, he knew he was. A depraved and obsessed freak, but he just couldn't stop. He snapped picture after picture with his phone, capturing the intimate details of your underwear drawer for his own personal collection.
Next, he moved to your desk, your laptop left open and sleeping. He shook the mouse, and the screen lit up. He was in. Your social media was already pulled up. He clicked on Instagram, his eyes scanning your feed. Pictures of you with your friends, selfies from class, a few with your mom and his dad. Then something immediately catched his eyes. A private message thread with Jay. ‘That motherfucker’ he thought.
He clicked on it, his stomach clenching. The conversation was ambiguous, full of inside jokes. Jay had sent a picture of himself, at the gym, probably to show you where he was and what he was doing. You'd like the picture and replied that he looked pretty good. After that, a message from Jay that made Jake's blood boil cold : "Can't wait for summer break. Maybe we can see each other."
A low growl rumbled in Jake's chest. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he muttered to the empty room. "Fucking asshole. You think you can have her just like that? You’re fucking dead." He slammed the laptop shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He had to see you. He had to watch you.
He retrieved the tiny camera he'd bought online, his hands shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and rage. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the bookshelf across from your bed. Perfect. He climbed onto a chair, his fingers working quickly as he positioned the camera between two dusty hardcovers, the lens pointed directly at your bed. It was so small and almost invisible. He connected it to his phone, the live feed popping up instantly. He adjusted the angle, a sick sense of satisfaction settling in his gut. Now he could see you whenever he wanted, he could have you, in his own twisted way.
Hours later, he heard the front door open. You were home. He scrambled to his room, his heart pounding and locked the door. He grabbed his phone, opening the camera app, his eyes glued to the screen. He watched as you entered your bedroom, dropping your bag on the floor with a sigh. You looked tired, your hair slightly messy from a long day of classes. You stretched, your arms reaching for the ceiling, your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of skin on your stomach. Jake's breath hitched.
You turned your back to the camera, unbuttoning your jeans and shimmying out of them. His eyes were glued to the screen, his hand already palming his hardening cock through his pants. You stood there in your t-shirt and a simple pair of cotton panties, the ones he'd seen in your drawer that morning. You reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, revealing a plain white bra. You unhooked it, letting it fall to the floor, and Jake's cock sprang to life, straining against the fabric of his pajamas.
He freed himself, his hand wrapping around his thick shaft, his eyes still locked on the screen. You were just in your panties now, your body even more perfect than he'd imagined. He watched as you walked to your dresser, pulling out a silk nightgown, the fabric shimmering in the soft light of your room.
He started to stroke himself, his movements slow and sharp, his eyes never leaving the screen. He imagined it was his hands on your skin, his lips tracing the line of your collarbone. He imagined you looking up at him, with your beautiful eyes, whispering his name.
"Fuck, Y/N." he grunted, his strokes becoming faster, more urgent. He was so close. He watched as you slipped the nightgown over your head, the silk clinging to your body like a second skin. You climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and switched off the lamp.
The screen went dark but it was too late. With a final groan, Jake came, his release spurting onto his stomach and chest. He lay there, panting, his phone still clutched in his hand. He was sick, twisted, obsessed. As he stared at the dark screen, a satisfied smile spread across his face. He had you now. He had a piece of you, a secret part of you, all to himself. And he would never, ever let you go.
──────
Finally, summer break. The villa in Ibiza is built from white stone that holds the heat long after the sun goes down. You are sitting at the glass table on the terrace, squinting at your laptop screen while the Mediterranean wind tosses the pages of your textbook.
The biology quiz on the screen is full of red marks. You click an answer, get it wrong, and hiss a curse under your breath.
"That’s the third time you’ve picked the same protein synthesis pathway," Jake says. He’s sitting on the lounger behind you, hunched over a thick paperback. He’s clearly been tracking your failure.
"I know what I'm doing, Jake," you snap, clicking through to the next question.
"You clearly don't. You're forcing it because you're frustrated." He sighs, his voice thin and shaky. "If you just...if you looked at the diagram on page 214, it would—"
"I don't need the diagram, I need this to be over so I can go outside." You click another random answer. Wrong again. "Fuck this."
The chair behind you scrapes harshly against the stone. Suddenly, Jake is standing right over you. He grabs the back of your chair and spins it around so you’re forced to look at him.
"Stop clicking," he says.
The stutter is gone. His voice is flat. He leans down, placing one hand on the table and the other on the arm of your chair, effectively pinning you in place. His eyes are cold and intensely focused, stripped of their usual nervous blinking.
"You are wasting your time," he says, his gaze boring into yours. "Open the book. Read the section I told you to read. Do not click another button until you can explain the process back to me. Okay?"
You stare at him, your mouth slightly open. The quiet side of him is nowhere to be found; in his place is someone who looks like he could dismantle your entire argument with a single sentence.
"I—" you start but the words catch.
Jake blinks. The sharp lines of his face suddenly go soft. He recoils as if he’s been burned, his shoulders hitting his ears as he slumps back into his usual posture. He looks at his shoes, his fingers twitching at his sides.
"I...I mean," he stammers, his voice jumping back up higher. "It would just...it would save you time. S-sorry. I didn't mean to be...whatever that was."
He won't look at you now and he edges back toward his lounger. "I’m going to go down to the beach in 10 minutes. If you want to come. But, uh...finish the work first. I'll wait at the cove."
It takes you 40 minutes to finish. By the time you trek down the private stone path to the beach, the sun is beginning to dip, turning the sand into a pale gold. You spot him standing near the water's edge. He’s taken his shirt off, and the sight stops you in your tracks. Without the oversized hoodies to hide in, his frame is lean and surprisingly muscular, his skin tanned from the few days you've been here. He’s standing tall, looking out at the horizon, his posture relaxed and confident.
"Took you long enough," he calls out. He doesn't turn around but he knows it's you.
"The quiz was a bitch," you say, walking up to him. Up close, he looks different. His hair is pushed back by the wind and he isn't wearing his glasses.
He turns to look at you and grins. "Maybe you’re just a slow learner."
"Excuse me?" you laugh, shoving his shoulder.
"I'm just saying. I finished my credits two years ago." He dodges your next shove with a quick movement.
"You seem...different today," you say, eyeing him. "Did the salt air fix your brain?"
Jake shrugs, kicking a bit of foam toward you. "Maybe. Or maybe there’s just nobody here to perform for." He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. "Is it a problem?"
"No," you murmur. "It’s just...weird."
"Life is weird, you know." he says. Without warning, he reaches down and hooks his arms under your knees and around your back.
"Jake ! Put me down !" You shriek, grabbing his shoulders for balance. His skin is hot and slightly grit with salt.
"You need to cool off," he says. He’s not struggling with your weight at all. He walks into the surf, the water splashing against his thighs.
"Jake, I swear to God—"
He drops you. You hit the water with a splash, coming up gasping and shivering. You immediately lunged for him, grabbing his waist to pull him down with you. He loses his footing, and you both go under, treading water in the shallow break. You come up laughing, wiping hair from your face. Jake is right in front of you, his hands resting on your waist to steady you against a coming wave. The playfulness vanishes as the water settles between you.
The wave pushes you forward, flush against his chest. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer instead of letting you drift back. You look up, expecting to see his nervousness on his face, his eyes are fixed on your lips.
He leans in, agonizingly slow, giving you every second to move away. But you just feel like you don't want to.
When his lips touch yours, it’s not an accident of the waves. It lasts only a second where the world disappears, before he pulls back just an inch. His breath is jagged.
"S-sorry," he whispers, the stutter returning like a ghost. "The wave...pushed us."
He lets go of your waist and turns toward the shore, his shoulders already starting to hunch as he retreats into the surf.
The walk back up to the villa was silent.
Inside the villa, the air was cooler than a few hours ago. Jake disappeared into his suite immediately, leaving you standing in the foyer with damp hair and a racing pulse. You waited, leaning against the wall, until you heard the shower stop. When he finally stepped out into the hallway, he was wearing a fresh white t-shirt and grey joggers, his hair still dark and dripping.
"Jake," you said, your voice sounding thin in the high-ceilinged hall.
He stopped, his hand tightening on the towel around his neck.
"About the beach," you started, crossing your arms. "The kiss. It was...a mistake. The waves, everything…we should just forget it."
Jake was quiet for a long beat. He finally looked at you, his eyes unreadable behind the droplets of water clinging to his lashes. "It’s okay," he said. His voice was dull, almost sounding empty. "I already forgot."
He brushed past you, the scent of his soap lingering in the air, and disappeared into the kitchen. You retreated to your room and threw yourself onto the bed. You stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on your biology notes, but your mind kept looping back to the feeling of his hands on your waist. You tried to convince yourself that the spark was just a fluke, a side effect of the sun, yet the memory of his gaze in the water felt like a bruise that wouldn't stop aching.
Restless, you eventually left your room to wander in the villa. You ended up in a wing you hadn't explored yet. You pushed open a heavy oak door and found yourself in a studio bathed in the blue light of the moon. The room was filled with art pieces. Large canvases leaned against the walls, and stone statues, half-finished figures emerging from marble that stood on pedestals like in a museum. This was Jake’s mother’s space. You knew she had been an artist, but the sheer raw emotion in the room was overwhelming.
Jake stood perfectly still. He looked like one of the sculptures himself, a silhouette carved out of the darkness. You stopped a few feet away from him, your eyes wandering over the canvas near his shoulder.
"She stayed in here for days at a time," Jake said. His voice echoing through the room. "Dad hated it. He thought it was a waste of energy to create things that didn't have a profit margin."
"It’s not a waste," you said, stepping closer to a marble bust. You reached out, running your thumb over the cold and polished cheek of the figure. "It’s honest. You can feel how much she cared about this."
Jake turned his body toward you. He leaned his lower back against a heavy wooden workbench, his long legs stretching out across the floor. He wasn't hiding in his hoodie tonight, he was wearing a simple t-shirt that showed the sharp lines of his shoulders.
"Honesty is dangerous," he said. "People spend their whole lives building walls so they don't have to be honest. Then they come in here and realize they’re transparent."
"Is that why you’re in here?" you asked, looking at him. "To feel transparent?"
He watched you, his gaze moving from your eyes down to the hand you still had resting on the statue and back up again. The air in the room felt like it was thickening, becoming harder to breathe. He looked like he was taking you apart, piece by piece, analyzing the way the moonlight hit your skin.
"I’m in here because it’s the only room in this house where I don't have to pretend," he said. The honesty in his voice was a physical weight. He took a step toward you, closing the distance until you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. The height difference you usually ignored felt overwhelming now.
"You look pretty," he said. "Especially in this light. With your hair like that."
Your throat went dry. You expected him to look away, to blush and stammer a retraction, to go back to being the boy who couldn't look you in the eye at breakfast. But he didn't. He kept his eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable and heavy.
"Jake," you breathed, the name more of a question than anything else.
"Oh please," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, sounding like velvet. "Don't look at me like you're surprised. You've been watching me just as much as I've been watching you."
He reached out, his hand hovering near your face for a second before he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm, and they lingered there, his thumb ghosting over the shell of your ear with a slow pressure.
He let his hand drop yet he didn't move back. He stood there, looking satisfied with just being close to his prey, close to you. "Go to bed," he said, the command soft but absolute. "Before I stop being nice about it." You froze in an instant to his tone. He slightly turns before leaving. His voice suddenly softens. "If you’re searching for me, I’ll be at the pool. Goodnight."
──────
You shut the door to your suite and leaned your back against the wood, your lungs struggling to find a steady rhythm. The heat from his thumb against your ear felt like it had been branded into your skin. You walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to your private balcony, needing the cold air to snap you out of the haze.
The moon illuminated the entire grounds, turning the pool into a glowing sapphire rectangle against the dark stone of the terrace.
A ripple broke the surface. He was there.
You stayed in the shadows of your room, watching. He moved through the water with a fluid, powerful stroke that was completely the opposite of the clumsy and apologetic boy who tripped over his own feet in the kitchen. He reached the edge of the pool and hauled himself out in one smooth motion.
Water cascaded down his back, defining the muscles of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist. He stood there for a moment, dripping, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.He looked nothing like what you were thinking he was during those two years. He looked athletic, confident, and entirely too comfortable in his own skin.
You watched the way he ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. You found yourself wondering if he had ever been with anyone. The stutter, the hunched posture, and his awkwardness, it all felt like a clever lie now. If he could fake his entire personality, what else was he hiding? Could someone who looked like that, who moved like that, really be as inexperienced as he claimed to be?
He reached for a towel on a nearby chair, rubbing it over his face. Then, as if he could feel the weight of your stare from the second floor, his head snapped up. He didn't look startled. Not at all. He looked directly at the spot where you were standing in the darkness.
The distance was too great to see his eyes clearly, but the shift in his expression was unmistakable. A slow, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth ; a look of pure arrogant satisfaction. It was a silent acknowledgement that he knew exactly what you were doing. He knew you were watching, and he knew you liked what you saw.
Without a word, he slung the towel over his shoulder and walked toward the sliding doors of the villa, disappearing inside and leaving you alone with the sound of your own beating heart.
──────
The next morning, you sat at the breakfast table, picking at a plate of fruit while Jake’s dad scrolled through his emails at the head of the table.
Jake was sitting across from you, the nerd act back in full effect. He was slouched, his glasses slightly crooked, staring intensely at a bowl of cereal. But under the table, his foot found yours. He hooked his ankle around yours and began to slowly slide his foot up your calf. You stiffened, your fork hovering in mid-air. You looked at him, but he was mid-stutter, answering a question from his dad about the stock market.
"I-I think the tech sector is just...it's volatile right now, Dad," Jake mumbled, his face a mask of awkward concentration.
Beneath the tablecloth, his foot pressed harder, his toes tracing the sensitive skin behind your knee. You shifted in your seat, your face heating up. You tried to pull away, but he followed, his movements precise and unrelenting. He was watching you out of the corner of his eye, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips the only sign he was enjoying your frustration.
"Are you kay?" His dad asked, looking up. "You're barely eating."
"I'm fine," you said, your voice a bit too sharp. "I’m just not hungry."
Jake finally pulled his foot away, sitting up straight. "Actually, Dad, I'm g-going out today. Some guys from the engineering department are in Ibiza for the week. They invited me to a beach club."
His dad looked surprised. "Good for you, Jake. You need to get out more. Why don't you take her with you ?"
Jake turned to you, his eyes wide and blinking. "Oh, yeah. Do you...do you want to come? It might be b-boring, but..."
"Will Jay be there?" you asked, leaning back. "He mentioned to me that he was coming to Ibiza."
The change was instantaneous. Jake’s expression flattened. His shyness didn't just fade, it evaporated into a cold and hard wall. He stood up, grabbing his phone.
"Nevermind," he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register. "You're not coming."
He walked out of the dining room without looking back.
By 10:00 PM, the villa felt like a tomb. Jake’s dad had gone to bed early, and Jake hadn't returned. You tried to watch a movie, but the silence of the house was grating. On a whim, you grabbed your purse and headed out. You needed noise.
You took a taxi and got toward the town, the neon lights of the coast beginning to blur. You got out of the car and dialed Jake’s number. He picked up on the third ring. The background noise was a low thumping bass.
"Where are you?" you asked. "I'm bored out of my mind."
"I'm at a place called The Vault," he said with no stutter, the noise of a party in the background. "Come if you want. I'll put your name at the door."
He hung up.
When you pulled up to The Vault, you noticed the blacked-out windows and the massive security guards, but you didn't think much of it, everything in Ibiza was over-the-top. You walked past the velvet rope and into the red-lit interior.
As soon as you entered you saw the stage. It was a platform where a woman was slowly spinning around a chrome pole. You froze. It was a strip club. A high-end and discreet one, but a strip club nonetheless.
You scanned the room, your heart hammering. In the far corner, a raised VIP section was cordoned off. You saw Jay first, laughing with a drink in his hand, a girl in a minimal outfit leaning against his shoulder. A few seconds after you saw Jake.
He was leaning back in a deep leather booth, a glass of liquor in his hand. He looked like he owned the entire building. His black button-down was open at the collar, and he looked relaxed, dangerous, and entirely in control. He caught your eye across the smoky room. He didn't look shocked to see you, he smiled and signaled for the guard to let you up.
"Damn, Y/N? Is that really you ?" Jay shouted over the music as you reached the booth. "Jake said you were too much of a ‘good girl’ for this place."
Jake didn't say a word as he shifted over, patting the leather seat right next to him. "Sit down." You sat, your thigh pressed against his. The heat from his body was immediate. The tension from the morning hadn't vanished, it had condensed into something much sharper.
"You didn't tell me what kind of club this was," you hissed into his ear.
Jake leaned in close, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "I told you exactly where I was. You're the one who decided to show up."
He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixed on the stage where a dancer was performing. He didn't look away but his hand moved, his fingers splaying across your knee.
"Since you're here," he murmured, his voice voice through the loud music, "you might as well watch. It’s educational, isn't it?"
Jay was busy talking to someone else, leaving you trapped in Jake's orbit. His hand started to move, his thumb tracing slow and rhythmic circles on the fabric of your skirt. Every time the bass dropped, his grip tightened just a fraction.
"You're different here," you say, looking at his profile.
He turned his head slowly, his face inches from yours. The red light of the club made his eyes look almost black.
"I'm the same as I always was," he said. "Maybe you weren’t just paying attention to that."
He leaned back, his arm draping over the back of the booth behind your head, effectively caging you in. He looked over at Jay, then back to you, his eyes narrowing.
"Do you still think he's handsome?" Jake asked, his voice low. "Or do I have your full attention now?"
──────
The night air was a welcome shock after the suffocating heat of the club. It clung to your skin, cool and sharp, doing little to sober you up but clearing your head just enough. The world tilted pleasantly as you walked, Jake's hand a firm, grounding pressure on your elbow, steering you through the loose crowd of people lingering on the sidewalk.
"I had no idea you were that much fun," you said, the words bubbling up, loose and unrestrained. You leaned your head against his shoulder for a moment as he unlocked the car door. "Like, genuinely fun. That’s crazy."
He let out a short, amused breath as he helped you into the passenger seat. "Gee, thanks. I'll cherish that compliment forever." He didn't sound offended, he was entertained. The engine rumbled to life and the city lights smeared across the windshield as he pulled away from the curb.
The ride home was comfortably quiet, the sound of the radio a distant melody beneath the sound of your own breathing. You watched him, noticing how he was so familiar, a constant in your life for years, but tonight, he felt different.
Inside the villa, instead of disappearing in his room like he usually did, he followed you into the kitchen, his movements quiet. You sank onto a barstool, resting your head in your hands.
"Here," he said softly. A glass of water appeared in front of you, along with two little white pills. "You'll thank me tomorrow."
You looked up at him, at the genuine concern etched on his face in the soft lighting. He was actually taking care of you. A warmth bloomed in your chest, a feeling so intense and sudden it almost took your breath away. It wasn't new, you realized with a jolt. It had been there for a while, buried under layers of the step-brother status and growing quietly in the dark. Tonight, the alcohol had simply stripped away the camouflage.
"Jake," you said, your voice barely audible.
"Hmm?" He was leaning against the counter opposite you, arms crossed and watching you.
You stood up, the stool scraping softly against the floor. You closed the small distance between you until you were standing so close you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "I really want to kiss you."
The words hung in the air between you. For a split second, you saw it ; a hint of something in his eyes. Hesitation ? Maybe conflict ? It was there and now it’s gone, replaced by a thing you’ve never seen before. He didn't move, like he just froze. So you took the initiative. You rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his.
For a terrifying moment, he was still, a statue under your touch. And with a soft groan that sounded like surrender, he gave in. His hands shot out, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist to pull you flush against him. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined. It was hungry, a little desperate, a release of all the tension that was built since then. His tongue swept against yours, claiming your mouth, it was possessive and a little bit angry.
He walked you backward out of the kitchen and down the hall, his lips never leaving yours, guiding you with his body until your back hit the door of your bedroom. He fumbled with the handle, pushing it open and kicking it shut behind you. He broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily in the darkness of your room.
"Y/N," he breathed, his voice rough. "I can’t—"
However he was already moving, pushing you gently towards your bed. You sat down on the edge, looking up at him. He stood before you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. He slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of you on the bed. The sight of him there, sent a jolt of pure arousal straight through you. He placed his hands on your knees, spreading them apart. Then, he lifted one leg, placing his denim-clad thigh firmly between yours, right against the core of you.
"Go on," he urged, his voice a low command. "Take what you need."
It was an invitation you couldn't refuse. You began to move, rocking your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh. The friction of your core against him, the pressure right where you needed it, was intoxicating. Your hands gripped his forearm, your head falling back as you found a rhythm, chasing the pleasure that was building rapidly inside you.
"That's it," he murmured, his hands sliding up your thighs to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Just like that. Fuck, you look so good riding my thigh."
His words were gasoline on a fire. You moved faster, grinding against him, the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening, until you were right there, hovering on the precipice of your release. You could feel it, so close you could almost taste it.
But he moved.
He shifted his leg, just enough to break the perfect, maddening pressure. A whine of protest escaped your lips, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was watching you, his expression dark, a look of cruel satisfaction on his face.
"Jake," you begged, your hips still twitching with need.
He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Not tonight, angel." he whispered, his voice a soft, devastating blow. He placed a gentle, almost chaste kiss on your cheek. Then he stood up, leaving you cold and wanting on the edge of your bed.
He walked to the door without looking back. "Goodnight, Y/N."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you in the sudden, deafening silence of your room, your body humming with unfulfilled desire and the shocking, undeniable truth of your feelings for him.
──────
The villa felt larger and colder with Jake’s dad gone. The morning light was flat and grey, a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of the previous week. You sat on the edge of the sofa in the main living area, watching the dust motes dance in the air.
Jake had been a ghost all morning. He’d walked past you three times without a word, his eyes fixed on his phone or the floor, his shoulders back in their defensive, rounded slump.
The glass doors slid open, and Jake stepped inside from the terrace, dripping wet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and a towel was slung loosely around his neck. He started toward the hallway, his head down, intending to bypass you entirely.
"Why are you ignoring me ?"
The question came out of nowhere. It was born from a week of mounting frustration and the strange, electric silence that had followed the night at the club.
Jake stopped, not turning around immediately. He stood with his back to you, the water from his swim trunks pooling on the stone floor. When he finally looked over his shoulder, he had the shy mask pulled tight. His eyes were wide, and he blinked rapidly behind his damp glasses.
"I...I'm n-not," he stammered, his voice thin. "I just have a lot of...work. From the university. The fall semester is starting soon, and I—"
"Stop it, Jake." You stood up, walking toward him until you were only a few feet away. "You’ve been avoiding eye contact since breakfast. You didn't even say good morning."
"I was just...busy, that’s all." he mummurred, looking at his feet.
"Why do you do that?" you asked, your curiosity finally overriding your caution. "How do you do it? One minute you're the guy who can't speak a full sentence without shaking, and the next you’re the person I saw at that club. And we even—" you stop yourself, the memories of the night before coming back to life in your head.
Jake stayed silent but you could notice how he stopped blinking frantically.
"It’s just us, Jake," you stepped closer, your voice dropping. "Nobody is watching. You don't have to play the part. It’s exhausting to watch you switch back and forth."
He still didn't speak, his breathing shallow.
"Something is happening," you said, the honesty of the statement making your heart thud. "Between us. It’s been growing during the whole summer break, and you know it. Why are you pretending it’s not?"
Not a single recoil. He slowly stood up straight, the hunch in his spine vanishing as he reached his full height. He pulled the towel from his neck and used it to slowly wipe the water from his face. When he dropped the towel onto a nearby chair, the shy boy was gone. His expression was unreadable. He didn't deny it nor did he confirm it. He looked at you with a terrifyingly calm intensity that made the air in the room feel unbearable.
Then, the corner of his mouth ticked upward into a slow, smug smile. It was the look of someone who had been caught but didn't care.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said. His voice was a steady vibration, completely devoid of any tremor. He started toward his suite, but as he reached the door, he paused and looked back at you over his shoulder. He let his gaze wander down your body before meeting your eyes again.
"You could always come with me," he murmured, his tone mocking and sharp. "If you’re so worried about being ignored."
Before you could answer, he stepped into his room and closed the door, the click of the lock echoing through the empty villa.
──────
Beyond all of this, you decided to cook. Not because you were hungry, it’s just because it was the only thing you could do to keep your mind off what happened these previous days. You focused on the task, deliberately keeping your mind off the shower running down the hall or the way he had looked at you before closing his door. You weren't going to wait for him.
The scent of his soap hits you a second before the heat of his body did.
You didn't hear his footsteps, but suddenly, thick arms slid around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, damp chest. You froze, the knife still in your hand, as his chin came to rest on your shoulder. He smelled of clean skin and a faint, expensive cologne.
"What's for dinner?" he asked.
His voice was a deep vibration against your ear, devoid of any stutter. He tightened his grip, his hands splaying across your stomach, pulling you flush against him so you could feel the dampness of his fresh t-shirt.
"Pasta," you managed to say, though your voice sounded strained. "And let go of me, Jake. I’m holding a knife."
"You're so tense," he murmured, ignoring your request. He shifted, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. "Your heart is going like crazy. Why is that?"
"It’s hot in here. The stove is on."
"Right. The stove." He let out a short, dry laugh ; a sound that was more of a scoff. He turned you around in his arms, forcing you to face him. He leaned back against the counter, trapping you between his legs. His glasses were gone, and his eyes were dark, tracking the way your breathing had become shallow. "You’re a fucking liar."
"And you're a fucking prick for playing these stupid games with me," you snapped, trying to push against his chest.
He didn't budge. He watched you, his hands moving to your hips to hold you in place. The shyness was nowhere to be found ; he looked at you with a heavy-handed confidence that felt predatory.
"You could eat something better than pasta," he said.
Before you could ask what he meant, he tilted your head back. He leaned down and captured your mouth with a raw, dominant intensity. This was deep and unapologetic, his tongue sliding against yours as he tasted you with hunger. He kissed you like he was finally claiming something he’d been watching from the periphery for years, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that you knew there would be marks the next day. The air in the kitchen felt like it was disappearing, leaving only the heat of him and the sharp, sudden reality that the mask had finally stayed off.
His hand slid from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a gentle but possessive grip. He pulled you toward him, and the next thing you knew, you were on your knees on the cool tile. The transition was seamless. You looked up at him, his presence towering over you, and reached out lower his sweatpants and his boxers. He wasn't interested in a slow and teasing exploration. He wanted it now.
You took him into your mouth, the taste of him flooding your senses. You started with a slow, prudent rhythm, your tongue tracing the vein along the underside, but the look in his eyes told you he wasn't in the mood for patience. His hand tightened in your hair as a silent command, and he guided your head downward.
You gagged slightly, the sudden intrusion making your eyes water, yet you didn't pull away. You let him take control, his hips thrusting forward, setting a rhythm that was faster than you expected. The kitchen was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouths, a deafening contrast to the peaceful scenery of the villa.
"That’s a good girl," he growled, his other hand gripping your cheek.
You looked up at him through glazed eyes, a soft, pathetic whine escaping you around his cock. It was a sound of pure surrender, of being overwhelmed by sensation. He groaned again, the sound low and feral, and began to face fuck you with ruthless precision. Each thrust was harder than the last, his cock hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to take it all.
You couldn't do anything but hold on, your hands gripping his thighs for support, your breath coming in short and ragged gasps. You were completely at his mercy, his tool a piston driving into your mouth with increasing speed and ferocity. The heat of the room seemed to spike, the air feeling thick and charged with desire.
"That's it," he commanded, his voice strained. "Take it all. You love this, don't you? You love getting fucked in the mouth."
You whined again, a mix of pleasure and desperation, your body trembling as he bottomed out. You couldn't speak or couldn't form words, surrendered to the rhythm he set, letting him use your mouth exactly the way he wanted.
He stopped and pulled out, bringing his fingers to your mouth. You suck on his finger, swirling your tongue around the tip like it’s the most delicious thing in the world, desperate to taste more of him even as you gasp for air. He watches you with a smirk, pulling his hand out slowly and watching you chase it, lips parting in a pathetic whine. "God, look at you," he scoffs, his voice dripping with contempt. "You're dripping all over the floor like a desperate little slut."
He lifts his pelvis, dragging the slick, angry head of his cock against your wet, swollen lips. He doesn't let you swallow him this time. He taps the tip rhythmically against your mouth—tap, tap, tap—teasing you, denying you the fullness you're begging for. "You want it ? Sorry, baby."
He pulls away completely, leaving you straining on the cold floor, mouth open and wanting. He pulls his pants and boxers up with a casual snap, ignoring your hand reaching out for him. "Enjoy your pasta alone," he says, turning on his heel and walking out of the kitchen, leaving you panting and aching on the tiles.
Synopsis: You fled the compound, the chants, the man who called himself a prophet. You told yourself it wasn’t real, just another lie dressed as faith. But out in the wasteland, with nothing but hunger and silence, even doubt begins to sound like devotion. And Heeseung will find you again, because he won’t let his prized sheep get away.
a/n: bcs of tumblr stupid 1k per block rule i had to split the fic up, cause tbh its a looong one. commentary and reblogs are much appreciated!! MDNI!!
now playing; forbidden fruit by tommee profitt, bring me back to life by chris grey
READ PART 1 HERE
You weren’t prepared for the day Heeseung came himself. No more messengers. No more quiet, obedient followers dragging you back in chains.
No—this time, it was different.
Because after so many failed retrievals, after so many escape attempts, Heeseung had clearly decided...
If you wanted to run, then he would be the one to hunt.
It started slowly. A shift in the air.
Traps that used to work suddenly failed—triggered too early, or dismantled before you returned. Birds stopped singing near your hiding places. Bootprints larger than the Sanctum scouts’ appeared in the dirt behind you. Always one set. Always alone.
And then—
the whispers.
Low. Familiar. Inevitable.
He didn’t shout like the others. He didn’t storm the forest like a soldier. He prowled.
You would wake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, convinced you’d heard your name carried on the wind. Sometimes you’d find signs. A scrap of Sanctum cloth hung neatly on a branch.
A piece of fruit left by a fire you didn’t start.
Then the leash.
That fucking leash.
Coiled like a snake near your bedroll one night. Waiting. You nearly vomited when you saw it. And that’s when it hit you. He wasn’t chasing you. He was playing with you. Because that’s what it was to him, wasn’t it? A game. A slow, careful hunt. And you’d been winning too often.
Too many bruised and broken sheep returned to Sanctum empty-handed. Rope frayed. Faces bloodied. Fingers trembling as they stammered apologies.
“She escaped—”
“She bit me—”
“She had a weapon—”
Heeseung didn’t scream. He didn’t rage. He just watched. Silent. Still.
And then, slowly, he began to smile. You weren’t playing fair. So he wouldn’t either. He stopped sending others. No more disposable disciples. They had failed him too many times. You had defied him too many times.
If he wanted his precious sheep back, he’d get you himself. He had stopped pretending. And now he’d play the game by his rules.
You had been running from his flock.
But now the shepherd was coming.
So when you saw the figure at the edge of the treeline—tall, still, watching you froze, heartbeat stuttering violently against your ribs as your eyes locked with his.
Heeseung didn’t move. Neither did you.
The forest held its breath with you—no wind, no birdsong, no sound beyond the soft rasp of leaves and the quiet, heavy drag of his breathing. His shoulders rose and fell with it. Measured. Controlled. But not calm.
He was breathing like he’d been running. Like he'd been tracking you.
Your legs trembled beneath you, the weight of him—of this—crashing down all at once.
Heeseung was filthy. His cloak torn. Smudges of dirt across his jaw. The collar of his shirt hung loose, one side damp with sweat. And still, somehow… he looked composed. Like this wasn’t the end of a chase. Like this was the beginning of a reunion.
Your fingers twitched toward your weapon, but even that felt laughable now. Because his eyes were on you—dark, unreadable, burning. And the moment you even thought of moving, his jaw clenched, like he knew. Like he could already feel it. Like he could already feel the fear curdling in your gut.
And then—
He moved.
Not fast. Not charging. But calm—too calm—as he took a step and slid down the slope between you, feet silent against loose dirt and leaves.
That was all it took to snap you out of your shock.
You turned.
And ran.
Heart slamming. Breath hitching. The sound of your pulse roaring louder than your footfalls as you shoved through branches and brush, barely registering the thorns holding you back or the rocks beneath your soles.
Behind you—
A low thud. Another. A curse under breath. Then the rhythmic crash of footsteps gaining speed.
He was chasing you.
He was chasing you.
You didn’t dare look back. You knew what you’d see. That same steady, unrelenting presence. That hunger dressed in patience.
“Stop running,” he called— not yelling, not panicked—just loud enough to chase your spine. “I’ll be gentle if you stop.”
Liar.
You pushed harder, lungs burning. Trees blurred past you, the world narrowing into just movement, just escape. Branches whipped your face, but you didn’t stop. Not when you could still hear him behind you.
Not charging. Not shouting. Just moving—fluid, focused. Like a shadow with a heartbeat. He didn’t have to run like you did. He knew the terrain. Knew you. Knew how long you’d last.
You were prey.
Wounded. Tired. Slipping.
And he? He was the thing that waited for you to run out of strength.
“Keep going,” he called again, voice barely winded, almost amused.
“Let’s see how far you get.”
Your legs screamed. Your side ached with each ragged inhale. But the sound of him—the casual command in it—kept you moving.
You stumbled. Caught yourself. Kept running.
But he was closer now.
You could hear the difference in his steps—closer together, faster, almost playful. The brush cracked louder behind you, as if he was letting you know on purpose. Letting you feel it. The inevitability.
“Little sheep,” he murmured—closer now, God, so much closer. “You ran so far, didn’t you?”
You nearly tripped again when he said it. The name. The pet name.
The claim. You hated how it shot through you. How it dug under your ribs and made your legs slow just a little. Because you remembered how he said it when you were on your knees. When his hands were in your hair. When you were too broken to run.
The leash was gone. But the memory of it still hung at your throat.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said next—soft, soothing, dripping with that awful tenderness. “But if you make me…”
You didn’t wait to hear the rest, turning sharply into thicker brush, thorns tearing into your face. It hurt. It burned. But better the sting of leaves than the weight of his hands. You were panting now—barely keeping upright. The trees opened into a clearing. If you could just—
A hand caught your wrist. Steel grip. Sudden. Absolute. You screamed—reflex, terror—twisting, kicking, but he was already there, dragging you back into him like he owned your gravity. Your back hit his chest, his arm banded across your middle, holding you like a trapped animal. You thrashed. Clawed. Bit. And he laughed. Laughed. Low and breathy near your ear. Hot breath skating down your neck. “Still so wild,” he murmured, voice thick with something feral. “But I like the fight.”
You screamed again, raw and furious, and he just tightened his grip.
“Let it out,” he whispered. “Let it all out, baby. That fear. That fire.” His other hand rose slowly to your throat, fingers brushed your throat—light, ghosting over your skin like he wasn’t already holding you still with the rest of his body. And then they stopped. Right at the collar. The slim, black band you hadn’t been able to remove. The one that had burned against your skin every day since you ran.
Heeseung let out a quiet, amused hum behind you. Low. Pleased.
“Well,” he murmured, his breath skating warm along the shell of your ear. “Would you look at that.” His fingers traced the curve of it, slowly as if reacquainting himself with something precious. “You’re still wearing it.” A soft laugh. Darker this time. “You really ran all this time with my mark on you?”
You jerked in his grasp, a snarl caught in your throat, but he didn’t budge. He just leaned in closer, voice dropping like silk dragged over a blade. “That’s loyalty, sweetheart. Even if you didn’t mean it.”
You turned your head slightly—enough to catch the edge of his face. His eyes burned down at you, pupils blown wide, mouth twisted in something too pleased to be called a smile.
“You could’ve torn it off,” he whispered. “You would’ve bled, but you could’ve.” His grip on your waist tightened just enough to make your breath stutter. “Even when you were starving. Even when you were hiding. You never let anyone see your neck, did you?”
His voice was almost gentle now. A confession. A reward.
“Because deep down, you knew.”
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back, forcing your gaze up to the stars above the treetops.
“You were still mine.”
He pressed a kiss to the collar. Right at the center. Right over the little heart-shaped jewel he’d chosen just for you. And you hated—hated—how your knees threatened to give out when he did.
“Let me go—” you gasped, your voice hoarse, cracking with raw panic as you kicked back into him, squirming hard against the iron grip caging your waist. “I don’t want this,” you choked. “I never wanted this! You’re sick—you’re all sick—”
Heeseung said nothing. Just stood behind you like stone, chest rising and falling against your back, the collar still warm under his fingers.
You thrashed harder.
“I’m not yours!” you spat, twisting, reaching, fingers desperately fumbling near your boot, where the little shiv stayed tucked, hidden, waiting. “This isn’t love! This isn’t salvation! It’s—it’s a lie!”
Your hand scraped the hilt.
Almost there.
Heeseung’s voice was quiet, so quiet you barely heard it above your ragged breaths.
“Then why are you shaking?”
You froze for a second—just a second—and he felt it. Smiled into your hair.
“I see you,” he whispered, lips brushing the side of your face. “You can scream all you want. Tell yourself it’s fear. Call me every name in the book.” His grip shifted, and suddenly your arm was wrenched up behind you, your back arched slightly into him as your knees faltered. “But your body knows,” he growled, breath hotter now, dangerous. “Your body remembers who it belongs to.”
You let out a furious cry, finally gripping the shiv—but before you could swing it—
He caught your wrist.
Fast. Effortless. Crushing.
The blade clattered to the ground with a dull thunk.
He chuckled softly. “There it is.” Then he leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear again. “The last spark.”
You squirmed, trembled, tears hot in your eyes, rage and despair coiling together into something sharp and breathless.
But he didn’t flinch. Instead, he spoke.
“You think this is about obedience?” he whispered against your ear. “About control?” His hand tightened around your arm again, anchoring you with impossible strength. “No, little sheep… This—” his voice darkened, roughened with something bruised and feral, “—this is devotion.” He inhaled slowly, like breathing you in. “These past weeks… do you know what it’s been like?” His voice was soft now, dangerously soft. “Waking up without you beside me. Walking past your empty chamber. Waiting for reports that never came back, again and again.”
You whimpered as he leaned in, his words wrapping around you like smoke.
“I was patient. I let you run. I let you think. But you… you never stopped aching for me, did you?” His grip flexed. “And I never stopped yearning.” He pulled you a little closer, voice breaking just slightly, but not from weakness, but from the weight of how much he believed it. “I would’ve forgiven you. I would’ve kissed your bruises, licked your wounds, made you whole again.”
A pause.
“But now—” His tone sharpened, teeth behind velvet. “Now I think I’ll carve it into you instead.”
That voice—that quiet, controlled anger—it scared you more than shouting ever could.
So you did the first thing that came to your mind.
You bit him.
Hard.
Right on the inside of his wrist, where he held your arm so tight you thought it’d bruise.
He hissed—a guttural sound of pain and fury—as his grip faltered just enough.
Just enough.
You didn’t think.
You slashed.
The shiv you’d dropped now back in your hand, guided by pure instinct, a wild, sweeping motion that cut across his cheekbone, slicing flesh clean and red.
His head snapped to the side. Blood spilled down the elegant line of his jaw.
And you ran.
You didn’t scream words—just sound, primal and panicked, as you tore through the underbrush.
Your voice must’ve drawn them, cause suddenly a Hollowed creature stumbled from the trees, eyes fogged and mouth slick, reaching—
You braced for it—until BANG.
A single shot rang out.
The Hollowed dropped.
You barely had time to glance back.
Heeseung stood in the clearing, gun still smoking in one hand, the other pressed against his bleeding cheek.
His eyes—wild now, burning—locked on you.
His voice was a growl carried on the wind:
“Run, then.”
He dropped the empty clip. Loaded another.
“I want you to.”
And with terrifying calm, Heeseung started chasing you again. Faster this time. Bleeding. Smiling.
You ran like your life depended on it. Because it did.
Branches lashed your arms, tore at your legs. The ground was uneven, littered with roots and crumbling bones, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t dare.
Behind you, Heeseung’s footfalls were steady. Measured. No panic.
No rush. He didn’t need to sprint. He just needed to follow. Because predators don’t chase in bursts. They wear you down.
You veered left, dodging a fallen tree trunk, then ducked low beneath a tangle of thorned vines. You scraped your palms bloody pulling yourself through a ravine of sharp stone and broken bark.
You heard him above you, moving along the ridge, tracking your path like a shadow sewn to your feet.
“Still running,” he called down, voice like velvet soaked in blood. “That’s good. Keep going.”
You didn’t respond. Your lungs burned. Your vision blurred. Sweat mixed with dirt and dried blood as you stumbled over a patch of loose ground and caught yourself on all fours, chest heaving, before you scrambled back to your feet and shoved through a dense patch of undergrowth. Your ankle turned sharply, but you pushed through the pain, the fear louder than your body’s protest.
Because you knew what it meant if he caught you again. No ropes this time. No gentle whispers or twisted sermons. He would break you. Properly. Finally.
“I missed this,” he called again. “You panting. Wild-eyed. Covered in filth.”
There was a sick sort of reverence in his voice, like he wasn’t chasing you—he was worshipping the chase itself.
You clambered up a mossy incline, grabbing at roots to hoist yourself higher. Behind you, his boots crunched louder.
So close now.
“You know what I love about you?” he said, voice distorted by distance and breath. “You never crawl. You run. Like a good little creature with something worth losing.”
Your foot slipped. You caught yourself. Kept going.
But he was gaining.
Every time you turned your head, you saw more of him. Closer. Quicker. Bleeding, yes, but moving with purpose. Like he had become the hunt.
And you—
You were just something he was waiting to drag back, limp and gasping, into the fold.
The air felt colder. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline.
Your body was screaming, your chest seizing with every breath, muscles locking in protest. You could feel the sting of old wounds tearing open. Could taste copper in the back of your throat.
But still, you ran.
Because that’s what prey does.
You crashed through a clearing, past the blackened remains of a house eaten by rot. An old picket fence stood crooked ahead—half-splintered, half-still standing—and you leapt it, barely clearing the top.
Heeseung didn’t slow. He vaulted it like it was nothing. Landing just yards behind you. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he called, almost kindly. “You’ll thank me later for that.”
You didn’t waste the breath to answer. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. Because now the broken skyline of an old city loomed ahead—rusted steel bones jutting from collapsed concrete, windows shattered, streets long since swallowed by weeds and dust.
You ducked beneath a half-fallen sign, vaulted over an abandoned car. The stench of decay hit you instantly—stronger here. More rot. More ruin. And worse...
Hollowed.
They moved slow at first, twitching with jerks of recognition as your footsteps echoed through the street. But it didn’t take long.
The closest one—limping, throat torn and leaking black—snapped toward the sound of your footsteps and lunged.
You dodged left, fast and instinctive, and drove your knife into the side of its skull with a guttural yell, yanking it free before sprinting forward again. Two more stumbled into the open, groaning with that awful gargled hunger. You slipped between them, barely avoiding their grasping hands.
Then you heard it again—
Bang.
A Hollowed’s head exploded behind you. Then another. Then another.
The cracks of gunfire echoed down the broken streets, fast and controlled.
Heeseung.
You didn’t need to look. You felt it. Felt him behind you like heat, like a shadow with teeth.
Another creature lunged from a half-sunk stairwell—too fast. You turned to stab, but—
Bang bang bang.
It dropped mid-leap, torn open by bullets. The spray of rot and bone misted the air beside your cheek. You stumbled forward, heart slamming, throat tight with a scream you didn’t release.
“You’re welcome,” Heeseung’s voice called out through the carnage which distracted him enough to create distance.
Perfect.
Your breath tore ragged through your chest as you ducked through the crumbling doorway of an old storefront, shoes slapping the tiled floor slick with grime. You vaulted the counter and crouched, knife shaking in your grip, heart pounding like a war drum in your ears.
Silence followed.
Too long.
You dared a breath—shallow, slow.
Crunch.
You pressed yourself against the wall, eyes wide. Dust drifted through a single shaft of dying sunlight. The knife felt too small in your hand now. Too useless.
He was inside.
“Hiding?” His voice echoed off the ruined walls, smooth and cold and so close.
“You’ve never been good at that.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving. Please, you thought, just let me—
“I killed five for you back there,” he said. Calm. Measured. “Ripped them apart before they touched you.” His tone dropped—something quieter. More intimate. “I protected you. And you still ran.”
A pause.
“Ungrateful.”
That one word hit harder than a slap. Your pulse stuttered. You knew what was coming next. You always knew.
His footsteps moved again. Slower now. Careful. Like a hunter in the dark.
“Come out,” he said. “Or I’ll start pulling this place apart. You know I will.”
You clenched your jaw, wiped your nose with the back of your trembling hand, and gripped the knife tighter.
“I’ll give you one chance,” he continued, voice drifting closer. “You can crawl out, and I’ll forgive you. I’ll even kiss you for it.”
He paused, just on the other side of the counter now. You could hear him breathing. Low. Steady.
“But if you make me reach for you,” he whispered, “you won’t walk for days.”
Your stomach turned. Your fingers tensed.
Silence.
Then—
You moved.
You sprang up before he could grab you, swinging the blade wildly.
It sliced through air, inches from his face—close enough that he flinched, but not enough to stop him. He caught your wrist again, but you twisted fast, using your momentum to knee him in the ribs. The air left his lungs in a sharp grunt, grip slipping just enough for you to yank yourself free.
You didn’t look back, bursting out of the broken shop and back into the crumbling street, lungs burning, body screaming. Your legs barely felt real anymore, but they kept moving. Kept carrying you through the skeletal maze of the dead city.
Behind you—
footsteps.
Fast. Determined. No longer teasing. No longer playing.
You’d drawn blood. You’d bitten.
And now he was angry.
You darted through an alley, nearly slipping on old rainwater pooled across cracked cement. A low, guttural sound followed behind you—Heeseung, breathing heavy now, feral.
“You want to act like a animal?” he shouted. “Then I’ll hunt you like one.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. The knife trembled in your grip. You could still feel the way his fingers had bruised your wrist, the weight of his body behind every threat he hadn’t said yet. You turned sharply and ducked into another building, an old stairwell swallowed by rot. You bolted up two flights, turned a corner, slammed into a rusted door and shoved it open.
Rooftop.
Wide. Empty. Exposed.
Shit.
But there was no time. You turned to shut the door, only to see him right there, hand catching it, shoving it back open with brutal force.
You staggered backward as Heeseung stepped onto the rooftop, blood dried on his cheek, his dark eyes locked on yours.
Silent.
Seething.
His hand curled into a fist at his side. The other held the leash—clasp open, dangling like a promise.
Your chest heaved as you raised the blade again, shaking but firm. “I will kill you,” you spat. “If you touch me again, I’ll—”
“You won’t,” he said, cutting you off.
And he charged.
You swung.
He blocked.
And suddenly you were on the ground, wrists pinned, knife skidding across the concrete out of reach.
His face hovered above yours, eyes wild, hair a little messy from the chase, and when he spoke—his voice was low. Raw.
“Do it again,” he dared. “Fight. Bite. Bleed.” His fingers slid slowly down to the collar, still tight around your neck. “But next time,” he whispered, “you won’t get this far.”
You thrashed beneath him, limbs jerking, teeth gritted in panic as you twisted your wrists against his hold. You kicked, shifted, spat curses through clenched teeth—but he didn’t even flinch. Not a muscle.
Heeseung stared down at you with terrifying calm, his face unreadable. Like he’d already seen this a thousand times in his head. Like this wasn’t a fight—just a ritual.
His hand moved slowly, purposefully, reaching toward your neck.
You shook your head, twisting away—but it was too late.
Click.
The leash slid back into place.
The familiar weight yanked forward as he gave it a sharp tug, and you gasped, back arching slightly as the collar bit into your throat. The breath caught in your lungs, the sudden pressure making your eyes sting.
“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and cruelly fond, as if soothing a wild animal finally caught in its cage. “I knew you missed it.”
You thrashed harder, but your movements only made it worse, your struggling gave him every excuse to keep pulling, guiding, correcting you with that damn leash like you were nothing more than something disobedient that needed to be handled.
And still—his expression didn’t change.
Not smug. Not angry. Just patient. Like a shepherd dragging back his favorite stray.
You screamed—hoarse, furious—but the sound barely echoed before he had your wrists pinned again, rope sliding tight and practiced around your arms.
Tied. Bound.
You writhed in the bindings, chest heaving, but it was no use.
“You should’ve stayed,” he said quietly. “You had everything. Shelter. Safety. Me.” He crouched in front of you, hand curling around the leash again, pulling until you met his eyes. “I won’t ask you why you ran.” He tilted his head. “Because it doesn’t matter.” Another tug. “You’re back now.”
The words echoed louder than they should have. Like a door slamming shut behind you.
You shook your head, still squirming in the ropes, wrists aching from how tightly they were bound. Your knees scraped against the rooftop, gravel digging into skin, breath catching in your throat again as the collar tugged you forward another inch.
Heeseung didn’t move. Just watched.
And then, slowly, he crouched down again—closer this time. Eye-level. The city’s twisted skyline behind him, smoke rising in the distance like dying signals.
“You made me bleed,” he said, voice soft. His fingers traced the cut along his cheek—your cut. The blood had dried now, a rusty red line across sharp bone. But there was no anger in his face. Only something worse.
Appreciation.
“You fought harder than I thought you would.” He smiled faintly. “I liked it.”
You looked away.
He grabbed your jaw firmly and turned your face back to his. “But I like this more.”
Your lips trembled. You didn’t speak. Because there was nothing left to say that he hadn’t already turned against you.
He stood again, gaze flicking over you—disheveled, dirt-streaked, breathing ragged.
Then he tugged on the leash once more, and this time you stumbled forward on your knees, catching yourself with a soft grunt, ropes digging into your spine as you struggled to stay upright.
Heeseung didn’t even look back as he started walking. “You know the way,” he said simply.
The leash tugged once, twice—enough to remind you he still held it, and still could pull harder if he wanted to. You didn’t move at first. Knees raw against gravel, ropes biting into your wrists, your heart a mess of rage and exhaustion and something far more dangerous: surrender.
He stopped after a few steps. Tilted his head just slightly. “I won’t drag you,” he said, tone almost bored. “But I will carry you.”
You flinched. Because you knew what that meant. He had once before.
So, you moved. Because even now—after everything—there were worse things than walking.
Your legs trembled as you rose shakily to your feet, balance thrown from the bindings and the ache that lived in your bones. You could feel blood drying on your hands, the cold wind biting at torn skin, but none of that compared to the humiliation of stumbling after him like some shadow tethered by a thread.
Each step back toward Sanctum felt heavier. Familiar. Wrong. Inevitable.
You tried not to meet his gaze when he finally glanced over his shoulder, but he still smiled—just a little. Not smug. Not victorious.
Satisfied.
The city’s ruins faded behind you. The road ahead was dark, broken, silent. But he walked it like he’d known all along that you would follow.
And you did.
Step after step, gravel crunching beneath your shoes, your balance thrown by the tight bindings and the leash that jerked if you hesitated too long. The leash didn’t just tug you forward, it reminded you of who was in front. Who was in control. Who had won.
When the first Hollowed lurched from the roadside shadows—ribs split open, mouth slack and dripping—Heeseung didn’t slow.
He raised his gun without missing a step and fired.
One shot.
Right between the eyes.
Thump.
Another came from the treeline moments later. Heeseung didn’t blink. Another shot rang out. Another body hit the dirt.
You tried not to look. But you heard them. The sick sound of bone cracking, of groans choked off mid-howl.
And still he walked. Like a shepherd clearing the road.
If you slowed—if your knees buckled or your pace dragged even slightly, he gave a sharp tug on the leash. Not enough to pull you off your feet, but enough to steal the air from your lungs. Enough to make your body flinch forward like it had learned.
Like it was beginning to know its place.
You gritted your teeth, eyes burning. You told yourself not to cry again. Not in front of him. Not after everything.
And then you saw them.
People.
A small group—maybe five—half-hidden behind an overturned vehicle and the carcass of a collapsed roadside shack. Survivors. Not Hollowed. Not Sanctum.
Their eyes widened when they saw you, when they saw the leash, the collar, the ropes around your wrists, your dirtied, trembling form trailing just behind him like you were some pet dragged from a war.
They didn’t run. They didn’t call out. They just stared.
Shock first. Then something colder.
Pity.
And fear.
Not of you.
Of him.
Because Heeseung turned his head slightly, just enough to see them, and whatever they saw in his eyes made all of them freeze.
One of them—young, maybe seventeen—took a single step forward.
Heeseung didn’t raise his gun.
He smiled.
And that was enough.
The boy stumbled back, and the group retreated, eyes still locked on you until they vanished into the treeline like ghosts too afraid to even speak.
No one came for you. No one helped.
Heeseung didn’t say a word.
He just kept walking. Leash in hand. You behind him.
And the road stretched on—long, cracked, and unkind. But not nearly as cruel as the one you’d walked trying to escape him.
Eventually, you saw it.
Through the trees—half-choked by overgrowth and mist—Sanctum emerged from the darkness like something half-remembered from a fever dream.
The tall barricades. The watchtowers. The dull glint of floodlights casting pale rings across the dirt path. The thick scent of burning wood and damp earth. The faint murmur of people just inside.
Home, some would say.
But your stomach turned.
You tried not to slow, but your body faltered when the main gate came into full view—looming and heavy, manned by armed followers in long coats and black wraps. Your legs buckled slightly, knees weakened by exhaustion and dread.
Heeseung noticed, but he didn’t mock you. He just tugged the leash once, firmly. Steadying you.
The guards didn’t ask questions. They saw your face, your condition, your wrists still bound. And most importantly—they saw him.
Their gazes dropped in reverence as they unlocked the gates without a word. As if they’d been waiting. As if they already knew how this story would end.
The doors opened slowly, groaning under their own weight.
And beyond them—flickering torches, clean paths, rows of tents and shelters. People pausing to look up as you passed.
Some gasped quietly. Others smiled like prophecy had been fulfilled.
You couldn’t meet their eyes. You didn’t want to see what they saw when they looked at you.
A few even knelt as Heeseung walked by, silent and composed, dragging you behind him as if he’d simply gone out to retrieve a lost artifact.
No one asked where you’d been. No one asked what you’d done.
Because it didn’t matter. Heeseung was back. And he had you.
You passed the fire pits, the mess area, the quiet groups clustered in prayer.
And then the stairs.
Down into the earth. Into the bunker.
The leash stayed taut. Your feet moved because they had no choice.
And when you reached the heavy door—the one you’d once seen sealed shut so many nights before he turned to you, eyes unreadable in the dim light.
“Welcome home,” he said softly.
And the door creaked open.
Swallowing you whole.
You stumbled when he pulled you down the final step, and your knees hit cold stone. You hissed, cursing under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.
“You son of a—get your hands off me!”
But he didn’t flinch.
Not when you struggled, not when you dug your heels into the ground, not when you spat every insult you could think of like venom behind your teeth. He just held the leash tighter.
Like he’d expected this. Like he wanted it.
In the soft light of the bunker, he stopped walking—finally—and turned to face you. For one heartbeat, you thought maybe he’d snap. Shout. Do something loud.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he reached for your gear—the jacket stiff with blood, the torn shirt, the military vest still smeared with ash. You tried to slap his hands away. You shoved. You kicked.
Nothing worked.
“Don’t touch me—” you growled.
But he was calm. Mechanical. Efficient.
He stripped the dirt and chaos from you with quiet focus, as if peeling back layers of a broken thing he’d always planned to fix. When he wiped away dried blood from your shoulder, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel either. It was something colder. Detached. Like he was cleaning up a mess.
Your scraped knees. The bruises on your ribs. The cuts across your palm. All were examined, wiped, wrapped with bandages pulled from a small cabinet in the corner.
Still, you cursed. Still, you twisted against the binds. Still, you fought.
And he remained maddeningly silent.
You didn’t even realize when the dress appeared—light, soft white lace, simple and ghostlike in his hands. You tried to turn away, but you couldn’t stop him from slipping it over your head. You were too tired. Too sore. Your wrists ached from the struggle. Your body didn’t respond like it used to.
“This isn’t real,” you muttered. “This isn’t real. I’m not staying here.”
But he didn’t answer.
Not until he guided you back to the bed in the corner. The same one you’d seen in flickers of memory and dreams that left you sweating.
The chain clinked softly as it was locked to the bedpost, connected to your collar again.
Only then did he speak.
“You’ll rest now,” Heeseung murmured, voice low. “You need it.”
And with that, he stepped back. Out of reach. Out of sight.
But never out of control.
You laid in that bed for what felt like forever.
Time stretched thin, impossible to measure in the dark. The only light came from the faint crack beneath the heavy door—too dim to track the hours, too pale to give any comfort.
No footsteps.
No voices.
At first, you screamed. You pulled at the chain until your wrists burned. You kicked the bedframe until your heel throbbed and your throat went raw from shouting his name, any name—just to hear a voice. Just to hear yourself echo off the stone.
But no one answered.
Not even Heeseung.
Eventually… you stopped.
Not because you gave up.
Because your body started to.
The hunger curled in your gut like a fist. Tight. Angry. It came in waves, rising and falling until it became a part of you. Like the chain. Like the collar.
Your mouth felt dry, your lips cracked. Your tongue ached against the roof of your mouth with how little moisture was left. And still—nothing.
You stared at the ceiling, the walls, the bedpost where the chain looped and clinked when you shifted even slightly. That soft metallic noise became your only companion. You listened to it like it might sing. Like it might break the silence.
It didn’t.
The worst part wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the thirst.
It was the quiet.
The aching, bone-deep silence that wrapped around you like a second skin. No sermons. No chants. No breath but your own. It filled your head, loud and oppressive. Until your thoughts blurred, until memory lost its shape, until the only constant you had left was the sound of your own heartbeat—soft, slowing.
You hated it. You hated him. But more than that, you hated how a part of you waited. Waited for the sound of footsteps. Waited for the door to creak open. Waited for the only thing worse than silence...
Him.
Because at least when Heeseung came… you knew you still existed.
The door creaked open hours—maybe days—later. You weren’t sure anymore.
You didn’t lift your head.
You knew who it was.
Boots crossed the threshold with steady, deliberate steps. No hurry. No rush. The air shifted with his presence, like the entire room inhaled and held its breath.
You finally looked up when the silence became too sharp to ignore.
Heeseung stood at the foot of the bed, eyes unreadable, shadowed beneath the soft bunker light. There was no smile this time. No gentleness. Just cold deliberation—like a judge returning to the courtroom.
“I gave you everything,” he said quietly.
You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked. Dry. Weak. Nothing came out.
He stepped closer.
“You spat on it. Ran. Lied. Hid.”
He circled the bed slowly, like a predator surveying damage.
“Do you think that makes you brave?” His tone dipped—low, dangerous. “It makes you ungrateful.”
You tensed when his hand reached for the chain, the familiar tug jerking your body upright. You tried to twist away, but you were too weak. Too sore. Too empty.
He crouched down in front of you, expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly. “But you’ve asked for it.” His fingers gripped your chin, firm and unforgiving. You flinched.
“You don’t get to run,” he whispered. “Not from me. Not after everything I’ve given.” Heeseung's fingers tightened on your chin, his grip bordering on painful. You could see the cold calculation in his eyes, the flicker of something darker, more sinister. "You thought you could escape me?" he murmured. "You thought you could deny me?"
He released your chin abruptly, and you fell back, your body aching. Heeseung stood, towering over you, his presence overwhelming. "You made me chase you," he said, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. "And now, you'll pay for it." He reached for the chain again, yanking it hard enough to make you cry out. With a swift, brutal motion, he pulled you to your feet, your body colliding with his. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I'm going to teach you a lesson," he whispered. "One you won't forget."
A hand, firm and steady pressed to the small of your back.
He guided you forward with no resistance, no hesitation, like your path had already been chosen for you long ago.
“Go on,” Heeseung murmured, voice soft but laced with steel. “To the center.”
Your legs moved before your mind caught up. The floor stretched out beneath you like an altar. Smooth, polished stone, worn down by time and footsteps that had come before you.
You reached the center. You stopped. You waited.
Then his voice again—closer this time. A command.
“Kneel.”
It cut through the stillness like a blade. Not shouted. Not harsh.
Just final.
You dropped.
The cold floor bit into your knees, but you didn’t flinch. Not when the silence had grown so sharp it could pierce skin.
Behind you, Heeseung began to circle.
Each step echoed. Measured. Heavy with purpose. He didn’t speak at first. Just moved. Watched. Made sure you felt him without even needing to look. Like a lion studying its meal before the first bite.
Finally, his voice broke the silence—low, dark, and laced with restrained fury.
“You should have known better.”
A pause. You could feel his gaze on your bowed head, hot and unwavering.
“You should have known that you belong to me.”
His words hit like the crack of a whip.
You felt your stomach twist, your spine pull straighter—part defiance, part instinctual fear. Your fingers curled into fists against the stone as you bit back the storm rising in your throat.
“You thought distance would change that?” he asked quietly, voice curling around you like smoke. “That running would make me forget?” A hand ghosted over your shoulder—gentle, and then it closed.
Tight.
“Foolish.”
He bent slightly, so his lips were just above your ear.
“There is no before me anymore.”
You didn’t breathe.
Because in that moment—under his touch, his voice, his control—you felt it again. That awful, trembling truth.
You hadn’t been free the moment you left him.
You’d only been out of reach.
Now, with the air stretched taut between you and Heeseung standing above you like a shadow cast by something far older than rage, you could feel the truth in your bones.
His eyes didn’t burn—they froze. Piercing. Patient. Like he was dissecting your soul in real time.
The quiet metallic click of his belt unfastening sliced through the silence like a warning shot. The sound echoed off the cold stone walls, sharp and clinical, echoing over your skin like a chill you couldn’t shake.
Heeseung let the belt slip from his hands with a whisper of leather against cloth, letting it hang loose at his side—not as a weapon, not yet, but as a symbol.
Of control.
Of authority.
Of ownership.
He stepped closer, the heels of his boots loud against the stone. Your eyes lifted despite yourself, chest tight with too many things at once—fear, defiance, longing, shame. It coiled in you like static before a storm.
And when he knelt in front of you, crouching to your eye level, it felt like the room itself tilted in his direction. “You always make it so difficult,” he murmured, his voice low, unreadable. “But maybe… you just wanted to be reminded.”
In the stillness, something cracked open inside you. Because this wasn’t punishment in the way most would understand it.
This was ceremony.
A moment designed not to hurt you—but to humble you.
“You don’t listen,” Heeseung said, softer now. “But you remember. And that’s all I need.” He rose again, tall and quiet and endless, and with a rough tug on the chain, he pulled you forward, causing you to fall onto your hands.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, seeing the cold, calculating glint in his gaze. He reached down, his hands moving to his pants and boxers, pushing them down slowly.
His erection sprang free, hard and ready, a stark reminder of his power and your submission. You stared, your eyes wide as your body responded to the sight of him, your thighs clenching in recognition. You could feel your pussy starting to get wet, your body betraying you.
He stroked himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You see what you do to me?" he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You're going to take this," he murmered. "And you're going to thank me for it."
Heeseung's hand moved to the chain around your neck, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal with a cruel, possessive grip. With a swift, brutal tug, he pulled you up, forcing you to your knees, your mouth now level with his erection. He hummed, a low, satisfied sound.
"You know what to do." He slapped the tip of his cock against your lips, the wet, warm flesh a stark contrast to the cold, hard metal of the chain. "Suck it."
You hesitated for a moment, your mind rebelling against the command, but your mouth betrayed you, your lips parting involuntarily. Heeseung took advantage of your hesitation, his hand fisting your hair, pulling your head back as he pushed his hips forward, his cock sliding into your mouth.
"Good girl," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Now, suck."
You obeyed, your mouth working him with reluctance. Heeseung's hips began to move, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a relentless, punishing rhythm. He used the chain to control your movements, pulling you closer when he wanted more depth, pushing you back when he wanted to tease you.
"Feel that?" he moaned, "that's what happens when you run. That's what happens when you try to escape."
Your mouth was full of his cock, your eyes watering as you struggled to take his impressive length. Heeseung's hands were fisted in your hair, his grip tight and punishing, controlling your movements, your breaths, your very existence.
"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, as he looked down at you. "You like being used. You like being a good little slut for me."
You tried to respond, but no words came out, your throat constricted around his length, your body trembling. Heeseung chuckled as he pushed his hips forward again, his cock sliding back into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with a force that left you gasping and choking.
"Suck it," he commanded as he began to move his hips, fucking your mouth. "Suck it like a good little whore."
He pulled your hair, causing your head to tilt back, revealing the bulge in your throat from his cock, a rather obscene sight. Precum leaked from his tip, filling your mouth, coating your tongue, a salty, intoxicating taste that left you dizzy and wanting more. You whimpered, the sound a desperate, pleading moan, as you continued to suck, your mouth and throat working in tandem, your tongue swirling around his length, your lips creating a tight, wet seal around his base.
Heeseung's grip on your hair tightened, his fingers digging into your scalp, holding you in place. You could feel his cock swelling, his body tensing, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, a sign that he was close, that he was on the edge.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide and tear-streaked, your lips swollen and red, your throat sore and raw.
"Fuck, yes..."
"Choke on it. Take every inch."
Tears streamed down your face as you gagged around his cock, your body betraying you with each desperate gasp for air.
"Look at you," he mumbled as he looked down at you, his eyes gleaming. "So pathetic. So fucking helpless."
WIth a few more thrusts Heeseung's cock swelled in your mouth, and with a final, brutal thrust, he came, his body shuddering with the force of his climax as he released his load down your throat.
You swallowed, your body betraying you even as your mind rebelled, your throat working to take every drop. Heeseung pulled out of your mouth, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and coughing, your throat raw and aching.
"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Now, let's see if you've learned your lesson."
He released your hair, his hand moving to your chin, forcing you to look up at him. You met his gaze, your eyes filled with tears, your body shaking with exhaustion and fear, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear. Desire. Submission. Defiance. You weren't sure what you felt, what you wanted, what you needed.
Suddenly, with a brutal jerk, Heeseung pulled you to your feet, his other hand gripping your arm with a punishing force.
You stumbled, your body still weak and aching from the earlier ordeal, but Heeseung's grip was unyielding. He dragged you across the room, his steps purposeful and dominant, until you reached the edge of the bed. With a swift, almost casual motion, he threw you onto your stomach, your face pressing into the cool mattress.
Before you could react, he was on you, his body pressing down on yours, his weight pinning you in place. You could feel his hardness against your ass. His hands quickly moved to your dress, his fingers gripping the fabric with a savage intensity.
"Please," you whimpered, your voice muffled by the mattress, as you felt the fabric tear, the sound of ripping cloth filling the air. "Please, don't..."
"Shut up," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, cutting you off mid-sentence. "You don't get to talk. You just get to take it."
Heeseung's hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you back, positioning you on your knees, your ass exposed and vulnerable. You tried to squirm away, but his grip was like iron, holding you in place.
"So beautiful.. all for me."
You tensed as you felt his cock press against your entrance, the head sliding through your folds, coating itself in your arousal. Heeseung chuckled, as he positioned himself at your entrance.
"Ready for this?" he asked, "ready to take what's yours?"
Before you could respond, he was pushing in, his cock sliding into you with a swift, brutal thrust. You cried out, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure, as Heeseung began to move, giving you no time to adjust.
Heeseung's breath was hot and ragged against your ear. His right hand moved to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck with a possessive grip. He pressed and twisted your head, forcing you to look at him, your eyes meeting his, seeing the cold, calculating glint in his gaze.
"All mine."
You moaned and gasped, your body betraying you with each desperate breath, your lungs struggling for air as his hand tightened. His lips crashed down on yours, his tongue invading your mouth, swallowing your moans and gasps.
His left hand moved to your clit, his fingers finding the sensitive nub with a cruel, teasing touch. He rubbed it in slow, deliberate circles, a stark contrast to the brutal, punishing rhythm of his hips.
"Feel that?" he murmured against your lips. "Feel how your body betrays you? How it wants me? How it needs me?"
You whimpered, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving of their own accord, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. Heeseung chuckled, a low, dangerous sound, as he increased the pressure on your clit, his fingers moving faster, his touch more insistent.
"Such a good little slut."
You could feel your pleasure building, your body coiling tight, your mind reeling from the overwhelming sensations.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl, as he increased the pressure on your throat, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Come for me like the good little whore you are."
Your body obeyed, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and choking, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed through you.
Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, all-consuming force that left you gasping and choking, your body convulsing with the intensity of the pleasure.
"Good girl," he gasped as he felt your body clench around him, your inner walls pulsing with the force of your release. "That's it... so good for me."
But even as your orgasm subsided, Heeseung showed no sign of stopping. His hips continued to snap forward, his cock plunging deep into your pussy with each punishing thrust. You sobbed and cried, your body wrecked and broken, overstimulated and raw.
"Please," you begged, your voice a raspy, desperate plea, as you gripped the sheets, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. "Please, I can't... I can't take anymore..."
Heeseung chuckled as he continued to thrust, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a wet, obscene sound. "You say you want me to stop," he hissed. "Yet you keep clenching around me so deliciously. You don't want me to stop. You never want me to stop."
You realized with a shock of horror and arousal that you were grinding back at him, your hips meeting his thrusts, matching his pace. You whimpered as you tried to pull away, to escape, to deny the truth of your body's response.
"But look at you," he continued, as he gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you back onto him. "You're so wet. So ready."
You tried to respond, to argue, to plead, but no words came out, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you, you were lost in the sensation, your mind a foggy, disoriented haze, your body betraying you as it welcomed him in, accepted him, craved him.
"Please," you whimpered again, your voice a desperate, pleading moan, as you gripped the sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric, your body trembling. "Please, Heeseung. Please, make it stop. Please, make it end."
Heeseung pulled out of you slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and shaking, your body aching and your mind reeling.
"Make it stop?" he asked as he looked down at you, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I do that? You're mine, and I'm going to remind you of that. Over and over again. Until you never forget it. Until you never want to escape it. Until you never want anything else."
He slipped his cock back in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel everything, the stretch, the burn, the pleasure, the pain. You could hear the wet squelches from your pussy, the obscene, lewd sounds. They mixed with Heeseung's whines, and your own whimpers.
"Oh baby... you feel so good.."
Heeseung's thrusts quickly sped up, becoming more erratic, his hips snapping forward in a sloppy way. You could feel his body trembling against yours, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.
"Fuck, I missed you," he mumbled, his voice a low, slurred growl, as he leaned over you. "I missed being inside you. I missed feeling you wrap around my cock like this."
You could feel his saliva dripping down your back, warm and wet, as he continued to mumble, "you're so perfect. So fucking perfect. My good little angel..."
His hips moved faster, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Fuck, I'm close," he whined out loudly. "I'm so fucking close.."
His body tensed, and with a final, brutal thrust, he released himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. You gasped and shook, your body convulsing with the force of his climax, your inner walls milking him for every drop.
"Shit," he groaned, as he collapsed on top of you, his body pressing you down into the mattress. "Fuck, that was good."
He remained inside you for a moment, his breath ragged against your ear, before he slowly pulled out.
You lay there, your body shaking and your mind reeling, the aftermath of his brutal claiming leaving you in a daze. The room spun around you, and your breaths came in short gasps, your lungs still burning from the lack of air. You felt raw, broken, and utterly spent, your body aching from the relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain.
Suddenly, you felt his fingers, warm and wet, slipping inside your puffy, sensitive walls. You jumped at the intrusion, a sob escaping your lips as you felt him push deeper, his fingers curling inside you, claiming every inch of your being.
"Keep every drop inside you," he commanded. "You're going to keep it all. Every fucking drop... keeping my seed where it belongs."
Without warning, Heeseung flipped you onto your back, his hands gripping your thighs with a punishing force. He pushed your legs up to your chest, exposing you to his gaze, your pussy open and vulnerable to his inspection. You watched, dazed and disoriented, as he stared down at you, his eyes gleaming with arousal.
He brought his hand gently to his mouth, his fingers slipping between his lips as he coated them fully in saliva, before pulling his fingers free, the tips glistening with his spit.
"Want more?" he asked as he positioned his fingers back at your entrance, his eyes never leaving yours.
Before you could respond, he pushed his fingers inside you again, his movements slow, each thrust a teasing claim.
You tried to squirm away, your body instinctively rebelling against the invasive touch. Your hips bucked, and your legs kicked, a desperate attempt to escape his fingers.
"And where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice laced with a cruel, mocking amusement.
He pushed you down, his body pressing against yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You could feel his hardness against your thigh, as his fingers continued to move while he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "You're going to take my fingers. You're going to take my cock. You're going to take everything I give you. And you're going to like it."
His fingers curled inside you, finding that sensitive spot that made you clench around his fingers, your hips moving, despite your pleas and your tears. You could feel your arousal coating his fingers, a wet, slick proof of your want.
With that Heeseung pulled his fingers free, leaving you feeing empty and aching, your body craving more. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around the digits. "Mmm," he hummed out. "You still taste so fucking good. So sweet..." He licked his lips. "You've tortured me, you know. Running away, keeping me from this sweet pussy for weeks."
With that, Heeseung crawled down your body, his movements swift and purposeful. He positioned himself between your legs, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his tongue swiping through your folds. You gasped, the shock of his sudden touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.
He groaned, a low, feral sound, as he began to lick and suck, his tongue exploring every inch of you. You could feel his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted on you.
In all your shock, you found yourself grabbing his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as you threw your head back, your eyes rolling upwards, your mouth wide open as you screamed his name. "Heeseung! Oh my god, Heeseung!"
His tongue and fingers worked in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths stuttering.
As Heeseung's nose bumped into your clit with each vigorous lick, you could feel the intense, electric jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. His tongue delved deep inside you, fucking you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling tight as each inhale you took sounded like a ragged, desperate plea for air.
You risked a glance down at Heeseung, and what you saw sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were locked on you, studying every reaction, every twitch, every gasp, with an intensity that bordered on feral. Yet, there was a dazed, almost trance-like quality to his gaze, as if he were completely consumed by the act, by the taste and the feel of you.
His mouth moved vigorously, his lips and tongue working in a frenzied rhythm. His eyebrows were scrunched in concentration, his forehead glistening with sweat, strands of hair clinging to his skin, damp and disheveled. The sight of him, so utterly focused, so completely absorbed in pleasuring you, was almost overwhelming.
But what struck you most was the way he was grinding into the bed, his hips moving in a rough rhythm, as if he were fucking the very mattress beneath you. You could hear the soft, wet sounds of his mouth against your flesh, the occasional muffled groan as he breathed you in, straight from the core, his nostrils flaring with each desperate inhalation.
His hands gripped your thighs with a punishing force, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving moon-shaped marks where his nails bit into the meat. You could feel the sting, the sharp, almost painful sensation, but it only served to heighten your pleasure, to push you closer to the edge.
As Heeseung's relentless assault on your senses continued, you could feel that familiar, tingling sensation building in your core, a sure sign that your orgasm was imminent. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling tight as you gripped the sheets with a punishing force, your knuckles white and your fingers trembling.
"Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come!"
Heeseung pulled back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Oh, you are, are you?" he murmured, and with a renewed vigor, he dove back in, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
And then, with a final, brutal lick, you were pushed over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and choking. Your scream was a choked, desperate sound, your whines mashed together as you rode out the overwhelming sensations.
Heeseung, ever the worshipper, licked and sucked, his tongue exploring every inch of your pussy, lapping up every drop of your cum.
As Heeseung's relentless assault on your senses continued, you could feel your body becoming increasingly sensitive, every touch, every lick, every suck sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. You reached a point where the sensations were almost too much to bear, your nerves raw and exposed.
With a desperate, almost pleading push, you placed your hands on his shoulders, trying to create some space between you. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, I can't... I can't take any more."
To your surprise, Heeseung pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, his chin was dripping with a mix of your cum and his saliva, a rather primal sight. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.
"You can't take any more?" he questioned, "or you don't want to take any more?" He gripped your hips with a punishing force, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you closer to him. You could feel his hardness pressing against your folds, the head of his cock sliding through your sensitive flesh with a teasing, almost torturous touch.
"Beg for it," he ordered. "Beg for me to put it in. Beg for me to fuck you."
You tensed, your body betraying you as it responded to his touch, his words, his command. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, Heeseung. Please, put it in. Please, fuck me. I need you. I need this."
Heeseung hummed while he continued to tease your folds with his cock, the head sliding through your wetness. "Need what?" he asked, "need my cock? Need me to fill you up? Need me to remind you who you belong to?"
"Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, please. I need your cock. I need you to fill me up. I need you to remind me. I need you to own me."
With a brutal thrust, Heeseung plunged his cock into you, his hips snapping forward. You cried out, your body easily welcoming him in.
Heeseung remained still, his muscles straining, his jaw clenched tight as he cursed under his breath. "Shit, you're still so tight," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
You whined, your eyes meeting his, your gaze pleading. The low lamp hanging from the roof cast a warm, golden glow over his face, highlighting the sharp angles and the intense, almost feral expression in his eyes. His eyes twitched, a telltale sign of his barely restrained control, as he pulled back slowly, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you.
And then, he plunged back in, his hips snapping forward with a force that left you arching your back, your body bowing off the bed as you cried out loudly.
Wet sounds filled the room, the slick, obscene noises a reminder of the intimacy and the degradation of the act. The sound of chains rattling echoed through the space, a haunting, almost ominous accompaniment to your combined moans and gasps.
Neither of you realized you had an audience.
Not until a sharp knock—too sudden, too real—cracked through the heady silence of the room like lightning. You froze. Heeseung stilled deep inside you, a full-body tension radiating through him as if the air itself had turned hostile.
His head turned, slow and dangerous, toward the now open door.
You followed his gaze, pulse hammering in your throat, only for your heart to seize entirely. Two of Heeseung’s followers stood in the doorway, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and dawning horror. Their expressions shifted rapidly—shock, embarrassment, guilt. They were statues, breathless and pale.
You felt your skin prickle in mortified realization, heat rushing up your chest and neck, and despite everything—despite how used you were to the rituals, the possession, the worship—you still wanted to disappear.
Heeseung reacted instantly.
He shifted, his arms pulled you against him with a protectiveness that felt more like a claim. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other coiled around your waist with bruising precision.
The room that had once been warm with candlelight now crackled with something darker.
His voice, when it came, was low and wrathful.
“What the fuck?”
The two disciples flinched.
“I told the guards I wasn’t to be interrupted. Not for any fucking reason.” His words dripped with fury—controlled, but barely. Like he was using every ounce of his restraint not to destroy something. You could feel it in his body—how tightly he held you. How hard his jaw clenched. The storm in his breath.
“S-sorry, Heeseung…” one of them stammered. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “We—we wouldn’t have come, but something’s… wrong. Up top. Near the wall. A group. Armed. They're getting too close—”
Heeseung didn’t blink.
His grip on you tightened. Not out of anger at you—but at the world, it seemed. At the insolence of it daring to interrupt what he considered his.
“The only thing wrong here,” he said quietly, dangerously, “is your interruption.”
You felt his chest rise and fall against your back, each inhale more ragged than the last. The candlelight threw violent shadows across the floor, stretching long and wild.
“Get out,” he snapped.
Neither of them moved.
“I said get out.”
The guards scrambled then—shoulders tight with shame, fear heavy in their footsteps. They backed out, heads down, disappearing behind the heavy wooden door which thudded shut moments later, echoing like judgment through the room.
Silence fell again. But it was no longer the same.
Heeseung didn’t move right away. His hands were still on you. His breathing sharp and body tense above you, his muscles coiled tight as he processed the intrusion. You looked up at him—uncertain, raw.
His jaw ticked once.
"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Fucking hell."
He pulled out of you slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and shaking, your body aching and your mind reeling. Heeseung stood up, his movements abrupt and jerky as he adjusted his pants, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
"Stay here," he commanded, his voice low. "Don't move. I'll be right back."
You nodded, your body still trembling as you pulled the sheets around you, a futile attempt to cover your nakedness and your shame. Heeseung strode to the door, his steps purposeful and angry, and slipped out into the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your humiliation.
The room felt empty without him, the silence almost oppressive. You closed your eyes, trying to block out the memory of the intrusion, the shock of being caught, the raw, exposed feeling of your body and your desires laid bare. But the images and the sounds lingered, a haunting reminder of the reality you now faced.
Eventually, the door creaked open, and Heeseung stepped back into the room. You gasped when you saw him, your eyes widening in shock as you took in the sight of him. He was bloodied, his skin stained with crimson, and he was wiping away the evidence with a random cloth.
"Wh-what happened?" you asked shakily, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes fixed on the blood.
He looked up at you and grinned. "I took care of the of the problem," he answered simply, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he threw the cloth away, the stained fabric landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Before you could react, he was on the bed, crawling over you with a predatory grace. His hands moved to the sheets, pulling them away from your body with a swift motion. You lay exposed before him, your body trembling. He pulled you carefully with him, sitting against the bed frame, his back leaning against the headboard. You found yourself straddling him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body positioned perfectly as he positioned you above his cock.
With a soft sigh, he pulled you down, impaling you on his length. You gasped and arched your back, the sudden intrusion sending a wave of pleasure through your body. Your breasts pushed forward, offering themselves to his hungry mouth.
Heeseung accepted the invitation greedily, his lips and tongue sucking and biting, his teeth leaving marks on your sensitive skin, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, his moans vibrating against your flesh.
His hands occupied themselves by gripping your ass, fingers digging into your cheeks, slapping them with a sharp, stinging force. Your hands gripped his shoulders in shock, your nails digging into his flesh as you moaned and whined his name. "Heeseung," you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Please. Please, don't stop."
He continued to suck and bite, his mouth leaving a trail of marks across your breasts and your collarbone. "Don't worry," he muttered. "I'm not going to stop. Ever."
You trembled in his hold as Heeseung ravished you, his mouth leaving a trail of hickeys and marks across anywhere his lips could reach. His grip on your ass was punishing, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving red marks where he slapped and squeezed.
"Fuck, you're so responsive." With a swift, almost brutal motion, he pulled you towards him, his lips crashing down on yours in a harsh, messy kiss.
When you pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips, which Heeseung licked up, his tongue swirling, his eyes never leaving yours, a possessive glint in his gaze. And then, with a steady motion, he began to lift you up and down, impaling you on his cock.
You gasped, your body arching, hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh as you held on for dear life, your body moving in time with his, your hips meeting his thrusts with an almost hungry need.
You kept whining as Heeseung continued to lift and lower you on his cock, the sensation of being stretched overwhelming your senses, leaving you whining and clinging to him.
Eventually, Heeseung manhandled you onto your back, his strength overpowering as he positioned you beneath him. He towered over you, his body a wall of muscle and power.
With a swift, almost brutal motion, he pushed your legs back, spreading you open, exposing you as he began to fuck you deeper, his hips snapping forward. Your mind numbed, your senses overwhelmed, leaving you in a state of a mindnumbing sensation. The room buzzed around you, the sounds of your combined moans and gasps, the wet, obscene noises of your bodies moving together, the sharp, stinging slaps of his hips against your ass, all blending together.
You came suddenly, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you whining, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed through you. In that moment, you swore you felt like your soul left your body, your mind shattering into a million pieces, your reality fragmenting and reforming around the overwhelming sensations.
Heeseung rambled on, his words a low, and slurred but you couldn't make out what he was saying. Your ears rang, the sound a high-pitched, almost painful whine, a result of being fucked senseless, your body and mind pushed to their limits. You felt cock drunk, your body craving more, needing more, desperate for the feeling of him inside you, filling you, possessing you. Your body was a limp and boneless mess, your mind a foggy, disoriented haze.
"You're going to take every drop of my cum," Heeseung murmured, his hips continuing to move. "You're going to look so fucking good with your stomach bulging... I'm going to fill you up so good, so much that you'll be leaking for days."
You could only whine in response.
"I'm going to breed you so good, fill you up with so much cum that you'll be carrying my child..."
Your mind reeled at his words, the promise of his seed, of his claim, of his possession. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, Heeseung. Please, breed me. Please, fill me up. Please, make me yours."
"Don't worry," he mumbled. "I'm going to give you everything I have. Every drop of my cum. Every inch of my cock. Every part of me. You're going to be so full of me, so complete with me."
You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Come for me like the good little cocksleeve you are. Come for me and take my cum."
And with a final, brutal thrust, you were pushed over the edge for the millionth time, your body convulsing, each sensation more intense than the last.
Heeseung followed soon after, his hips snapping forward with a few more thrusts before he released himself deep inside you. You could feel the warmth of his cum filling you, his seed spilling into your depths, a claiming so intense it left you breathless. He remained inside you, his cock pulsing as he emptied every last drop, ensuring that you were completely and utterly filled.
As the intensity of the moment began to fade, Heeseung stayed inside you, his body pressing against yours as he moved you closer to him. He adjusted his position, pulling you into his arms, your bodies entwined as you both lay on the bed. You were so tired, so spent, that as he started kissing your face tenderly, his lips soft against your skin, and playing with your hair, your eyes fluttered closed, and you drifted off into a deep, exhausted sleep.
The room was quiet, the only sounds the soft, rhythmic breaths of your slumber and the occasional shift of Heeseung's body as he held you close. You were safe in his arms, protected and possessed, your body and mind finally at peace after the overwhelming sensations.
As you slept, Heeseung's hand gently stroked your back, murmuring soft, almost affectionate words, his voice soothing, ensuring that you knew, even in your dreams, that you were his.
You didn’t run again.
Whether it was exhaustion, fear, or something deeper—something Heeseung had carved into your mind with quiet, patient cruelty—you stayed by his side. Loyal. Prized. His.
The compound called you many things now.
The saved. The chosen. The miracle that came back.
But Heeseung called you something else.
Mine.
No one touched you.
That was sacred.
He made it clear—once, violently, when a follower brushed too close while offering water. The poor man didn’t even see it coming, the punishment swift, public, and brutal. After that, no one dared. You could feel their eyes on you when you walked—soft, curious, reverent—but no one ever reached out again.
Because that was Heeseung’s right. Only Heeseung’s.
He sat on his throne like a king who’d bled the world dry to earn it, and you—his crown, his queen—sat on his lap like you belonged there. Because you did. That’s what he told you. Over and over.
In the dim light of the bunker, followers knelt in rows before you both, murmuring prayers. Praising salvation. Begging for mercy.
And Heeseung?
He kissed your neck gently. One arm locked around your waist, the other tracing shapes over your thigh, possessive and idle.
“You’re so good for me,” he whispered in your ear, voice soft as silk. “So obedient now. So perfect.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “But not too perfect,” he added with a smirk. “You still cry when I ruin you..”
You clenched your fists, breath catching as his hand squeezed your hip beneath the fabric of your dress. His touch was gentle now—but it never stayed that way for long. And you’d learned: pleasure and punishment were two sides of the same coin in his hands. Twisted rewards. Earned devotion.
You were a queen in his eyes, but you were also his possession, his property, his to command and control.
Around the compound, you rarely walked alone. Mostly because… you couldn’t. Your legs still ached most mornings. From the things he’d done. The things he’d proven. So his arm stayed tight around your waist when he led you through Sanctum. Not support. Not comfort. But control.
You were a symbol now. And symbols didn’t get to stumble.
He fed you the finest preserved rations—lavish by apocalypse standards. Fresh fruit, warm broth, spiced rice. He always made sure you ate. Made sure you smiled. Tucked hair behind your ear like he hadn’t broken you just the night before.
“You deserve to feel full,” he said once, pressing a spoon to your lips. “You deserve everything.”
And in his eyes, you were everything.
Not just because he loved you. But because he needed you.
You were his altar, his proof, his possession.
And without you, Heeseung didn’t breathe.
So you stayed.
And he worshipped. And devoured. And whispered, always:
“You’re mine, little lamb. My last holy thing.”
Even in moments of quiet—when the compound basked in sunlight, when the fires weren’t burning and no one was chanting—Heeseung would remind you.
Remind you who held the leash, even when it wasn’t in his hand.
It didn’t take much. A glance. A certain tone in his voice. A question that wasn’t really a question at all.
“You wouldn’t leave again,” he’d murmur, brushing a stray leaf from your shoulder after a walk through the courtyard. “Would you?”
You’d pause—just for a breath too long—and he’d smile.
Not wide. Not kind.
Slow. Sharp.
Like he’d caught the rabbit still twitching under his paw.
Sometimes, he didn’t even need words. Just a touch. A hand on the back of your neck when you passed through the halls, light but final. Fingers tracing the collar still locked around your throat. You’d flinch, sometimes—but he always noticed. And he’d lean in close, lips at your ear. “I like when you remember,” he’d whisper. “What it felt like to run.”
The worst part was how he made you feel it. Still.
That instinct.
That prey-deep shiver under your skin.
Even when you were full and dressed in white, draped in luxury. Even when you were safe.
Because safety was a lie he whispered while baring his teeth.
When others approached—offering prayer, gifts, loyalty—he would keep you close, his hand always low on your waist. Not just claiming you. Daring them.
You learned, over time, that his gentleness was layered like silk over steel. A mask for something far older. Deeper.
Predatory.
Heeseung didn’t need to growl or snarl. He studied you. Waited. Learned every reaction, every sound you made when you were nervous, ashamed, afraid. And then—he’d trigger it.
With purpose.
With precision.
Because to him, power wasn’t shown through violence. It was shown in how easily he could make you remember.
The woods. The leash. The desperate, bloody ache of your escape.
All of it, at the mercy of his voice.
“I don’t keep you because you can’t run,” he said one night, eyes gleaming in the low candlelight. “I keep you because you know what happens when you try.”
You said nothing.
Because the truth was this:
He didn’t have to chase you anymore.
Heeseung already had you. Right where he wanted. Tamed. Trembling. And his.
Heeseung was cruel, but fair.
And he loved toying with you.
Not with violence—no, that was too easy. Too loud. He preferred the slow unraveling. The game. The quiet dissection of your will, one string at a time. He’d give you softness just long enough to make you ache for it—then take it away. He’d hold you in his lap during prayers, thumb stroking circles over your thigh, murmuring praises under his breath… then later, he wouldn’t touch you at all. Wouldn’t even look at you. Would leave you pacing in silence, caged in your own skin, wondering what you’d done wrong.
(You hadn’t. That was the point.)
He made you earn him.
And when you reached for him—when you finally broke, voice hoarse with need, trembling under the weight of his absence—he’d smile.
“That’s better,” he’d whisper, tilting your chin up. “See what happens when you remember your place?”
And you hated that it worked. That part of you needed him to remind you.
He didn’t punish with rage. He punished with control. Silence. Restraint. Precision.
And when he did give you what you craved—his attention, his hands, his voice curling around your name like a prayer—he made sure you remembered.
“You only exist because I let you,” he murmured once, teeth brushing your throat. “You breathe because I allow it. And you stay, little lamb…” His smile darkened. “Because you want to.”
That was the cruelest part.
The part where he was right.
Because by now, you’d stopped counting how many times you could’ve run.
And started counting how many ways he could pull you back.
There had been a day—two, actually—where Heeseung was gone.
Not far. Not abandoned.
Just busy.
A breach had nearly occurred. A horde of Hollowed had shambled too close to the western wall of the compound. Alarms sounded, smoke rose, steel rang against bone. The Sanctum’s guards had fought them off just in time, but the damage to the barricade was enough to send the entire compound into a state of tension.
Heeseung, of course, had gone straight to the perimeter.
He didn’t take you with him.
You weren’t angry. You weren’t even relieved. You simply… waited.
And in his absence, they turned to you.
Because when Heeseung was gone, the throne did not stay empty.
You sat in it—his throne—at the very center of the bunker, high-backed and curved around you like it had been built for this moment. The seat still held his warmth, the scent of worn leather and incense clinging to its edges.
No one questioned it. Because you were the only other living being on earth allowed to sit there.
And oh, how they moved around you.
The moment you shifted, someone was there. You asked for juice—it was in your hand before you could blink. A bowl of fruits? Rested at your side before you even finished the sentence.
They watched your every breath like it held meaning.
Kneeling. Bowing. Smiling with a reverence that made your skin crawl, even as your lips curled in indulgence.
You didn’t need to lift a finger.
When the sun streamed in through the cracks of the compound roof, it kissed your shoulders like even nature obeyed. You reclined into the throne, sipping sweet juice from a silver cup, and the world bent around you.
But still—something in your chest pulsed uneasily. Because even dressed like a queen, even praised and waited on like a goddess… you were still wearing the collar. Still tethered by something unseen. Still waiting for the shadow who never let you out of his grip for long.
And when Heeseung returned—dust on his coat, jaw tense—you saw it in his eyes the second they landed on you.
Pride. Possessiveness. And a flicker of something else. Jealousy, maybe.
Not at the followers. At the throne. Because for two days, you sat in it.
Heeseung stood there a moment, his gaze roaming over you, taking in the sight of you reclining on his throne, dressed in regal attire. The sunlight streaming through the cracks in the roof cast a warm, golden glow on your shoulders, as if nature itself bowed to your presence. The world seemed to bend around you, acknowledging your power and your grace.
With a swift, authoritative gesture, Heeseung dismissed his followers. "Leave us," he commanded. "And do not return until I call for you."
The followers, seated around you, rose silently and filed out of the room, leaving you alone on the throne, confused and uncertain. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind them, sealing you in with Heeseung.
He began to walk towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. As he approached, he gripped the armrests of the throne, leaning over you, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Like a queen. Like my queen."
You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through your veins. "Heeseung," you said, your voice a soft, tentative whisper. "What are you going to do?"
His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he asked. "I'm going to remind you who you belong to. I'm going to remind you who this throne belongs to."
Before you could respond, Heeseung's hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into your flesh with a punishing force. He pulled you up from the throne, his movements swift and authoritative.
With a fluid motion, Heeseung turned and sat down on the throne, his eyes never leaving yours. He patted his lap, a silent command for you to join him. You hesitated for a moment, but the intensity of his gaze left you no choice. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your body pressed against his, your heart pounding in your chest.
Heeseung's arms wrapped around you, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back while his lips crashed down on yours in a harsh, demanding kiss, his tongue invading your mouth.
As he kissed you, his hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming, possessing. He gripped your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you closer to him, grinding you against his growing hardness. You could feel his cock pressing against your core.
You both ground against each other, the friction sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. The room filled with the sound of your combined moans and gasps.
until Heeseung suddenly pulled back, his breath ragged. "Stand up," he ordered. "And strip for me."
You exhaled slowly, pushing yourself to your feet, your eyes never leaving his. With a fluid motion, you slipped your dress off, the fabric pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your lacy panties.
Heeseung's gaze ate you up, his eyes roaming over your body with a possessive intensity. You could feel his hunger and it left you trembling, your body responding to his silent command.
With a swift, almost brutal motion, Heeseung unzipped his pants, pulling his boxers down just enough for his cock to slip out. He began to jerk himself off, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense. The sight of him, so completely in control, left you breathless, your body aching for him.
You stood there, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, your eyes locked on his, unable to look away, unable to break the intense, almost hypnotic connection between you.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, you slipped your hands down to your thighs, your fingers brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You could feel the heat of his gaze that emanated from him, and it left you trembling.
Heeseung leans back on the throne, his legs wide, his body taking up space, commanding attention, demanding submission. He bit his lower lip, eyes roaming over your body, taking in every inch of your exposed flesh, every curve, every line, every mark.
And then, with a swift, almost brutal motion, he lashed out, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you towards him, guiding you back onto his lap, your body pressing against his, your thighs straddling his, your core pressing against his hardness.
"You want this, don't you?" he asked as he began to move his hips, grinding his cock against your clit.
You only whimpered, your voice a pleading moan, as you moved with him, your hips grinding against his.
He took his time, his movements as he pulled your panties to the side, exposing your most intimate place to his hungry gaze. "Sit on it," he commanded.
You hesitated for a moment, before you hovered above him, your knees on either side of his thighs, your body poised and ready.
Heeseung positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your folds, then you lowered yourself onto him, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You could feel every ridge, every vein, every inch.
As you took him inch by inch, both of you moaned, Heeseung's was a deep, guttural rumble, while yours was a high, desperate plea.
"Feels like heaven baby," he whined as he leaned in close. "You were made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to please me."
You moaned in response, a sound of pure, unfiltered ecstasy, as you took him deeper, your body adjusting to his size.
"Shit," you gasped, your voice a raspy, desperate plea, as you took the final inch, your body pressing against his, your clit grinding against his pelvis, a sensation that left you dizzy and wanting more. "So big..."
Your words boosted Heeseung's ego, a huge smile stretching across his lips as he grabbed your waist and began to use you, lifting you up and down.
"Mmm, you like that, don't you? You love my big cock, don't you?" he snickered. "You love having a boyfriend who's big, who keeps spoiling you, fucking you so good that you can't walk. You're so lucky, you know that? So fucking lucky."
You could only hold onto his shirt, screaming out, your fingers gripping the fabric with a punishing force, your body convulsing with each deep thrust, your thighs sore from the relentless movement.
"Please," you shouted, your voice raspy as you continued to ride him.
"Love being my good little slut, don't you?" he growled, "you love choking on it. You love getting fucked on it. You're so pathetic. So fucking helpless."
You whimpered, the sensation of him, hard and insistent, filling you completely, leaving you breathless, your body aching, your mind reeling. "Yes," you gasped, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Yes, I love it. I love you. I love your cock. I love everything about you!"
Heeseung's hands moved to your ass, his fingers spreading your cheeks, exposing you to his hungry gaze. "Thought so."
As you continued to ride him, you realized you had become accustomed to his size, his length, his girth. It felt like hell and heaven, a cruel limbo of two realms. And there was no escaping that reality.
You lost track of time after that.
You had turned into something shaped by his hands. By his voice. By the way he looked at you like you were the final holy thing left in a world already damned.
Heeseung sat with you often—on the throne, in his bed, in the quiet gardens behind the bunker, where the last flowers bloomed under poisoned skies. His hand always rested on your thigh. His voice always found your ear.
“My perfect little lamb,” he would murmur, brushing his lips over your temple. “They’d all die for you now, you know. Every last one of them.”
You didn’t ask if that included him. You already knew the answer.
Because he wouldn’t die for you.
He’d burn the world for you.
And make you watch.
There was no freedom. There was no before.
Just this: soft silk robes and blood-washed stones, candlelit prayers, your name whispered like it meant salvation. You were loved. You were feared.
You were his.
And one night, as he held you close with your back to his chest, voice low and sleep-heavy, you heard it again:
“You saved them. You saved me.”
He kissed the base of your neck, just beneath the collar.
“And I’ll never let you go.”
And you—warm, quiet, and no longer trembling—closed your eyes.
Because maybe that was the ending.
Not an escape. Not a rescue. But a throne you could never leave.
And a god who never stopped worshipping you. Even as he broke you into something divine.
P: Cult Leader!Heeseung X Fem!Reader (NSFW 18+) PART 1
Warnings: Apocalypse!AU, Manipulation, Religious Trauma, Gaslighting, Emotional Control, Stockholm Syndrome Themes, Power Imbalance, Obsession, Forced Isolation, Mental Deterioration, Symbolic Ritual Practices, Fear-based Obedience, Public Worship, Noncon/Dubcon, Power Play Dynamics, Predator/Prey, Implied Malnourishment, Injuries, Bondage, Degradation, Overstimulation, Body Worship, Breeding Kink, Mean!Heeseung, Dom!Heeseung, Fear Play, Choking, Manhandling, Breathplay, Sensory Deprivation, Emotional Conflict, Physical Punishment, Violence, Sadistic!Heeseung, Angst, Corruption, Smut, Clit Play, Unprotected & Rough Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Squirting, Dumbification.
Synopsis: You fled the compound, the chants, the man who called himself a prophet. You told yourself it wasn’t real, just another lie dressed as faith. But out in the wasteland, with nothing but hunger and silence, even doubt begins to sound like devotion. And Heeseung will find you again, because he won’t let his prized sheep get away.
a/n: so.. this is a fucked up fic, but you know? its only the tip of the dark romance meter :) trust me, if i had the guts to delve deeper, the warnings would be much longer. so enjoy this guys :) commentary and reblogs are much appreciated!! MDNI!!
now playing; forbidden fruit by tommee profitt | bring me back to life by chris grey
They said it started in the lungs. A dry cough, a headache. Nothing alarming until people stopped speaking and started snarling.
Hospitals filled first. Then morgues. Then the streets.
The virus didn’t kill fast. That was the horror of it. It rotted the mind before the body. People still looked like themselves. Still walked, still cried, still reached for their loved ones, until they tore them apart.
They called them Hollowed. Not quite dead. Not quite human.
Just sick with something that chewed through memory, speech, and mercy.
Governments collapsed under the weight of their own panic. Cities turned to ash. Broadcasts faded into static.
And slowly, the world eroded—quietly at first, like a sickness you pretend isn’t there. Humanity dwindled, breaking down into little more than hollow-eyed shells stumbling through dust-choked streets. Dead, yet alive. Driven by one thing only: to spread.
They wandered until their flesh gave out. Until their bones cracked under their own weight and their jaws unhinged from overuse. Until their hands fell off, fingers clawed to the tendon from scratching at barricades, doors, skin. A mindless disease with a heartbeat.
You still remember the day the outbreak began. Still remember the sound of sirens that didn’t stop for three days. Still remember the look in your mother’s eyes as it shifted. Still remember your friend’s trembling hands turning feral. How they lunged for your throat. How their teeth snapped inches from your skin. How you ran, sobbing, as the people you loved turned into something else.
You survived. Somehow. By sheer force and luck, you managed to claw your way through the end of the world. You’d always find groups—ragtag clusters of hopefuls, wanderers, people desperate not to die alone. But they never lasted long. Some got bitten, turned overnight while everyone slept. Some died from wounds, infection, starvation. Others just… vanished. No screams, no blood. Just a bedroll left behind, cold and undisturbed.
So eventually, you stopped trying. Stopped hoping. You learned it was better to stay moving. Alone.
One bag. One weapon. Covered skin, quiet steps, head down.
You learned how to strip a house clean in minutes. You wrapped yourself in torn fabrics and old military gear, kept your skin covered at all times. The Hollowed hunted by scent and sound, but they responded to skin like moths to flame. You got good at staying invisible. Good at putting them down before they got too close. Good at not thinking about who they used to be.
It wasn’t life—not really. But it was survival. And in this world, that counted for something.
Without survival, you’d be lost. But since you had no one left, you were never really found to begin with. No roots. No attachments. Just footprints in the dirt that vanished with the wind and blood that washed off easier when you didn’t know the name behind it.
You didn’t mourn anymore. Didn’t flinch when the Hollowed screamed. Didn’t hesitate to drive a blade through what was once someone’s brother, sister, child. You stopped asking how long you’d last. Stopped looking for purpose. All you had was the next hour. The next shelter. The next breath.
Loneliness didn’t hurt when it became habit. Silence didn’t sting when you forgot what laughter sounded like.
You stopped needing sound. Stopped expecting kindness.
The sky was just beginning to bruise with morning light, a cold, pale pink stretched over skeletal trees and dust. Dawn always felt quieter, like the world was still deciding whether or not to wake up.
You were low on drinking water. Your canteen had barely two mouthfuls left, and your tongue felt like paper. Still, you moved like always—silent, cautious, untrusting. The road had long since turned to cracked asphalt, and ahead, the jagged outline of a busted-down supermarket sat in a puddle of shadow.
That’s when you saw them.
A group. Five, maybe six. Faces half obscured by scarves and visors, silhouettes sharp with weapons and armor salvaged from every corner of the dead world. But what stopped you weren’t them. It was the wagons.
Stacked with crates. Full water jugs. Canned food. Tools. Blankets.
Like they’d hit a supply cache untouched by ruin. Or like they’d taken it from someone else.
Corpses littered the area around them, some still fresh—torn, gnawed, drained. Hollowed or not, it didn’t matter. Death always looked the same in the end.
Your grip tightened around your weapon. Instinct said walk away. But as you turned, your shoulders sinking back into the comfort of withdrawal, one of them looked up. And just like that, it was too late.
Their gaze locked with yours. No words. No movement. Just that slow, eerie stillness that always came before something broke.
Then another turned. Then another.
You backed up a step, foot crunching broken glass, and a voice finally cut through the tension—low, cautious, but not unkind.
“We’re not gonna hurt you,” the man said, palms raised, his voice rough from disuse but steady. “You look like hell.”
You said nothing, not yet. Let him speak. Let him reveal more than he meant to.
Another figure, smaller, leaned slightly to the side to get a better look at you. “Are you bitten?” they asked sharply, hand twitching toward their belt.
You shook your head once. “No.”
They didn’t lower their guard, but they didn’t raise their weapons either. The man who had spoken first gave you a nod and motioned toward the cart.
“We’ve got more than enough to share.” Too generous. Too fast.
You didn’t move. Your eyes scanned past them instead, and that’s when you saw it. One of the group—taller, hood drawn low—was spray-painting something on the supermarket’s crumbling outer wall. Bright crimson against grey concrete. The lines were careful. Precise. Rehearsed.
A sheep’s skull. Haloed in gold.
Your stomach turned.
You’d seen it before—on road signs, carved into abandoned homes, smeared in blood near old campsites. Some survivors called it a mark of safety. Others avoided it like plague.
From what you'd heard, it belonged to a group that called themselves The Sanctum—a so-called community, closed off from the infected zones, safe behind fortified gates and high walls. A place of peace. Of healing. Of rebirth.
They were said to take in lost souls and guide them back to something better. You’d heard whispers from strays, half-mad with hope or starvation, swearing they'd seen it. Touched it. Called it paradise. But even paradise had its price. And that symbol—it never looked like hope to you.
It looked like a warning. A brand.
And now it was fresh, bright, and drying in front of you.
They hadn’t just passed through. They were marking territory.
You swallowed hard, finally speaking.
“Where’d you get that symbol?”
The man blinked at you. Then smiled—slow, knowing.
“From the only place still worth living.”
And deep in your chest, something cold began to coil.
You didn’t reply. You just stared at the still-dripping symbol on the wall—the red too bright, too deliberate. The way it seemed to stare back at you.
The one who’d spoken stepped forward—not close enough to threaten, but enough to make his presence solid. “We’ve got clean water. Real beds. We’ve got medicine. Weapons, too. Things that work. It’s not like the stories. It’s better.”
He smiled like he meant it. Like he’d been saved.
“You won’t have to sleep with one eye open anymore. You won’t have to kill just to eat.”
You didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.
Another spoke up, this one softer, a woman with a pack slung over her shoulder and cracked lips. “You look like you’re running on nothing. You don’t have to keep doing this. Not alone.”
Still, you said nothing.
Because it was always like this—soft words, open palms, promises that felt too smooth. You’d seen how quick kindness could turn the second you stepped out of line. The world didn’t run on generosity anymore. It ran on leverage.
You didn’t care how gentle their voices were. No one offered peace without a price.
You adjusted your grip on your weapon and took a small step back, just enough to signal distance, not threat. Their eyes tracked the movement. Careful. Calm. Measured.
You were too tired to fight, but not tired enough to be pulled into something you couldn’t crawl out of.
Your gaze flicked back to the mark on the wall.
Some said it marked safe zones. Others said it was a warning. You weren’t sure what you believed anymore. But the more you saw it, the more it felt like a trail—and you didn’t like where it led. Especially not now, when it felt like it was starting to follow you.
The woman didn’t push. She just gave you a sad sort of smile, like she’d already buried the conversation in her head. You recognized that expression. You wore it often.
The group exchanged a few quiet words among themselves before the one in charge reached for the cart. He pulled out two water bottles and a vacuum-sealed ration pack, then set them gently on the ground a few feet from where you stood.
“Take it,” he said. “Even if you don’t come with us. Doesn’t mean you have to die thirsty.”
And then they left.
No pitch. No pressure. Just the soft crunch of boots and the fading creak of cart wheels as they disappeared down the road, leaving the symbol drying behind them like a stain.
You stared at the food they left behind. You didn’t touch it. Not yet.
The wind shifted.
You scanned the empty road, the skeletal buildings, the horizon bleeding with early light. No sound. No movement. Still, a prickle crawled down your spine, like something unseen had taken a step closer.
You exhaled slowly, hand still clenched around your weapon.
Then, without a word, you knelt and grabbed the food and water. Quick. Efficient. No time to hesitate—hesitation got people killed. You didn’t trust where it came from, but survival didn’t give room for pride. You’d gone longer on less.
The sun had risen higher now, climbing to its brutal peak, casting warped shadows across the crumbling streets. Heat shimmered against broken pavement. Dry air clung to your skin like dust.
Midday was a gift.
The Hollowed were slower in the light. Not blind, but weaker—dragging, twitching things that hated the sun, retreating into shadows and tunnels when the rays were at their brightest. You had a few good hours before the world shifted again, before the wind picked up and the sky turned that dead, yellow-grey that meant dusk was crawling in.
You kept walking.
Boots crunching glass. Backpack heavier with the weight of borrowed mercy. Eyes flicking to every rooftop, every alley, every unmoving silhouette in the distance that might be watching.
You didn’t head anywhere specific. There was no destination anymore—just forward. Always forward. Toward the next sliver of rest. But as you walked, something gnawed quietly at your thoughts.
The way the group hadn’t begged. Hadn’t pleaded. Like they knew something you didn’t. Like they weren’t really offering you a choice—just time.
And behind it all, that symbol. Still glowing in your mind, fresh and red like it had been burned into you. You’d seen it more and more lately. Always in places you were about to pass. Never places you’d already been. It felt too deliberate. Too much like a trail laid just for you.
A pattern carved into the ruins.
Once or twice, you’d tried to backtrack—turn around, veer off-course, take paths through tighter alleyways or over rooftops where the Hollowed wouldn't follow. But no matter how far you veered, how carefully you moved, the mark always reappeared. On old cars. On collapsed walls. Carved into the bark of dead trees with a precision that made your skin crawl.
It never looked rushed. Never smeared. It looked prepared. As if someone knew the direction you’d take before you did. At first, you told yourself it was coincidence. Or superstition. The human brain finding patterns in the chaos just to feel something.
But the human brain also knew when it was being watched.
And lately… you felt it. That itch just beneath your skin. That sensation—fleeting, maddening—like someone was always just behind you, just out of sight. The kind of feeling that didn’t go away when you turned around. It only settled deeper in your spine.
But it was crazy. You were going crazy, right? There was no one out here. No footsteps but yours, no shadows that didn’t belong to dead trees or crumbling buildings. Just silence. Endless, suffocating silence.
You told yourself that again and again as you walked. There’s no one here. There’s no one watching. There’s no one waiting for you to slip. But the thought never stuck for long. Because sometimes the wind carried things it shouldn't. A hum. A scrape. A soft shuffle that didn’t belong to your steps. Once, you swore you heard someone breathing in the same room. You held your breath, frozen behind a broken fridge, heart thudding so hard you thought it would give you away.
But there was nothing. Always nothing. Just your reflection in shattered glass, eyes hollowed by hunger and paranoia.
You started questioning everything. Did you leave that door open? Did you really use that last bullet, or did someone take one while you slept? Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe the infection didn’t need to bite you to rot your mind.
You thought about speaking. Out loud. Just once. Just to hear your own voice and remind yourself it was still yours.
But you didn’t. Because if something was out there… you didn’t want to let it know you were afraid. You didn’t want to give it the satisfaction of hearing you crack.
So you stayed silent. Kept walking. And tried to pretend you weren’t already unraveling. Even though every day, it felt a little less like you were alone, and a little more like something was walking just a step behind. Waiting for you to stop. To rest. To give up.
You didn’t see any of the Sanctum members again, not for a few weeks, at least.
By then, you’d moved through two towns and a stretch of hollowed farmland, surviving off scavenged water, dried meat, and whatever luck hadn’t run dry. You didn’t think about them anymore. You told yourself they were just another strange group in a world full of strange people. You had passed. They had left. That should’ve been the end of it.
It wasn’t.
You were scavenging a dead mall on the outskirts of a collapsed city when it happened. The place had already been picked over years ago, but you still moved quiet, cautious—always check the corners, always look up, always keep your blade out.
There had been a few stray Hollowed inside. Twitchy ones. Slow. You’d killed them quickly—no hesitation, no wasted motion. They dropped like they always did. Easier than breathing.
But to your disappointment, the mall didn’t have much left. Some loose ammo in a locked case you couldn’t pry open, a few crumbling shelves, half-rotted snacks that would make you sicker than the Hollowed ever could. Another dead building full of dust and ghosts.
You were about to move on when you heard it.
Gunfire. Sharp, rapid, controlled.
It wasn’t far—maybe two floors below. You froze, instinct kicking in, and slipped behind the broken glass counter of what used to be a jewelry store, eyes locked on the entrance, heart thudding once, then steady.
Then silence.
You waited. Watched.
And just as you peeked through a broken display, movement caught your eye, figures moving between the escalators and smashed storefronts. Six of them. Same group.
Their silhouettes were unmistakable—patched armor, carts in tow, confident strides. One of them stopped to spray something onto a wall near a pile of Hollowed corpses. Red paint. Familiar shape.
The skull. The halo.
Sanctum.
They hadn’t seen you. Not yet.
You counted their weapons. Noted the distance. You could leave. You should leave. But still, you stayed behind the counter a moment longer, breath tight in your throat.
They didn’t move like they were in danger. They moved like they owned the place. Confident. Unbothered. One of them—tall, wide-shouldered—gave a dramatic bow to an invisible crowd before pretending to wrestle a Hollowed corpse for laughs. Another laughed and kicked over a display case, glass crunching under their boots.
Goofing off. Loud. Careless.
But not all of them.
You watched the group start to split—three staying near the center, two drifting to opposite wings of the mall, their steps quieter, eyes scanning the upper floors. You told yourself they wouldn’t find you. You were tucked in deep, crouched behind a busted counter, shadows cloaking most of your figure. You’d done this before. Survived worse.
So you waited. Breath held. Fingers wrapped tight around the grip of your blade.
And that’s when you felt it. That same prickling crawl down your spine. Like someone was already there.
You turned—
And your blood froze.
One of them stood a few feet away. Quiet. Still.
You hadn’t heard them approach. Not a footstep. Not a breath. They just… appeared, like they’d been standing there the whole time, watching. Their mask covered their face—smooth, featureless, like porcelain carved to erase identity. The gold markings were faint in the low light, but you saw the halo etched along the forehead.
A Sanctum sentinel.
They didn’t raise their weapon. Didn’t speak. Just tilted their head, slow and deliberate, like you were something fascinating. Something expected.
You rose quickly, weapon up and aimed at his chest, finger hovering just above the trigger. The movement was instinctual—fast, sharp, practiced. You didn’t need to think about it anymore. Survival had long since become muscle memory.
But he didn’t flinch. Matter of fact, he didn’t move at all. Just stared at you through that blank, expressionless mask, head still tilted, body still relaxed—like the gun in your hands didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter. Or maybe… like he knew you wouldn’t pull the trigger.
And then you heard it. Boots. Soft, scuffing. Surrounding you.
You didn’t have to turn. You felt them before you saw them. That subtle shift in the air, the slight pressure of eyes digging into your back. You swallowed and finally glanced to your left—another figure stood a few feet away, gun slung low, not aimed. Another to your right, leaning lazily against the wall. One behind you—close enough to hear them breathe.
They hadn’t chased you. They hadn’t shouted. They had simply closed in. As if they’d planned this. As if they’d been waiting for this moment all along. And you—so careful, so used to staying two steps ahead—hadn’t even noticed the circle tightening until it was already closed.
Still, you kept your weapon up.
The one in front of you tilted their head back the other way, slow and deliberate, then finally spoke—voice low, muffled by the mask but clear enough to make the hairs on your arms rise.
“You’ve been walking for a long time.”
You said nothing.
He took a step forward—not threatening. Not fast. Just… steady. “You look tired.” Another step. “You don’t have to keep running.”
Your jaw clenched. You adjusted your grip.
Another voice spoke behind you, softer, almost amused. “They always act like this at first. Like they think they’re still alone.”
Your heart hammered in your chest.
They hadn’t touched you. They hadn’t even raised their weapons. But somehow, it felt like they already had you. They didn’t touch you. Didn’t force you. Just kept talking. Little things.
“We have food. Real food.”
“You don’t have to sleep with a blade in your hand anymore.”
“There’s hot water. Blankets. Walls.”
“You won’t have to fight every single day just to breathe.”
And gods, they said it gently. Soft and measured, like a lullaby worn down from repetition. Like they’d done this before. So many times before.
Your grip on your weapon stayed firm, but your arms… didn’t.
You were so tired. The kind of tired that went deeper than bone.
The kind that lived in your thoughts, your silence, your hollowed-out nights. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten something warm. The last time your shoulders didn’t ache from sleeping against concrete. The last time someone spoke to you like you were human.
You told yourself this was a trick. You knew it was a trick.
But when one of them handed you a canteen—extended it without a word, no demand, no smile—you didn’t knock it away.
You drank.
And when someone else passed you a sealed ration bar, you didn’t question what might be in it. You ate. Slowly. Eyes still scanning their masks, their hands, their formation.
You were still afraid. But the hunger was louder. So was the ache.
When they turned to leave, they didn’t invite you. They didn’t gesture or coax or wait. They just walked—quiet, steady, purposeful.
And before you realized what you were doing, you were following.
One step. Then another. Weapon still in your hand, but heavy now. More like habit than threat. No one spoke again.
And as the sun dipped lower across the ruined mall’s shattered skylight, your shadow joined theirs. Long and silent and already forgotten by the person you used to be. After all, you were human. And the promise of constant shelter—of something stable, something soft—was too tempting. Not just walls and rations and hot water. But people. Voices that didn’t scream or beg. Laughter, even if it didn’t quite reach their eyes.
You hadn’t heard laughter in months.
You told yourself you’d just stay the night. Eat. Rest. Keep your distance. You’d leave in the morning, maybe the day after. Before they could dig their claws in.
So you followed them.
Through wrecked streets and collapsed intersections. Past bloodstained buildings, half-collapsed churches, the twisted remnants of lives long abandoned. Through alleys lined with corpses too decayed to rise again, and others too fresh to have a story.
You didn’t ask where you were going. Just followed. They knew the way. You didn’t.
They moved like they’d walked this path a hundred times, steps falling in rhythm, even their silence coordinated. The carts rolled behind them without a sound, like even the wheels had been trained not to betray a single creak.
None of them spoke to you, but none of them ignored you either. One would occasionally glance back—check that you were still there, still walking, still breathing. Another handed you a protein bar without a word. You took it. Ate it. Didn't say thank you.
You weren’t sure how many hours passed after that. Time slipped strange when you weren’t actively running for your life. Just walking. Just following.
Eventually, the ruins thinned out. The bones of the city gave way to dense, overgrown wilderness. Roots cracked through asphalt. Trees swallowed road signs. The deeper you went, the quieter it got—no wind, no birds, no Hollowed. Just the rhythmic crunch of boots on dirt and gravel, and the occasional low murmur of a private conversation you weren’t invited into.
And then you saw it.
Massive walls, reinforced and welded from scavenged steel and concrete slabs. Watchtowers. Armed guards. Floodlights hidden high in the trees. Everything camouflaged to blend with the forest—almost invisible unless you were led to it.
A fortress.
The gates didn’t open with a creak or groan. They opened smoothly.
Silently. Like they’d been expecting you.
And on the other side—
Warmth. Light. Life.
A courtyard filled with the hum of voices and quiet laughter. Makeshift homes built from reclaimed wood and salvaged sheet metal. Lanterns strung between rooftops. People—real people—walking, tending to gardens, repairing walls, passing food and water like the world hadn’t ended years ago.
A woman smiled at you as you passed. A child waved. Someone handed one of your escorts a bundle of cloth—clothing, you realized. Clean. Folded. Fresh. The contrast was dizzying. Too perfect. Too calm. You paused just inside the gates, staring. Disoriented. Suspicious. You had prepared yourself for violence, for control, for something sharp and bloody waiting behind their eerie masks.
You hadn’t prepared for a welcome.
A man passed by carrying a basket of bread and paused beside you, offering a kind smile. “You’re safe now,” he said gently. “You’re home.”
The word made your stomach twist. Home. You hadn’t heard anyone say it in months, not since the world went silent and survival became your only language. It sounded too soft now. Too intimate. Like a hand brushing against something you didn’t know you still protected.
You didn’t respond. Just nodded stiffly and kept your hands near your weapon out of habit, even though no one here looked like they wanted to hurt you.
They all looked… grateful. Like they believed in something. Like they belonged. That was what unsettled you most. Not the guards. Not the walls. The people. They weren’t afraid. They weren’t hardened. They smiled like they had nothing to run from anymore.
And as your guide led you deeper into the compound, past fire pits and neatly stacked supplies, the strange stillness of it all began to settle in your chest like dust. Everything was too orderly. Too quiet. Like a place that had forgotten what fear was.
Your footsteps echoed softer here, swallowed by the sound of distant murmurs and crackling fire. You passed more people—smiling, nodding, carrying baskets of food or tools or folded clothing. All of them looked at you not like a stranger, but like someone expected.
Eventually, a woman joined your side. Older, draped in robes stitched with gold thread, her steps unhurried, her expression calm. She walked close but not too close, her presence practiced, like she’d greeted a thousand others before you. “He’ll want to see you soon,” she said.
Your eyes narrowed. “Who’s he?”
She turned her head slightly, smiling like it was the easiest answer in the world. “Our leader. Our savior.”
You stopped walking.
She did too, as if she’d been waiting for the pause. Her gaze never wavered. “He built all of this,” she said. “Sanctum was nothing before him. Just ash and fear. He gave us purpose. Gave us peace. We’re safe because of him. Alive because of him.”
You stared at her, trying to read beneath the kindness in her voice. Trying to find the cracks. “And what does he want with me?”
She tilted her head, expression softening. “He saw you. Long before you ever saw us. He’ll explain everything when the time is right.”
Her hand reached out—not touching, just hovering slightly above your arm. “You’ve been wandering for so long. You deserve to stop running.”
You didn’t answer.
Something in her voice made your stomach twist—sweet, rehearsed, full of belief so deep it had hardened into fact. Not a lie. Not a threat. Just truth, as they knew it.
She didn't press you further. No one did. They just kept moving, and you followed, eyes flicking to every corner of the compound, every exit, every pair of eyes that lingered on you a moment too long.
You were shown the gardens first, rows of crops surprisingly healthy for the world outside. Then the sleeping quarters, where cots were lined in perfect rows, personal belongings tucked neatly beneath. The kitchens, where a large metal pot simmered with something warm and rich-smelling. Children played in the distance, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. It didn’t feel real.
Too quiet. Too clean. Too controlled.
They spoke gently as they walked you through, their words full of kindness. But no one answered your unspoken questions. No one explained the symbols on the walls. No one talked about the outside.
Eventually, they led you to a separate building tucked into the hillside. Reinforced steel and concrete framed the entrance, half-swallowed by moss and roots. A bunker. Guarded, sealed—different from everything else you’d seen.
The robed woman paused beside it, then keyed in a code without hesitation. The door hissed open, heavy and cold, and you stepped into something else entirely.
No warmth here.
The air was cooler. Thicker. The walls were smooth, sterile. Too intact for something built in a crumbling world. You moved past flickering overhead lights, the buzz of old generators humming beneath the floor.
To your left was a wall lined with weapons. Cleaned, arranged, and locked in place. Guns, knives, even tasers and modified tech you hadn’t seen since before the fall.
To your right was a single secure door. Reinforced, sealed tight with biometric locks. No handle. No keypad. Just a smooth black panel that pulsed faintly.
And in the center of the room—
A chair. No, not just a chair. A throne.
Raised slightly off the ground, forged from repurposed steel. The back curved high, arching over like it was meant to crown whoever sat there. Not built for comfort. Built to be seen. The kind of seat no one dared to occupy unless they’d already convinced the world they belonged in it. The kind of seat that didn’t invite people to kneel—it commanded them.
Even empty, it filled the room.
And then—
a sound behind you. Soft. Measured. Like a boot scraping lightly across the floor. You turned fast, weapon instinctively half-lifted—
and froze.
A figure stood just inside the doorway. Tall. Broad shoulders wrapped in a long, dark cloak that dragged slightly across the concrete. The hood was pulled low, casting the face in shadow. Stillness clung to him like a second skin. He said nothing, did nothing—just stood there.
Watching.
Your breath caught. Muscles tensed, body ready to spring—
until he moved.
Not toward you. Past you. He walked right by, unbothered by your weapon, your tension, your presence. Like you were already a part of this place. Already his. Then, without pause, he stepped up onto the raised platform and sank down into the throne—long legs stretching out in front of him, one arm slung lazily over the armrest, the other resting against his knee, fingers curled loosely.
A picture of effortless dominance. Relaxed. Unshakeable.
And then—slowly—he raised his hands and pulled back the hood.
Your breath hitched.
Dark hair framed a sharp face—angular jaw, defined nose, full lips that looked like they hadn’t smiled in years but could ruin you with one if they tried. His eyes, deep and dark, swept up and down your body slowly.
Evaluating.
Like he was reading your history without asking a single question. Like he already knew the answers. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked at you, gaze settling somewhere just below your collarbone, then back up to your eyes. And then he spoke—low, calm, smooth as silk with an edge that made your skin prickle.
“So,” he said. “You finally made it.”
His voice was deeper than you expected. Steady. Certain. It filled the space like the throne had. He leaned back slightly, one hand tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. “I’m Heeseung,” he said simply. “Leader of Sanctum.”
A pause.
“Or, if you prefer…” His lips curved, just slightly. “Your new beginning.”
The words sat heavy in the air, too knowing. You didn’t answer—just stared, trying to piece together the disconnect between everything you’d heard, everything you'd feared, and the man now lounging before you like this was all already decided.
His presence filled every inch of the room. Not loud. Not aggressive. But settled—like he owned the floor beneath your feet and was waiting for you to realize it.
His gaze lingered on you, slow and unreadable. “You look tired,” he said, not unkindly. “Starved, actually.” He gestured casually to the empty space before his throne, like he was inviting you to sit—not beside him, not across from him. Below.
You didn’t move.
Heeseung tilted his head slightly, studying your silence. “You know, most people try to act braver than they are when they first meet me,” he mused. “But not you. You already know what this is, don’t you?”
His voice was soft, but there was weight behind it. A pull. Something in the cadence that made your spine straighten even as your instincts screamed to turn and run.
But where?
Back into the wasteland?
Back to empty nights, hollowed screams, and the ghost of his voice already buried in your dreams?
No.
That part of your life had ended the second you stepped through those gates.
“You’ve been walking alone for so long,” Heeseung said, almost gently now. “Fighting for scraps. Running from things you don’t even believe you deserve.” He leaned back again, legs still sprawled, arms resting like he had all the time in the world. “You don’t have to do that anymore,” he said. “I can give you purpose. Safety. Devotion.”
Then—just a beat, barely above a whisper: “Obedience.”
Your jaw tensed, fingers twitching at your sides. But you still hadn’t stepped back. Still hadn’t spoken.
Heeseung smiled again, slow and dangerous. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Sanctum doesn’t break what it loves.” Then his gaze sharpened—subtle, almost imperceptible, but you felt it in your chest like a blade pressed flat. Not piercing. Just there. Waiting. Testing how long you could stand still beneath it.
You didn’t speak. The weight of him—his voice, his presence, that throne like a stage designed only for him—was already pressing down, slow and steady. And he hadn’t even touched you.
Heeseung leaned forward again, hands clasped loosely between his knees, and this time, when he looked at you, it was different.
Hungrier.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re still telling yourself this is temporary. Just a place to rest. Somewhere to take from before disappearing again.” He let that hang in the air. “But that’s not why you’re here.”
You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe just to breathe—but he held up a hand, fingers relaxed, commanding stillness with nothing more than a gesture.
“You didn’t come for food. Or safety. Or shelter.” He stood then, rising from the throne like gravity didn’t quite apply to him. Every movement was precise, restrained, like he was capable of so much more but didn’t need to show it. Not yet.
He stepped down from the platform. His boots echoed once, then again. Each footfall sounded like finality. “You came,” he said, voice lowering, “because something in you was already breaking.” Another step. “And you wanted someone to notice.” He stopped in front of you—close enough to feel his heat, but not close enough to touch.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your hand hovered near your weapon, fingers twitching—but he didn’t flinch. Just watched. Patient. Amused.
“You’ve been surviving,” he murmured, gaze still locked on yours. “But you’ve never belonged. Not anywhere. Not to anyone.” He let the silence stretch, let the words fester where they hit. “Until now.”
He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth curved—not into a smile, but into something older. Deeper. A knowing carved into bone.
Then, softly—so soft it barely felt like a command at all: “Come. Join us.” Not shouted. Not barked. Offered. Gently. Like he already knew you would. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the terrifying part? It felt like it was.
You didn’t move. But you didn’t step back either. Something in you was shifting. Not broken, not yet—but bending. Quietly, slowly, without resistance.
Heeseung’s gaze flicked to your fingers—still near your weapon—and he let out the faintest breath of a laugh. “You’re still deciding,” he said. “That’s fine. I like watching people come to conclusions on their own.” He leaned in, brushing a thumb gently across a smudge of dirt on your cheek. Just a touch. Barely anything. But it stole the air from your lungs. “You don’t have to live like that anymore,” he whispered. “Not if you choose me.” He straightened, eyes burning steady and low. “I offer you peace,” he said. “Not chains.” Then, after a beat—quieter, sharper, more honest: “Unless that’s what you want.”
And in the thick silence that followed, something inside you cracked—not shattered, not screamed, just shifted.
Like the first soft crumble before the cliff gives way. And you realized..
He wasn’t just waiting for you to fall.
He was pulling you down.
You stayed.
One day turned into two. Two turned into five.
The food was good—real. The beds weren’t just cots; they were warm, layered with thick blankets. You worked hard, trying not to draw attention. Tasks were simple: hauling supplies, sorting rations, tending to the gardens or cleaning the communal spaces.
People treated you well. Smiled. Nodded. Spoke to you like you belonged. You learned names. Faces. Patterns. You kept your head down. Stayed useful. Stayed quiet. And maybe it would’ve stayed that way, if not for one thing.
At first, you didn’t notice it. You were too tired. Too focused on earning your place, avoiding Heeseung’s gaze when it lingered too long, ignoring how your name seemed to already be known by people you hadn’t met. But eventually… you realized something strange.
Every night, around the same time—just after dinner, when the fires were dying down and most people retreated into their homes—the compound would start to feel… wrong. Too quiet. Not like sleep. Not like rest.
Empty.
At first you thought it was just coincidence. People turning in early. A long workday. You shrugged it off—until you noticed it happening every night, like clockwork. Around 11.
By 11:03, the paths were empty.
By 11:10, the lanterns were dimmed.
By 11:15… it was like the entire compound had vanished.
You started watching from your window. Counted heads at dinner, tracked movements. And then you realized—people weren’t in their homes. They weren’t sleeping.
They were gone. Every night. And always in the same direction. Toward the bunker. The one carved into the hillside. The one no one ever mentioned unless Heeseung wanted them to. The one with a sealed door and a dark pulse behind it.
You tried to ignore it. You told yourself it wasn’t your business. That you'd seen worse in the outside world. But something about it… gnawed at you. So you waited one night. Stayed out late. Hid behind one of the garden walls, breath shallow, heart thudding. And you saw them. Not all at once. Not in a line. But in twos and threes, slipping silently into the trees, toward the reinforced door. Robes pulled tight. Heads bowed.
No one spoke. No one looked up. They just disappeared into the bunker, swallowed one by one into its mouth of steel and stone.
You stayed frozen, watching until the last figure passed through.
And then you were alone. Truly alone.
The compound—so full of life by day—was nothing more than an echo at night. And that door? It stayed closed until morning.
You tried to let it go. Tried to tell yourself that whatever happened behind it wasn’t your concern. You weren’t a follower. You weren’t theirs. But curiosity had a way of becoming hunger, and hunger never stayed quiet for long.
The whispers you’d heard from other survivors before you’d arrived—rumors of Sanctum, of what they did behind locked doors—began to churn in your mind like rot. You remembered what they’d said in low, terrified voices: “It’s not a safe haven. It’s a trap with gold-painted walls.”
And maybe you should’ve believed them.
But you were too curious for your own good.
One night, when the last fire had burned down and the last footsteps faded into the trees, you acted. You slipped into the shadows, heart hammering as you crept to one of the drying lines and plucked a robe off its peg—plain and soft, stitched with the Sanctum symbol over the back. It was looser than you'd expected, smelled faintly of ash and something sweeter, something strange.
You pulled the hood over your head and made your way toward the bunker. No one stopped you. No one looked. As if the compound itself had already accepted your trespass. The bunker door opened without resistance. Inside, the air was colder. Still. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to sleep, but to something waiting.
The throne room stood just as you remembered it—dimly lit, humming low with unseen power. The throne itself sat empty, looming. But your attention snapped to the far side of the room, where the sealed door was now open. Just a sliver. But open.
You didn’t hesitate.
You stepped through.
The air beyond was different. Closer. And what waited wasn’t another room—it was a maze. Corridors stretching in every direction. Doors. Hallways. Turns that led to more turns. Some paths narrowed so tightly you had to twist sideways to pass. Others opened into long, yawning corridors of concrete and silence.
You walked. And walked. And walked.
Dead ends. Rooms that looked like storage but held nothing but dust and claw marks along the walls. Other doors led to mirrors. Some to nothing at all. More than once, you turned a corner and found yourself right back where you’d started. It didn’t make sense. The building shouldn’t have been this big. This deep.
The air began to feel heavier. Warmer. Like breath on the back of your neck. Still, you didn’t stop. Because the deeper you went, the more it felt like something was leading you. Like a pull, but not the kind that came from fear. The kind that came from fate.
You turned one last corner and froze.
An open door.
Dim, flickering light spilled out into the hallway, casting long shadows that swayed like breathing things. You stepped forward, soundless, heart clawing at your ribs as you leaned just close enough to see—
There they were. The people.
Rows of them, seated in silence, hoods up, backs straight on long wooden benches facing a stone altar at the far end of the room. The air was thick with incense and devotion, suffocating and warm. Candles lined the walls, wax dripping like blood over rusted sconces.
And there—at the altar—stood Heeseung.
He was no longer cloaked. He wore black, tailored to fit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. The top few buttons undone, revealing the delicate line of his collarbones, a thin chain resting against his throat. His voice filled the room—not loud, but commanding. Smooth. Rhythmic.
“…We were given chance after chance. Warnings dressed as disasters. Fire. Flood. Famine. And still, humanity worshipped itself.” He turned slightly, pacing the front of the room like a preacher before a pulpit. “So the sickness came. Not a punishment,” he continued, tone reverent, “but a correction. A sacred undoing.”
Your breath stilled in your chest.
He raised a hand slowly, gesturing out as he spoke. “The virus stripped away the illusion. Turned man into hollow flesh—reminders that without humility, without order, without faith—we are nothing more than meat.”
The room stayed silent. Not a shuffle. Not a cough. Only rapt, devoted stillness. And that was when it hit you.
This wasn’t sanctuary.
This wasn’t salvation.
This was a cult.
You felt it in the pit of your stomach, cold and sinking. It was one thing to hear the rumors, another to see it, to feel the weight of worship pressed into every breath of this place.
Because they weren’t just listening to him. They were following him. Believing him. Loving him.
Heeseung—beautiful, terrifying, divine—wasn’t a leader.
He was their God.
And in that moment, you knew you had to leave. Now.
You took one step back. Barely a shift of weight on your heel. Ready to melt back into the shadows, pretend you were never there—
Then his voice rang out again. Only this time, it wasn’t to them.
It was to you. “And look…” His voice curled through the air like silk, low and warm and sweet with something wrong. “…my newest sheep has found their way home.”
You froze. Eyes wide. The room was still, every head turned in your direction, as if his words had snapped them into a new position. Like puppets pulled by the string of his voice.
“I was starting to wonder,” he continued, stepping down from the altar, his steps unhurried, deliberate, “how long you’d keep pretending you didn’t feel it. That pull. That ache to be seen.”
You backed up another step. But it was too late.
Hands grabbed you from behind. Two figures—hooded, strong, silent. You thrashed, elbowed, kicked, teeth bared, panic curling through your chest like smoke. “Don’t touch me—! Get the fuck off—!”
But nothing deterred them. They didn’t even speak. They just moved like they knew this dance well, like they'd done this before.
You were dragged forward, heels scraping the ground.
“Bring her here,” Heeseung said smoothly.
And they did.
In one breathless moment, they shoved you down. Your knees hit the cold floor hard. A sharp pain shot up your legs as your wrists were yanked behind you, bound in rough cord that bit into your skin.
The hood fell back. Exposed. Vulnerable. Kneeling.
And before you could spit another curse, your eyes rose and met his.
Heeseung stood before you, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly in quiet amusement. Like this was funny to him. Like this had been the plan all along, looking down at you like a king before a sacrifice. Or a god before a gift. Amused. Pleased. Hungry.
He stepped forward, the soft clink of his boots the only sound in the room, until he stood just above you. A shadow swallowed in candlelight. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he murmured, voice curling over the sharp edges of your fear. “Even the lost always find their way back to me.” His gaze swept over you slowly—leisurely—taking in your face, your clenched jaw, the flush of rage and shame blooming across your skin.
His eyes lingered at your throat, then down further, tongue running briefly along the inside of his cheek like he was savoring the way you looked on your knees.
You wanted to scream. To lunge. To spit in his face. But your wrists were bound. Your pride was burning. And his presence was everywhere.
He suddenly knelt down, one knee nearly brushing yours, and his fingers came up to tilt your chin, firm but not harsh. Just enough to make it clear: he was in control. Always had been. “You’re angry,” he said, as if it delighted him. “Good. It means there’s still a little of the outside left in you.” He leaned in, so close his breath grazed your lips, warm and patient and possessive. “But don’t worry. Sanctum will fix that.”
The room was still deathly quiet behind you. You could feel all their eyes. The congregation. His flock. Watching. Not with pity. Not with judgment. With expectation. As if this was a ceremony. And you were the offering.
“You thought you were just passing through,” he whispered, thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. “That you could walk in, take what you needed, and leave.” His smile widened just enough to show teeth. “But sheep don’t leave the flock. They come home.”
He let go of your chin at last and rose to his full height, looking down on you like you were a thing he’d already claimed, just waiting for the rest of you to realize it. “You think you’re different,” he murmured, circling you slowly now, his voice smooth. “But all sheep stray. And all sheep bleed the same when they resist.” He paused behind you. “And before they can serve the flock… they must be molded.”
A soft metallic click.
“Trained.”
You barely had time to flinch before something cool slid around your neck, a band of supple leather that cinched snug, but not choking. Just enough to remind you.
You jerked in shock, but the collar had already been secured.
Black. Smooth. Slim. At the front, where your throat rose and fell too fast, a single ornament glittered under the candlelight, a delicate heart-shaped jewel, small and glassy, mocking in its gentleness.
Your stomach turned.
Then—
Another sound. A clasp. A leash.
And before you could twist away, the slack was pulled taut. You gasped as the collar tugged tight against your throat, your body jolting forward just an inch—but enough. Enough for him to lean in, fingers still on the leash, knuckles brushing your jaw as he spoke.
“See?” he murmured. “Already closer.”
Your bound hands tightened into fists behind your back. “Get the fuck off me!” you spat, rage and panic pouring from your throat. “You’re sick—you're fucking insane—” But before you could finish, a cloth was shoved into your mouth—soft, thick, gagging you mid-curse. You tried to shake free, but it was knotted fast, rough fingers behind you securing it without a word. You writhed, every inch of you burning with defiance and humiliation.
Heeseung only smiled, tipping your chin up, forcing your teary, furious eyes to meet his. “There it is,” he whispered. “That fire.” His thumb stroked the jewel at your throat like it was something sacred. “Don’t worry. I’ll tame it.” He stepped back, leash still coiled in his hand. “And when you kneel for me next time…” His smile deepened, slow and certain. “You’ll do it because you want to.”
Your breathing was ragged behind the gag, jaw aching from how hard you were clenching it. The collar bit softly against your skin every time you moved, a silent, constant reminder. You pulled against the line between you and him, but Heeseung didn’t even flinch.
He simply stood there—serene, patient—like he’d already won. And in a way, he had. Not because you’d given in. But because he knew you wouldn’t last forever.
He tugged lightly on the leash again, dragging you forward one more step until you were kneeling directly between his legs. You glared up at him, eyes burning with fury and something else—something shakier.
You hated that your body betrayed you. That even now, with the gag in your mouth and the collar snug around your neck, your pulse still jumped beneath his gaze.
And worse—he saw it.
Still seated, still composed, Heeseung reached out and curled the leash tighter in his hand, drawing the slack in slowly until your neck strained upward to keep the pressure from cutting deeper.
Then he turned—casually, as if this wasn’t a performance—as if your kneeling body wasn’t posed like a centerpiece before his altar.
He faced the congregation again.
“As I was saying,” he began, voice smooth and reverent, “humans were given everything. Freedom. Choice. And what did they do with it?”
He glanced down at you—just briefly—but the weight of that look scorched down your spine like heat from a fire too close.
“They built empires of greed. Worshiped flesh. Spat in the face of grace.”
You struggled again. A twist of your shoulders. A jerk of your wrists behind your back. But your bindings held firm, and the moment you shifted forward—
Snap.
The leash tugged tight.
You choked, breath stuttering against the cloth in your mouth as your head jerked back, throat catching under the pressure of the collar.
Heeseung didn’t even pause.
“But the virus… the virus was a blessing. A cleansing.”
Your knees scraped the stone floor as you writhed again, desperately trying to lean back, to shift away from the humiliating position between his legs. But the leash yanked again, sharper this time, dragging you flush against him.
A hum of amusement left his throat. Low. Quiet. Just for you.
“Some of us were chosen to remain untouched,” he said, addressing the room, but his hand came down then, resting heavy atop your head, fingers threading through your hair like a benediction. Like a claim. “To lead. To guide.”
Your breath came fast through your nose, jaw clenched as you refused to look up—even as his grip tightened ever so slightly, encouraging.
“You all have your roles,” he said, stroking his thumb over the crown of your skull. “And this one…” His voice dipped, soft and intimate. “…was made for something greater.”
A shudder ran through you. Not from fear. From how much you hated that tiny flicker deep in your chest, the one that wanted to understand what he meant. The one that needed to know why it felt like you were sinking into something bigger than yourself. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. Just confusion. But the warmth crawling under your skin didn’t feel like panic. It felt like recognition.
Heeseung’s hand still rested on your head, firm and unyielding. Not cruel—just present. Just there. Like he knew what that flicker meant. Like he’d been waiting for it to take root. “Even now,” he said quietly, not to the room anymore, but to you, “your body is starting to understand what your pride can’t.”
Your fists clenched behind your back. You shook your head as much as the leash allowed, trying to pull away, to deny him the satisfaction.
His grip on your hair tightened, gently but with warning. “You want to run,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly kind. “But you came here. You put on the robe. You stepped into my sanctuary. And now you found your way to your knees.”
You whimpered through the gag, a guttural sound filled with rage and denial, and the smallest, sickest trace of something you couldn’t name.
Desire?
No. You refused that. Bit down on it until it bled.
But Heeseung only smiled, tilting your head upward with the leash so your eyes met his. And there it was again. That pull. Not magnetic. Not tender. Inevitable.
“You don’t need to understand yet,” he said softly, reverently. “You just need to stay. Let go. Let yourself be led.” He traced a finger along the edge of your jaw, his touch light and reverent—like he wasn’t punishing you, but preparing you. Like you weren’t being broken down. You were being reborn.
Behind you, the congregation remained silent. Watching. Waiting. Like witnesses to a ritual that hadn’t yet finished.
Like they knew—
This was only the beginning.
And deep in your chest, that flicker—that cursed, trembling flicker—burned brighter.
They locked you away after that.
A cold, windowless cell somewhere beneath the compound—far enough from the others that your screams wouldn’t echo through the halls. You couldn’t tell how deep underground it was. Couldn’t count the days. You were chained at the ankles, wrists bound to the headboard of the narrow bed. Gagged. Blindfolded.
Time lost all shape like that.
You heard footsteps sometimes but no one ever spoke. No one ever opened the door.
Except him.
Heeseung.
You always knew when it was him.
Not from sound—his steps were too careful. Not from scent, though sometimes he carried that familiar trace of smoke and earth and something darker. You knew it was him because your body knew.
Something in your chest tightened the moment the air changed. Like the room recognized him before your mind could. Like your skin had learned his presence by instinct.
He’d enter silently. Close the door. And then his voice would cut through the dark like silk drawn across a blade.
“Are you ready to be good for me today?”
You flinched every time. Not because it startled you. Because it didn’t. But because part of you hated how relieved you felt hearing him speak.
And then he’d begin.
The testing.
Simple things at first. Commands spoken low beside your ear.
"Lift your head."
"Open your mouth."
"Say yes, even if you can’t speak it."
If you obeyed, he rewarded you. Cool water tipped gently to your lips.
Food, real food—soft bread, warm broth. His fingers stroking along your jaw after, murmuring, “Good. That’s my girl.”
But when you resisted—when your head shook or your body tensed—he punished you.
Not always with pain.
Sometimes it was silence. Leaving you bound and aching with nothing but your heartbeat and the drip of water behind the walls to keep you company.
Other times, it was worse.
His voice would sharpen, his grip firm but never violent—controlled. Always in control. A slap against your thigh. Teeth against your shoulder. The twist of your hair as he bent you forward and made you listen. Until you trembled. Until you cried. Until your body surrendered even when your mind still screamed.
And after?
After came the worship.
His voice soft again. Hands gentler. Brushing across your stomach. Your thighs. The curve of your back like you were something sacred.
“You take it so well,” he’d whisper, mouth against your skin. “Even when you think you don’t want it.”
He never undid the blindfold. He never let you see him. But you felt him. Every inch. Every breath. Every praise muttered like prayer as his fingers pressed into your hips, or his lips mapped a trail up your throat.
It was maddening.
Mind-numbing.
It didn’t feel real. And yet, it was the only thing that felt real. No time. No sun. No world outside the cell. Just the sound of his voice. The taste of his approval. The pain when you resisted. The worship when you broke.
That was your world now.
And Heeseung knew it.
Every time he returned, he took a little more from you, but not with violence.
With care. With consistency. With soft words, slow touches, warm food placed at your lips when you were too weak to lift your head.
“I hate seeing you like this,” he’d murmur one night, thumb stroking gently across your cheek. “But you do this to yourself, you know. You push. You run. And look where it brings you—right back to me.”
You shook your head, gagged and silent, but he just smiled.
“Shh, shh,” he soothed, brushing his knuckles down the curve of your jaw. “I know it’s hard. But we’re getting there. You’re almost ready.”
Ready for what, he never said. And maybe that was the worst part. Because the longer you stayed like this—bound, blindfolded, stripped of time and identity—the more your mind twisted around the silence between his words. Your thoughts ran in circles, trying to fill in the blanks.
Ready to be released? Ready to kneel? Ready to break completely?
You didn’t know. And he never rushed.
Heeseung was careful with you. Meticulous. Every visit was deliberate—measured touches, chosen words, like he was sculpting you piece by piece. He broke you down slowly, kindly, until you could no longer tell the difference between his cruelty and his care.
“You’ve come so far,” he whispered once, as he fed you water from his fingertips. “The first night, you bit me. Do you remember that?”
You flinched.
“I liked it,” he added with a quiet laugh. “But I like this more.” His hand cradled the back of your head, thumb stroking softly behind your ear as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. “You’re learning to trust me. To listen. That’s all I ever wanted.”
But you hadn’t agreed. You hadn’t given anything. Not really. You were still resisting—at least in your mind. Still telling yourself this wasn’t permanent. And yet… your body didn’t flinch when he touched you anymore. Your throat didn’t tense when the leash tugged. Your breath didn’t hitch when he whispered your name.
“Almost ready,” he said again one night, his voice closer than usual, like he was bent right over your chest, watching every tremble of your ribs. “Then you’ll see what I’ve built for you. What we are. No more hiding. No more pretending you don’t belong.” His fingers brushed your lips over the gag, slow and reverent. “You’ll understand soon.”
You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t scream. You just lay there, heart a trapped animal, praying that when “ready” came you’d still remember who you were before Heeseung made you forget.
You didn’t know how long you’d been under.
Time had unraveled weeks ago, bled out through the cracks in your thoughts like water from a broken vessel. But that night… something changed.
The chains at your ankles were unfastened. Your wrists were still bound, but not to the bed anymore. And for the first time in what felt like forever, they lifted you. Rough hands under your arms. A voice—calm, too calm—saying, “Don’t struggle.”
You didn’t.
Not because you obeyed. Because your limbs barely worked anymore. You were dragged. Carried. Walked like an offering down an unseen path, your bare feet brushing cold stone, then soft rugs, then something warmer.
Then they stopped.
You were lowered again, gently this time, onto something soft.
A bed. No—a mattress. Luxurious. Silken. Wrong.
Your heart slammed in your chest.
Then—click.
The sound of shackles again. Cold metal. One at your ankle. One at your wrist.
Secured. Exposed.
And then the cloth was lifted from your eyes.
Blinding.
You blinked hard. Tears pricked instantly. Your vision blurred and burned, white and colorless at first. Then slowly—too slowly—it began to return.
Shapes. Figures. Shadows.
Dozens of them.
All kneeling in rows, heads bowed, hoods drawn, bodies still.
Chanting. Low and rhythmic, the language unfamiliar—guttural and reverent, like prayer spoken through centuries of dust. The light above you was golden and soft, like candlelight poured through stained glass. But it did nothing to ease the cold bloom of dread unfurling in your chest.
You were dressed—something white, something soft. A dress. He had dressed you in it, you realized distantly, sometime between punishments. Between “rewards.”
And they were staring at you. Not with lust. Not with malice. With devotion. You were strapped down on a bed like an offering on an altar. And every single one of them was worshipping. Before you could scream, before you could tear your gaze away, he appeared.
Heeseung.
Stepping through the crowd, slow and steady, like the center of gravity itself. His black clothing sharp against the light, eyes locked on you like a priest seeing a vision for the first time.
He didn’t say anything.He simply walked to the foot of the bed. Paused. And then—before your breath could return—he knelt.
Right there, in front of you.
His hands slid up, fingers curling reverently in the fabric of the dress he had chosen for you. His head bowed low, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you—like you were too holy.
And then, his voice. Low. Shaking.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “My fallen angel.”
You trembled.
“Dragged from the wasteland. Touched by fire. Broken open for truth.” His hands gripped the edge of the bedframe now, holding it like a sacred relic, his voice nearly cracking. “They thought they could cast you out,” he whispered, lifting his gaze finally—hungry, shining. “But you were always meant to rise. And we—we were always meant to worship.”
A soft murmur rose behind him as the followers continued their chant, voices growing louder, harmonizing into something sickly sweet and ancient.
Heeseung leaned forward, lips brushing the inside of your knee through the sheer fabric. “Don’t be afraid,” he breathed, kissing higher. “This is your awakening.”
His hands didn’t grope. They glided.
Up your legs, over the soft, sheer fabric he had chosen. Fingers pressing gently into your thighs—not possessive, not rushed—devoted. As if touching you was a privilege. A ritual. A holy act only he was worthy of performing.
His lips followed.
Kisses laid like offerings, slow and reverent, tracing the skin just above your knee, then higher. His breath warm. His words warmer.
“I starved for this,” Heeseung whispered against your skin. “I watched you fight so hard to stay alone. Watched you drag your body through hell. But you didn’t need to. You were never meant to suffer out there.”
His voice wrapped around your head like silk and smoke. Like poison disguised as scripture. Every syllable slithered into your skull and twisted—slowly. Carefully. “You were meant to be seen,” he murmured. “Tended to. Adored.” He kissed your hip through the thin dress. His hands caressed your waist, your ribs, brushing up the curve of your body as he stared at you like you were a god descending through ash. Like you were purity wrapped in ruin.
“I would burn the world to keep you here,” he said. “Don’t you understand? They kneel because you’re salvation. I kneel because I’m yours.”
Your fingers twitched in their binds. Your chest heaved with each trembling breath. Tears spilled freely now—silent at first, then louder. You sobbed, the sound broken and involuntary. Your mind couldn’t hold the contradiction. Couldn’t reconcile the nightmare with the hands worshipping you. Couldn’t explain the way he touched you like you were holy and filthy all at once.
What the actual fuck was this?
Heeseung didn’t stop. If anything, your sobbing seemed to encourage him. His hands pressed gently over your stomach, his thumbs stroking in soothing circles like you were a child in pain. His lips brushed your sternum. His voice dropped to a hush—too soft to belong to someone this dangerous. “You’re overwhelmed. I know,” he whispered. “That’s what love does when you’ve never had it right.”
You shook your head, choked on the gagging sobs, but his grip only grew more tender.
“Shhh,” he crooned, kissing the damp trail of tears down your cheek. “It’s okay. Feel it. Break, if you need to. Cry. Hurt.” Another kiss. Another stroke of his thumb across your trembling lip. “I’ll put you back together after.”
He wasn’t just breaking you. He was rewriting you. Page by page. Tear by tear. He kissed your forehead—soft, reverent. Then your temple. Then your lips—light and slow and aching with praise.
Not lust. Not hunger. Worship.
The kind of kiss that made your skin forget it was yours. The kind that said mine without needing to speak it.
Your sobs stuttered, caught between the confusion and the calm.
You didn’t kiss back—but you didn’t pull away. His touch burned and soothed at once, like he knew exactly how to undo you from the inside out.
“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, breath brushing across your damp cheek. “Even now. Even shaking like this, you’re still so... divine.”
You wanted to scream. To curse him. To disappear. But instead you whimpered, body wracked with too much emotion to contain.
His thumb traced your jaw like he was sketching a memory. “That’s why they kneel,” he murmured. “Why they pray. Because they see what I see.” He leaned in again—kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower, over your throat, your collarbone, every touch slow and tender, every word dragging you deeper into the trance.
“You think I’m the one corrupting you,” he breathed. “But sweetheart… this is who you’ve always been.”
A soft bite. A sigh.
His teeth sank lightly into the edge of your jaw—just enough to make you gasp, to make your back arch against the restraints. He soothed it a moment later with a kiss, as if to apologize for drawing blood he hadn’t spilled.
“You were made for this,” he whispered against your skin. “Made to be seen. To be touched. To be claimed.”
Your wrists tugged weakly at the cuffs above your head, body trembling from the weight of too many emotions collapsing into one: confusion, despair… and something darker.
Desire, twisted and forced into devotion.
“I didn’t make you this way,” Heeseung said, lips ghosting over your cheek. “The world did. When it abandoned you. When it left you starving, begging to be chosen.”
Another kiss. This one to your throat, where your pulse jumped wildly beneath the collar he’d never removed. “I just picked you up where they dropped you,” he said. “And I gave you purpose.”
You sobbed again, but this time it was quieter. Numb.
“You’re not crying because you want to escape,” he murmured, his hand sliding over your ribs, thumb brushing the trembling rise of your chest. “You’re crying because a part of you knows I’m right.”
He drew back just far enough to look into your eyes, and the way he gazed at you—like a worshiper beholding his god—made your stomach twist.
He wasn’t asking for love. He was building it. Out of fear. Out of isolation. Out of need.
“I’ll take care of you,” he said softly. “As long as you let me.” His thumb dragged slowly across your lips, wiping away a tear that had clung there. “You just have to let go of everything else.”
And you did nothing.
You just laid there—helpless, trembling, eyes red and wide—while he worshipped you like you were something fallen from the stars. His hands never left your skin for long. His lips followed the trails of his fingers, leaving soft, haunting kisses.
Your chest still shook with the remnants of your sobs. Your arms still ached from being bound. And your body still trembled under the weight of it all—
But you laid there.
Unmoving. Bare. Adorned in white. Offered.
Like some sacred relic that had already been broken open and blessed.
The chanting softened.
The kneeling followers began to rise, their robes rustling quietly as they bowed once—first to you, then to Heeseung—and slowly filed out. One by one. Silent. Devout. Dissolving into the shadows like they'd never been there at all.
Until the vast room was empty.
Just you, still trembling, chained to the altar-bed. And Heeseung, kneeling at the edge like a man who had gotten everything he’d ever wanted and still wanted more.
He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you.
With something too vast to be called love, too sharp to be mercy.
It wasn’t lust in his eyes—it was certainty. Like he had always known it would end this way.
Slowly, gracefully, he rose to his feet.
He stepped closer, boots soft against stone, and sat gently beside you on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out, trailing down your arm, then to your hip, anchoring you there—like you might float away if he didn’t keep you tethered.
“I knew you’d look beautiful like this,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Unburdened. Finally seen.”
You didn’t answer. at least not with words. Not with thought. Your mind felt like gauze soaked in warmth and fear and something dangerously close to surrender.
He leaned over you again, his body brushing the edge of yours, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilted your face to meet his eyes.
“Now,” he whispered, “we begin.”
And there was no audience. No witness.
Just you. And the man who had turned your captivity into a kingdom, and crowned himself your king.
Heeseung's hands, calloused and commanding, trace the length of your arms, lingering at the restraints that bind you. His touch both gentle and firm, a paradox that leaves you breathless. As his lips meet yours, you surrender to the kiss, a desperate dance of tongues and breaths mingled.
His fingers deftly work the fabric of your dress, sliding the straps down your shoulders with deliberate slowness. The cool air of the room meets your skin as he pulls the dress down, revealing your body inch by inch. He tosses the garment aside, his eyes never leaving yours.
You lie there, exposed and vulnerable, the weight of your chains a constant reminder of your position. Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, fear and desire intertwined. You know the rules, the unspoken laws that govern your existence here. Struggle, and you invite his wrath. Obedience, and you earn his favor.
Heeseung's gaze roams over your body, a silent appraisal that sends shivers down your spine. His hands explore your curves with a possessive touch. "Perfect," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates through you. "You are perfect."
You remain silent, your body a canvas for his exploration. He moves with a slowness, spreading your legs wide, making room for himself between your thighs. Your restraints allow this much, a cruel mercy that leaves you exposed and open.
His touch is gentle as he parts your folds, revealing your most intimate self. You gasp, the sound torn from your throat as his tongue finds its mark, tracing a long, slow line from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is electric, a shock that jolts through your body, leaving you trembling.
You can't help but arch your back, a silent plea for more, even as your mind races with the reality of your situation. He takes his time, his tongue exploring your depths, tasting you, teasing you. Each stroke designed to elicit a response, to draw out your pleasure.
Your hands, bound above you, clench into fists, the only outward sign of your inner turmoil.
Heeseung's tongue continues its relentless assault, each lick a claim of ownership, each flick a promise of pleasure and pain. You squirm beneath him, your body betraying you, arching into his touch. But he is merciless, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he feasts on you, his mouth and tongue exploring every inch of your most intimate place.
Suddenly, he teases your folds with his fingers, spreading you open with a slow, deliberate motion, exposing you to his hungry gaze. You gasp, the sensation a mix of vulnerability and anticipation, your body trembling with a desperate, almost hungry need. He leans in, his tongue licking a long, slow stripe up your slit, a cruel, teasing promise of what's to come. You can hear him moan, a low, primal sound of pleasure and satisfaction, as he savors your taste, your essence, your very being.
"Mmm, you taste so fucking good," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr, as he slips his pointer finger into you, thick and long, thrusting it in and out with a relentless, unyielding rhythm. "Oh, baby... I'm going to wreck you... Make you drip for me..."
You whimper, the sensation of his finger filling you, stretching you, claiming you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.
He quickly adds another finger, joining the first, stretching you out deliciously, his fingers moving in and out of you with a wet, obscene sound. You can feel every ridge, every knuckle, every inch of him, filling you, stretching you.
"You're going to take this," his voice a low rumble against your sensitive flesh. "Every fucking lick, every fucking bite. You're mine to do with as I please." And he proves it, his teeth grazing your clit, a sharp sting that has you crying out. You try to hold back, to swallow your sounds, but he won't allow it. His hand comes down hard on your pussy, a sharp slap that leaves you gasping, tears stinging your eyes.
"Bad girl," he taunts, his voice laced with sadistic glee. "You know better than to hold back. I want to hear you, I want to feel you. Every fucking sound, every fucking tear."
He bites down again, harder this time, his teeth sinking into your flesh as he sucks your clit into his mouth. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that leaves you sobbing, your body convulsing as he brings you to the edge of orgasm, only to pull back, leaving you teetering on the brink.
He knows your body better than you do, knows how to play you like an instrument, pulling you between ecstasy and agony. His tongue flicks and teases, his fingers plunging deep, only to retreat, leaving you aching.
You bite your lip, swallowing your cries, your moans, your pleas. You won't give him the satisfaction, won't let him hear the desperation in your voice. But he sees it, sees the way your body betrays you, the way your hips buck, seeking more, seeking release.
"Fucking stubborn," he growls, his breath hot against your skin. "You think you can hold out? You think you can keep this up?"
He pulls back, his fingers glistening with your wetness. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're going to beg," he says, his voice a low rumble. "You're going to beg and plead and scream for me. And I'm going to make you wait, make you suffer. Until you're nothing but a whimpering, begging mess."
His hand comes down hard on your pussy again, a sharp slap that leaves you gasping. He does it again, and again, each strike a punishment. He wants to break you, wants to shatter you, wants to hear you beg.
You grit your teeth, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. But he won't let you, won't let you hide. His tongue finds your clit, his teeth grazing, his fingers plunging deep. He fucks you with his fingers, his tongue, his teeth, a relentless assault that leaves you sobbing, your body convulsing, your mind shattering as his fingers keep hitting that sweet spot that makes your eyes roll back.
As his fingers fuck you relentlessly, he shifts his position, his mouth finding your nipple, his teeth grazing, his tongue swirling.
You gasp, the sensation of his mouth on your breast, his fingers deep inside you, almost too much to bear. He sucks hard, pulling your nipple deep into his mouth, his fingers matching the rhythm, in and out, in and out, a relentless, merciless pace. "Fuck," he growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. "You're so fucking wet. So fucking tight. You're going to come all over my fingers, aren't you?"
You can feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But he won't let you come, not yet. He pulls back, his fingers slowing, his mouth releasing your nipple with a wet pop, leaving you aching and empty. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with amusement and delight. "How is it.." he taunts, his voice a low, mocking drawl, "..that you haven't begged to come yet? I thought you were more desperate than this."
You glare at him, your eyes filled with tears and defiance. It's a weak attempt, a futile gesture, but it's all you have left. You won't give him the satisfaction, won't let him hear the desperation in your voice.
His laughter is cruel, a mean sound that echoes in the room, bouncing off the walls, mocking your pathetic attempt at resistance. "It seems your fire is still alive," he says, his voice a low rumble. "But I think it's time to put it out."
His hand moves quickly, his fingers finding your clit, pinching, squeezing. The sensation is overwhelming, a sharp, electric shock that jolts through your body, leaving you screaming, your back arching, your body convulsing.
"Fuck!" you cry out, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. "Fuck, please, stop!"
But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent. His fingers continue their relentless assault, pinching, squeezing, teasing. "Beg," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Beg for me to let you come. Beg for me to stop. Beg for me to do whatever the fuck I want."
You try to resist, to hold onto the last shreds of your dignity, your defiance. But Heeseung is relentless, his words a cruel, mocking taunt. "No one's coming to save you," he says, his voice a low rumble. "No one's here but me. No one but your king, your master, your god."
His fingers plunge deep inside you again, a brutal, claiming invasion. You gasp, the sound torn from your throat, a raw, desperate plea. He kisses you harshly, his lips crushing yours, his tongue invading your mouth, a brutal, punishing kiss.
His other hand comes up, wrapping around your throat, his fingers digging into your flesh, pressing, choking. You can feel the collar around your neck, a constant reminder of your captivity, your submission. He uses it, his fingers pressing against it, cutting off your air and your voice.
Heeseung's eyes never leave yours as he continues to finger you, his movements deliberate, calculated. He watches every twitch, every tear, every desperate gasp, savoring your reactions like a connoisseur. "You're so beautiful when you cry," he murmurs, his voice a purr. "So fucking perfect. Look at you, so desperate, so needy. Begging for my touch, my mercy. It's pathetic."
You cry, your tears streaming down your face, your body shaking with sobs. You're so close, so fucking close to the edge, your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
And then, suddenly, he stops. His fingers pull out, leaving you empty, aching, desperate. You cry out in pain, a raw, desperate sound, your body convulsing, your mind shattering. "No, please, don't stop," you beg, your voice a sobbing, desperate plea. "Please, I need it. I need to come. Please, Heeseung, please."
He watches you, his eyes dark with delight. He knows he has you, knows he's broken you, knows you're his to command, his to pleasure, his to punish. And he savors it, savors your desperation.
"You want to come?" he asks, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "You want to come so bad, don't you? You want to come and scream and beg for more. You want to come and know that you're mine, that you belong to me, that you live for me."
You nod, your body shaking, your tears streaming. "Yes, please, yes," you sob, your voice a desperate, begging plea. "Please, Heeseung, please make me come. Please, I need it. I need you."
Heeseung grins widely, a cruel, mocking curve of his lips that sends a shiver down your spine. He hums, a low, satisfied sound, before leaning down, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?" he taunts. "All you had to do was surrender." And then, suddenly, his mouth and fingers and tongue are on you, his tongue flicks and teases, his fingers plunge and stroke, his teeth graze and nip. He moans into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body, leaving you screaming, whining, begging for more.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he growls, his voice a desperate rumble. "So fucking perfect. I could eat you out all day, make you come over and over again."
You scream, your voice raw, your body convulsing, your mind shattering. You whine, a pathetic, needy sound, your hips bucking, seeking more, seeking release. You beg, your voice a sobbing, desperate plea, your hands clenching into fists, your nails digging into your palms.
"Come for me."
Your body responds to his words, your muscles tensing, your breath hitching, your heart racing. You can feel the orgasm building, your pleasure coiling tight in your belly, ready to explode. And then it does, your body convulsing, your mind shattering. "I'm coming, I'm coming, fuck!" you cry out, your body bucking, your hips grinding against his face, seeking more.
Heeseung moans into you, his tongue and fingers work in perfect harmony, his touch both gentle and firm, his movements calculated. He licks you clean, his tongue lapping up your wetness like it's his last supper, his moans a low, satisfied rumble. You can feel his hunger, his insatiable need for you, his desire to devour you, to consume you, to own you completely.
You try to pull away, your body overwhelmed, your voice a sobbing plea. "Please, stop," you beg, your tears streaming down your face, your body shaking with sobs. "Please, Heeseung, I can't take anymore. Please, stop."
But he doesn't stop, his hands grip your thighs, holding you in place, his fingers digging into your flesh, bruising, claiming. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, a cruel, mocking curve to his lips. "Shh, you can take more angel," he growls, "you can take everything I give you. Everything I want to do to you. Everything I want to make you feel."
And he does, he makes you feel, he makes you feel pleasure and pain, need and desperation, submission and surrender. He makes you feel alive, makes you feel owned, makes you feel his.
You come again, your body convulsing, your mind shattering, your voice a raw, desperate scream.
That makes Heeseung finally pull away, his mouth glistening with your wetness, his fingers slick and shining. He licks them clean, savoring your taste, his eyes never leaving yours.
Your pussy is red, swollen, clenching and unclenching, your clit throbbing, a testament to his insatiable hunger.
You watch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your body aching and sensitive, as he starts to undress. He pulls off his shirt, his muscles rippling, his skin glistening with sweat. He unzips his slacks, pulls down his boxers, his cock springing free, big and leaking, angry and hard. You can see the veins pulsing, the head glistening with precum.
Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, a needy sound escaping his lips as the drops hits your thigh. He spits on his hand, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He gives himself a few jerks, his hand moving up and down his shaft, his eyes never leaving yours, then suddenly, he's pushing into you, his cock stretching you out, filling you up. You shout in surprise, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate, not expecting the stretch, the burn, the fullness. Your body tenses, your muscles clenching, your breath hitching, your mind shattering.
Heeseung's hands grip your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, he cusses, a low rumble. "Fuck, you're still so tight," he growls. "So fucking delicious. Better than anything in the world. Better than everything."
He starts to move, his hips thrusting, his cock plunging deep, his body claiming yours, his pleasure your only purpose. You can feel him, every inch, every pulse, every thrust. He fucks you hard and deep and fast, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, his teeth grazing your skin, his cock plunging so deep that his tip hits your cervix, a sharp, intense sensation that leaves you gasping, your eyes rolling back. You can feel him, every inch, every pulse, every thrust.
A claiming, a conquering, a devouring.
Pornographic sounds leave your mouth, a mix of moans and screams and whimpers, a symphony. You can't control them, can't hold them back, can't do anything but take what he gives, what he demands, what he takes.
He rambles on, his words jumbled, cut off with groans. "Fuck, you feel so good.. fucking perfect... I want everything from you. Everything. You're going to take my cock, my cum, my pleasure. You're going to take it all. You're going to take it and love it..."
His teeth graze your skin, your neck, your breasts, your nipples, a sharp, intense sensation that leaves you gasping, your body convulsing, your mind shattering.
"You're mine," he groans, "mine to fuck, mine to own, mine to break. My everything." And you are, you're his world, his everything, his all. You're his to command, his to pleasure, his to punish. And he will, he will do whatever he wants, whatever he needs, whatever he desires. And you will take it, all of it, every thrust, every touch, every taste, every sound, every scream.
As Heeseung continues his relentless assault, your eyes cross, your vision blurring, your body convulsing as another orgasm tears through you. You scream, your body bucking, your hips grinding against his.
He fucks you through your orgasms, your body a sobbing, shaking mess, sweat and tears and drool coating your skin, your hair, your face.
Suddenly, one of his hands comes up, wrapping around your throat, his fingers pressing, choking you, controlling you, owning you.
Your mouth opens and closes, small, desperate wheezes escaping your lips, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your body convulses, your mind shatters, your vision blurs, your world narrowing down to the sensations, the sounds, the screams.
Heeseung's lips are hot and wet and hungry, his tongue invading your mouth, a brutal, punishing kiss that leaves you gasping.
As he kisses you, his hand slips down from your throat, his fingers trailing a path of fire and ice down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You can feel his touch, hot and demanding, as it moves lower, his palm pressing against your mound, his fingers finding your clit and he twists it, rolling and pinching the sensitive nub with a skilled intensity. You gasp into the kiss as your pleasure explodes, your body squirting with a force that leaves you shaking and gasping, your wetness coating him, dripping down your thighs, leaving you a proper mess.
Heeseung pulls back from the kiss, his breath ragged, his eyes gleaming with a mix of cruelty and arousal. He looks down at you, a mocking smile playing on his lips, as he takes in the sight of your spent, shaking body, your thighs slick with your release, your chest heaving with each desperate gasp.
The room is thick with the scent of your pleasure, a heady, intoxicating aroma that hangs in the air, a testament to the intensity of your shared passion.
He groans, a low sound that rumbles from deep within his chest, as he leans his head back, running his hand down his face in a gesture that's equal parts exhaustion and satisfaction. When he looks back down at you, there's a twisted grin on his lips and a crazed look in his eyes, a wild, almost feral intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.
"Fucking hell, baby," he murmurs, his voice a dangerous purr, laced with a possessive intensity. "You came so hard. I'm so flattered."
You hesitate, your mouth opening slightly as you try to form a response, but before you can utter a word, Heeseung starts thrusting hard again, his hips snapping forward with a relentless, unyielding intensity.
"Shit!" you shout in surprise, the sound a mix of pleasure and pain, as you struggle to keep up with the brutal rhythm of his movements. Your body moves harshly back and forth, the force of his thrusts leaving you gasping and choking.
Heeseung chuckles, a low, dangerous sound, as he continues to thrust, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a wet, obscene sound. "That's it, baby," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Take it. Take every inch of me."
Suddenly his body tense up, his muscles coiling, you can feel it as he spills into you, filling you up. It's a sensation unlike any other, a raw, and overwhelming invasion.
His cum is hot and thick, a relentless flood that coats your insides, marking you, branding you, filling you to the brim, spilling out, dripping down your thighs.
His voice is wrecked, his words slurred, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his body shaking. "Fuck, yes," he moaned.
After that night—after Heeseung had claimed you in every way a man could claim something— you were never alone again.
He kept you close like a second skin.
During inspections, you walked just a step behind him, his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist or resting at the small of your back like a reminder. Not to guide. Not to comfort. To possess.
He paraded you through corridors filled with loyal followers who never questioned it. Their gazes never lingered on you, not out of respect, but fear. You weren’t just his anymore. You were sacred by proximity. Untouchable. An extension of their prophet.
And when he sat upon his throne—the same throne that had first made you tremble—you weren’t kneeling before it anymore.
You were on it. On his lap. Curled against his chest like something fragile and adored. His arms wrapped around you like armor, his fingers constantly tracing circles against your thigh, your hip. His lips brushing your temple. His voice, low and steady, whispering things only meant for you.
“You were always meant to sit beside me,” he’d murmur, letting his fingers toy with the chain that still connected to your collar. “You look better here. Where everyone can see who you belong to.”
You were never out of reach. Never out of his sight. Even when he wasn’t touching you, you could feel the weight of his gaze, watching you like something precious and breakable. Something that might slip through his fingers if he didn’t keep holding on.
He bathed you himself. Dressed you himself. He fed you when he wanted. Rewarded you when you were obedient. And when you weren’t? He reminded you gently. Firmly. Sometimes through punishment. Sometimes with nothing but silence—cold, stretched, and endless until you begged for him to speak again.
You slept in his bed, wrapped in his warmth, in his breath, in the weight of his control. He’d hold you tight against his chest, lips at your ear as you drifted off.
“I see you now,” he’d whisper. “And I’ll never look away again.”
And you knew he meant it. Because wherever Heeseung went, you followed or were dragged.
He would stand before the congregation, bathed in golden light, voice ringing with divine conviction as he spoke of sin.
Of how humanity’s downfall had been written long before the first infected ever rose. How the virus wasn’t a curse—it was a reckoning. A purging.
“Sin,” he would say, voice steady, eyes burning, “is not just action. It’s desire. It’s weakness. It’s forgetting who you belong to.”
They hung onto every word. You sat silently at his feet, head bowed, hands folded in your lap, the perfect picture of devotion. Of obedience.
But when the sermons ended. When the followers filed out with their heads lowered and chants echoing behind them.
Heeseung would sin. Sin for you. And he never pretended otherwise.
His hands would be on you before the door even fully closed, gripping your chin, your hips, the back of your neck, dragging you into his lap or pinning you to the velvet-draped altar where moments ago he’d been preaching salvation.
“You’re my punishment,” he’d groan against your skin. “My favorite sin.”
There was nothing gentle in it. Not anymore. He worshipped you the way fire worships wood—consuming, cracking, devouring. His mouth left bruises in places no one else would ever see. His hands forced you into poses of submission, control, and praise all in one.
He corrupted your mind with whispers of scripture laced with filth. He corrupted your body with touches so exacting, so possessive, you forgot where your pain ended and his worship began.
“You think you’re clean?” he’d sneer, dragging the collar tighter around your throat. “Look at you. Shaking like a heathen. Letting me use you like this. My perfect little contradiction.”
And you let him. Not because you believed in his divinity. But because you had no self left to cling to. He made sure of that—slowly, thoroughly, night after night. Until the sermons began to blur with his gasps. Until you couldn’t hear “salvation” without feeling his hands on your skin. Because Heeseung didn’t just preach with fire. He burned it into you. And by the time night fell, and the candles burned low, and the chants had faded into silence… you weren’t just his follower. You were his altar.
He would drag you to your knees in the same room where people prayed for mercy, and he’d show you none. He’d press you against the walls where holy symbols had been carved, and make you feel anything but pure.
“You know why they worship me?” he’d whisper, breath ragged, voice thick with heat. “Because I carry the weight of their sins.”
And then, as his hands spread you open for him, his lips hot against your ear—
“And you, my love… you carry mine.”
You never knew where the sermon ended and the desecration began. Because to Heeseung, there was no difference.
You were tired. Weak. A breathing shrine to Heeseung’s work. He had broken you open and rebuilt you with trembling obedience, every breath shaped by his voice, every thought fogged with his touch. He made sure you remembered how easily he could overpower you.
How simple it was for him to take what he wanted, and how much worse it was when you disappointed him. Even when he was gentle, you knew it was to keep you docile. Even when he praised you, it was to remind you how fragile that praise could be.
Your mind buzzed with static now, clouded by rituals and rules, yeses you hadn’t meant and noes that had died in your throat.
But then—
One night, it happened.
The opportunity. Freedom hidden in plain sight.
The compound gate stood cracked open just wide enough, just enough for a scavenging party of six to slip out into the darkness, tasked with finding supplies from what remained beyond the treeline. The guards were distracted, slouched around a crate playing cards, laughter low and careless.
And Heeseung?
He stood just in front of you, half-turned, speaking quietly with someone beside the gate. The leash in his hand was taut as always, a reminder at your throat… But the clasp.
It was right there. One movement. One flick of your fingers. And you’d be free. But were you ready?
Your heart beat so fast it hurt. Because the truth sank in before you even moved—
You were scared. Terrified. Not of the world outside, but of him.
Of what he would say if he caught you. Of what he would do.
And worst of all—
Of disappointing him.
Because Heeseung didn’t just punish. He devastated.
And still—
No.
You couldn’t keep living like this. You weren’t his pet. His disciple. His goddamn altar. With shaking hands, you reached up. Fingers found the clasp.
Click.
The leash came free. The collar still hugged your neck, but the chain was gone. You took one step back. Then another.
No one noticed.
You reached the threshold. Your hand brushed the edge of the open door. The forest was waiting. Cold. Dark. Free.
And then—
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Your blood froze.
You turned.
Heeseung stood there, still as death, the leash dangling from his hand like a severed chain. His voice was low, furious, betrayed. His eyes burned. Unforgivable.
You didn’t wait. You ran. Bolted into the trees, the branches tearing at your legs, your breath ragged, panic splitting through your ribs. Behind you came the sound of chaos—shouting, feet pounding, someone screaming your name like it wasn’t a name at all but a claim.
“GET HER!”
“DON’T LET HER LEAVE!”
“BRING HER BACK TO ME!”
Heeseung’s voice cut through the night like a whip—fierce, commanding, possessed. A voice that once soothed now scraped down your spine like a threat.
You didn’t look back. Branches lashed at your face. Roots caught your feet. You stumbled once—twice—but didn’t stop. Your chest burned, lungs clawing for air, tears streaking down your cheeks as you choked on sobs you didn’t even feel until they were pouring out of you.
You were out. You were really out. For the first time in weeks—months? You didn’t even know anymore—there was no leash, no hands on your body. Just the wind. Just the night. Just you.
“Thank you,” you gasped, breath hitching between sobs, legs aching. “Thank you—thank you—thank you—”
You didn’t know who you were thanking. The trees? The stars? God?
Leaves crunched behind you, voices shouting somewhere in the distance, but farther now. Fainter.
You were fast. Faster than they thought. Faster than he ever let you be. You reached a ridge, legs buckling as you collapsed behind a thicket, heart hammering against the cage of your ribs. You pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, the sobs still threatening to slip through.
And for a moment... just a moment, there was only silence. No footsteps. No voice whispering your name like a prayer. Only the distant echo of his rage, carried on the wind. And for the first time since Heeseung claimed you—
You were alone.
It didn’t take long for you to arm yourself again.
The forest was merciless, but it wasn’t empty. A half-collapsed outpost, overrun with moss and bloodstains, gave you your first break, a fallen soldier slumped near the rusted perimeter, the hollowed-out remains of a jawless infected twitching beside him. His dog tags were gone, but his gear remained.
You stripped the white dress off your body without hesitation. It fell like a shroud to the dirt, soaked with old tears, old submission. You didn’t look at it again. Instead, you dressed in his tactical gear. It was too big, stiff and scratchy—but it fit in all the ways that mattered.
You took everything. Ammo. Knives. A handgun with two clips. A faded canteen. Even a rusted map with scribbles on it.
And you kept moving.
You never stayed anywhere longer than a night. Not even when it rained. Not even when your muscles ached so badly you could barely stand. The idea of stopping, of sleeping too deeply—it wasn’t just dangerous.
It was terrifying.
Because in the quiet, in the stillness, that voice always returned.
I will find you again.
So you didn’t rest. You ran on scraps, cans of food you found in crumbled gas stations, berries you knew wouldn’t kill you. You boiled river water in a bent metal cup, filtering it through your scarf to keep the worst of the dirt out.
And when the sun fell each day, you chose high ground. A rooftop. A tree. An attic with only one way in.
You slept with your hand on the trigger. You never dreamed.
But in the silence between your breaths—when the wind died down and the night got too quiet you could still feel it.
That pull.
Like something invisible was dragging you backward, whispering for you to come home. Like a leash without a chain. And every time it tightened, you reminded yourself:
You're not his anymore.
You're not.
But even with a gun in your hand and a knife strapped to your thigh, it still felt like Heeseung was just one step behind you.
It didn’t help that you weren’t able to take the collar off.
You’d tried. God, you’d tried.
The moment you found a piece of shattered mirror, you sat in the corner of a collapsed shack and dug your fingers behind your neck, trying to find the clasp, the seam—anything.
But all you found was cold metal.
It had a keyhole in the back. Small. Precise. And worse—it was tight. Too snug to twist or shift, no matter how hard you pulled. It dug in when you moved your head too far, a constant reminder.
You were free. But not completely.
You were still wearing his mark. Still dragging the symbol of his claim with you wherever you went. Some nights, you’d claw at it until your skin went raw. You’d cry—not from the pain, but from the humiliation. Because every time you saw your reflection, every time you drank from a stream and caught your distorted image in the water, you didn’t see a survivor.
You saw his sheep.
His voice haunted you even in silence:
“You wear it so well.”
You wrapped scarves around your neck to hide it. Tried to forget it was there. But it chafed when you ran. It pressed into your throat when you slept. It reminded you that no matter how far you got, no matter how armed, how fast, how strong... Heeseung was still on you.
The collar wasn’t just leather. It was a vow. A leash waiting to be reattached. And the worst part was that sometimes, in the dark—when you were shivering, when the world felt too big, too empty—you caught yourself touching it.
Like it was comfort. Like it meant someone still wanted you.
And you hated yourself for that more than anything.
You didn’t see any trace of Sanctum for a while.
No symbols. No robed silhouettes. No whispers of scripture floating on the wind. It lulled you into a false rhythm. A rhythm that felt dangerously like hope. You started sleeping longer. Slower to draw your weapon. You even let yourself breathe.
But you shouldn’t have let your guard down. Why did you? Because now, they were here.
You heard them before you saw them—footsteps, soft and synchronized, never rushed. They didn’t panic when you ran. They followed. Like wolves.
The first time you recognized one, your stomach dropped clean through you. It was someone who used to serve you tea. Someone who once draped blankets over your shoulders after long nights beside Heeseung’s throne. Someone who bowed when they passed you in the halls.
Now?
Now they sprinted after you with a blade in one hand and rope in the other, eyes crazed with purpose.
They didn’t shout. Didn’t call your name. They didn’t have to. You knew what they were there to do.
Bring you back. Alive and breathing.
It happened again. And again.
Sanctum members appearing in the woods. At the edge of abandoned towns. In the shadows of gas stations and watchtowers.
Once-loyal sheep turned silent, ravenous hunters. And no matter how fast you ran, they didn’t give up.
Sometimes you lost them by luck. Sometimes a group of Hollowed would cross your path—lurching, groaning, blind with infection and they’d scatter, trying to avoid a bite.
But not always.
You had bruises now. Cuts you didn’t remember getting. A knife gash on your thigh that slowed you down more than you wanted to admit.
You stopped counting the days. You stopped hoping for silence.
Because silence always ended with the sound of someone stepping on a twig behind you. With a voice you hadn’t heard in days whispering:
“There you are.”
They did everything in their power to bring you back. Sometimes they succeeded. Sometimes you weren’t fast enough, weren’t careful enough. They’d ambush you in the night, drag you down in numbers, hands clawing at your limbs like vines. They’d wrestle your knife away, pin you to the earth, as they tied your wrists with torn robes and scavenged cords.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” they’d murmur. “He’ll forgive you. He always forgives you.”
You’d be bruised. Bloodied. Shaking. But they never expected what came next. They didn’t expect the sharp piece of rock you kept hidden in your boot. They didn’t expect how fast you could move when panic kicked in. They didn’t expect you to scream until your throat tore, to slam your head back into someone’s nose just for a split second of slack in the bindings. They didn’t expect you to run through the Hollowed, screaming, bleeding, letting the undead claw at your attackers just so you could break free.
And they never expected the traps.
The shallow pits lined with spikes. The rigged branches that swung like blades. The makeshift snares fashioned from wire and vines. You learned fast. You had to.
You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting to not be brought back.
To not see him. To not be on your knees again, not have that leash click shut again, not feel his hands stroking your hair while his voice praised you for being “so strong, even when you lose.”
You fought with everything. Even when you were starving. Even when your body screamed for rest. Even when every inch of you was bruised and aching, a map of lucky escapes and narrow victories.
Because you knew what waited if you failed.
Heeseung’s voice—sweet, patient, cold—in your ear:
“I always forgive you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t teach you a lesson.”
So you kept running. Kept bleeding. Kept surviving.
But even as you prepared for everything—the Sanctum’s scouts, the Hollowed, the cold, the hunger— you weren’t prepared for him.
You weren’t prepared for the day Heeseung came himself. No more messengers. No more quiet, obedient followers dragging you back in chains.
No—this time, it was different.
Because after so many failed retrievals, after so many escape attempts, Heeseung had clearly decided...
If you wanted to run, then he would be the one to hunt.
